Commitment

I'm convinced there are more interesting ways of being tied down than the one I seem to have chosen.

Wasted

I was thinking about my post from the other day, about what a useless bunch we all are. I’ve been pondering the overall uselessness of the skills I employ at work, combined with the skills I have but don’t use any more, and the skills I learnt but have now forgotten.

I’ve concluded that I have wasted a huge amount of time, effort and brain-space with this endeavour (tryer that I am) so allow me to waste some more time listing them here. It will make me feel better.

Cooking. You may be surprised to know (particularly if you’ve eaten at my house) that I’m a pretty competent cook. It used to be all the rage, didn’t it, proper entertaining? Maybe it still is, for the child-free. Two starters, meat and vegetarian options, two desserts. Home-made bread. It’s making me think that perhaps I should do this again sometime. Although now I’m remembering that we would need to work as a team to run a proper formal dinner party, and we’re all run out of teamworking after a day or week gritting our teeth in harness together. I can also fold napkins in six different ways, including swans, roses and waterlilies.

Sewing. Yes, I can make curtains, cushions, cot-bedding, even clothes. I expect every girl my age can. I can thread the sewing machine, stitch a seam, do a button-hole. I can set a sleeve and a zip, make a dart, overlock a hem. I can darn, let seams in and out, patch. I know which needles to use for jersey and silk and denim. I can also do hand-embroidery, smocking, tapestry, knitting, French knitting and crochet. But it’s only 99p for a top from Primark so I imagine these skills will not be used again.

Reading. Yes, I know most people can read, I mean reading in foreign languages. I used to read a hefty novel or play in French or German almost as easily as one in English, and I haven’t done that for about twenty years. As for my Spanish, I imagine that’s disappeared almost completely. I can still hold a conversation in French, I guess, but my German is slipping away. This is stupid. I love languages and it was once the very only thing I was good at. I must get back into practice.

Tiling. Floors and walls. I’m also counting paving. I was pretty good at all that, when I was too poor to get Czech boys to come and do it all for me. It’s quite boring, but I could do it again if I had to. I can also paint and hang wallpaper (and strip woodchip and Artex...) but so can everyone else. I can use a drill, an electric screwdriver, a saw, a glue gun, a router.

Interior design. People keep telling me I could make a lot of money, doing up houses and selling them. I credit all this to my friend who has spent her career editing very posh home magazines. I used to buy her mags purely out of loyalty, but it seemed to rub off. However I do really hate both shopping and co-ordinating tradesmen, so I hope never to have to do up a house again. Unless I’m embarking on a new life, in which case I will relish the chance to start with a blank canvas.

Music. Oddly enough, I play the piano a lot even though it was always my worst instrument and I am a horribly amateurish grade 5 or so. Yet having been a competent violin player (at one point I considered becoming a teacher) I never touch it other than to help Thing One with her practice. Similarly singing. One solitary cassette exists of the band, me singing a cover version of Each And Every One. No one may listen to this, but I sometimes do, and marvel at how good my voice sounded when I sang every day, properly. I went through a phase where I decided to try and learn one key piece on as many instruments as I could. I can still with a fair wind play Hotel California on the guitar (including the twiddly intro) and Stranger On The Shore on the clarinet, as well as a snatch from Peter And The Wolf on the bassoon. There were probably other things too. What a waste. I can also mix on a four-track.

Databases. Once in 1996 I built a whole CAFM system for a national museum. Constructed in Access, it had work requests, time sheets, planned and cyclical maintenance schedules, an asset register, a contractor register, the whole nine yards. Automatic job tickets, management reports, summaries. I found this the other day and looked at it in wonderment. How did I do that?

Dancing. I have gold medals in rock’n’roll, Latin-American and ballroom dancing. And lordy you would not believe it to look at me now. As well as my twinkling toes, I had fantastic legs, great posture and a flat stomach. I looked fantastic. And I spent the whole time in leggings, huge baggy mohair sweaters and Converse boots, worrying that I was fat. If I’d known then how I was going to look now, I’d have worn a bikini every day.

Skills I have learned that nobody needs any more include:

• Replacing a typewriter ribbon
• Learning how to use various defunct computer packages (Wordstar with all those function keys, Harvard Graphics, FoxPro)
• Using a telex machine
• Adjusting the test card on the TV
• Burping a hot water bottle (microwave gel packs have taken over)
• The reliable use of belt-and-loop sanitary towels (oh thank god)
• Double de-clutching
• Using a slide rule and log book
• Doing client pitches with stand-up presenter-folders
• Labelling everything with a Dymo

There may be more. We were at a friend’s house the other day, and they have a reconditioned Bakelite telephone with a curly wire. Really funky. The girls were very excited: “we’ve seen these olden-timesy phones on TV! Can we try it out?”

They were baffled. They did not know how to use the dial.

I Stand Corrected

“You must think men are very superficial”, he said. Was his tongue in his cheek, or was he a little offended? “Nooooo,” I replied. “Do you like any of those clothes, though?”

Course, he didn't want to answer that one. It might make him look superficial. So he’s going to spend the day being Very Important And Serious, and I’m going to give you ten reasons why boys don’t in fact hate these clothes, but would love us to wear them.

Channelling once again the voice of my Inner Lad, let’s see if I can rise to the challenge.

1. Harem pants
If I’m totally honest, I don’t really know what they are. But I like the sound of them because I like the idea of a harem. I imagine they would be worn with one of those sort of Eastern dusky-maiden crop tops which is quite tight, and a mysterious veil. I’m liking it.

2. Jumpsuits
This is a good outfit for skydiving (I like a girl with a sense of adventure) or mending your car (practical). I have noticed that sometimes the silkier ones can kind of edge into the crack of your ass when you’re walking and I know you find that embarrassing and inconvenient but it’s kind of intriguing.

3. Headbands
At first headbands were scaring me, with those overtones of kamikaze pilots and Christopher Walken playing Russian roulette in the Deer Hunter. But then I remembered Xena Warrior Princess wears one, and suddenly everything was ok. Looking like one of my wank-fantasies is always ok. You could even have a weird curly ear-bun hairstyle-thing if you looked liked Princess Leia.

4. Gladiator sandals
You could wear these with a short, tight Roman toga kinda thing, and have a cat fight with another girl and I could watch. That would be fun. I think Xena wears these, s'cuse me while I just go check.

5. Dungarees
Nothing wrong, per se. The problem starts when you make the mistake of wearing some kind of top underneath. Dungarees and nothing else, and your breasts constantly slipping into view and threatening to tumble out beyond that narrow bib/strap part, that works.

6. Leggings
No complicated fastenings to grapple with, so I can pull them down easily, without the threat of laddering them, unlike tights, which make me a bit nervous.

7. Uggs
Gymslips are so last-century. Any decent schoolgirl fantasy would now have to involve a nubile young thing in Uggs and skinny jeans.

8. Oversize sunglasses
Peer over the top of them and look at me in a sexy way.  I'm thinking like the Lolita movie (part of me is still daydreaming about item 7. I'm not saying which part).

9. Tuxedos
They make you look androgynous, which makes me question your sexuality. I like this, because I've always fantasised about watching you get it on with your best friend  -  maybe you have too?

10. Anything with fringes on it
I still don't know what they are for.

Later, he qualified his first email by admitting that yes, he did like all of these items "in appropriate settings and on the right woman". 

So as long as it's Halle Berry on a terrace by the hot tub, with a vast double bed just in view through the French windows, any of these garments are fine.

Ten Things

Oh how I love lists. My life is run by them, and my head is filled with them. So nice and orderly, so tidy and structured. Trees of the world. 100 things to do with a dead cat. 50 ways to leave your lover. Guinness Book of Records. Ten reasons why I love you. Any top tens, really.


Here's one that made me laugh today. Ten Things Women Wear That Men Hate (you can find it here on MSN if you don't know what any of these garments actually are, boys...in fact that in itself could be a quiz).

What's missing from this list is the explanation. They've approached it as if it's a fashion thang, and that's quite wrong. Men hate these clothes for boy-reasons. Allow me to speak like a man, in the cause of enlightenment.

1. Harem pants
Too baggy and obscure the booty. Instead wear tight gold shorts like Kylie, or a ridiculously short skirt.

2. Jumpsuits
Jumpsuits make us nervous because we don't know how to get them off, it looks very complicated. A short, tight, low cut dress with buttons down the front is best, we know what to do with that.

3. Head bands
What are they for? The only useful purpose served by any kind hair accessory is to stop your hair from flopping forward and obscuring my view when you're giving me the perfect blow job. Some sort of clip that keeps it out the way, then tumbles it back down again afterwards would be ideal.

4. Gladiator sandals
Too clumpy and no heels. I don't care whether they're comfortable, girls look best in lipstick and spiky black heels, like in the magazines and the on-demand movie channels. Fuck-me stilettos were given their name for a good reason.

5. Dungarees
See item 1. Plus, they unnecessarily obscure the view of the breasts, for no good reason. Instead wear shorts and a very tight low-cut t shirt.

6. Leggings
If your legs are in good enough shape to wear something skin tight that completely covers them, what's wrong with skin? Do them justice with a very short skirt and very tall shoes (see item 4).

7. Uggs
See item 4.

8. Oversize sunglasses
I can't see you. You might be looking at other men, or having a little nap while I talk about myself. Instead, have big, bambi eyes and don't stop gazing adoringly at me.

9. Tuxedos
Either they make you look a bit dyke-y, which makes me question your sexuality; or they make you look like a boy, which makes me question mine. If we're going somewhere special, a tight low cut dress is always good. With high heels (see item 4).

10. Anything with fringes on it
What are they for? Girls like dangly shit which has no purpose. Jewellery, phone charms, flapping bits hanging off handbags. What's that all about?

See, girls and boys take a different approach to dressing well. We girls will so often plan an outfit around hiding the bits we don't like. Boys prefer us to show off the good bits. Highlight their favourite parts and they won't look at the rest anyway, they'll be mesmerised.

All we have to remember, according to my dad anyway, is that all men fall into one of two groups. I call it the Sunday-Roast system: breast or leg? Know which category you fall into and get 'em out on show.

Vice Squad

A long drive to Norfolk and back this weekend presented the ideal opportunity to indulge in an array of in-car treats.


I first used to drive to Norfolk when my boyfriend (later Husband No. 1) was doing his PhD at UEA. I would travel from work in London on a Friday night, crawl out of the City, crawl up the M11, crawl up the horrific slow, narrow, interminable tree-lined A11. I was convinced I would die on that road, attempting to overtake yet another tractor on a blind bend. And all the while watching, watching the temperature gauge, just willing the car not to overheat.


My first car was red Austin 1100 selected with the assistance of Steroid Steve, the boyfriend of the moment (I was on the rebound, and he had an immaculately restored TR6).  Reverse gear had packed up, so it was very important never to take a wrong turn. Luckily I'm a good navigator so I was ok on that one. The radio and the heater had also packed up, and there was a little hole on the floor under the carpet where it had rusted through, so the carpets were soggy and smelled of pond-weed.


When I traded upmarket for a boyfriend, I also ended up with a better car.Husband No 1's mother sold me her white Honda Civic. It was a tough bargain (my father in law was a bank manager) and it had a Hondamatic gearbox. Driving always reminded me of pressing the electric treadle on my mum's sewing machine.  We got 110,000 miles out of that car, although the last 20,000 were very fraught.


Next came an Escort, bought from someone at work (the sly cow). It had an automatic choke, and starting it up in cold weather was as delicate an operation as micro-surgery. Don't turn it far enough, and nothing doing. Turn it a tiny fraction too far and the engine would flood and it would take ten minutes to clear it and try again.  The bodywork was a dark orange colour that most of us would call rust. That was fortunate as it hid a multitude of sins.


After a number of missed trains, meetings, films and so forth we bit the bullet and bought a better (more expensive...) car, the latest model Honda Civic. After all, the last one had done us proud, even though it felt like driving an overlocker. It was a smart navy blue, and he got custody of it when we got divorced. I got the cat, though.


I was by that time in charge of my own company car scheme, and for around nine years until the tax regime changed I had a series of ever more decent motors. A red MX-3, a big long-nosed Jag, a couple of Beemers, a Merc. After a series of Freelanders I'm back to a BMW again; and after a series of silver cars, I've gone back to an eye-catching shiny bright scarlet.


People who drive mediocre motors don't get it. They think that good cars just aren't worth the money: I used to think that too. But you never see people who have a nice car going back downmarket. Once you splash out, you realise that you were wrong all those years, and that you spend hours in the car every month, and that your journey is utterly transformed when you are listening to your favourite CD on a crisp, deep Blaupunkt stereo whilst you nip easily past all the caravans in smooth, swishing, swanky comfort.


So what are my in-car treats? One of my favourites, me being Little Miss Type-A and all, is to set my destination on the satnav, note the estimated arrival time and then try to beat it, through superior route selection and faster driving.  Another is to try and achieve the minimum possible fuel consumption (hurrah for my digital gadgets). But the best one is really, really bad. Why pick your nose or ring sex chat lines on the hands-free, when there's a more satisfying, more secret vice to be visited?

On journeys on my own, I sing. Not just a little bit of humming along now and again, I'm talking about full-on, know-all-the-words singing every single song on the CD. And the really bad part is, sometimes I'll choose CDs purely because they are really hard or funny or catchy to sing.  I like to be challenged by something too low (Right Said Fred, Crash Test Dummies, George Michael), an impossible vocal range (Hall & Oates, Eurythmics) or something sung beautifully but as dripping in cheesiness as an apres-ski fondue. For this, one can't of course surpass The Carpenters. 


My favourite Carpenters songs to sing along to are:

•  Yesterday Once More
• For All We Know
• We've Only Just Begun
• Mr Postman

It doesn't mean I'm compromising my taste in music. On no. You know how discerning I am. It's not about listening: it's about singing.  And it's one of the things I like to do when there's no-one else there. Some of the other things might compromise my driving.

Chocolate Motorbike

Neil Strauss’s book The Game, an account of how he a nerdy journalist became a successful pick-up artist, is one of the most interesting and entertaining things I’ve ever read. So I was eager to tackle his new one. He’s nothing if not eclectic: his previous book was an account of his months accompanying Motley Crue on tour. What would the next topic be?


Emergency is about survival. Not a how-to book as such, but the story of his mission after 9/11 to be prepared, self-sufficient, with the skills and knowledge to cope if The American Way turns sour. Like his other works, it’s absolutely fascinating and well-written.

It set me thinking though, chimes in with some conversations I’ve had in recent months. And I reached the quick conclusion that we’re a pretty useless bunch, me and my friends. Barely a practical skill between us, for all our intellectual capability and clever chit-chat and certificates. What could my nearest and dearest do if the world order collapsed and it all went Mad Max? It’s an unimpressive list.

• Write an article about it
• Audit it
• Produce a drama about it
• Write a poem
• Ensure everything was compliant
• Develop a strategic partnership
• Analyse it with spreadsheets
• Write a song
• Lead a psychotherapy group to talk about it
• Capture it in electronic mood-music
• Worry about it
• Translate all the above into other languages


The list of pathetic, ineffectual responses is probably endless. Blogging about it is of course a much more valid response... Makes you think though, doesn’t it.

And we’re all so damn good at thinking, aren’t we?!

Press the Red Button

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