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It’s All About Poo

Posted on by wifeontheedgeblog

It’s been a funny old year. Actually for us here at WOTE Towers, it’s been a funny couple of years. I didn’t ever really want to write a post about COVID. I’m done with Zoom, the ‘New Normal’, social distancing and self-isolation. I really can’t be doing with any more new phrases in my life than is absolutely necessary. All I will say on the subject is that I successfully grew some tomatoes, spectacularly failed to clear out the loft and ate far too many Curly Wurlies. Which have shrunk to a point now where I have to eat at least 12 to get anywhere near how they used to be! But that’s a whole new rant for another post. Last year was a different C word for us. In March 2019, without any warning, Mr WOTE was diagnosed with bowel cancer. So in the spirit of this blog, the following may seem overly light-hearted for such a serious subject but, despite my general pessimism about getting older, fatter and droopier, when the shit literally hits the pan, the positivity and warped sense of humour kicks in. I believe it’s commonly called survival.

Bowel cancer screening is available for everyone over 60 (50 if you’re lucky enough to live in Scotland). So when the kit came through, Mr WOTE (let’s just call him Mark for the purposes of this blog, for that is indeed what I call him most of the time) duly popped his poo in the post. Fast forward two weeks and we’re sitting in a small room with two lovely ladies who had the awful task of telling us the test results. It’s cancer. Scans to follow, appointments to be made. Suddenly plunged into a world called Colorectal and Oncology. It was surreal. Almost like they were telling someone else. And then they left us to digest the news. So in true WOTE style, we upped and went to the pub.

Shock is a shocker. One minute you’re meandering around Aldi, wondering whether you really need a horse blanket, 14 different types of spanners and a chicken. The next minute you’re not even sure if it’s worth putting the chicken on! But we were incredibly lucky. The scans showed it hadn’t spread so it was time to schedule some surgery to removed the wretched thing. We met the rather dishy surgeon and his team of equally lovely nurses and waited for a date.

Two weeks later and 5 hours on the table, Dr Handsome had managed to remove the offending creature all through keyhole surgery and reconnected his pipes without the need for a bag. What a hero. Mark spent the next day or so in a morphine haze while I sat on the chair next to him muttering nice wife things and playing Candy Crush. The next day I turned up on the ward to find his bed empty. Fearing the worst, I collapsed onto the floor in a gesture worthy of an Oscar nomination. “He’s gone, he’s gone”, I wailed. “Yes” said the nurse, “he’s gone for a wander. Here he comes”. And lo and behold, there he was, arse hanging out of the hospital gown, wheeling his drip down the corridor. No one needs to see that, so I took him home the next day.

Chemo sucks. For something that’s meant to make you better, it clearly makes you feel like shite. A 6 month course was recommended on the advice of the Oncologist, just to make sure the bastard didn’t return. So every 3rd Saturday, we sat in a chemo suite while he was pumped full of poison. Being a Saturday it was never very crowded. We had sandwiches and tea thanks to the WI ladies and the nurses were always friendly and positive. By December it was all done. A final CT and PET scan confirmed all was clear and he was discharged back to the arse team for monitoring.

Who says chemo sucks?

I wanted to write this piece for a number of reasons. First, you never know what’s round the corner. I know it’s a cliche about living every day as if it’s your last, but something like that certainly does make you think. And it certainly doesn’t involve wondering whether you really need a horse blanket. Secondly, and most important, you need to know that bowel cancer is the fourth most common cancer in the UK and the second biggest cancer killer. Over 42,000 people are diagnosed with bowel cancer every year in the UK. And around 268,000 people living in the UK today have been diagnosed with bowel cancer.

More than nine out of ten new cases (94%) are diagnosed in people over the age of 50, and nearly six out of ten cases (59%) are diagnosed in people aged 70 or over. But it’s not just that age group. Bowel cancer can affect anyone of any age. More than 2,500 new cases are diagnosed each year in people under the age of 50. 1 in 15 men and 1 in 18 women will be diagnosed with bowel cancer during their lifetime. That’s a pretty shocking statistic!

Baking a poo cake for charity!

Bowel cancer is treatable and curable especially if diagnosed early. Nearly everyone survives bowel cancer if diagnosed at the earliest stage. However this drops significantly as the disease develops. Early diagnosis really does save lives. The above facts are from https://www.bowelcanceruk.org.uk – a wonderful charity who support people affected by this shitty disease. Like most charities, they’ve suffered terribly as a result of COVID-19. So if you can spare any coins, please donate. We took part in their Walk Together event last year, did a charity bake and raised over £1,300.00.

Hurrah for walking 5 miles with a hip replacement!

So, if you’re of a certain age and get invited for a screening, PLEASE DON’T BIN IT. Scrabbling around in the toilet bowl for piece of poo may well be the worst ten seconds of your life. It might also save it. And if you experience any of the common symptoms – bleeding from your bottom and/or blood in your poo, persistent and unexplained change in bowel habit, unexplained weight loss, extreme tiredness for no obvious reason or pain or lump in your tummy, go to the docs and insist they refer you! The quicker you catch it, the better the outcome.

Right. Who wants chicken ….

Is There Life After Life?

Posted on by wifeontheedgeblog

Don’t worry. I’m not intending on going anywhere. I’m not expecting a visit from the grim reaper anytime this week. Nor have I found God. In fact, I generally try not to think about what’s to come once I’ve departed this mortal coil, although I’d like to think I’ll be spending eternity sat on a cloud playing the harp with an ill-fitting white tunic without having to worry about skincare and dieting. But I have got to that age now. That age where you become just a + in the drop down menu or it takes an eternity to scroll down to your birth year. That age when you realise it’s time to start thinking about Plan B. No, not the hip hop bloke from the noughties. He’s way too young and besides, he has no legitimate surname. I’m thinking about that time when you suddenly find you’re ‘no longer required’ in your current guise, but not quite ready for that ‘home by the sea’. You might have ‘one foot in the grave’ but you still have a big fat, freakin’ mortage! From October 2020 the State Pension age in the UK for men and women will be 66 as the government has now realised we’re all hanging around a lot longer than we used to, and many of us will need to work some way beyond. So no chance of feet up, light gardening and coffee mornings for me. As we hurtle like an out of control bullet train into our fifties, you can easily be facing another decade or two at work. Oh what joy!

I work in a pretty ageist industry. Experience counts for very little in the media. Anyone over 35 is a dinosaur from a land before time. And anyone over 45 is pretty much unemployable. So I’m on borrowed time here. I admit, I try and stay cool. I’ve got trendy glasses. I wear Converse. But the harsh reality is that I’m old enough to be most of my colleagues’ mother. I’ve got t-shirts older than most of them. And I don’t know how much longer I can get away with it before someone sounds the over 50’s klaxon and I get carted off by the nice men in white coats.

Anyway, this isn’t a piece about getting old again, even though it occupies most of my waking hours!  It’s the dilemma we face when we’re clearly too old carry on with the job we’ve most likely been doing all our working lives, therefore we need to consider a viable alternative. Over the years, I’ve thought of many professions that will take me beyond my current working life and still earn me a crust into my later years that don’t involve me a) getting on the Central Line, or b) getting off the Central Line.  I’ve done quite a few courses, read books and done lots of research in search of an after-life which I thought I’d share.  It’s been mad, fun, pointless and typically ended up with me on the familiar road to nowhere.

So if you’re thinking of a new career path, here’s a few non-starters for ten:

Becoming an Aromatherapist.  This seemed like a good idea.  I liked the idea of working at home in a lavender-scented fug.  So I signed up for a 6 month course in Aromatherapy and Massage at my local college.  It was run by a nice chap called Bob who, despite clearly knowing his Frankincense from his Myrrh, was mostly dull and uninspiring.  As is often found on these type of courses, a fascinating cross-section of the weird and wonderful general public, all searching for something new and exciting and clearly hoping to find it in Patchouli.  But despite Bob being as boring as a box set of Friends, I signed up enthusiastically.  I dutifully bought every essential oil there was on the market along with a shit-tonne of now dust-gathering books.  It was all going quite well until we got to the massage bit.  The theory was fine but the harsh reality of rubbing a sandalwood into someone else’s blubber really didn’t appeal.  Some practical sessions followed with Bob demonstrating his Effleurage on a rather excitable older lady called Barbara, where we got treated to her clear lack of grooming.   The novelty was starting to wane now.  You clearly don’t know who’s going to walk through the door, do you.  But the final straw came when we had to practise some reflexology.  I have an irrational fear of other people’s feet at the best of times, so obviously I got the lady who was riddled with the bunions, cracked heels and fungal nail infections.  Suffice to say I ran screaming from the room, leaving an exceptionally heady trail of benzoin and bergamot.

 

 

Journalist / Writer:  From quite an early age, I wanted to be a journalist or novelist.  There I’d be, writing pithy, political ramblings for The Times or a best selling thriller which got made into an Oscar winning film and starring Tom Hardy, mostly in a state of undress, directed by me. Or travelling the world, staying in luxury hotels, thanks to my editorial skills at Conde Nast Traveller.   I did a couple of courses at The University of London, all of which were actually wonderful.  One of my tutors was a lovely lady called Jan,  a Canadian dance critique who was not just a great journo but also an amazing teacher.  I once went to her flat in Central London for a tutorial.  I’ve never seen so many books, folders, magazine and newspaper cuttings.  There wasn’t a spare surface anywhere!  I guess that shows a real writer.  But suffice to say,  nothing ever happened – or I suppose I never really pursued it.  And there endeth the dream.  Although I’m dead proud of my Squeeze concert review in the alternative fanzine c. 1984, circulation – 9.

Screenshot 2020-06-16 at 10.54.13

 

Sub-editor. An 8 week course in spelling, grammar, editing and how to make a magazine page look nice sounded lots of fun.  A career in publishing was definitely the way to go.  Glamorous photo shoots, interviewing film stars and getting lots of freebies seemed right up my street. So there I was in a basement in a college in Notting Hill with another bunch of random folk all with the same pipe dream.  It was fun, actually.  But I soon realised that my colons really did need some attention and parentheses weren’t those 2 nice people that brought me into this world.  And so there it also ended.  My dreams of becoming editor of Vogue and yelling at flunkies to bring me skinny lattes while I flounced around Paris Fashion Week with Naomi and Kate was also dampened by the fact that, not only am I prone to inappropriate slashes, I know absolutely nothing about fashion and look terrible in oversized sunglasses.  

 

Italian:  I always wanted to learn another language.  So I signed up at our local community centre to improve my Italian.  I thought I could be a translator.  Or a teacher.  I’d scraped an O Level many years ago so I thought this might be an easy win.  I actually managed a whole year and can now order a lasagne, a beer and comment vaguely on the weather.  But teaching a bunch of mostly retired, hard of hearing locals didn’t really inspire me to pursue any sort of career.  But I’m happy to report that, some years on, my gesticulating continues to improve tremendously and my pizza consumption is off the scale!  So not a total waste of time I suppose.

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Internet Entrepreneur:  Yes I admit, I was seduced by a lot of the ‘I make £90k a week by selling videos of how to make £90k a week’ that appeared around 15 years ago once the internet really took off.   You know, endless pages of smiling humans not really telling you anything but showing endless photos of them standing next to someone else’s Lamborghini or a massive country pile.  You buy an ebook for a special price of £9.99 with tips on how to con other people out of buying an ebook for the special price of £9.99 and you too can own this Sunseeker yacht.  I didn’t buy a book in the end but I did buy a job-lot of last season’s Top Shop bikinis, which I sold for a profit of, yes you’ve guessed it, £9.99.  

Screenshot 2020-06-16 at 11.17.06

 

Psychotherapist.  OK, so a long time coming and a long way to go, but that’s what I’m doing now. I’m 18 months in and I haven’t given up.  That’s some sort of record so fingers crossed I don’t.   It’s wonderful and scary and probably a whole blog post which I’ll save for another day.

So if I don’t go mad myself trying to get through another 2 years of studying, essay writing and personal therapy, you may well find yourself lying on my couch in the not too distant future.

And my advice?  If at first you don’t succeed, drink a bottle of wine.  You’ll be amazed how little you care.

x

Things I hate about getting old

Posted on by wifeontheedgeblog

Getting old sucks.  It really does.  People who say ‘Age is just a number’ are talking bollocks.  It’s a great big number.  And there’s a reason for it.  Physical and mental things that happen as your body slowly deteriorates before your very failing eyes. I try to search for the positives: experience and wisdom, kids flown the nest, retirement on the horizon, financial freedom?  Well OK so none of those actually apply but you get the drift.

I think this has hit home this week more than ever as my youngest has graduated and just landed her first job.  Another chapter closes in the book of life.  Which means I might well be approaching the epilogue!

9aa97c7f367473c62b734afc03fa2cbc--aging-gracefully-i-wish

So on that cheery note, here’s a list of things that are really shite about getting old.

  • You make ‘old people’ noises when you sit down, stand up, bend over, roll over, walk.  It’s mainly because something that you didn’t know you had now seems to ache or hurt. Which means another trip to the doctors.  Whatever it is, it’s probably fatal.
  • Your tolerance for alcohol is greatly diminished.  Sniff a cork and I’m anyone’s.  Not that anyone wants me.  Apart from the tax man.
  • Your toenails seem to get thicker while your fingernails and hair gets thinner!  I know this because the beauty therapist now reaches for the angle grinder when I go in for a pedicure.
  • You forget that you’re now not remotely attractive to the opposite sex.  Well not the ones in your 18 year old mind.  I’ve often looked a young lad in the street and thought ‘Oh he’s cute’!  Then I realise he’s only about 16 and actually it’s the balding, portly granddad he’s helping across the road who is more likely in my permitted age range.  I now berate myself for such thoughts and thank the Lord I’ve yet again avoided a prison sentence.
  • No one wants to have sex with you except drunk people.  Or someone that’s in to necrophilia.
  • Your pubic hair turns grey.  Although my husband will argue they’re just cobwebs.
  • Your bladder has a mind of it’s own. Muscles that were once toned are now like some worn knicker elastic.  The pelvic floor retired shortly after the birth of child 2 over 20 years ago. I dare not cough, sneeze or laugh for fear of leakage. Which subsequently rules out any social interaction of any kind.
  • You really do think you’re pretty cool for your age but your kids just think you’re an embarrassing idiot.  Personally I see nothing wrong with saying ‘lolz’ but apparently it’s wrong on many many levels.
  • You realise that planning ahead is pretty pointless as there isn’t much ‘ahead’ left!  It’s all ‘behind’.  30 more summers if I’m lucky. God that’s depressing.  Thank God for sherry!
  • You watch The Antiques Road Show.  Or record it if you’re busy darning some socks.  Obviously when I say ‘record’ I mean ‘download’.  Hashtag oldbag
  • The clothes you think will look great on you just don’t.  So often I see something in a magazine and think that would really suit me.  The person I imagine in the outfit is normally slim with long legs.  I haven’t been slim or had long legs since I was a gangly 11 year old which is about when I stopped growing upwards and started growing sideways.
  • You turn into your parents.  I find myself telling my kids to make sure they eat before they leave for work/wear weather-appropriate clothing etc. I also find myself saying things like – ‘An apple a day keeps the doctor away’ or ‘In my day…..’  My children are adults!  They’re starting to think I’m from another era, not even covered in their history lessons!
  • You become obsessed with the weather.  Worrying endlessly that if you go out, you might be too hot, too cold or get wet.  You end up covering all eventualities by packing a small case with an umbrella, rain mac (one that folds to a handy pocket size), cardigan, sun hat and sun cream just to go to Tesco.  It’s suddenly become your main topic of conversation. You’re a weather bore.   Did I tell you about the great storm of 1987?  Or the heatwave of 1976?  Who cares!
  • It takes a lot longer to fill in a form.  Mainly scrolling down the drop down age menu to find that you don’t even come into a bracket.  It’s just 50+ which means ‘actually we don’t really give a shit’.
  • You look forward to a dull evening.  Although last night we went a bit mad and watched all six episodes of Doc Martin.  In one sitting.  Practically Netflix and chill!

But,  on the plus side, pretending to be deaf does have it’s advantages.  And somewhere buried deep in this apathy is a young spirit that, given half a glass of Lambrusco and a pair of leg warmers, might just make those next 30 summers the best ever.

So long as it’s not too hot.

x

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Love Pussies!

Posted on by wifeontheedgeblog

It’s been a worrying week.  Stella, the tiny cat, escaped from her catio.  Lord knows how. She was missing for a few hours before she was found.  It was a tense time.  And when she was found, she had managed to lose her thundershirt – which she was wearing to keep her calm because of the storm.  Obviously!!  But there was some good news. Ms Oreo, she’s a 4 year old Tuxedo, has settled well in Austria having moved from Stockholm with her meowmy and the droolbeast.  And Ricky the housecat – he’s somewhere in Canada – is finally getting along with his new cat sister. Which is such a relief!  For a while I thought it was all going to end in furballs!

And just when I thought all was well, Sweet Joey finally crossed the rainbow!  His paw purrents were devastated.  Bless the little ginger kitty.  So as a mark of respect, the Friday Night Box-pawty was cancelled.  I think it was the right thing to do.

OK I know, I’ve been at stuck at home for a few months and you’re probably thinking I’ve finally gone bonkers.  But when life gives you lemons (without the optimistic bit) and it’s pissing down with rain, what can be more comforting and distracting from the citrus fruits of doom, than pictures of cats!!

Kitty Cute Cat Pets

DOESN’T THAT MAKE YOU FEEL GOOD?

I bloody love it.  I’m a catsofinstagram addict.  It’s not just a bunch of cat pictures.  It’s a whole community of lunatics, like myself, who post pictures of their adorable furry friends and talk to each other – as their cats, obviously.  My cat, Oliver – or Ollie_Purrs to his fellow feline Insta buddies, has almost 1000 followers.  He puts me to shame with my laughable 290.  He’s got friends all over the place.  Australia, USA & Canada, Dublin, Hackney.  We ‘like’ each others photos, we share funny stories and we grieve together when one of these treasured pets passes.

IMG_2833.JPG

OLLIE PURRS.  INSTAGRAM SENSATION.

But it’s not just instagram.  If you search YouTube for cat videos, you’ll find over 90 million results!  That’s more that Justin Beiber and Taylor Swift put together (these are young famous people, apparently). Cats rule the world wide web!  We’re obsessed with them!  Sharing over 4 million images and videos a day. But why?  Are we looking for escapism from the realities of life?  The misery of work.  The worry of money.  The same reasons that similarly huge numbers of, most surprisingly, middle aged folk, stab their weary fingers at cascade of animated sweets?

Worrying that I’m some sort of raving fruitcake, I like to research these things. The Huffington Post reports that Jessica Gall Myrick, an assistant professor at Indiana University’s Media School, recruited 6,827 people from the Facebook page of an animal advocacy group and surveyed them about pet ownership, Internet use, video consumption and their personality. During this study, she asked her users to recall the last time they watched a cat video and record their mood before and after the viewing. Overwhelmingly, respondents said they felt significantly happier after watching the videos and experienced fewer negative emotions of anxiety, sadness and guilt.

Look!  There’s even a graph to prove it!

cat-video-emotions-study

So go on. Give it go. Love some pussies. Trust me. You’ll feel fabulous.

As the saying goes, don’t knock it til you try it!

x

They Might Be Giants!

Posted on by wifeontheedgeblog

I often get asked if I have children.  Must be the grey hairs, the twitch and the permanent look of despair.  But it’s a reasonable question to ask someone of my age.  Trouble is, I’m never quite sure of how to answer.  The truth is, yes!  I do.  I have 2 children.  But I tend to associate the word ‘children’ as generally being those under the age of 10.  That lovely age where they’re unaffected by life, not a care in the world other than when they can next have an ice-cream or a trip to the park.  They’re cuddly and cute and you can tuck them up in bed at night and kiss their chubby little innocent pink cheeks. Children are sweet, small little things – well in my head anyway!

My ‘children’ are 27 and 22.  They’re adults.  But to say I have ‘adults’ just sounds, well, somewhat creepy.  And the word ‘adult’ is often coupled with the word ‘responsible’. Which I just can’t quite see them as!  They’re ‘Grown Up Children’. Larger versions of their younger selves. He shaves, he has a car, a girlfriend and a job.  She has just finished Uni, has a boyfriend and a penchant for cocktails.  And they’re both still at home.  But despite being ‘adults’ according to their birth certificates, actually they’re not. What they are is ‘Giant Children’.  Because despite their size and their age, the behaviour has barely changed at all.

150516STEBoomer01-xlarge_trans_NvBQzQNjv4BqVRYMpRRh5U8tfaESeId9UvqZZNFHDV94SvZdX1WqoFI

IMAGE FOR REFERENCE ONLY.  ACTUALLY I DON’T HAVE GREY HAIR AND MY KIDS ARE DEFINITELY NOT GINGER!

I think it’s something about being a) still in the house you grew up in and b) still being with your sibling that makes these ‘Young Adults’ behave like – well ‘Giant Children’. Although I manage to painfully eke some rent out of Giant Child 1, it is handed over begrudgingly and with an almighty huff.  I don’t blame him.  He’d really rather be somewhere else! His size 11 trainers are scattered here there and everywhere and despite being responsible for a mountain of crockery and utensils, the thought of actually putting them in the dishwasher is incomprehensible.  And he takes up so much room!  A whole sofa!  Coupled with the discarded footwear, sports bags and inability to master how a bin works, it’s all getting rather crowded in here.  The little bundle of energy that used to tear around the house now looms large in doorways, towering above us all, dispelling wind from any given orifice at any given time (apparently this is really really funny). Giant Child 2 is less imposing, a bit more helpful and smells a little sweeter.  But being fresh out of studying, with a huge debt (thanks to ‘Just Call Me Dave’), the chance of her being able to afford to move out anytime soon is just as far off as the other one – who despite having a decent job, has no hope of getting a mortgage any time soon.

Young adults are more likely to be living with their parents than at any other time in the past 20 years as record numbers struggle to fly the nest. There are nearly 3 million 20-34 year olds still living with parents, a 618,000 leap since 1996, according to findings from the Office for National Statistics.  The “failure to launch” phenomenon means there are now millions of young adults are still in their childhood bedrooms, which seems to somehow keep them in a sort of semi-childlike, limbo state.   House prices, university debts and sympathetic parents are making this generation somewhat potbound.

Family-Building-Society

Credit: https://www.brayleinoyucca.co.uk/blog/our-ad-that-really-is-the-dogs/

By 27, I’d been working for nearly 10 years.  University just wasn’t an option for me as, quite honestly, I wasn’t clever enough.  See 5 years of school reports!  But then jobs were in abundance so I left college, went to work in a large advertising agency at the age of 18 and slowly worked my way up the ladder.  Ok I only got about 3 rungs up but the parties were epic.  By 22 I had bought a flat and by 26, I had a small child.  It wasn’t really fashionable to go back-packing round Cambodia – well not if you valued your life.  The done thing was to get on the property ladder as quickly as possible – and it was easy. House prices were reasonable and mortgages were manageable.  Sadly, my kids will probably have to wait til I shuffle off this mortal coil before they can afford a deposit for a house.  Come to think of it,  I am starting to wonder why they keep offering me cups of tea – which, now I come to think of it, do taste rather odd.

So my advice if you’ve got giant children.

  • Make sure you have a stable wifi connection.
  • Make sure you’ve got ink in the printer.
  • Make sure you’ve got wine in the fridge – ideally a small hidden fridge in a part of the house that they can’t be bothered to go to.

But also make sure you make the most of them.  Because despite all of the above, I’ll bloody miss them when they’re gone and wouldn’t swap them for anything.

Unless anyone’s got Lego Cards 043, 095 and 107.

x

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hair Today …

Posted on by wifeontheedgeblog

Hairdressers are rather like husbands.  For the first few years they do exactly what they want and you always feel good afterwards.  Then they get a bit lazy and complacent and suddenly you don’t feel so special any more.  So when that happens, it’s time to start the nightmare search for a new one.  So where do you start?  Is there a Tinder for hairdressers?  Hinder, maybe?  And how do you tell the incumbent that you’re moving on to a younger, trendier salon?  It’s not you, it’s me? And if you don’t tell them, you end up trying to avoid the area for fear of bumping into them sporting a new ‘do’.   It’s a huge dilemma – one I’ve encountered on many occasions over the years.  I knew the false beard would come in handy one day.

There isn’t a high street in the UK now that doesn’t have at least 2 or 3 salons peddling their hairs. It’s an industry that has grown steadily over the years and currently sees no sign of declining.  It was sometime around the end of the 1800s when we slowly started to see the transition from men only barbershops to salons across the civilised world.  In those early days, wealthy women were having their hair styled by their servants.  All a bit Downton Abbey.  The rest of the classes probably just used some carbolic soap and some rusty shears.

The roaring 20s saw almost 25,000 hair salons open in the US. From the 1900s to 20s, bobby pins, hair dryers, perms and hair colour became more and more popular. It was the age of Hollywood movie stars, Jazz and Coco Chanel.  Everyone wanted to look like their idols!  By the 40’s and 50’s, beauty salons became the go-to-place for the housewife to escape from their mundane lives, get pampered and indulge in gossip. Gradually, the hairdressing salon became affordable to the masses and not just the upper classes, eventually combining other beauty services to pamper and preen it’s clientele.

Wartime_Hair_Dresser-_the_work_of_Steiner's_Salon,_Grosvenor_Street,_London,_England,_UK,_1944_D18212

“SO WHERE ARE YOU GOING FOR YOUR HOLIDAYS THIS YEAR?  BUTLINS?  OOH POSH!”

Nowadays, our high streets are awash with them.  Some part of a chain, others with quirky fascias such as ‘Hairport’, ‘A Cut Above’ and my personal East London favourite, ‘Jack the Clipper’.  But how on earth do you choose a good one?  Today it’s easier with social media, reviews and online recommendations but what’s good for the goose isn’t necessarily good for the hairy old gander.  My own personal start point is that, if the hairdresser has bad hair, quite frankly I don’t want them anywhere near mine.  They are basically a walking advert for their profession.  Like I don’t want a dentist with bad teeth or a doctor with weeping sores.  I’m also rather seduced by a cool interior.  1970’s pictures on the wall, office furniture or rubbish towels are also a bit of a sign of apathy. Not always indicative but first impressions etc.  I also like hairdressers to be honest.  If it won’t suit, then please have the decency to tell me.  A stark reminder never to show them a picture of a poodle ever again!

witch hairdresser cartoon

So on a whim, I booked into a trendy Shoreditch salon for a cut and blow. I’d read the reviews, scoured the website and gallery and wandered past on more than one occasion. I could even book online which shows both innovation on their part and total laziness on my part. Tick!  Nothing worse than booking over the phone to a fairly dopey receptionist who gets just about every part of the booking wrong.  Most annoying to find out you’re booked in next Tuesday with Cilla for a perm when you’d asked for a Saturday appointment with Donna for highlights!  That’s happened!  Anyway, I was politely greeted,  ‘gowned up’ by a nice young man and promptly offered a cocktail.  It was after 6pm so why not!  Who doesn’t love a Espresso Martini full of hair!  Anyway, a chat with the Senior Stylist and a rather nice (and faintly disturbing for various reasons) wash and head massage from that nice young man, I was set about with sprays and scissors.  Oh and another Espresso Martini or 3.  Rude not to!  They were friendly, they’ve got dogs, alcohol and nice towels.  By the end I was hair cut, half cut and £65 out of pocket!  But you get what you pay for and I’d definitely go back.

 

Probably when I’ve won the lottery!

x

Back with a vest on!

Posted on by wifeontheedgeblog

Well hello there.  It’s been a while, I know.  A lot has happened since I last dragged my arthritic hip to this site.  Some of it hilarious and interesting (none of which I can remember) and some of it pretty tough.  Dad had a massive stroke which has left him with a severe loss of mobility and has pretty much changed all our lives.  And when something like that happens, everything else kind of takes a back seat.  He had a bumpy ride too – a victim of a failing hospital and obvious cuts in the NHS resulted in less than satisfactory care.  But with a lot of love and support from us lot, and all credit to the amazing doctors and nurses battling against the odds, he’s made great progress.  He gets a little confused with time and process but on the whole, he’s doing well.  So while quite a lot has changed for him, I’m sorry to have to tell you that, despite a huge bump on the head, he is still a Spurs supporter.

12928251_10154154794118825_7247132131461746527_n

CELEBRATING DAD’S 80TH BIRTHDAY AT DUXFORD AIRFIELD

But let’s keep this light-hearted.  I’ve missed writing.  I’ve missed ranting and moaning. And I’ve missed you lot.  All 3 of you!  So it’s time to relaunch this little indulgence of mine with a few more bells and whistles.  I’ve migrated to WordPress!  Get me!  I don’t even know what that means! Plus there’ll be Instagram and most probably Facebook and Twitter too in the future.  And new for 2017, mixed in with my musings, will be some reviews of wherever my fight against ageing, my quest for retirement and my pursuit of happiness takes me. Basically it’s an excuse to go and have facials and massages and eat in poncy restaurants.  I’ve even joined Slimming World.  That’s a whole new post in itself which I’ll save for another day.

But Spring is in the air.  I’ve joined the gym (again) ahead of the hip operation (end of April) in the hope of getting into some sort of decent shape before my leg is severed!  On the plus side, I suppose the crutches will do wonders for my bingo wings.  The plan being that by the time summer is in full swing, I’ll be fit, healthy and looking fab-u-lous in those daisy dukes and skimpy vests.  The reality is, is that I probably won’t be chucking my Primark cover-ups out any time soon.

Start diet today

CAN I JUST POINT OUT THAT THESE ARE CATEGORICALLY NOT MY FEET!

So with renewed vigour and a spring in my limp, I shall be back again soon with my first review of having my haircut at an extortionately expensive Shoreditch hair salon followed by a luxurious facial that promises a fusion of plants and diamonds to stimulates cell renewal and prolong the youth of the skin with a new lease of life.  And after that  I shall probably just about be able to afford a Tesco meal deal!

x

Flying Time, Dodgy Hairstyles, Football Shirts and Queenie

Posted on by wifeontheedgeblog

Fuck me!  It’s 5 past June!  How did that happen?  4 months since I last wrote about all those things in life that just make my wrinkles a little deeper and my hair a little greyer.  For someone who lists ‘writing about all those things in life that just make my wrinkles a little deeper and my hair a little greyer’ as their number one hobby (aside from cougar dating websites and bothering famous people on Twitter), it’s a pretty poor show.  So stand by for a moan up of epic proportions – which should take us all nicely though to October.

Bad Heir Day

Talking of hair, why is mine so crap?  I don’t think, in the 40-something years I’ve been on this planet, have I ever looked in the mirror and thought – WOW, you’re hair looks fab!  I’ve spent fortunes having it highlighted, tinted, permed, back combed, front combed, and chopped by allsorts of mincing crimpers.  I’ve paid through the nose and out my backside.  And still it’s fine, flat and mousey brown.  Oh and get a bit of heat or wind on it and bingo!  I look like I’m wearing a shit brown helmet.  I could have bought a small principality with the cash I’ve spent trying to look like a Pantene ad. 

I suppose I should be grateful that I’ve got some.  Even though I do resemble a rubbish Lego woman!

Lovely hair
Me
You Will Definitely Walk Alone!
I have just mentioned to Mr H that if he takes his West Ham football shirt on holiday, I shall divorce him.  Or kill him.  Whichever is less messy.  I’m not averse to chaps supporting their teams, but nothing screams I’M FUCKING BRITISH, BURNT AND PROBABLY DRUNK abroad more than a football shirt.  It’s enough that us brits fail miserably to ‘blend in’ abroad by wearing unflattering clothing over our scorched bodies but the sight of a fat bloke in a Man United shirt just seems to spell trouble.  It’s highly likely he’ll have an equally lardy lady in tow in ill-fitting faux-linen trousers and couple of unruly kids called Britney and Jordan.

I’ve never seen an hunky Italian on holiday in an Inter Milan shirt.  Or a sexy Senor sipping his San Miguel whilst wearing a Real Madrid top.  Nope, it’s just us lot.  In our British uniform.  Eating bacon and eggs for breakfast and complaining about the weather.  So if Mr H thinks he’s going to inadvertently portray me as a flabby Primark-wearing Northern doris, then quite frankly, he’ll be forever blowing bubbles out of his arse!!

Not Mr H
Definitely not me.  I’m blonder.
Jubliee Schmoobilee
I’m wondering.  Did the Queen really enjoy the Jubilee?  Did she really care that Gary Barlow had been round the world just to write her a song?  Did she honestly want to spend 4 hours on a boat in the freezing cold, waving at the prolls, whilst her poor hubby was clearly busting for a pee so much that he ended up eating hospital food?  Did she really want to listen to Jessie J and Ed Sheeran?  Can’t imagine they’re high on one’s list of latest downloads.  I bet all she really wanted to do was spend a few days on the sofa, with a couple of swan sandwiches, G&T in hand, watching The Queen on a loop.
But despite her critics, and trust me I’m no bunting-hanging, flag-waving loon, 60 years for a woman in the same job surely deserves to be celebrated. OK she’s not exactly performing brain surgery, or defusing atomic weapons, but someone’s got to fly round the world, collecting bouquets from eager children clearly forced into it or dining with militant heads of state prior to them nuking Greenland.  And for that she should be honoured.
What bugs me though it that suddenly, everything and everyone becomes British.  Tesco brings out a limited edition ‘British’ sandwich.  You can’t fart for tripping over some sort of red, white and blue paraphenalia and now look at us – we’re all patriotic and blubbing at Kate’s lovely hat. 
But you have to admire the British spirit.  We stood in the rain, eating rain drenched sausages and watching the jazz band electrocute themselves as the water seeped into their generator.  But they played on, through scorched fingers.  No other country would.  We’re unique like that.  And I’m sure, under that permanently pissed off face, she was actually rather chuffed we’d all bothered!
A typically British Sandwich


No you can’t have a knighthood Mr Barlow!!

Don’t put your routers in the post, Mr Murdoch!

Posted on by wifeontheedgeblog

I think it was a Saturday morning. Maybe a Sunday. The birds were singing. The sun may have even been shining through the windows. But somehow, I sensed danger, fear and foreboding. The feeling that something terrible was about to happen. I could hear voices. Slightly raised. Doors slamming. Voices were getting louder. And more frenzied. Then the footsteps coming up the stairs. At first slowly. Then gathering pace. Towards my door. Outside it became dark. A murder of crows, disturbed by something malevolent, flutter furiously past the window. And suddenly, the sun goes in. A dog howls in the distance. The room goes cold. My door flies open. Standing there, with faces as white as ghosts, my children stand before me and utter those words. Those words any parent of teenage children dreads. I braced my self. My knuckles white. And waited for my son to speak.

THE F*****G INTERNET IS DOWN!!!!!

It was pointless trying to scold him for swearing (he gets it from his nan). I could see the terror in his eyes. The horror of not being able to hook up with some borderline Columbine weirdo to shoot merry hell out of virtual paratroopers. My daughter, close behind, wailing like a wounded animal, at the unspeakable prospect of not being able to get on My Face or TwitBook to look at pictures of someone she doesn’t know.

It appears that, in the switch from one rubbish service provider to another, the ‘seamless process, Mrs Hards’ was about as seamless as something with absolutely no seams whatsoever!

I really wanted to spare them the ‘in my day’ speech, but alas, it was inevitable. “How about a game of Monopoly? Or we could go for a walk? Make cup-cakes or go to a museum? There’s …..”

They’re looking me in utter disgust. Like they’ve just caught Mr H and I in a compromising position involving gas masks and hot wax (which, trust me, will never happen). The kitchen window in the house 3 doors rattles as they slam the door and retreat to their lairs.

And so, I spend the next week on the phone to one of Rupert Murdoch’s employees (please leave brain at front reception) while hormones rage around me. New router on it’s way. Should take 2 days. But will probably take a week.

But at least we got to play Monopoly! And I got to be the Top Hat. And I beat ’em. Stick that in your Facebook and shoot it!

C+nt Alt Delete!

Who am I?

Posted on by wifeontheedgeblog

A recent conversation with my daughter went something like this:

ME: I quite like Rihanna’s music.
DAUGHTER: WHY??????
ME: Er … because it’s good?
DAUGHTER: OH MY GOD I HATE YOU!!
ME: Oh what have I done now??
DAUGHTER: YOU CAN’T LIKE IT. IT’S NOT FOR OLD PEOPLE. WHY DO YOU WANT TO BE COOL!!!!!!

OK so two things here. One: there’s some sort of age cut off point for musical tastes that I didn’t know about so I’m guessing I shouldn’t be listening to anything beyond Spandau Ballet or Wham. Two: I am mum. Not Carrie. Mum doesn’t listen to hip trendy garage or R&B, or drink, or have sex (well that’s another post). Nor does she swear like a navvie or dance uncontrollably through mind-enhancing drugs. In her eyes, I’m placed on this mortal coil to cook her food, wash her clothes, pick her up from here, there and everywhere, dish out the cash, clear up the mess and dry the tears. Beyond those tasks, I don’t exist. Mention old boyfriends and ‘that’s disgusting’. Recount old antics I engaged in and that’s just ‘WRONG’. It seems I was born and married on the same day she was.

It’s a shame in some ways. Carrie is quite good fun. Done some pretty crazy things over the years. Some funny, some worthy of a few columns in the Sun. So I guess she won’t want to know about the time I got arrested in Spain for indecent behaviour, or the time I was physically removed from some fancy pants launch party by a burly bouncer for abusing the Radio 1 DJ. She’ll miss the story of me being sick in the collection plate at Midnight Mass because I’d had too many sweet martinis and thrown out of the girl guides for ‘being the exact opposite of everything they stand for’. And best she doesn’t know about the time I was found in the PE teacher’s wardrobe during a school ski trip.

Plus there was the incident on the West Ham team bus, the girls 5-a-side football match fight and that time I accidentally knocked that nice policeman’s helmet off. I really did think he’d find it funny. And they’re the ones I can remember.

On reflection? Maybe it’s best she doesn’t know all this. I would hate for her to think that this is normal behaviour or an imperative rite of passage. Best she only knows how good my chicken casserole is and how generous I am with pocket money rather than see me as a sort of rubbish 80’s Jordan-esque role model.

I can only hope she doesn’t read Frank McAvennie’s biography!