I realise that this may be a yearly kvetch  - or I may even complain on a  weekly basis.

 Look darlings, fashion  is often hard.  sometimes uncomfortable, usually amazes your Significant Other at the amount of time and money you spend on it  but there's no need  not to try and understand it. You don't HAVE to dress in the latest fashion if you want to look good, (and the whole 80's fashion for shell suits  and neon rave gear completely passed me by) but then there's no use in just dressing in the last fashion you understood  back in the  mists of time. And frankly, where are you going to get 70's loon pants from in this day and age?

 I am lucky in that I have a couple of Gentlemen of The Pink who are always well dressed  and I approve of but there's also a Lady Of Other Persuasions whom I despair of ever getting to use a handbag.  That doesn't  really matter to me as she has her signature look but I do wonder what she does with all her dreck. She doesn't look odd, she doesn't look dated, she doesn't look as if she doesn't care,  she simply has her own particular style and that is it. There's a couple of  Men I Adore whose signature look HAS stayed the same for as long as I've known them frankly, (apart from the odd flirtation in the 70's)  but they still look good and it suits them. And in the case of one of 'em, he's probably ALWAYS wanted to be a money-broker and now he can afford to look like what he is -  a succesful, rich one who has Maitre D's scurrying to do his every whim.

 But it's on the streets it  seems to hit me. I just don't get it anymore. Why wear fashion if it doesn't suit you? You don't HAVE to wear tight, skinny fit vests if there are bits hanging out all over the place. If you're got a small, neat, waist then wear clothes that show it off - not hide it away under flowing  shifts that ALWAYS makes me think of maternity tunics. Why wear something that makes you look as if you've raided the Oxfam shop? (And I don't mean the trendy Notting Hill shops that have cast of  Matthew Williamson in there)  What are the point of Crocs please? Bits of plastic on your feet? Making them sweat and smell and your feet slip about in them? Did Monolo slave away in vain designing for the joy of shoes? Yes, it may be comfortable but I myself have been known to waft around in comfortable clothes, still managing to look  nicely dressed. I wear t-shirts! And  jeans! And even flat shoes but that doesn't let the side down.

 Fashion is  there for you to make the best of it, to pick and choose as you see to fit and flatter you. And if, as I suspect, you say 'bollocks' to it and assume  those of us who DO care are all empty-headed little flibbertigibbets* then I am sure that there is SOMETHING you wear  that is non-negotiable for you. And just because I turn up  at the bus-stop in a hat, heels and a matching ensemble complete with darling hand-bag doesn't mean that I've ignored the Tehran troubles,  global warming debates and current political crisis.

 But if this carries on,  I can see that I'm going to have to blinkered with a copy of Vogue every time I go out.....
 

*For some reason there, I nearly wrote 'flitterbejessits' but  as I have no idea which is a correct spelling - or even word -  I'll let it pass.

Well I don't know where to start! There I was, spending the weekend painitng the kitchen, (Bamboo  duck egg blue if you must know) and all was well, apart from a quick, emergency trip to replace a ceiling roller courtesy of the Ruth-mobile that is. I envisaged a nice week with the odd bit of writing and  genteel enquiries for work,  a few last minute adjustments to the kitchen with prints and photographs on the wall and then a search for wooden venetian blinds.

 But then The Partner-in-law rang and need a last-minute actor for his shoot on Tuesday and could I oblige? So Tuesday saw me hanging around and pretending to learn to drive, being talked at by a very competent lady driving instructor, being given notes on yer actual driving (which I don't do) and even having my head under a bonnet for the first time EVER (and not in a Jane Austen way either). Now I normally treat the Partner-in-Law with affectionate  disdain, impertinance and patronisation,  falling into downright rudeness and cries of 'Fuck off and die, darling'. But this time, he was In Charge. He was The Director and so my supreme acting skills were called upon to be sweetness and light to him, to listen to what he said and to doing it EXACTLY how he wanted it with nary a murmur of dissent. So of course, I was hanging around for ages, called in and out of the car, went for lunch (my request for quail's egg sandwiches fell upon deaf ears) and finally finished and was home by 6pm. I can't help but think that he enjoyed it a tad too much.

 Then came a call from BBC Radio 4 to give my considered opinion up the budget (Live! From a garage in Derby!) today and having to rein in my rants upon the lack of effort from Alastair Darling, the unfairness of (yet again!) a 2% hike in duty upon alcohol (frankly, it's only the wine that's keeping me going through this credit crunch)  and why can't they pay the charity I work for to employ me to keep me off the unemployment line?

 As if this wasn't enough, Darren from The Ivy rang up 'to confirm by booking for two at 8pm'. Now this was  a complete surprise to me, so, ringing round the usual suspects who normally treat a girl to such things I may have ranted a tad about a) the unfairness of not being told in advance and b) the connected reason that I couldn't make it anyway. Words were had.

And now, the Nottingham Evening Post want to give me a free  designer frock but after a message left for me, I'm having a bit of difficulty actually getting hold of the person who promised it in the first place.

So all in all, I'm ready for a rant after it being kept in for the last few days. I have an interview for a Proper Full-Time Position on Friday so I hope it doesn't all come out then....  

The signs of the recession are all over my nice safe middle-class world. My usual haunts of John Lewis and Debenhams  are bereft of shoppers and you can hear the tumble weeds as they roll along the aisles.  Monsoon and Phase 8 have closed down their smaller units in town (without even a SALE! Can you believe it?)   and I understand that even the likes of me are shopping at Primark and Poundland these days.   And today, needing a manicure, I popped into  my usual nail bar at the normally busy lunchtime. No-one was waiting, there was one other person in and the staff rushed to greet me and give me my usual cup of green tea.

I was shocked.

I mean I know I'm stretching my visits there to once every six weeks instead of every four, and the beauty salon* sees me once a month instead of twice but really, has it got that bad?  Are the ladies letting themselves go to save money? Is that lippy going down to the last nubbin before we buy a new one and  are we buying cheper clothes and shoes and dressing down?

 Well I think it's ridiculous.  We've got to have something to live for and frankly, if I look in the mirror and see some aging women dressed in bad clothes, her roots showing, cuticles mashed to pieces and no lippy on then that's going to upset me more than the lack of jobs, economic downturn, falling interest rates and the fact that I've had to switch to cheaper bubbly and let my subscriptions to Vanity Fair and Friends of the  National & Old Vic go. I realise this may make me sound like a complete and utter middle-class tosser (And no doubt Radio 4's PM today will add to it after my piece goes out) but  these things matter. They make you feel upbeat and strong and invincible. It's a way of hiding your vulnerabilities from the world and thinking Positive Thoughts. otherwise we'd all be hiding under the sofa cushions and bemoaning our fates

 So come on ladies,  paint your nails fire-engine red, dash on a scarlet lippy and you'll feel much better and will be giving the world a nicer view.  After all, we don't want to see anything too horrible do we?

* Your cue to say: "but darling, surely you don't need to go?" 

Well only in a metaphorical fashion. I've been giving advice to the love-lorn and those who's recent dating activities have had them in tears recently. Actually, that is rather amusing if you know of my own situation - both now and in the past. I mean what do I know? I just happily bimble through life accepting love and favours where ever I can but not really in a sort of semi-pro way - whatever SOME people may think....

There are plenty of chat-up lines out there and some of them really work. The one that most worked on me was someone saying " I really can't help myself...." before moving in for the smooch - but then after a lot of contact and flirting I expected something as good as that and would have been disappointed if nothing had been done. And the ones that really work are the ones where the gentleman rarely compliments you in the normal run of things but suddenly something zooms out of the left field at you, making you go all weak at the knees and sending you to a higher plane.

The one that didn't work and made me laugh out loud was a gentleman complimenting me on my appearance and my youthful looks and then suddenly saying: "Have you had a facelift?"

And then there was a slight back-handed compliment when I had dinner without a Gentleman of my acquaintance as he was rather busy. When we met up later in the evening, I raved about the (French) Maitre D' who called me 'Mademoiselle' throughout my brief dining room attendance.

" Oh he was taking the piss.....I mean you look good - but you don't look under thirty...." I'm still trying to work that one out...

But I think the best advice I can give comes down to a couple of things.

1) Don't give away the goods too soon. Ok you may be slightly drunken and in a bar and the Gentleman has been very flattering but surely, SURELY it will be a whole lot better if you are both sober? And at least you'll remember all of it... Time to have the drunken fumblings and fallings-off-the-bed further into your relationship. If you really, really, need an orgasm then go home and get out the rabbit. You won't have to share your bed and you won't have to suck your stomach in....

2.) Never, NEVER say the L word. Or rather say it in reply. You should never say it first as it frightens them off. And with some men, you just know they don't want that. It frightens them and they run away. And if you keep it to yourself, you still have a lovely relationship with them and in fact can have some fun with it, watching them wonder why you haven't said it as they are obviously so fantastic.....

And finally, my main point, THE most important thing.

3) Make sure the Gentleman is worthy. Don't think you can change their wicked ways or he'll be different with you or anything like that. Chances are he likes being exactly like that and it has served him well in the past. Appreciate his quirks but if it irritates you from the word go, it's going to be a deal-breaker. Just go for the ride and accept it (no euphemism intended here) and you'll enjoy it all the more.

Trust me on this one, you'll save a lot of heart ache.....

Birthdays are normally an occasion for celebration. Or at least a contemplation of the day, maybe a quiet glass of something, toasting yourself and even just the fact that you have got through another year.

But not for me and not this year. This year, my birthday was the dreaded one year anniversary of my beloved Russ Bear's funeral. We've had all the dreaded 'first anniversary' blues - the first birthday without him, the first Christmas, the  date of his death and now, the actual  funeral anniversary.  I wish I could say it gets easier but it doesn't. Oh it's not my first, waking thought and sometimes I go days without thinking of him but there's always something which reminds me  of him and then - bang! -  it's right up there in my mind again. There's a Russ-sized hole still in my life and while the edges are getting a litle fuzzy and it's scabbing over, it's still painful. I still can't bring myself to delete his number from the phones and his birthday is still up there in Things To Be Remembered when I'm looking at presents.

On the day, I went back to the Church and saw the marker for the first time. There were flowers  and I left a few myself, there was a small pewter bear, looking forlorn on the stone. It was as bitter and cold as I remembered and there was snow in the air. I had hoped for an ending, I had hoped for a few misty, reminiscent tears but it all poured out of me again, as raw and hot and painful and so bloody UNFAIR as a year ago.

Please don't think I'm still wallowing, that I haven't got over it.  I have, truly I have. I've even regained what small faith I once had but nothing seems right anymore. And with the death recently of George - 'Beachhutman' - and his wake to attend this month, it just seems like this cycle of endings is perpetuating.  This year has had the usual lovely ups and grand moments and things  that - if people knew about - I would be envied for,  but all the fun seems to have gone out of it.  I've wandered around for the past few months with an aching, broken heart and I want it to stop.

Of course this is the traditional Season for Men to come Bearing Gifts. Sadly, I notice the lovely, lovely, Victorian garnet earrings are STILL in the antique shop window as of yesterday so obviously my powers of suggestion have not worked. But then the Gentlemen I Adore don't  exactly  live around here and so  the chances for theatrically pausing by the window with them are extremely few and far between. London is much easier but then while riding in a cab through Hatton Garden (for example) the doors are firmly locked, drivers are insturcted  not to stop under ANY pretence and for added safety, fingers are in ears so as not to hear any shout of love, squeals of delight or  even a last-ditch attempt of hammering on the window with a heel.... And again, while  er... flattering a Gentleman late at night it is quite easy to get them to promise  you a lovely little bauble or two but I feel it's not quite the done thing to immediatly leap up, grab their wallet and give them the telephone with the jeweller's number on speed dial. But then one shouldn't complain - I've had lovely times with marvellous dinners and conversation and that is what matters. The gold diggers can keep Tiffany's in business, I just want the time with My Man*

Enjoy the time with your  darlings - that's the most precious gift of all.

* Of course, if you do feel my life would be enhanced by a little something then call and I'll give you directions to the antique shop 

.....a working light, a toolkit and a bottle of gin"

 Oh Connie, I need that just to put the slap on of a morning.... 

Nottingham Pride is swinging into action again with the launch this Thursday of our brand new website and to bring the new committee, shyly blinking into the light. (Oh, how little they know of what is to come for the next year. There will be no sleep, betrayals, hopes and fears being dashed to the ground, all-night marathons, tiredness of which you would not believe, last minute changes and crises and the constant fear that People Won't Turn Up. But then there's the fun, the camaraderie, the high of being up for 20 hours and (hopefully) giving people a good time. And all for free! In promotion of this (and being - ironically - Nottingham's Gay Expert Who Can Waffle On) I accepted an invitation to do an hour on the local BBC to review the papers.

Dread always strikes you upon these occaisions. You have to have the quick two-minute trip outside first to shout out rude words and get your hourly allotment of swear words in, you don't want to drink too much meaning that you are dying for a trip to the ladies but then you don't want to be dry-mouthed with a bad case of the croaks live on air. Sadly, I have not yet reached such heights of fame that I can send a rider for my future appearances. ( "I want Peacocks! And to be carried in by oiled Nubians!" ) But it went well, I managed to be amusing without going over the bounds of decency, got in a celebrity annecdote, made a few bitchy comments about Guy and Madonna and basically gabbed on as I do down the wine bar. 

Of course there are now 70,000 people across the area who think I'm a complete (and self-confessed) Drama Queen....

...in San Francisco. And also my pajamas. And dignity. (You try attempting to get a Harley upright in a frock and heels after you've just dropped it. I broke a nail)

I can't describe it. No, I've tried and I just can't get the words down. In no particular order, Bebe Neuwirth, blues clubs, Alcatraz, Napa Valley, riding a Harley over the Golden Gate Bridge, Washington Square hat shops,  fashion sample shops,  The Eagle,  apple martinis,  The Top of The Mark, cable cars, Golden Gate Park,  The Park Chalet,  gay bikers toasting The Queen, a beer bust, pelicans,  sailing a catamaran, albino aligators and being groped by a homeless person are just a few of the many things I delighted in.

 I bought two darling hats, a suede jacket, a pair of shoes and a pair of boots. I also met two of the most wonderful men it has ever been my privilege  to meet. I cried all the way to the airport after reading a note I was left on reception and I wanted to stay and have Mad Frankie freighted over. 

  But that should be a photograph of my New Favourite Thing. An apple martini. So if anyone knows where I can get apple schnapps  from then let me know please. Or better still, get some and make them yourself. Trust me, it's a fab experience....

Just in case you were having difficulty getting your head round all that matter/anti matter/ dark matter stuff, those nice people at CERN* have made a handy video which explains all.

Now excuse me, I have a plane to catch....

* Incidentally, when did we stop calling it a linear accelerator?