A Short One About Some Ads I Noticed

I love a decent bag as much as the next woman.  But I'm hardly Chanel's target market. That's fine - really. Although their "Marilyn" nail polish is probably the best colour in the world.

But Chanel's latest campaign just isn't doing it for me.

"This one shows I'm pretty but don't take myself too seriously!" 

A monogrammed face mask? Really?  I know they can stick a monogram on anything and people will buy it, but still. Personally, I'm waiting for their "Nuits Sec" nappy range for toddlers.  I'll be snapping those babies up faster than you can say "Keep it dry, darling, it's Chanel!"  And I'm sure my son is desperate for them to collaborate with Transformers.  An Optimus Prime Autobot is just begging for a lovely big Chanel logo.

I feel sorry for the model.  She's told her parents she finally got a Chanel gig and they can't tell it's her. "Of course we believe you, sweetheart!"

I turned the page of the magazine (got to love a hair appointment) and there was another one. My hairdresser thinks I'm a bit nutty for always taking photos of their magazines. I tried to explain that I keep seeing things I find funny, and she said, "Oh."

I think this is a beautiful photo.  But do we aspire to pink eyebrows and fully-grown camellias scattered throughout our hair?  No.  Haven't they heard the term "lady garden?"

And that, Chanel, is precisely why I am not spending a thousand pounds on one of your bags.  Yes that is the only reason.

And now, my lovelies, this is the reason why I don't read Tatler magazine.

Riiiiiiiight. 

Am I missing something here?


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Guest Post by Her Majesty The Queen

Hello from Australia. It is a pleasure to be back. I won't say it's a "home away from home" as that is a terrible cliché and besides, it's not true.

Who is she?  She follows me everywhere.

But I do so enjoy coming here. Philip has, so far, not offended anybody. He did call it a "colony" but he was talking to a woman called Colleen who mistook it as a sign of affection.

The newspapers have certainly been buzzing with the news of our visit. They reported one outfit was "fuchsia." How vulgar. To make matters worse, though, the Palace corrected them by saying it was "shocking pink!" I have told Tippy Winston-Wellington ad nauseam that my name is not to be anywhere near the word "shocking." Perhaps I should do the Palace's PR myself.

We are enjoying a tremendous deal of admiration from the Australian crowds. It's fun imagining all the people with corgi faces - it's the reason I'm smiling in all the photos. Apparently it only takes a pert bridesmaid's bottom to restore respect for the monarchy. People are so fickle. But still, mustn't grumble. These people have completely forgotten that their Head of State lives on the other side of the world. Hoorah!

I have received countless flowers from children. It's frightful to think of the germs I would attract if not for my gloves. Children spend half their day ungainly exploring their noses. Edward's nanny had a frightful time extricating his finger from his nose. Sophie tells me he isn't much improved.

Hee hee, corgis corgis! 

Although I do wish these middle-aged women would stop saying they gave me flowers as children. Air hair lair! Does anything make one feel older? I am more modern than people realise. I even own an electronic mobile telephonic device, it's called a raspberry. Or is it a strawberry? I don't suppose it matters. Anyway, Charles sent me a delightfully chatty message on it this morning. Oh, he is a rascal!

Text message from Charles: Hello Mummy. How is one?

One is unable to use those small and peculiar buttons while wearing gloves, so I asked my lady-in-waiting to help. Flossie St John Darling-Darling is so very helpful, I have never understood why more people don't have one.

Text message to Charles, as dictated by one to Flossie St John Darling-Darling: One is well.

In normal circumstances, discretion is my metaphoric middle name. But in this instance I don't mind telling you that Flossie's real name is Jane Smith. She doesn't know I know. How delicious! One day I am going to call her Jane just to see her reaction. Aren't I terrible!

I'm off now to open a building. I just have to pull on a chord which opens a curtain, revealing a plaque. I keep asking if I can smash a champagne bottle on the front door instead. But no such luck.


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Words

Another long(ish) absence. Sorry!! I've been working on another project which I hope to share with you soon. I know you'll be needing illegal horse tranquilisers to contain your excitement.

In the meantime, let's talk about words. What are your favourites? Which words make you squirm?

I'll start. Because it's my blog.

I Like...

Defenestrate
I rarely get to use it. Maybe I should create the opportunity by throwing something out the window myself?

Moist
It's funny. And a bit rude.

Bucolic
Driving through the countryside, I so want to use this word. But I don't for fear of others thinking I am being a dickhead.

Doodle
I'm sorry but I really did have to include this. I'll tell you why. One of the funniest stories I have heard is a friend telling me about a wedding she went to. "The bride's mother chose the cake, and it was a giant doodle!" Yes. Someone had a big penis as their wedding cake. It wasn't just a giant penis though, it also had the brides' arms hugging it. Nice. I thought the use of "doodle" in that story gave it that extra something.

Rampant
I've been a fan of this ever since Fast Forward's Rampant Stupidity. No idea what I'm talking about? Here you go.



Words I Don't Like

Panty
Urgh!! It's just so wrong. For me, it is the undie-sniffer's word of choice. But that's just me (or is it?).

Bloom / blooming
This word is perfectly fine in a horticultural context. But when used to describe a pubescent or pregnant woman, it's ick.

Mumpreneur
I know I might be all alone here, and I sincerely hope those mumpreneurs among you aren't offended by this. But why not just use the word "entrepeneur?" Is it that "entrepeneur" feels a bit too serious?

Aubergine
Having called it an "eggplant" all my life, I find myself feeling self-conscious when I use this word. I know I don't say it properly - is it "OH-bergine" or "OR-begine?" It makes me feel like I think I can speak French. "Ooh listen to her, giving her vegetables fancy names!" This is a shame as I make a mean aubergine bake, if I do say so myself.

OK so this photo makes it look like novelty plastic vomit.  

Uterus
I have a great deal of admiration and gratitude for what the uterus does. But it's still a word that makes me squirm.

And while we're talking words, I have a question. In Ireland, is the word "feck" a swear word or not?

So what about you? What words do you like or dislike?



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His UK, My UK

My husband's experience of living in the UK is entirely different to mine.

But before I continue, the man needs a blog nickname.  Hmmm.  The One Who Remembers to Put Out the Rubbish?  Husband Who Cannot Believe His Wife Likes Antiques Roadshow? He Who Can Talk Underwater?  He might like Master & Commander?  Man with Exceptional Looks & Athletic Prowess?  I asked him what he thought, and he said "that last one is pretty accurate."    That's a lot of typing, so I'll just keep calling him "my husband."

There have been numerous times when he's dashed off to some swanky affair, looking a million dollars, often in his dinner suit. Last week it was to a party at Buckingham Palace, and he has another one coming up too. He'll give me a kiss goodbye, being careful to avoid the flour / playdoh / talcum powder etc that I am probably covered in.  I'll wave him goodbye from the front door, in my trackies and uggs, then go back to the children to continue talking about dinosaurs / lego / favourite colours.

To further illustrate my point, he has met the following people since being here.  It's not name dropping, because it wasn't me who met them, and it has all been through his work:

• Royals (The Queen, Prince Philip, Prince Charles, Prince William at 3 separate functions)
• Colin Firth
• Hugh Jackman
• Orlando Bloom
• Roger Federer
• Rafael Nadal
• Daniel Craig (this is in the next couple of weeks actually)
• The Socceroos, Wallabies and Australian Cricket Team (in case you are into sport)

No, this isn't my husband.
This is Rafael Nadal, a man who poses a LOT in his undies. 

Want to know what famous people I have met since moving here?

• The creator of Bob the Builder's mother-in-law (she's great, by the way)

Bob needs no explanation.  Onya, Bob. 

He has seen much more than me in the last year:

• France (4 times)
• Switzerland (also 4 times)
• Poland
• Belgium
• Germany (twice)
• Egypt
• Portugal (twice)
• Ireland (twice)
• Italy
• Netherlands
• New York
• Denmark
• Istanbul

Meanwhile, I have been to:

• The park (3 times this week)
• Dublin (love it, and bloggers from Dublin are incredibly talented)
• Playgroup (3 different playgroups per week)
• Peppa Pig World
• St Albans (twice)
• Portugal (that's pretty cool actually)
• Paris (so cool that I felt uncool)
• Our local Budgens (most days)
• The butcher (if Tony waves as I walk past with meat from Budgens I feel like a traitor)

You might think I'm writing this, seething with jealously.  I assure you I'm not, but I do find it funny. I am perfectly, 100% content - I know it's smug, but we are very happy. I get a fridge magnet from every new city he visits, the kids get another snowglobe, what more can you want?


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The Dummy Fairy

Personally I can't imagine needing to suck on a plastic teat to get myself to sleep. But I'm not a toddler. Our darling girl, who is nearly 3, has never slept any other way.

For various reasons, we decided it was time for the Dummy Fairy to come and take the dummies away. So after much explanation, we decorated a Dummy Fairy box together. Have I ever mentioned craft is not my strength? Well, craft is not my strength. So if I ever say "we decorated" something, it usually means we covered it in stickers.

So anyway, we covered the Dummy Fairy box with stickers. That night, our darling girl ceremoniously put a letter to the Dummy Fairy into the box, along with her dummies. We all clapped and that was that. The Dummy Fairy would fly into the house that night while everyone was asleep, take the dummies to give to a baby, and leave a present.  She's not the most original fairy. I wonder if the Tooth Fairy feels ripped off.

And so began a night of our daughter sobbing into her pillow. I sat beside her and sang for a couple of hours. That's serious lullaby commitment. While that was by far the worst night, we haven't had a decent night yet and the afternoon sleeps have gone out the window.  Yes our daughter is missing her dummy, but her parents are really missing her dummy. She keeps asking for a dummy for her birthday and I feel terrible.

The next morning there was a thank-you note from the Dummy Fairy, which I have now been asked to read about a gazillion times. There was also a present. In a rare moment of excellent timing, I had agreed to review Fisher Price's Red Rover game. And what a coincidence - that is the exact same toy the Dummy Fairy left.  Thanks, Dummy Fairy.

Darling Girl instantly fell in love with it, in fact now he comes with us everywhere. It's a great game for little ones, and we've taken it on a few playdates. It keeps the children sufficiently occupied so the mummies can sit and eat muffins. A win-win.

The Red Rover game is a memory game where the kids get to run about.  Basically, the dog has a set of bones each with a different colour, number or shape.  You switch the dog on, and he calls for a specific bone.  All the bones are scattered face-down, so the kids have to run around and search for the right bone.  You shove the correct bone in it's mouth and it will say something like "hot diggity dog!" in a chirpy American accent.  She loves it.

My only gripe?  Fisher Price toys normally have two volume settings, whereas this just has one: loud.  This isn't helped by the fact that our daughter switches it on throughout the night.  A plastic dog going "ruff ruff ruff ruff pant pant pant pant" at 3am is annoying.  I wish I had a joke about rough pants, that'd be perfect here, but I don't.

Darling Girl went to a birthday party the other day.  In the party bag was one of those whistles that look like big lips.

Is there a Whistle That Looks Like Big Lips Fairy?

I was given the Red Rover Game in return for the review.  All opinions are my own blah blah blah... maybe I'll liven up this bit at the end with some exclamation marks!!!!! Yeah!!!  Some more!!!! 



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Only Plebs Hold Their Own Umbrellas

In case you noticed, it's been a while. Sorry!

One of the perks of being famous, apparently, is not having to hold your own umbrella. I'm not talking about sharing an umbrella, noooo.  This is about having a lacky stand next to you holding one firmly over your pretty little head.  Sure, they get horribly wet and their arm drops off later from the awkward angle. But so what?

Mrs Beckham looking chirpy.  

I can absolutely see the appeal in having someone do this for you in some instances. Pushing a buggy through torrential rain, for example. Or sitting in a stormy field trying to knit.

To be fair, Beyonce has her hands very full. 

Who knew holding your own umbrella could be such a challenge? Hold arm up, step, step, step, is arm still up? Yes. Great. Hold arm up, step, step, step, is arm still up? Yes. Great...

Cheryl Cole: Marry footballer + in a girl band = famous in the UK. 

Sure, in many instances the umbrella holder is probably their guard or driver. But I like to think that in Famous People Land, people actually hire themselves a personal umbrella holder. Or rather, a Precipitation Avoidance Technician.

Apparently he is in Gossip Girl.  I love this photo.  

Claudia Schiffer wearing some kind of sack. 

Cameron Diaz

Heidi Klum

Jake Gyllenhaal.  Up until now I didn't have a clue how that was spelt. 

Our Kylie

P Diddy

Jennifer Aniston

Snoop

Usher

Woody Allen

Whatever you do, Florence Welch, don't let an umbrella get in the way of your posing.  

For some perspective, here is a photo of the President of the United States holding his own umbrella while delivering a speech.

Looking for these photos, I got a big shock when I saw Hugh Jackman with a Precipitation Avoidance Technician. Surely "Our Hugh" (as we Aussies like to call him) is an everyday bloke who carries his own umbrella?  I'm sure this was a one-off, probably under direct orders from a cigar-smoking studio boss.

I didn't add that text, by the way.  

What's that? You want more photos of Hugh Jackman?  Oh alright.

(Ginny - it should have been you!!) 

Was Australia the worst movie ever made?  It's certainly up there with  Sex & The City 2. 

And to finish, I'd just like to share with you a picture that is off the subject.  It was in the Daily Mail this week and it should have been headlines really, it's just so darn newsworthy.  Gwyneth Paltrow sweats after exerting herself!  Who knew??

That is all.
x

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A Dag in Paris

I am confident there's no need to spell this out, but I will anyway: I am not glamorous. Just in case there was any confusion. I have never been described as "glamorous" "chi chi" "chic" or "sophisticated." To illustrate, when Mum and I went wedding dress shopping I tried a dress I really liked and asked Mum what she thought. "Darling, you look beautiful. But that is a very sophisticated dress." Pause. "And you're just not very sophisticated." Ah.

Sure, I love red lipstick and there is a tiny hint of glam there.  But I can mostly be found:

• Wiping snot (not my own - mostly).
• Cleaning out my ears.  Satisfying!
• Yelling "I AM GOING TO LOSE MY PATIENCE" at the children, indicating that I have already lost my patience.
• De-lousing my childrens' heads. 
• Daydreaming about yelling at parents who do not de-louse their children's heads, and send them to school.  Grrrr.
• Tidying the house.  Or rather, moving items from one room to the next, only to pick up those exact same items again hours later.
• Cleaning the loo.  It might come as a surprise that it doesn't clean itself.
• Going through the Budgens brochure - they're price matching with Tesco!

You know, the usual stuff. But to cap it off, I was at the supermarket checkout yesterday with the children. My son put his head in my arse and started yelling "Poo on my face!"

Where's the glamour in that?

But nothing can make you feel less glam than being a dag in Paris. A couple of weeks ago, I had two days in Paris with my brother and sister. We had a ball, for that is one pretty city. I developed a slight crush on everyone I spoke to, in fact I'm going to perpetuate a rather large cliché but Parisians look incredible. I have never seen so many good looking and beautifully dressed people ever. I've been there before, but it wasn't so obvious then. So either I have become more observant, or more daggy.

Flipflops / thongs with "Paris" written all over them - my kind of shoe. 

I could have stared at the glamorous people all day. It's a place where beautiful scarves don't just languish in people's wardrobes as they do in mine.  Scarves actually get worn without looking like a lesson in self-strangulation. Bags are chic, hair is glossy, shirts tucked in and everyone is just so darn well put-together.   And none of it rubbed off on me.

Buying a snow globe is bad.  Taking a photo of it is worse.  

I'll now pretend to be a fashion reporter for just one minute. The good news is brogues are clearly the new ballet flat. I barely saw anyone wearing ballet flats, and that was an exciting observation. While I have nothing against them, I'm sure my fellow cankle sufferers will agree that if you have no distinct ankles you cannot wear them. But the thickness of the brogue somehow detracts from the thickness of the ankle. So there you have it, I might not be glam but I do notice people's shoes. While I'm talking shoes, I'm also very happy to report that the magazines here have started to say the whole nude heel thing has passed. This makes me happy because I always wanted a pair and never got them, so this news somehow makes me fashionable.

I am rambling now so I'll sign off with some photos of the trip.

Hooray for flattering light!

What better way to look intelligent?  

Chez Georges, 1, Rue du Mail, 75002 Paris - love it. 

Purdy.

I look like I want to eat the photographer. 

Galeries Lafayette.  Where has this been all my life??  Where??? 

Many thanks to my brother and sister for not waking me when I allegedly snored really loudly on the Eurostar.  They took great delight in telling me all about it once I woke up.  Family, eh?



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Gasp's Response to My Last Post

I wrote about the saga with Gasp (*gasp!!*) and their customer service, which is basically a variation on this:

The Manager himself, Matthew Chidgey, took the time out of his busy day to respond. In my imagination.

Dear Rachel, if that is your real name,

Whom do you think you are? Some kind of customer service guru? The fashion police? I am fashion. So if there is going to be fashion policing around here; Or there, I am the person whom is going to do it.

You are obviously not fashion forward enough for us, indeed; our clothes will frighten you. And when they do, and you go running, we will give ourselves and our buyers a pat on the back because modus operandi is being upheld. Modus operandi is another language, just like saying "chocolat" and not pronouncing the "t" because that's another language too. Incidently; people who eat chocolate are fat so I don't like them. We don't let them into our shop, just like we don't let poor people in either.

Our items might be priced to be inaccessible to the undesirable but sometimes paupers manage to weevil themselves inside. I get Chris, whom is a retail superstar, to spit on them. He is talented so to waste his time is a crime, luckily spitting on poor people is, as you will agree, a good use of his time, and look at all the commas; and semicolons; And random capital letters, in this one sentence.

Nothing I say might make sense to you but that is obviously your fault and not mine. For example, you would not understand what "cutting edge" even means. Let me guess, you think it's got something to do with using scissors, don't you? Ha! I fart in your direction.

So if you have a complaint about me, it is because you are wrong and you wear clothes from Target which I can't even pronounce without choking on my own vomit.

Thank you for nothing you polyester wearing slut,
Matthew.




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