Size Does Matter

Well it certainly does when it comes to the length of some films.  And I have to say, on many occasions, less definitely is more.  My problem is this - put me in a comfy chair in a dark room, or even an uncomfy chair in a dark room, and suddenly my body clock says, ok then, bedtime it is. 
It doesn't matter what time of day or night I go to the cinema, it is always the same. 
And it baffles me.  As I feel myself slowly drifting into a delicious slumber, I look around (with the remaining eye that hasn't already closed) at all those perky and alert cinema-goers and wonder how on earth they are staying awake.  As Toyah very wisely once said, 'It's a Mystery'.  And if you don't know who Toyah is, you're too young to be reading this.

Having missed the ending (and sometimes the middle) of many a film, I finally discovered the most effective way to stay awake.  I buy myself a small bag of popcorn on the way in, and if I pace myself, it usually keeps me going to, if not the very end, then close enough for me to hang on until the end, with the help of a little fidgeting and position changes from leg crossed to the left and then to the right. I also move my head a bit.  It's lucky I'm not very tall otherwise I expect it would be really annoying for the person sitting behind me.

However, the problem here is that the length of films seems to be getting longer.  It's not good. 
It might be a bit to do with the excess of adverts, which no one really wants, and which may add fifteen minutes or so to my arduous torture, but generally, anything longer than an hour and a half is really too much, and anyway, my popcorn allowance simply can't sustain anything longer. I just about managed all the way though the Guernsey Literary Potato Pie Society at 2 hours and 4 minutes due to a caffeine boost before and during, but Avengers Infinity War at 2 hours 40 minutes - well, put it this way, by the time everyone was evaporating, I'd missed so much I couldn't care less, not even when poor Spider-Man crumbled away. Apparently I am heartless, according to my teenage son, who found that scene particularly moving. 

I am now considering my options for the future, and while I am reluctant to move up to the medium sized popcorn, I am afraid I have no choice. While it is widely recognised that popcorn consists mostly of air, and in some circles is considered a superfood, I am concerned that an increase in my intake may ultimately be an unwise move, what with summer looming and the prospect of wishing to remove my thermals becoming a reality.

I can now only ponder where this may lead.  I suppose I could limit myself to less lengthy films but then my only option would be matinees with vocally unchallenged juniors who don't know that you're supposed to WHISPER in the cinema. Or else I could just take lots and lots of caffeine laden drinks with me, although the risk here is the need to wee at a crucial point in the plot and so I would probably miss half the film anyway while I wait in the queue for the loo.

I give up. I think I'll just sit down in a nice comfy chair in a dark room and consider my options ...

FIN zzzzzzzz

Santa Mummy

I think the time has come for a bit of honesty.  I know some of you may find what I am about to share with you rather shocking, but I'm afraid there is no gentle way of imparting this information.
On the other hand, for the rest of you, this will come as no surprise whatsoever.
Ok.  Here goes ...
Father Christmas is not a man.
Father Christmas is actually a woman.
It's true.
I discovered this little known fact many years ago, probably around a year or so after the birth of my first son. I discovered that 'Father Christmas' couldn't really get his head around the enormity of the high expectations which come with having children. It seemed that whenever I needed to discuss the practicalities of organising Christmas, ie the logistics of hosting a Christmas dinner for all the family and all that it entailed; from the size of the Turkey to the finest Christmas Crackers, it was not on his list of top priorities.  It was then that I realised that if I wanted anything done, I was going to have to talk to the boss - Santa Mummy.
I discovered that Santa Mummy and I had a huge amount in common.  We both liked to start thinking about Christmas before Christmas Eve, we both loved the enormous responsibility of providing the best Christmas ever for our families, and we were prepared to go to any length to ensure this - even if this meant wrapping presents at 2am and leaving a trail of Christmas crackers down the stairs leading to the tree which was surrounded by an abundance of carefully chosen gifts, beautifully adorned with ribbons, bows and baubles, as well as the overflowing stockings next to the crumb laden plate where  a carrot, a glass of sherry and a home-made mince pie had been left for Father Christmas - home-made by Santa Mummy, of course. Naturally, during our many pre-Christmas conversations which always seemed to happen in the wee small hours, an often mentioned topic was that of the difficulties many men face when dealing with the challenges of Christmas. Yes, one cannot imagine the trauma of finding the perfect gift for a difficult to please woman.  I hear there are men who spend an entire day on the quest for a gift for the special person in their lives, only to return discouraged and downcast. Imagine that! A whole day searching for one whole gift. I know, it is nigh on impossible to appreciate this nightmare scenario. The exhaustion doesn't bear thinking about.
I think it has been a defining moment in my personal development for me to let you into the secret that I have been privy to for far too long. I hope I have not shattered the dreams that many have held dear. So just remember, when you write your Christmas list, make sure that this year you address it to Santa Mummy.  And one other thing ... when you're leaving out the little snack on Christmas Eve, apparently (or so I've been told) she prefers Cava to a sherry!
Merry Christmas!

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Well I never!)

Now I am not exactly what you might call an ardent feminist.  If a man wanted to hold a door open for me, I would find it infinitely preferable to just having it slammed in my face. It's just manners I think, and basic common sense.
Or, better still, if on a Central Line train at rush hour, (being squashed like the contents of my underwear drawer), a man offered me a seat, would I be offended? Would I hell? I'd be in that seat quicker than a fly on fresh shit.

However, I think I may have gone to bed last night in 2017 and woken up this morning in 1952.  I hope it was a bad dream. After all, what other explanation could there possibly be?  This morning I witnessed something utterly shocking.  It made me stop in my tracks for quite a long moment I can tell you.  In fact, in spite of my desperate urge to look away, I found I was uncontrollably drawn the spectacle in front of my eyes. For there, in the window of a, let's call it a 'beauty parlour', since that is what it was, sat a small, wooden sign.  So small in fact that one could almost miss it.

At this point I should warn you to either take a seat or have a stiff drink depending on your health and your current demeanour. Or maybe don't, for all I know you might think I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. And perhaps I am. Although ...

The words on the sign said this, 'Your husband phoned to say ... you can spend as much as you like'

Now maybe it's just me, and since turning fifty I've completely mislaid my sense of humour, but I found this completely offensive. And I haven't even begun the menopause yet. On so many levels, it's hard to know where to begin, especially since I am still hyper-ventilating and this is perhaps affecting my stream of thoughts.
Am I ranting?

The first and most glaringly obvious issue was the implication that not only do you have a husband, but it is he who is paying for you to go to the 'Beauty Parlour', and not in a 'here's a gift voucher for your birthday' kind of way, but more of a, 'I'm giving you permission' way . For me at least it conjures up an image of a 1950's housewife, spending her mornings in her pinny, skipping around the house with her feather duster, no doubt wearing the high heels and pretty frock her husband bought her, her afternoons in the beauty parlour (to make herself look lovely for her man), after which a quick trip to the shops to buy something tasty for dinner so that when her poor exhausted hubby strides through the door at six on the dot after a hard day at work, his scotch and slippers are waiting in the parlour, while she puts on her lipstick, and makes sure her hair is just so, before serving dinner at six fifteen on the dot, just when Reginald, (or whatever her 1950's husband is called) likes it.

Don't be late, Doris, you know there'll be hell to pay if you are!

The sign certainly did not suggest, 'Hey woman with your own money who doesn't need a man to give you permission to have a facial, or you don't need a man in order to feel the need to have your wayward hairs excruciatingly waxed to oblivion', step into our beauty parlour which is owned by a woman and run by women so come join the sisterhood now. Of course I do realise the sign did not specify women, just husbands, which was my very own interpretation. Of course men can have husbands too, but I doubt very much they'll be queuing up at the door any time soon. I might be wrong. But I expect I'm right.  I usually am.  Being a woman ...

Perhaps I am being silly.

I'm afraid there's more. 

I saw an advert on Twitter for sanitary towels this afternoon.  The manufacturer has decided to go all politically correct and show how super absorbent they are by showing red liquid dripping into the towel instead of blue. Really???! Blue. But now, in a radical move, they're showing red because that's what colour periods are. Who knew ...
Well me actually.  AND ALL THE WOMEN IN ALL THE WORLD. Yes, we know what colour periods are, thank you very much. We do not necessarily need to see an advert showing us what colour they are.  Trust me, it will not make me want to buy your product.  Quite the opposite in fact. The truth is, if you want me to buy your sanitary towels, save yourself the money you spend on these ridiculous and quite yucky ad campaigns, and give me a free bar of Green and Blacks with every purchase. Or a bottle of Havana Rum. Or both if I buy the multipack. Trust me, you won't be able to sell them quick enough. You don't have to thank me.  Just pay me.  And then I too, can go to the beauty parlour and spend as much as I like! Sorry, must dash now, Reginald will be home any minute.

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (It's all in the name)

I can't say I've ever been overly keen on my name.  It's a fairly ordinary name.  My middle name, on the other hand, is far more interesting and I much prefer it.  I knew a girl at secondary school who had the same predicament but she was clever, far cleverer than me at any rate, and so she swapped them around.  Of course we never knew this until much later on and by then were used to her name change, being as how we had never known any different. I did wonder whether her parents ever got confused, but then again, she was the youngest of five girls so I expect they got confused anyway, name changes or not.

Recently, since I turned fifty, I wondered whether I should have done the same, or whether it is too late to do it now.  My partner said he'd call me whatever I liked (within reason of course), and this was certainly something worth considering, but then I realised that it could cause all sorts of complications, mostly the fact that I might not always remember, and then what would happen in an emergency, if say, he saw imminent danger heading my way and shouted my new name and I was a bit distracted and didn't think he was talking to me?

I will have to give it more thought I expect, before making any decisions.

Names are funny things.

Name associations are too.  As in, I could never name my child, Boris, for obvious reasons.  Ditto, Donald.  Fairly innocuous names not so long ago, but now whenever I hear them they make my ears bleed.

It's no wonder Margaret went out of fashion. 

Will Jeremy make a come-back, or has the Hunt ruined it for the Corbyn.  If I were the Corbyn I might definitely be looking to swap names.  Just out of curiosity I googled his middle name.  It's Bernard, if you must know.  So would he fare any better as a Bernard, I wonder?  St Bernard? Could be to his advantage if the Press were in a good mood that day.  But then there's also Bernard Matthews who was famous for mistreating his turkeys.
How about Bernard Manning?  Probably safe there, as I doubt hardly anyone will remember him since he popped off ages ago, although he was well known for his jokes that were so un-pc I think even Freddie Starr and Jim Davidson found then offensive.  I expect not many people remember them either.

Personally I think Bernard is looking promising or perhaps even Jeremy Bernard.  Or could he be confused with Jeffrey Bernard, the British journalist, best known for his weekly column "Low Life" in The Spectator magazine, and also notorious for being a raging alcoholic and hanging out in Soho a lot. This may not be so good, although it does have an air of romanticism if you ask me.  Not that you did, nor Jeremy either.

I suppose I will just have to accept my name as it is.  It could be worse. It could always be worse.  Just ask Gwyneth Paltrow's daughter. Imagine spending your life being named after a Cox's Pippin.

Diary of A Norfolk Broad - A Disappointing Week

Last week was a disappointing week.  In terms of my favourite week, I have to say, it was probably Greek week, with Spanish Week a close second.  In case you're wondering, I am referring to Lidl and their 'speciality of the week' weeks.  Last week it was Lidl Fashion Week.  Amid much excitement and anticipation at Lidl headquarters I would imagine, Heidi Klum, German supermodel, launched her Lidl Clothing Collection.  It was very disappointing and worse.  I know, I know, what did I expect, you may ask.  In truth, I don't know.  But I do know I didn't like it.  Worse still, when I breezily flicked through the brochure advertising Heidi's wares I was particularly struck by the skinny jeans that three Heidi's were proudly modelling (flawlessly, I might add, photo-shopped together, giving the impression that there were in fact three identical Heidi sisters, if one wasn't bad enough we got three. Three for the price of one perhaps?).  Then I glanced across the page at the details of said skinny jeans.  While the price was more than reasonable, it occurred to me that never in my life will I look like Heidi Klum if I buy her jeans. Even if I bought the size ten. At five feet four inches on a good day, buying these jeans will not make me any taller.  Or skinnier for that matter.  I am not being negative, I am simply a realist.
Then I noticed that these skinny jeans go all the way up to size eighteen.
Surely I don't have to spell it out.
Oh alright then, I will.  If you wear a size eighteen you will not look like Heidi Klum. Unless you are also eighteen feet tall.
If someone was able and clever enough to photo-shop three Heidi's standing side by side, then wouldn't it have been a good idea for them to put all three together and just make one big Heidi modelling the size eighteen?
At least it would have been honest. And we would have all known what to expect when we got home. What could be more disappointing than thinking you are going to look like Heidi Klum in your new Lidl skinny jeans, only to get them home, try them on and make the very shocking discovery that in fact, you are still a size eighteen, you don't look like a supermodel and you've just wasted £14.99.
If I want to feel disappointment on this scale I only have to think of the results of the EU referendum. Or the day Theresa May became the Prime Minister.
I don't want to think of skinny jeans.
Sorry Lidl, in future stick to Greek week.
And Spanish week.
Adios and Kalimera!

The Joys of Motherhood - The World's Gone Mad (or I must be old)

I think the world may have gone mad without telling me.  Never mind Donald Trump becoming President, or Britain voting to leave the EU, those minor hiccups pale by comparison when considering the discovery I made this week. Or should I say, the Supreme discovery I made this week.

If you're over the age of thirteen or under the age of twenty five I expect you are now sniggering at the preposterous old bird nattering on about what you've known about for years - well two to be precise, according to the man who was controlling the queue for those insane or bored enough to want to queue to go into a shop which sells precisely 5 things - this may be a slight exaggeration, but seriously, not so much - trust me, I was there.

My beloved thirteen year old son and I waited patiently in line to be allowed the privilege of entering a very small shop in Soho and spending rather large sums of money on rather small items. I would like to add at this point, it is the ONLY very small understocked shop of it's kind in the UK, and one of only ten in the whole wide world. I have to admire the idea behind the brand, after all, I was one of the idiots watching their life ebb away in the quest for a set of chops sticks. Don't ask.

Ok, ask. But I don't think I have the energy to tell you.  What I will say is that there were a lot of people queuing that day for chop sticks.  The previous day there was a drop.  Don't know what I mean?  Ok, I'll tell you.  It means they had a delivery. Of chop sticks. But Drop sounds more gangster I guess, like something illicit. Like drugs. But certainly not like a delivery of utensils. I had to laugh, my son doesn't even like Chinese food. But that makes me sound old. The point is not to use them, it's to have them, I was informed in a rather superior tone.

There’s not much more I can tell you other than it was an education for me.  I am now painfully familiar with the brand, Supreme.  I say painfully because after standing still in one position for over ninety minutes my legs were killing me.  Like I say, I am probably old, or at least too old to be queuing in Soho for chopsticks.  There wasn’t even a free bowl of chow mein to ease my agony.

However, in the end, in spite of my tortuous but stoic suffering , the look of joy on the face of my almost hyperventilating son on entering the Supreme store was worth it.  For him, it was like entering an Aladdin’s cave of delights, albeit more minimalist. 

And even if I didn’t fully appreciate the significance of this experience at the time, I expect in the future, this, like many of those special moments we share with our children, will be one of those times that will be consigned to the dark creaking recesses of my mind, and every so often dragged out. Probably when I wish to remind him what a truly supreme Mummy I am so that when I am gently urging him(read, nagging him) to tidy his bedroom, pick up his belongings strewn randomly around the house or (god forbid) asking for a bit of help to clean the house, and he looks at me with the same expression of horror that he would have at seeing Brussel sprouts growing out of my eyes, I will be able to say, ‘Remember when I took you to the Supreme store?’ in the hope of  him wishing to return the favour.

And he will reply, ‘No …’

And I will say, ‘That’s the last time I ever stand in a queue for chopsticks with you’.

And he will simply regard me knowingly. Because he knows I mean it.

But only until the next time.

Ahh, the joys of Motherhood …

The Thrill of it All

Passing your driving test. There's no better feeling in the world is there! Except, as I discovered, much to my enormous surprise, that there is.

On Tuesday morning as I woke up feeling nervous, I quickly remembered that today was the day.  After months of hard work, the highs, the lows, the good days and bad days, here it was, The Day.  Of course the theory test had proved quite a challenge, and after months of relentless nagging to practice the highway code, but nevertheless leaving it until two days beforehand, in the end that one went off without a hitch, and no 'I told you so's' were necessary, despite much eye-rolling and head-shaking in the days and weeks before.

It all seems surreal now, those hours spent driving to Norwich, around Norwich and then back home from Norwich.  I can only guess at how it felt for I can't know for sure.  The only thing of which I am certain is the pure joy and bursting pride I felt as I opened the front door. And as I did so I looked into the eyes of my son who brandished his certificate emblazoned with the word, 'Pass'.

And there you have it, as great as my own small personal victories have felt, nothing will ever beat the feeling deep in my heart of seeing the victories and achievements of my children -the sense of pride and the thrill of witnessing a milestone in their lives. Yes I was glad when it was me standing on the doorstep with a smile on my face, but seeing the uncontrollable grin on my son's face outshone that feeling in a way I could never imagine.

Who knew ...