Get A (Second) Life

I was out in the world of the grown-ups this weekend. H and I went to a friend’s house for a lovely meal, with excellent wines. I didn’t drink too much – well, at least I was still able to stand unaided by the time we left.

Half way through the evening, the conversation turned to the subject of Second Life, and the whole idea of synthetic worlds. It took me a while to realise that synthetic worlds had nothing to do with crackly bri-nylon sheets. I am familiar with Animal Crossing because the kids play it. They talk casually to each other about “working for Tom Nook to pay off the mortgage” (I now know that Tom Nook is a raccoon, not a pimp, which was my initial hysterical response). Like the fossil that I am, I knew very little about Second Life, and in all honesty, I wasn’t that interested. Then someone mentioned in passing that your avatar could buy its own genitalia. From that point on, I was intrigued and appalled in equal measures. How would you go about such a transaction? Where would you go to buy them? Would you get to try them on? Would they stock the men’s in any size other than Large, Extra Large and Ewan McGregor? I was fascinated, embarrassingly so, and kept returning to the subject, long after the conversation had moved on.

According to my friend (who was suspiciously knowledgeable on the subject) everyone in Second Life is young, good-looking, with well-honed bodies and perfect teeth. I think it would be tempting to go there just to create a fat, ugly, middle-aged avatar that could spoil the party for the Beautiful People.

We are out again tonight (gasp!). I know it’s a Monday night, but, hey! Sometimes you’ve just got to throw caution to the wind! It’s another Wine Dinner, and this time all the wines are from the Lebanon – should be interesting. Apparently there is some food too.

H has already requested that I “leave the genitalia out of it” tonight, but I’m not sure whether that’s because he thinks such subjects are not suitable for public discussion, or whether he’s just embarrassed that I had never heard of Second Life before.

Do I Look Phat In These Jeans?

Just before we left for school this morning, I reminded my youngest that he was due to have a little friend over for tea. He went into a mild panic, and appeared to start tidying his bedroom. By the time I had scooped my lower jaw off the carpet, I realised that he wasn’t actually tidying, but feverishly hiding anything that might be considered ‘babyish.’ Teddies, Thomas stuff, and any vaguely ‘pre-school’ toys were dispatched to the cupboard with a ruthless efficiency that would have made Alan Sugar uncomfortable.

This is not the first time that I have witnessed one of my children go through such a Judas-like betrayal of old favourites. Yet again, I had mixed feelings about it. Like most parents, I want my kids to have the courage to ‘be themselves’ but I know that like most children, they just want to fit in and be like everyone else. Still, I had to restrain the urge to throw thirty pieces of silver into his bedroom.

It seems that his classmates are very quick to castigate anyone who hasn’t moved on from one set of heavily marketed merchandise to the next. It’s dispiriting, but maybe it isn’t so different for adults. You only have to look at those misguided fashion-slaves whose stumpy legs were far better served by last year’s comfortable boot-cut jeans than this year’s skinny cropped ones. They have obviously had to ease them on with a warm spoon, but presumably their desire to fit in with the fashionable crowd is stronger than their desire to fit in their jeans.

I am breaking with a long standing Friday night tradition by not opening a bottle of prosecco. Instead, in homage to the balmy summer evening, I have a glass of La Gioisa Pinot Grigio Blush (£4.99 Tesco). It looks gorgeous, and tastes rather satisfyingly of strawberries.

I have something of a love-hate relationship with rosé wine. It frequently leaves me with a headache, but that may have something to do with drinking too much of it while sitting in the sunshine. I have fond memories of picnics in my late teens, when my friends and I would cool a bottle of Mateus Rosé in a nearby stream. I wonder if it has now become fashionably retro to have empty Mateus bottles as candle holders, dripping with melted wax. About twenty years ago, no self-respecting trattoria was seen without them.

As someone who appears more fat than Phat in her jeans, I am likely to be considered retro rather than cutting edge. Last week, I inadvertently referred to an ‘LP’ instead of a CD, in front of some Bright Young Things, causing gales of mirth, and instantly reducing my status to that of dinosaur. I should have added that if we put the wireless on, we could listen to the Hit Parade.

Babysitter Blues

When our kids were very small, H and I hardly ever went out in the evenings. There were good reasons for this – mostly to do with chronic fatigue, but also because going out seemed to require mammoth organisational effort. Quite frankly, there was nothing I wanted to do enough, to make it worth the hassle. Instead it was considered a romantic Saturday night if I managed to stay awake for at least half an hour after finishing the Chinese takeaway.

Like many families, we live a long way away from our relatives, and we were also unduly fretful about leaving our small children with someone they didn’t know. As a result, we either went out separately, or if the occasion demanded that we had to attend together, we would get a grandparent to come over and stay for a few days. Facing my mother-in-law at 1am with a skinful is almost as bad as facing her at 8am with the hangover from hell. Maybe not.

H used to say that it was “better a strange relative than a relative stranger” when it came to babysitting, but I think that was before he realised quite how strange some of my family were. We eventually graduated onto a very competent babysitter, who was a trained nanny, and coped with the kids better than I did.

The reason I am remembering all this is because I’ve spent a ridiculous amount of time today trying to find a babysitter for this weekend. Whereas in the past, all candidates had to be checked by Interpol, my requirements have slackened alarmingly in a very short space of time. So, the qualified thirty-something nanny can’t make it? How about her twenty-something younger sister who helps out with the brownie pack? No, well what about her 18 year old friend, who likes kids, and only smokes the occasional joint? Busy, OK, what about her 15 year old smackhead brother, who is awaiting his court appearance for arson? He’s free! Great, send him round! The kids have been waiting for someone to play with the Chemistry Set!

I can’t seem to kick my Chablis habit at the moment. I’m drinking some Marks and Spencer Chablis, but I’ve no idea how much it costs, since the bottle was a gift from a friend. I’m not sure I like it quite as much as the Tesco Finest Chablis, but that’s not going to stop me putting a few glasses of it down my neck.

I still don’t have a babysitter for Saturday, so instead of going to the glamorous grown-up dinner party, it looks like we’ll be back to the days of the living room sofa and the Chinese takeaway. At least I can guarantee that I’ll be drinking a wine I like.

Falling Between Two Stools

Do you ever get the feeling that you are being subject to the dark arts of the marketing demographics men? That faint paranoia when you receive special offer coupons for a product you bought only once, over a year ago, or online recommendations for items “you might also like...” I find that unsettling, but I can’t work out if I’m uneasy because I think my actions are being observed, or if it’s just my ‘inner git’ which dislikes being categorised.

When I am slobbing in front of the television, if the adverts during the breaks are all for Clearasil or Heat magazine, then I begin to suspect I should be watching something more edifying. Conversely, if they are about equity release mortgages or health insurance, I reckon I have gone too far the other way, and need to lighten up a bit. If the ads are for chocolate, or cat food, then I know there is no point trying to discuss the programme the following day with any male friends.

On other occasions, I have the opposite problem, when it seems like I am in no-woman’s land in marketing terms. If I read ‘chick lit’ I’ve started to feel like the sixth form prefect supervising the spirited, younger girls - I can remember what it’s like to be discovering sex and fashion, but it would be embarrassing to join in the conversation. The more chronologically advanced ‘hen lit’ seems to be full of miserable elderly relatives, stroppy older kids (I’m only familiar with the junior version), but worst of all, heroes in ‘crisp linen shirts’. I’m just not ready to start fantasising about a man in a crisp linen shirt – the image is too clean, safe and predictable. Maybe the average hen lit reader looks across at her nose-picking, stained-vest-wearing husband and dreams about men in crisp linen shirts. Perhaps I am just heading towards an age where the greatest indicator of a person’s suitability for steamy sex is supposed to be their personal hygiene, or their choice of smart leisure wear. Alan Titchmarsh anyone?

Before it all gets too depressing, I am finishing up the remains of last night’s Chablis.
I reckon that with women’s fiction, I am ‘falling between two stools’ - and I’ve certainly done enough of that in my time. It seems that I must identify with either the sassy, young girl-about-town who gets it on with her rugged alpha boss between shopping sprees; or the brittle, well-preserved forty-something in her gilded cage, whose desires are awakened by the sensible, clean chap who likes children.
I think I need the wine goggles.

When I Grow Up

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” There were many times in my life when that was a burning question. I frequently fantasised about that longed-for day when I could emerge from the grey torpor of school and the parental chrysalis, and spread my wings into the technicolour freedom promised by the world of work.

However, at no point in my varied working life have I ever been an air hostess, hairdresser, doctor (that one was to please my Mum), actress, ballerina, or any of the myriad exciting careers that were my childhood ambitions. Indeed the list of tedious jobs that actually have filled my adult life would have made my childhood self either laugh, or refuse to go on, due to the obvious dullness of it all.

I have always envied people who have had the certainty of knowing exactly what it is they want to do with their lives from a very young age, and then actually doing it. It seems to show an admirable sense of purpose. I wonder how many teachers, firemen and nurses are fulfilling their childhood dreams? Probably a lot more than the accountants and lawyers, although I daresay the latter are more likely to fulfil their childhood dreams of owning a Ferrari.

One of my kids wants to drive their own ice cream van, and I can see why that would appeal. Another wants to be a taxi driver, but that’s probably because he thinks it’s what I already do, and he rather likes the idea of a family business. It seems that no-one wants to be a policeman any more (too dangerous), or soldier (likewise, unless you want a book deal), or cowboy (condemned for harassing the indigenous population). The power of television in our lives has meant that the ‘glamorous’ jobs from a child’s point of view are presenting programmes, playing football, or singing.

Actually, I ought to confess that the one childhood ambition I have never been able to shake off is to be a singer, even though, like most people, I have absolutely no talent for it.

I am humming now, as I sip this glass of crisp Tesco Finest Chablis from the stockpile (now at £5.49 from £7.99 until 15/05 – hurry Dulwich Mum!). No doubt, when I open the fridge door for a refill, there will be enough of a spotlight to justify me bursting fully into song.

I Scream, You Scream

Back to reality after our seaside idyll – with manky hairbrush and underwear well hidden in the bottom of my bag.
As always, the beaches of South Wales did not disappoint. There was only one slightly tense moment when my luminous blue-white legs emerged from their protective covering, causing bronzed locals to avert their eyes in embarrassment, and hiss urgently at their children not to stare at the poor lady. The sea at this time of year is cold, very cold, but being British it was only natural that we should want to submerge our pasty bodies in it. Of course, the kids were all decked out in several inches of state-of-the-art neoprene, so not only did they look stylish, but they were also relatively inured to the arctic temperatures. I was wearing a baggy lycra swimsuit, which might as well have been knitted, for all the thermal protection it gave me. It took me ten minutes of girly squealing to achieve full body immersion, and I would say that it was worth ten weeks of concerted pelvic-floor exercises. Unfortunately though, it was some time before that pinched, concentrated stare of the ‘secret pelvic-floor clencher’ began to dissipate.
After we had all leapt about like salmon for half an hour, I finally persuaded the kids to get out by bribing them, bizarrely, with an ice cream – although chicken soup and hot sweet tea might have been more appropriate in the circumstances.
In the same way that banging your head against a wall feels great when you finally stop (or so I’m hoping, with this child-rearing lark), when I finally emerged from the icy depths, looking more Honey Monster than Honey Ryder, my skin felt like it was burning in the comparative heat of the air. A brisk rub down with a sand-encrusted towel was a more effective exfoliator than any salon treatment, and totally painless at the time, due to the anaesthetic effects of the Atlantic. I’m sure it won’t be too long before the skin on my upper arms heals properly.

Although I was disappointed that I didn’t even get close to trying any of the Welsh Cariad wine, I am very excited by the prospect of drinking this glass of Barramundi Semillon Chardonnay as recommended by The Grocer (£4.79 Ocado, or go to The Grocer’s shop!).
It tastes of melon and citrus fruit, and makes me long to dabble my toes in tropical waters.
I seem to remember that about ten years ago, this wine used to be sold in a brightly labelled bottle. If so, it has had something of a sophisticated make-over (I could do with one of those myself), but the label still suggests warm, sandy, Australian beaches.
Maybe Cariad wines could do a similar tie-in with the beaches of South Wales - the wine label could include pictures of sand, surf, baggy lycra and mottled blue legs.

There's Lovely

We are off to the most gorgeous part of South Wales for the weekend. If the nice weather holds, the kids will spend the whole time frolicking on the beach, splashing in the sea, peering expectantly into rock pools and terrorising starfish. We can eat cockles, fish and chips and ice cream. Heaven!
This is where H grew up, spending his formative years like a young Ray Mears - camping, canoeing and generally boy scouting for all he was worth. As a result, he is fairly impervious to the beautiful surroundings, whereas I, with the romantic perspective of the outsider, am totally besotted with the place.
I do have to enter a seaside Faustian pact, though. When we visit, we stay at my mother-in-law’s house. Now, as tangled mother-in-law/daughter-in-law relationships go, I have been let off pretty lightly - you do hear some real horror stories. My mother-in-law cannot do enough for us, but at the risk of sounding churlish, that is exactly the problem.
As an ex-nurse, she is one of the least squeamish people I know. She thinks nothing of removing the manky pelt of matted hair that clings to the bristles of my hairbrush. I have never actually seen her do this; I just spend ages looking for the brush, which is of course, totally unrecognisable when it’s hair-free. My toes still curl at the memory of the time we spent a week at her house, and she kindly offered to do some washing for me. I placed the bundle of ‘whites’ in the washing machine, only to return later and find her washing all my knickers by hand.
There is a Welsh wine called ‘Cariad’ (meaning love, aaaah!) but I’ve only ever bought it in Wales. The white was a little sweet for my liking, but I think they do a rosé which would be worth trying in the warm weather – I’ll let you know if I get my hot little hands on any.