Spanx? No thanx!

Sorry ladies, I know that it is forbidden to divulge that which should remain forever cocooned in the mysterious and secret realms of women’s lingerie, but I feel compelled to share with you, for your own good, my recent experience with a ‘slip of a thing’ from the Spanx range of targeted control wear.

I’d tried the rest, so try the best, I thought, as I happily paid three times over the odds for this miraculous garment that would provide me with a sexy and sylph-like silhouette and enable me to squeeze into the six dresses hanging in my wardrobe that are the teeniest bit too tight.  Thereby eliminating the need to buy new.

Bargain!

Not only that, as this is turning out to be a year of ‘dos’, I’ll get bags of wear out of the thing, and look fab to boot.

Perfect.

So, the day of this year’s first do dawned and I was all set.   New slinky dress, first time out, waited patiently on the wardrobe door.  It had one drawback – the length – to the knees – meaning that, given the time of year and the ghastly white legs, stockings were required.   Not tights – can’t afford a ridge around the waist, and not sussies either – no room for any lumps other than mine in this dress!  No, it had to be the ‘hold up all by themselves’ ones.  Because they do don’t they?  Hold up all by themselves?  Ever had one sliding down your leg when you’re out?  Ever had to adopt a Quasimodo gait as you race to the sanctuary of the loo to pull the bloody thing up?  ‘Course not! 

But anyway, this was a minor risk, as I had the protection of the non-cling, non-roll, non-climb, ‘I make you look superb,’ Spanx garment which was draped seductively over the bed, preparing to make me look and feel fantastic!

Well, not without the odd expletive, I eventually got it on.  With much grunting, tugging, shoving and pulling, I somehow prized my now sweat-soaked body into this sleek and stretchy sock.  Phew! 

The dress went on as soon as the breath had returned to my ragged lungs, and as I turned to admire my new and improved silhouette I caught sight of a fluffy white lump of cotton wool inside my stocking.   Aaaarrgh! 

The performance was repeated, the cotton wool discarded, and a much-needed glass of wine placed in my trembling hand.

It’ll be okay, I told myself, after a few more of these….

Right, party time!

An hour into the evening and the wine hadn’t had quite the numbing effect that I had hoped for and I was getting a little irritated.    There were a number of reasons for this:

·          - The magical non-cling garment had developed an extremely ‘clingy’ relationship with the dress, sticking like glue to all the wrong bits.

 - In addition, its non-roll qualities were clearly overstated, as it does indeed roll when you make the mistake of sitting down.   As standing in killer heels for any length of time is now beyond me, the shoes had long since been abandoned.  This did little to contribute to my looking fabulous.   Might just as well have brought my slippers.

 - Leaning forward slightly to listen in interest to others was equally out of the question.  This simple movement caused something to stab me fiercely in the heart, threatening to bring on a heart attack at the very least.
 
 - The risk of the seams not surviving was too great for me to dare to tuck into the crisps and picky bits and so my hunger went unchecked.   
 
 - I was loathe to participate in much chit chat as I could scarcely breathe, and when I did speak I was sounded like I had swallowed a couple of helium balloons.

So, all in all… not going too well.

I endured this ridiculous self-imposed torture for a little while longer until common sense got the better of me and I dragged my sister into the bathroom to help me get the bloody thing off.

Not an easy task, even for two of us.  Indeed, Houdini would have been proud of some of the moves I made to escape from its clutches!

Free at last, I shoved the offending garment in my handbag.

Ah… I can breathe…

… and eat, and sit, and speak…

and enjoy the party!

There are lessons to be learned from this experience: 

·        -   If you have any influence in planning future dos, make sure it’s a ‘pyjama party’, so all the middle-aged women can breathe without pain and sip their wine in peace.
 
·      When you buy ‘control wear’, ensure that it is at least two sizes too big, even though that renders it useless.
 
·      Always carry a handbag that is big enough to hide your underwear when you are obliged to remove it. 

  - I suppose you could always lose weight, exercise or buy bigger dresses …
 

Or, if really pushed, find an excuse to not go to the party …

… but where’s the fun in that?

Overheard on a train ...

I must admit to being a bit of a snob, but an extra 300 quid to travel first class was a little steep, even for me.  So my six-hour train journey to see Becky would have to be spent amongst ‘normal’ people.  It shouldn’t be too bad I reckoned.  I had reserved table seats all the way, got lots of reading to do.  And anyway, I like trains.

First leg:  Scarborough to York

One minute before departure, seated alone at the table, I thought I was safe.  Ah… perhaps not.  A middle-aged woman, a couple and a baby in a pink Cinderella carriage that was too big to get between the seats got on and joined me.

…maybe I should have paid the £300…

I smiled politely, as one does, and shoved my studious and slightly stuck up nose in my Kindle.

The book I’m reading, however, could not hold my attention when pitched against my fellow travellers’ babbling.   There followed a near violent verbal exchange regarding which one of them had had the least sleep the night before and who was the most tired.  The sleep snatchers included the baby, the dog, the window, the quilt thief, the wind, the rain, the neighbours  ….

Perhaps you should all take this opportunity to shut your gobs and have forty winks then…

It wasn’t to be.  There was then a row over the difference between paying rent four-weekly, or by calendar month - sorry – munff, and money-grabbing landlords in general.

Being one of those money-grabbers, I pressed my face closer to my Kindle, but was too late to miss the girl in the glittery bobble hat and matching glittery T-Shirt expose the livid, purple stretch marks on her expectant belly, still raw from the child in the pink Sherman tank.

I should definitely have paid the extra £300…

Not unhappily, we parted company in York, where I grabbed a sausage butty and a bowl of latte in the station pub.  It stank of mucky mops and was empty but for a small crowd hovering around the fruit machine, perhaps hoping they would win enough to upgrade to first class…

Second leg:  York to Basingstoke

The train was packed.  They poured into the carriage from both ends and I was obliged to carry my weekend case over my head as I squeezed past aisle blockers too large to be allowed on public transport.  Eventually, having deposited my luggage, I found my seat.   Despite the fact that the table was full of litter and the seats were cramped and hard, I was pleased to be seated opposite two nice Geordie lasses and next to a pleasant, and thankfully, quiet, young chap.

We all did the polite smiley thing again, and as I was to spend four hours on this train, I settled down for a good listen.  This time I eavesdropped on excited chatter that focused on the joys of shopping; designer handbags; face creams and holidays to New York and Egypt.  Then we had weddings, enormous pink hats and Shirley Valentine.

An hour into the journey I was most impressed to see a bottle of Moet appear from the classy lady’s bag and even more impressed when she insisted that the silent young chap and me have a glass!  

I’ve always loved Geordies…

Naturally we were not so rude as to refuse, so we shared a pleasant glass with the two of them.

“What are you celebrating?”  I asked.

“Shopping!” they declared in unison, with a degree of enthusiasm that I could only wonder at.

We did however decline a second glass, but as their champagne flowed, their conversation switched to the size of “so and so’s house” and “Eee, she looked a bugger in that dress mind…”

By the time we reached Derby my legs were going numb and a small child had started to wail.   By Birmingham the baby bawled ferociously and I was now desperate for the wine trolley.  I tried not to be cross at Banbury when a ‘sniffer’ got on and parked himself and his noisy nose just a few seats away.   Once he caught my disapproving glance he merely doubled his efforts to be disgusting.

I was sad to see the two nice Geordie lasses leave for their shopping extravaganza at Leamington Spa and wished them well in their endeavours.

An elegant woman with a laptop took their place.  A solicitor I decided, on hearing her speak on the phone about a conveyance that morning.   So why wasn’t she in first class?  When she paid for a sandwich with a credit card I guessed she was too tight or too skint.

But I had my wine now so I really didn’t care.

By Oxford, my legs were actually numb.   But the baby was now quiet.  At Reading the ‘sniffer’ got off and things were definitely on the up because Basingstoke now beckoned…

Third leg:  Basingstoke to Hook

Ah, this is the way to travel!  I had the entire carriage, and quite possibly the train all to myself. 

Shame this part of the journey lasted all of four minutes!

But regardless of the trials and tribulations of train travel, it was worth every second of the six hours it took to be able to spend a fabulous weekend with my little Bex.

  

Puppy Power!

It’s finally happened.  Time and circumstance have conspired to chip away at my long held beliefs and smash those staunch opinions that I imagined I would spout until I could spout no more. 

For more than half a century both Nigel and I have been anti-dog people.  This means being mildly irritated by the doggy chat of dog lovers; somewhat bored with the protestations of their pooches’ personalities and utterly bewildered by the outpourings of grief should one of these precious pets die.

In the last couple of years, however, we’ve moved from tolerance to genuine fondness of Ellie’s and Becky’s dogs ‘Pepper’ and ‘Silva’ and have quite enjoyed having Silva about the house whilst Becky and Daz have been staying with us.   But despite the fact that these Miniature Schnauzers, (or Disney Dogs, as Nigel calls them) are about as endearing as dogs can be, we would never, ever actually own one!

So, how is it that there are now three dogs in our house?

Well, it all seemed like a good idea at the time…

Worried about Silva being alone during the day when they move into their new home, Becky and Daz had decided to get another little puppy to keep her company.   

Any sensible person would have just let that happen and kept well out of it.  But no … I just had to get involved!  Whether it was the influence of drink, middle-aged madness or the relentless bullying from my two daughters, the temptation to surprise Nigel with an early birthday present was just too much to resist.

In an instant, enquiries were made at Pepper and Silva’s birthplace, and the last two puppies of the current litter were secured.   Off went Ellie and Bex on their secret mission to collect them before anybody could come to their senses!

A few hours later, two little bundles of fluff arrived home.  The bigger one, we had been warned, was the naughty one, whereas the teeny weeny one was nice and shy.  We had agreed, in our plotting, that Nigel should be allowed to choose.  Once he had recovered from the shock, he chose the little one.  Yippee!  Bex gets all the trouble and we get all the snuggles!  Nigel immediately christened his puppy ‘Bodger’ and his mischievous brother was named ‘Milo’.

 … And so it began…

You know when they say, “dogs are for life…” do they actually mean that some kind of swap takes place?   So, you get the dog, and the dog gets your life?  Is that how it works?   

I really don’t remember being obliged to accompany our babies into the back yard at two in the morning, huddled against the driving rain, tiptoeing carefully amongst the slugs, only to indulge in a ridiculous display of exuberance once the puppies had ‘performed’.  This in itself would not be so bad, but as both puppies have had the runs, our attention to toilet monitoring duties has been interminable. 

By day three, I was bog eyed, boggle brained and bogged off.  My once immaculate home was now littered with puppy paraphernalia, and doubled as a receptacle for countless accidents!  Had it not been for Becky and Daz – especially Daz – who had sacrificed his entire leave to puppy-sit; there is no doubt that my sanity would have deserted me entirely.

I have been twice to the vets already and am becoming terrifyingly aware of the dizzying array of doggy diseases and feel hopelessly out of my depth if one of them so much as sneezes!

On meeting the rest of their doggy family it soon became clear that not everybody was to fall instantly in love with these two newcomers.  Pepper, the matriarch of this schnauzer brood, adamantly refused to have anything to do with these boisterous, bothersome boys.  Poor Silva, who was instantly adopted as their surrogate mother, has been tortured with unremitting attention.  Worryingly, there was even a point where I feared for Silva’s honour, as Milo demonstrated a disturbingly well-developed sexual prowess for one so young!  As it is, now that Silva has had the ‘op’ she has been forced to flee this place of torment to recuperate in safety with her sister. 

Not surprisingly, Milo’s antics got the better of him and an injured leg served to dampen his ardour.  We sighed in relief as we awaited a moment’s respite.  But no, it wasn’t to be.  The once timid Bodger took on the mantle of ‘devil-dog’ and set about trying to murder me with carelessly discarded toys or by launching himself at my very tired feet.

But in spite of the sleepless nights, early mornings and my zombie-like state of mind, the puppies playful frolicking has provided Nigel with more entertainment than a dozen first-rate films and, once Silva and Milo leave for their new home, he can look forward to many hours of soothing snuggling with his new friend.

But they do sleep.  Even now.  And when they do, they are sooooooooo cute!

Over the last two weeks Nigel and I have looked at each other many times with bemused expressions on our faces, shaking our heads in disbelief as we have pondered on the people we have become.  For here we are, indulging in the doggy chat that once irritated us, describing our pooches’ personalities as though they were people and understanding completely how grief-stricken we would be if anything happened to our precious pets.

Life has a habit of sneaking up on you and surprising you in the strangest of ways!

"The drunkards now arriving at Platform Five..."

“Coffee…” we’d said would start our day in York.  “We’ll have a nice cuppa!  Maybe even a scone…”

As sensible ladies we’d done all the planning.     Melanie had her return ticket to Newcastle and I had mine to Scarborough.  Plenty of time for a leisurely lunch and a good old natter.   To preserve the precious minutes I had a list of five restaurants, all within a hundred yards of each other, all having sun terraces.

Ten minutes later than scheduled, Mel’s train pulled into the station and off we set towards the centre of the city, wearing our smart new outfits, manicured and pedicured to perfection!

Perhaps it was those ten minutes that did it?

By the time we had reached the first of the potential restaurants it was almost noon.   “Coffee?”  (Out of the question.)   “Gin and tonic?”   (Obligatory.)  “Large?”  (Not obligatory.)  “Of course!”

And a little while later… “Another…?”

A most pleasant hour of girlie gossip went by until our rumbling tums demanded food.

Given the glorious Mediterranean weather, we opted for a Spanish restaurant complete with sunny roof terrace, jugs of sangria, a sumptuous selection of tapas, soulful music and even, as Mel pointed out, a “gorgeous” Spanish waiter.

Another most pleasant hour passed…

Sated with tapas and sangria, but still an untapped reserve of chatter, it was only right that we sample the Spanish wine. 

Another very pleasant hour…

After which, we decided to slide stylishly from the Spanish restaurant to seek another terrace in the vicinity of the station, ready for the ultimate dash to catch our pre-booked trains.

We came upon the well-kept secret of a delightful beer garden at the end of a long tunnel of stinking cellar bars.  To minimise garden to bar journey time we determined that a bottle at a time, and probably two, should be the plan.  

At some point in this delightful garden, one of us (and I swear it was Melanie) said, “We’re not going to bother catching those trains are we?”  By now we couldn’t quite remember which idiot had decided that pre-booking the trains was a good idea!

Another pleasant hour… or was it two…?

Some time later, we arrived at the station.

Perhaps it was our earlier sensible planning, or perhaps we were drawing on some subconscious knowledge, but we seemed to know that we should head for Platform Five.  Once there, we’d check out the arrival times of the Newcastle and Scarborough trains, grab a seat and wait.  Sorted.

Obviously, Platform Five was over the damn bridge.

We made it up the first flight of steps without incident.  Once on the bridge, the need to concentrate was overwhelming and I was compelled to grip the bannister and tiptoe across, taking teeny tentative steps, as though as I was traversing a span of spewing red-hot lava on a bridge made of paper.     

Despite my caution I remember crashing into one of those invisible 3’ wide pillars but I have only a vague recollection of Melanie, a vision in pink, tumbling down the steps at the other side!

We worked our way to Platform Five with that kind of wide-legged wobble one adopts when walking on water. 

Right then … expected times of arrival?

We struggled to find our sea legs as we gazed at the infuriatingly fast-moving information boards.   In spite of Mel’s superb new contact lenses and my laser eye surgery we were quite unable to read a single thing.   Not our fault, you understand … they just change so quickly!

“Why do they make it so difficult!” we railed, as the first prickle of panic began to prod my pickled brain. 

After an awfully long time we concluded that, actually, there was no such place as Newcastle, and Scarborough had simply slipped into the sea.  There were no such towns on those stupid boards!    

We were, without question on the right Platform.  It must be Platform Five!  It’s always Platform Five! 

We circled the Platform in a deliberately threatening fashion in order to assert our authority over it.  We stopped intermittently to scowl in fury at the false information being forced upon us. 

This strategy clearly worked.  A train bound for Newcastle duly arrived.   A quick hug and Mel launched herself on the train and I imagine plonked herself down on the first available seat.  It was then that I remembered a snippet from our earlier sensible planning….

If she were to fall asleep on the train there was every chance that she’d end up in Aberdeen…

I’ll ring her in an hour, I vowed.  Wake her up.  If I can find my phone. 

All alone, I looked around in the hope that my eyes would now work.  They didn’t.  Scarborough was still off the map.

Right then!  I’ll get a taxi!  Sod it!  But no.  There was no way I could cross that paper bridge again.  I was stuck here on Platform Five.

As walking on water was becoming somewhat tiresome I looked for a bench on which to sit.  No such luck.  All were taken.  Fearful of falling, I was driven to hug one of those pillars whose sole purpose is to support the roof.  This is not an easy thing to do with any degree of elegance. 

Train after train thundered by the platform.  Clearly, if I was ever to let go of this pillar and get home, I was going to have to speak to someone. 

“Ish thish the Shkarbra train…?” I asked in what I imagined was my posh voice to whichever poor passenger was standing closest to my pillar and me. 

At last it worked!  I got a nod!  I was saved!  Scarborough lives!

When the Inspector asked me for my ticket I adopted a pitiful face and told him I’d missed my earlier train and I was really really sorry…

Got away with that one too!

I was picked up in Scarborough by my sober, superior and somewhat stern-faced daughter and deposited at home with a thinly disguised ‘tut’. 

I found my phone (along with half a bottle of wine) and remembered Melanie and Aberdeen.   I was delighted to learn that Mel had made it to Newcastle, managed the Metro, and found her front door all by herself!  Impressed.

Whilst I’m sure that Patsy and Eddie from Ab Fab would have been proud of us, I’m equally sure that Mel and I would shudder if we were to see our antics on CCTV.

However, in spite of that, we had an ‘absolutely fabulous’ day out we now have the makings of a slightly more well considered ‘plan’.

So… until the next time!