".... the Martians--dead!--slain by the putrefactive and disease
bacteria against which their systems were unprepared; slain as the red
weed was being slain; slain, after all man's devices had failed, by
the humblest things that God, in his wisdom, has put upon this earth... ... These
germs of disease have taken toll of humanity since the beginning of
things--taken toll of our prehuman ancestors since life began here.
But by virtue of this natural selection of our kind we have developed
resisting power; to no germs do we succumb without a struggle, and to
many ... our
living frames are altogether immune. But there are no bacteria in
Mars, and directly these invaders arrived, directly they drank and
fed, our microscopic allies began to work their overthrow."(1) Unfortunately, I think in the 2013 version in my head of H.G. Wells' masterpiece, "War of the Worlds", we are the Martians and "our microscopic allies" are a bunch of turncoat gits. I am feeling rather under attack and based on the testimonies of many friends, neighbours and the local community, they are all under attack too. It seems we are facing germ warfare and I am not talking the wondrous "George's Marvellous Medicine" of death that governments use to wipe out thousands of people for oil, diamonds, adamantium or a decent cup of tea but the grot that we pick up on door handles and the sprinkles of other peoples mouth fluids that get fired into our faces as they sneeze and cough without the appropriate Victorian gloved hand to the cake hole. You could be hanged in 19th century society for not covering your mouth when involuntarily expactorating. Fact! Official statistics, that I just made up, covering the period October 2012 to end February 2013 estimate that 95% of families in the south east of England have been bedridden with some "viral this or that" to quote the British Medical Association. In fact a reliable source recently informed me that viral meningitis and three flavours of stomach bug are currently storming the county of Hampshire, at present. Our dear county of Surrey is in the throes of flu along with some fabulous high fever and hacking cough combo with a bit of croup thrown in for good measure. Honestly. What the hell is going on? As a wee nipper in the 1980's I got a cold and cough once a year which lasted about three days and then went away, never to return until around the same time the following year. Occasionally, there would be vomitus but invariably it would be once, normally after the soluble disprin my mother would make me down in one, which is basically the equivalent of sticking your finger down your throat. Yes kids, in my day there was no banana flavoured amoxicillin, strawberry flavoured paracetamol and orange flavoured ibuprofen. Oh no. Medicine tasted bad and when I say bad, I mean bad. That was your punishment for being born in the last century. Medical science advanced from leeches to soluble disprin in a 100 years to the joy in a bottle that is Calpol for our spoilt little brats, luckily born and raised in the 21st century. The only other cause of vomitus in my day was a mucus pukus. Again, only once, due to heavy build up of thick stuff in ones nose and throat which children sadly do not have the ability to remove in as stylish a manner as adults. But more importantly vomitus had nothing to do with any nasty gastroenteritis that seems to be all the rage on the catwalks of Milan and therefore; everywhere. I am concerned. I was not brought up to be a fastidious clean freak. I have always been a big believer in picking up dropped food off our filthy floor and jolly well eating it. Firstly, because there are starving children in Africa (this was the most often quoted sentence in my house growing up) and because it can be fun. It is like eating roulette. Especially when some of the things on the floor are raisins. But also because, who cares? Germs are good for you. They build up your immunity! I don't believe this anymore, as the all pervading viruses seem to be able to adapt and morph in a few weeks, like the mutant Mystique (who is super cool but will not make you lose your lunch or poop your pants in 60 seconds). It seems we are entering a period in time where we are having to start from scratch with this immunity malarky and will now have to go through 10 years worth of Norovirus before we don't get it again and every shade of flu before we don't have to endure that bed soaker for awhile. Frankly, it is not worth it. If viruses are so bloody clever, we will never become immune. I guess it is overkill wearing a face mask and permanently hand sanitising, but I think it is wise to be a bit of a nut job hand washer, which I have become. I have extended this mania to my children, whereby as they walk into the house, the first thing they do, is wash their hands. Because, really, who has time these days to be ill? This is paranoid behaviour but I can proudly say that I have not had GQ's Sexiest Bug; Norovirus, for five and a half years. Neither has my other half or my daughter and my son has not had it for three years. Admittedly, we do not eat out, socialise, let people breathe near us and have no skin on our hands due to excessive hand washing. I am particularly insane on this one because I am a terrified emetophobe and no doubt, due to this cocky statement about the lack of chundering in my house, the God of sick will cast upon me a curse of a thousand Noroviruses for my blasphemy. The current health of the nation is a serious talking point. I have now seen three long documentaries on the BBC discussing in depth, the disgustingness of viruses and how they spread. Angela Rippon presented a stellar feature on how those magical tin cans of the sky are a frightening breeding ground for viruses. "Confined space, recycled air and the mushroom cloud of airplane food farts above every seat is an epidemic waiting to happen". (I might have edited her exact comments just a little). As my dear husband set off on his latest business trip I bid him adieu, told him I loved him and encouraged him not to lick his tray table, which according to Ange, contains the biggest mass of bacteria on a plane. Even more than the airplane toilet! I can believe this, as on every long haul flight I have been on, it is clear most people wee around the toilet than in it. Oh, I did like things when they were simple. I can't bear the invisibility of this enemy. When I was growing up in the 80's there were three token kids in all junior schools. There was the school fat kid and the bogey boy and bogey girl. I remember my three, 30 years on, by name. Admittedly, the school fatty doesn't exist anymore based on statistics on childhood obesity. I imagine the thin kid is the one who gets beaten up and given a wedgie. Still the school fat kid was harmless with the exception of a curious odour. The bogey boy and bogey girl however were tricky. My dreadful memories of these poor unfortunate children who clearly were of a sickly ilk and had no nerve endings in their upper lip has scarred me so badly that I do not allow any bats in the cave in my family. The children have raw nostrils due to wiping their nose as soon as there is the inkling of a runner and the husband is beaten with a ladle if he is in the same pea green boat. I remember countless conversations with the bogey girl, in particular (as we did not talk to boys when I was 8 years old, occasionally we would show them our pants but no chit chat, heaven forfend) and after a few minutes of eye watering conversation watching that thick green globule teeter on the brink of falling into the abyss of the mouth, I would run away crying and breathing fast into a paper bag. Yet as revolting as the whole experience was, at least it was visible and I knew exactly where to stand. As far away as possible. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- There will be a two week hiatus to my blog while I go on holiday to do some much needed people watching and eyelid tanning. Hopefully on the back of that fortnight away I will be full of caustic chat inspired by my holiday and less full of information on bodily function, which although my favourite subject, isn't really anybody elses. Toodle-oo! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Funny of the Week As this week's article has been on the grimmer parts of life during the winter months in this country, I thought I would share something equally grim that my little boy brought back in his rucksack from the wonderful Forest School that he attends once a week at his lovely pre-school. The post-Forest School routine is he returns home exhausted and covered in whatever muck they have been rolling in during the day. I empty his rucksack of the clothes he has shed on his travels, his half eaten lunch and water bottle. This week however, I was rather shocked to see something in the shadows at the bottom of his rucksack and I can only describe what I saw, as something that had come out of the shadows of someone elses bottom. I was so disgusted that I could not stick my hand in the rucksack to pull it out, so after much violent shaking of the bag, it fell on the floor.
Well, for the arborists amongst you, it is indeed a turd shaped pine cone. (1) H.G. Wells "War of the Worlds
(18) Contains strong language, bloody gore, nudity and scenes that some may find disturbing. On the back of some very kind feedback to my blogpost on "Exercise", I thought you might like to know how went my first foray in 27 years into competition swimming for 5 year olds. The preamble to this was fraught with problems and poor conditions. As I like bullet points, here they are:
I had a clanging headache the day before my swimming lesson which I thought had developed into hayfever by 10am as it was the second day of sun for the year, but then slowly dived into a miserable cold, combined with dizziness and a woolly head.
Mildred was making her monthly visit.
So, conditions were not good, however, the direct debit was in place, so I was going. I spent the evening before, making my preparations. I started by shaving my head, so cranially, I could be as streamline as possible, with the exception of a small quiff. Firstly, because without the quiff, I look like a POW and secondly, I assumed this would help my speed in the same way a spoiler does on a young man's Ford Granada. If not, I could always use it to hold my woofer or goggles. As I watched the hair tumble from my head and land on my nakedy chest like Magnum PI, I knew, the haircut was definitely worth it. The bodily hair removal was text book although, I knew deep down I would have left a very small but dense patch of hair somewhere above my under knee like a square of black velcro that everyone would notice apart from me. I was ready, nervous and excited. I decided to wear my "Thorpedo" swimming costume branded Speedo! What a contradiction in terms for obvious reasons but additionally, because I only own such a costume because it was as close to a swim burqa as I could find. It covers all my hoochie coochie's but is still not quite big enough, as it requires the occasional bit of butt pickage. When I arrived at the leisure centre I got changed, slathered myself with goose fat and stood in line with three other wannabe's. I walked round the pool to take my position on the starting blocks, well, the floats that were on the side and did my rapid arm swings ten times while rotating my neck to loosen up. This would have all looked impressive if I didn't have small squares of toilet paper stuck all over my legs from the mornings panic shave. No matter, that is what the pool filter is for. I looked at my fellow swimmers, sizing them up. I wondered if they were like me. In a beginners class but can actually swim. I still felt justified to be there because I knew that I was a hopeless swimmer and imagined that the other women were that sort of friend you have at school who, when it gets to Finals time, warble on about how they did not revise at all and then completely ace their test. I hated those girls. I bet they could all swim brilliantly but were in beginners to humiliate those of us who were really lame. I was going to show them! Yeah ... "eat my chlorine dogs". I then realised, I should stop letting my imagination run away with me and it was important to play down the fact I could swim, albeit badly, so they did not stick me in "Improvers" where they would expect me to swim without my feet on the bottom of the pool. The truth is, my fellow learners were not Missy Franklin and pals but a trembling nervous bunch like me. An old gentleman who we will call Rudolph, an old lady, who we will call Flemjella and another lady about my age who we will call Pandinga. They were all extremely nice and all terrible in the water. In fact, I looked like a veritable Rebecca Soni in comparison. That said, by the end of our half an hour we had all improved significantly. Rudolph had managed to swim about four metres with a noodle, Flemjella had managed to swim about a third of the pool with a noodle and Pandinga and I were promoted to the second lane to practice our swimming, unaided might I add, breathing to the side, inhaling as much water through our noses, choking, but still not drowning. I was also told that I had "nice legs" by our coach, who we will call Chad. Unfortunately, not when I was strutting and sucking it in poolside but when I was kicking my legs effectively in the water. So, all in all, a success. I was the best swimmer in the class, I learned how to breathe properly while swimming like a cadaver and got a date with our handsome swimming coach. All true apart from the last bit. The other saving
grace in all of this was at 10am, the leisure centre was only peopled
with the fit elderly and before I went into the changing rooms I
estimated 98% hearing aids and 99% glasses, meaning, none of them would
see me drowning or hear my screams. Result! Overall, I came out excited and happy that I had learned something new and do feel confident that swimming could become my cardio exercise of choice once I have mastered the finer points. We know why cycling is a no go for me and now that I have to wear an undercarriage girdle like Borat's mankini following my failed Zumba classes, any high intensity sport is out. Based on my one lesson, I think swimming it will be. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- On a completely separate note and I am only including this because I thought it was rather funny, I recently bought a couple of little birds to clip onto some old twigs that I have. They are very sweet and delicate. Annoyingly, they are attached to a very stiff determined clip that requires a huge amount of pressure to open. My poor little stonechat robin took the brunt of my aggression to open the clip, by throwing its left eye on to the floor. Luckily I found it and managed to stick it back with some superglue. Unfortunately, I didn't realise the eye (bead) is not perfectly round but more doughnut shaped and now my little robin looks like the late great Marty Feldman. I have attached a picture below of this failed eye transplant as it makes me laugh and I think my blog is rather short on pictures. I think pictorial irrelevance is still better than nothing at all.
During a short sharp attack of the flu earlier this year, I was stuck on the sofa with anvils for feet flicking through the stodge that is daytime TV. In my delirium I came across the alternative menopausal rage TV in the wonderful crapness that is "The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills" and "The Real Housewives of Orange County". Unfortunately, it was not a delirium induced aberration, as following my convalescence, I continued to record both shows every day. Unfortunately, it is a source of marital tension. I do not watch these programmes in front of the children and rightly so. It is a challenge explaining to them why they are a different colour to me. Explaining why some peoples skin is made of a completely different material is just impossible. I am also not permitted to watch these programmes in front of my other half. He is such a snob! So instead, The Plastic Housewives of Orange Hills have become my clandestine lover. I watch the shows when the kids are asleep and the husband is travelling. Dirty old me! My real fascination with the shows, apart from the copious wealth, constant fighting, nervous breakdowns, therapy sessions, endless apologising and appreciation for those apologies, is the quite extraordinary faces on the main protagonists. I would estimate 90% of the ladies on the show have had some facial surgery whether it be minor, scaffolding or borderline Jocelyn Wildenstein. In fact one such wife states loud and proud "I might be married to a plastic surgeon, but I am 98% real". Wow! High Five! Wouldn't 100% have been the correct number to crow about? She says all this, of course, without moving a single muscle in her face. At the beginning of my affair with these programmes, occasionally the odd newbie would appear with the most gravity defying face imaginable. I would watch more in shock that none of the regular characters would even show a modicum of surprise at the state of the guest. It was like, that is a perfectly normal human looking face, whereas all I saw, was a post plane crash burns Count Almasy with fabulous hair. The funny thing is, as I have watched these two shows over the last month, I have to say, the ladies are looking more and more normal. I think one gets so used to that particular type of plastic skin, horse lips and eyes pointing north east and north west that it becomes the norm. A bit like becoming institutionalised in prison. But this prison is made of gelatine or silicone or utterly butterly or whatever they use. It got me thinking that perhaps the odd nip, tuck, stretch and inflation here or there is okay if it improves your image and makes you happy, but only, if you are surrounded by like minded nippers, tuckers, stretchers and inflaters. If you ended up the only "Shockface Peter" in the village, you may just stick out a bit. Also, I don't believe I will find that in our polite society. Sadly, they will never make The Real Housewives of Guildford. People around here only own plastic under duress. Children's toys are all wooden and no fun and plastic tends to appear from some mean spirited Aunty or Uncle who are determined to give your child the toy that they actually want as opposed to the wooden carousel you lovingly bought them that they can look at adoringly but NOT TOUCH! As far as the personalities go, that would not work either. The nastiest thing people might say here is "I can't believe Arabella left that fox poo on her footpath for another day. What a douche!" Back to image. It is not something that has been of great importance to me. You may think my desire for a "hard body" as per last week's post is a sign of wanting a great image. I should submit my six month epilatory hiatus during the more wintry months as evidence of why image really is not high on my agenda. That said, it is beginning to creep more into my brain, as the state of my image has become an issue of necessity over vanity. I do not have the wealth of the Orange County and Beverly Hills ladies. I probably have a smaller bank balance than their pets, so my dreams of having a small incision made in the top of my head and a sharp stretching of the skin upwards, much in the way someone pulls on a tight pair of socks, is going to remain a dream. Shop bought solutions are all I can muster. I have two facessentials. I now wear YSL's Touche Eclat daily because the dark circles around my eyes are so bad I look like a racoon and also because Colin Firth's wife claimed she used it since the day it was launched and you never know, he might leave her one day. I also wear Benefit Cheek Tint for a rosy glow and as many close friends will know, I have on occasion worn that out having forgotten to blend it in and have chatted gaily on the street to all and sundry, unbeknownst, looking like a clown or those old enough to remember, Aunty Sally from Wurzel Gummidge. Admittedly I don't worry so much about the neck down. The only folks who see that are the kids, who currently don't care and my husband, who nobody particularly likes. He is not going anywhere. The children will probably be the only reason for making any serious changes, as I would like them to have some pride in me and not because I look like a member of Gerry Cottle's Circus but because I can do an effective impersonation of a young cool Mum. This was made clear, particularly harshly, by my three year old, who told me a few months ago that I had a beard. I don't think I have a beard or any particular downy cheek fuzz. However, insane paranoia and an investigation after that comment did help me understand why he said it. On holiday I wear large sunglasses that cover my entire eye area. Therefore my overbrows and under cheeks get extremely well tanned which make me look like I have a permanent five o'clock shadow. We are going on a holiday to the sun in a months time which I am really excited about and I have already planned my beauty regime for that trip. The Touche Eclat, Benefit Cheek Tint musts, full body dipped in acid hair removal treatment and finally a balaclava to wear poolside to tan my eyes and even out my forehead and shadow beard. I think at the age of 38, two facial products that cost around £50 in total (which in my world is high end!) and a balaclava being the extent of my beauty regime, is quite a nice place to be. Of course those two things have not managed to fix the permanent facial atrocities such as the hooked nose, zits and crooked face that continue to plague my life. I guess it will have to be plastic surgery in the end a la The Housewives or a more extensive range of balaclava's to match my 2013 wardrobe, which unsurprisingly, is exactly the same as my wardrobe from 2012, 2011 & 2010.
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