The thirty-something diaries

In defence of the Oxford comma.

In defence of the Oxford comma.

Remembering 9/11.

Forgot to tell you that talented mother-of-godchild Claudia Massie has an exhibition on at the Flaubert Gallery. If you’re in Edinburgh get down there pronto - it’s only on for another week.

If you can’t make it you can see her work on her website. And do take a look at her blog.

Shits and giggles

My Ryvita rant yesterday reminded me of another excruciating Sex and the City rip-off…

(Don’t thank me, thank DulcoEase)

Ryvita - “for ladies that crunch”

I love Ryvita. I really bloody love it. I could (and do) eat it all day.

What I don’t love is the current advertising campaign. Dreamed up by a fancy London agency which should have known better, the series of irritating ads features a group of female friends lunching on crispbreads and chatting about their lives.

Ignore, if you can, the derivative concept (Sex and the City anyone?), the less-than-convincing characters, and the frankly insulting banality of their conversation, and take a look at the strapline: 

Ryvita - for ladies that crunch.

That? Ladies that crunch?

When I last looked, “ladies” were animate, sentient beings. Not things.

It’s who, Ryvita. Ladies WHO crunch.

Déjà vu

Some of you with email subscriptions have apparently been receiving notifications for old posts. I don’t know if it’s the blog telling me I need to get writing, or just a technical glitch, but I will investigate and see what I can do.

Where have all the young men gone?

According to Pete Seeger “gone for soldiers, every one”. He’s wrong. They’ve gone for HUSBANDS, and no-where is this more apparent than a wedding.

You know what I’m talking about. Ten years ago, when you went to a wedding, you did so knowing there would be men. Single men. Single men wearing morning suits and lounge suits and kilts if they were Scottish, looking ten times better than they ever do down the pub.

Most likely there’d be three or four of them right there at your table, and what with the morning suits, and the champagne, and the general air of romance, chances were there’d be snogging by midnight.

Now? Not so much.

I went to another wedding this weekend. An utterly fabulous, wonderful wedding, which nonetheless failed spectacularly on the snogging front.

There was I, a vision in full-length chiffon (a bridesmaid for the first time in my life), and not one solitary single man was there to appreciate it.

And that, if nothing else, is a waste.

Wardrobe malfunction

Women with boobage, listen up.

When buying a new dress for your good friend’s wedding, remember to check the cleavage.

Properly.

Jump up and down in the changing room. Dance. Pretend you’re drunk, and then dance some more. The attendant may think you’re odd, but do it all the same.

And then check the cleavage again.

For that innocent frock could have a dark side, and if you don’t catch it now, it’ll catch you later on.

You won’t notice. You’ll be laughing and dancing and drinking champagne. But the next day, when the photos appear on Facebook, you’ll discover you attended a wedding like this:*

  

Which unless you’re auditioning for London’s new Playboy Club, is really not a good look.

(*There’s worse, believe me. Much, much worse. But as I hope to continue working in non-Playboy-related industries, I’ll not be posting them here.)

A year ago my friend Cath Richards decided (bravely) to give up her job as an architectural historian, and become a Full Time Artist instead. Which turns out to have been a very wise move, for not only does she get to hang out in her beautiful home instead of going to the office, but her paintings are selling like the proverbial hot cakes.
You can catch her current exhibition “Reason Light Proportion” at the Dundas Street Gallery in Edinburgh. If you’re too far away, don’t despair - it’s all on her website (where you’ll also find her gorgeous, tapestry-inspired painted cloths).

A year ago my friend Cath Richards decided (bravely) to give up her job as an architectural historian, and become a Full Time Artist instead. Which turns out to have been a very wise move, for not only does she get to hang out in her beautiful home instead of going to the office, but her paintings are selling like the proverbial hot cakes.

You can catch her current exhibition “Reason Light Proportion” at the Dundas Street Gallery in Edinburgh. If you’re too far away, don’t despair - it’s all on her website (where you’ll also find her gorgeous, tapestry-inspired painted cloths).

It would appear that (like Denmark) iPhone autocorrect has something against Marmite.
So my friend now thinks I had a marmot on toast for my tea.

It would appear that (like Denmark) iPhone autocorrect has something against Marmite.

So my friend now thinks I had a marmot on toast for my tea.

Oh My God - I have just been on to this BRILLIANT blog written by my good friend Zoe White and I have been inspired and almost moved to tears (I’m a bit weepy right now!) because it is fantastic. I am so proud of you (if I’m allowed to be proud of you) because it distils all that is so fab about you into a page of gorgeous, funny, irreverant, witty, intelligent, sweet and wonderful chat (with none of the shrieking).

Friends are bloody brilliant, aren’t they?

A post to emphasise a space

Spaces are very important, especially when they come between the word “life” and the word “less”.

Without a space, I have realised, this would be a blog about a dead hospital porter instead of one about a girl and her slightly chaotic life.

On not being Raptured

So, a week after The Big Event, and there’s no more denying the truth -  I haven’t been Raptured. And I hate to break it to you, but if you’re reading this you’re probably still here too.

I can’t speak for you, but apart from the blaspheming and the fornicating, the not going to church and the coveting of other people’s stuff, I’m a pretty decent kind of person. And more to the point, I spent last Saturday (the very day it counted) being totally wholesome all day.

Allow me to present the evidence.

I got up early. On a Saturday. I’m sure there’s something in the Bible about not being lazy, so that must be some Rapture points right there. 

A couple of small detours later, I was at a Christian Aid coffee morning in the depths of the country, with a friend and her nephew and neice. 

A Christian Aid bloody coffee morning. We bought house-plants, we ate scones, we let old ladies coo over the kids. It was so incredibly wholesome I’m amazed I wasn’t Raptured right then and there.

As if that wasn’t enough, babysitting duties completed I hared it back to the city and spent the afternoon with my godchild. And if you don’t get bonus Rapture points for being a godparent, something’s really up with the system.

Frankly, I don’t know what went wrong.

It could have been the evening that let me down. The pub, the strawberry beer, the accidental drunkenness. The boy’s house, the sofa, the snuggling in front of a film. (Cinderella Man, in case you’re interested. Really quite good.)

Whatever. I’m not Raptured, and neither are you, and together we must await the next Day of Judgement.

October 21st, apparently. We’ve got an awful lot of living to do before then.

"Breakfast at its best"

Loud and proud in their windows, McDonalds are currently advertising “breakfast at its best”.

Breakfast at its best is softly scrambled eggs on crunchy toast, fresh orange juice and a pot of steaming coffee. It’s newspapers and magazines on your kitchen table, the radio on, and the weekend stretching out ahead.

It’s brunch with your best friends in your favourite cafe, on a Sunday morning, after the night before.

It’s baked beans cooking on a camp-fire.

It’s a bacon roll when you’re hungover.

It’s croissant and coffee in Paris, and huevos rancheros by a Mexican beach.

It’s a 4am piece of toast, shared with a boy.

What it’s most definitely not, is a plastic “egg” on a cardboard “muffin”, served by a surly teenager and eaten at a smeared formica table just off the motorway.