Anyway, just to mix it up a bit, I got a letter, with a stamp (!) posted from Tunbridge Wells. Interesting I thought, a letter with a stamp and it’s not my birthday. Upon opening I immediately spotted my GP’s address. Oh joy, that could only mean one thing, yes, ladies you know what I’m referring to, that thing we hate so much. I was, however wrong. On closer inspection it was ‘an invitation’ no less to attend a full health check. I love receiving invitations but something about this event, made me wish that I had been ‘NFI’.

The words ‘weight’ and ‘cholesterol’ screamed out of the page. I know I’m a bit overweight and that I consume a unit or two (ahem) of alcohol more than I should, but in this instance, my doctor’s ignorance is bliss. I know I should be grateful for the chance of a health check, but I don’t think any of us like to be put under the microscope, and to be found less than perfect. Nor do we like to be told what to do about it.

Until the last week or so, diabetes is not something I would ever have worried about for myself but the recent press storm about Type 2 Diabetes has made me think again. I did a quick calculation to ascertain my BMI to find that I am just below the level where the government is considering fitting gastric bands to people who develop type 2 through being overweight. That is scary. (By-the-by, what a fantastic name that would be for a punk group, ‘The Gastric Bands’).

I completely agree with the outcry against spending NHS money on fitting gastric bands to over-weight, or as all the media call them, obese people, (so much more offensive). Their lifestyle choices include as one paper put it, “stuffing your face with junk food so that you wilfully give yourself diabetes”. But I don’t consider myself in that category, and I certainly haven’t got to the weight I am by eating junk food. God, what next? Will my bottom appear in one of those news reports where the British weight issue is being discussed and the screen is just filled with headless torsos featuring close-ups of bulges and lumps and bumps. Do you think anyone ever watches those and says, ‘hey that’s me! I’m on telly, I’d better text my mates”?

Out of interest, I Googled the journalist who had written about stuffing faces. I was expecting a mere slip of a lass but found someone who I think is a similar physique to myself and probably no stranger to the odd over-indulgent restaurant meal. I wonder if she too had examined her own BMI or whether weight only becomes an issue when it is a problem of the ‘lower classes’ and achieved through a ‘junk food’ diet?

MM

He did look at me as if I was slightly mad, but am I? Although I would love to eat the chocolates, (they are my favourites), giving them to someone else, makes me look very generous, but does it also make me look stingy that I haven’t bought them myself, not that they’d know? I’m not sure if this is something that all women do, so if they have people round for dinner, do they put aside the chocolates to pass on to others? Perhaps there are only ever a few boxes in circulation and they keep doing the rounds until they are out of date at which point someone says they might as well eat them. You obviously also have to keep a mental note of who they came from so as to not to ‘gift’ them back.

My mum tells a story of when she and my dad were younger and going to parties at friends’ houses. This was in the days of spirit drinking – wine was very posh, only consumed at restaurants and usually came in a raffia basket. Even Mateus Rosé was quite ‘the thing’! It’s hard to imagine now that people would spend a whole night drinking gin, and then probably get into the car to drive home.

Anyway, one couple apparently would always turn up with a bottle of Martini for the hosts and then proceed to drink whisky etc. The bottle of Martini would then be taken to the next do by the new owners and so on. This bottle did the rounds for years apparently even going back to its original home several times. I doubt, however, that a bottle of anything would come into my house ever to see the light of day again. Oh, apart from a bottle of Chaumet, the cheapest bottle of sparkling wine in the UK at about £2, that someone brought to a party at ours once. I was almost too embarrassed to take it to the bottle bank, still intact I might add, and as my friends will vouch, I’ll drink anything, well nearly

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My youngest son has started to learn French at school and often comes home pointing out things that are different colours in French or body parts etc. However the other day we had this exchange:-

Son, “Mum, what does, C’est français’ mean?”

Me, “It’s French”

Son, “Yes, but what does it mean?”

Also he’ll eat everything. Putting his front paws onto the dishwasher door to get at the dirty plates is not unheard of. Quite funny to see when his back paws also leave the floor and he’s stranded in mid-air.

It used to be that you got a dog and they kind of fitted in. Now it’s a minefield; what food to get, should it be wet or dry, do you put them in a crate at night, (a practise probably once thought of as cruel), when to train them, do you take them to puppy socialisation classes. This last thing sounded like a good idea but when we went along, my dog being the only male in the group, looked upon the other dogs as potential members of his harem and proceeded to try and, er, exert his dominance. A practise frowned upon by the girl puppies and owners alike. This behaviour, however, was not limited to him alone as all the girls joined in and it turned into a sort of puppy orgy with some biting and snarling thrown in for good measure.

The Christmas and New Year period normally involves some Xmas ‘do’s’, or in my case one ‘do’. I am of course following a last minute crash diet to allow for the excesses coming up and to hopefully give a more streamlined silhouette at the party. (Just as an aside, I heard today on the radio, that some people consume as much as 8,000 calories on Christmas day. (Something to bear in mind when the New Year’s resolutions are made).

Unfortunately, the passage of time, having children, and too much good living mean that I can no longer get away with a smooth outline without the use of some suck it in underwear. Now, I’ve written about my pants before, but I’m sure you never tire of hearing about them so I have no qualms in using them as subject matter again, particularly as a new problem occurred.

Long story short, last time I went to a party, I donned a body, designed to lift, separate, suck in etc. Putting it on was fine as I stepped into it with the poppers already fastened, (there’s the clue). Unfortunately, they did not remain so! As I circulated around the party, regaling all with my witty repartee, the poppers undid one by one, until I found myself inadvertently going commando. A trip to the loo to re-fasten involved the need to be a contortionist, only for them to un-pop again. Oh the problems of being a woman!

Happy New Year to you all, or as we say in our house, Puppy Chew Gear!

Flying in to Vegas is quite surreal. You pass over miles of desolate, empty desert to then see Lake Mead, the 16^th largest man-made lake in the world, created by the building of the Hoover Dam. It is enormous and azure-blue from the air, looking for all the world like the sea, complete with beaches. When you spot Vegas itself, it’s like glittering gold in the desert sun. As you approach the airport, you start to make out the themed buildings; the New York skyline, Le Tour Eiffel, the Luxor Pyramid, even a fairy tale castle. The Vegas experience starts at the airport upon arrival, where there are rows and rows of slot machines, filled with people pumping in their last bit of cash before departure.

There is definitely a ‘wow factor’ to the place and the taxi journey from the airport had me craning my neck to take in all the sites. For me though, the highlight of the trip was 2 nights in a luxurious hotel, something surely every mother dreams about? And Las Vegas does do good hotel, when I think that we paid almost the same for 1 night in a pub B&B near Chichester as we did for 2 nights in a suite of a hotel, with 5 pools and twice as many restaurants and bars. Fabulous!

What I did find very disconcerting, however, is that most of the public areas of all the big hotels; the casinos, restaurants, bars, foyers, shopping malls etc, have no natural light; they are kept at the same artificial light 24 hours a day so no-one has any sense of day or night, and supplied with oxygen rich air to keep people going. We were staying in a Venetian themed hotel, complete with gondolas and a canal, much of which was inside, but painted to look like it was outside – weird.

The hotel’s outdoor areas were stunning, huge pools, cushioned loungers, pool bars and swimwear clad waiting staff – girls only funnily enough. On our second day there, I took a stroll around the pools, wearing sunglasses and a flowing beach cover-up, stomach pulled really working it, and within a couple of yards stubbed my little toe so badly that it turned black and I’m pretty sure I broke it. I carried on walking as if nothing had happened whilst swearing profusely in my head. Sorry, I let the side down by not having a more outrageous story about the little piggy who went to Vegas, but if I do decide to embellish the facts, you won’t blame me I’m sure.

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Whilst away in Denver I learnt something new about Tunbridge Wells bizarrely. We went to Buffalo Bill’s Museum and grave, only to find out that he brought his Wild West Show to Tunbridge Wells in 1903. Cool eh?

MM

Plans change though and in recent years when I have visited France I’m amazed at how wide the chasm is between them and us. Without the benefit of youth’s rosy glasses, I’m sorry to say that I find I am not quite so keen. I know this is a generalisation and my apologies to any French readers but on the whole I now find them very rude. I still speak passable French and always use my please’s and thank you’s but regularly encounter blank looks as if I’m speaking martian or feel I’m being ignored or not served in favour of a local.

To give an example, on my recent visit, my youngest son and my niece wanted to go on a carousel. My sister – who actually did end up living in France for a number of years – approached the man and asked for 2 tickets, in French, apologising because she only had a large note. I then joined her saying, in French, that I had the correct money if that would help. We were met with complete silence and no facial expression. Our money was taken and tickets given but with no acknowledgment whatsoever.

“What are we doing today?” The chant of the summer holidays and the question I dread. Have I failed somehow if I haven’t laid something on for every day? But in 3 days from the time of writing, my lovely in-laws are taking my boys for 4 days at their house. What bliss! (Sorry to gloat). We’ll have some time to ourselves, hubby and I. I can straighten the house without it becoming muddled again within seconds. Deflate mattresses and put away bedding from the latest sleepover and perhaps, maybe, just maybe, put my feet up for a while…

MM