Confessions

(Or the seven signs of ageing not cured by a bottle of face cream).


The other day I was in the supermarket fruit and veg section, buying fruit and veg. Over here you have to weigh and price up your fruit and veg yourself, they don't do it for you at the till. (You don't get to choose the price though, a sticker comes out of the machine after you've weighed it). Anyway, last week I tried to weigh the bread.

I like doing jigsaw puzzles. Preferably with a decent picture, not some image of swiss cottages on a mountside and the like.

I've started watching Countryfile. And not just because there's bugger all else on at the time, but because I enjoy it and find it interesting. Especially 'Adam's Farm', but I doubt that you know what I'm talking about.

Most of the time I'm not bothered by being so poor (other things make up for it). But just sometimes it's really shit.

I wasn't going to watch X-Factor this year, when the ads came on for it, I thought 'no, not again, same old sob stories, are there that many stupid people in the uk who think they can sing' etc etc, but once again I'm drawn in and compelled to watch. My top five by the way (in no particular order): Jamie, Danyl, The girl from Wales, the girl from Dagenham and the boy who isn't from Wales and doesn't wear a hat. You can tell I'm good with names. You may say it's another sign of ageing, but I've always been pants with names.

The 'fit before forty' campaign fell by the wayside.

Er, that's it. I did think of another one just now, but now I've forgotten it. That's ageing for you.

A few hours later and I've remembered:

This summer I have mostly been topping up my tan. Courtesy of a magic little bottle produced by St Ambre of Solaire. Mostly my legs, everything else fairly brown (well arms and face and the like, not 'everything', don't want to drive the guests away. Well maybe just some of them.) So the summer was drawing to a close and there was still some magic potion left in the can so I thought I might as well carry on using it, delay the pasty look as long as poss. And then one day I happen to look at the bottom of my feet. Can't remember why now, funny thing to do. Anyway, they were a deep shade of orangey tan. Horror of horrors, for a moment I thought I had some terrible disease, but then I twigged. As I'm spraying my legs in the bathroom, some of the amber nectar must fall to the floor, which I then walk in on a daily basis and there you have it - the soles of my feet were the brownest part of my body. I have not touched the stuff since (the fake tan I mean, I've touched my feet -I've been scrubbing them everyday with jif and one of those metal scourer things that your granny always has by the sink.) Talk about shock tactics to make you give up your addiction. Will have to have a re-think for next year. After all, it's only part of the brand image that I should look serene and healthy and tanned and what have you for our arriving guests. ('Living the Brand' remember that shit? Ha ha! Never could figure it out at the time, but now I know!)