The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer

I am going deep under cover.

As a housewife. [Ed: she's lost her job again.]

As part of this cover, I will need to spend a portion of my wafting- about - nothing-to-do- except- my- nails day blogging :-) It's only to be expected. After I have cleared the cat sick off the stairs and walked the dog, that is. My adorable, dearest reader(?s), you may be the main beneficiary(?ies).

In between times, I will be going on secret missions, often involving Waitrose in Canary Wharf. I have something to pick up there today, for instance. [Ed: Whittard of Chelsea's white hot chocolate powder]. This mission is of quite some importance even though it might not seem it - Ed, you know who I'm talking to.

Meantime, I have won the lottery and am pondering what to do with the money before hyperinflation wipes it all out. At least it means that my running away fund is now complete. I fancy I shall spend this afternoon looking at overpriced mansions because at least a house is an asset. Alternatively, I could covertly lend it to a bank and forge my accounts to hide the fact.

This post has been marked 3 out of 10. The sentence structure is oversimple and short. Conjunctions are basic. There are anachronistic square brackets and italics.

The Female Eunuch: housework and marriage repress sexuality. You don't need to read the book to guess it may be true.

How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie

H bought me a present to cheer me up the other day, for it has been a tough year (annus horribilis) ................... the housekeeper left with my best bottle of '64 Bollinger under her coat and we have had to spend simply weeks transferring savings around into teensy weensy little pots so that we are covered by the credit guarantee system thingie. We booked Paris so late that Le Meurice was full and we had to slum it at the Marriott. Life is tough. Too tough actually and I have decided to resign on Tuesday as going back to work after 5 months on sabbatical is just too tiring for a woman used to indolence.

Anyway, H bought me a manicure in a little boutique within Debenhams. I went smartly dressed and freshly washed, hoping for some compliments.

The manicurist was very pleasant mannered in her white overall and name badge declaring she was called Chardonnay.

"Do you have horses?" She asked. "Oh, no those aren't horse-shoes on my belt, they are the Coco Chanel logo", I tittered. Silly girl, but I felt better already as I had been waiting for someone to notice my Chanel belt.

"Do you live in an old house?" she asked. Where was this going?

"Quite old: late Georgian." I replied tentatively. I must look rich.

"Do you have dogs?" she continued.

"Yes" I said.

"Oh, I thought so" She seemed to relax and smile.

"Why do you ask?" I was curious.

"Oh, it's just the smell" she said charmingly. She smiled indulgently and took in a deep breath. "Like my Great Aunt Emma. She lives in a big old house and keeps horses - you smell just the same" She continued smiling. I may not have. Dammit, I'm not sure she even noticed the belt really.

As you can imagine (snort), I left feeling 10 years younger and wholely uplifted. The H spends his money wisely.

The teenspies have been japing me ever since. "Is that the cyberdog? Oh, we thought it was, but actally it's Mum. Oops, sorry"

Paradise by Toni Morrison

My big chance! Every dog has its day and mine was Thursday September the twenty something (um, not quite sure of the precise date today, someone will tell me at some point - the joys of not working).

There I was but 2 hours ago - wet, naked and fragrant, half way through oiling my skin following a late morning shower to prepare for secret meetings later - when the door bell went. As we live about 3 hours from our Post Office Collection Point (even though it is only 2 miles away....gas works, darlings, gas works), I thought I had better answer the door. SO I casually grabbed a warm fluffy towel and raced down the stairs.

Dear Readers, it was not the postman. It was better than the postman, better than the milkman, not quite as good as the Controller (but close) and infinitely better than the H.

It was Divorce Lawyer, hot and sweaty, fresh from a run and having locked himself out. His case today has been adjourned, his wife (high flying business woman) is on some international business trip and his children are at school. He was, my Dearests, in need of succour, kindness and a certain sweet somebody to mop his brow [Ed: he wanted his spare front door keys, she means]

Sigh, what could I do other than ask him in, clothed or not? What could then be more natural than for him and me to compare moistness and fitness levels, to inspect muscle development and to compare the texture of one another's skin? It would have been plain rude to leave him in his sweaty kit to get cold, and for one of us to remain attired whilst the other was not. His skin was glowing and his smile fresh. What could be more pleasurable than to leisurely discover one another's hidden depths? Imagine shafts of sunlight filtering in through the windows and soft birdsong (um, drilling noise from next door's builders would be closer to the mark, no matter).

The answer, Dearest Readers, to my rhetorical question is the other thing to do was to cower, embarrassed, behind my door, shouting through that I will drop his spare keys down from the bedroom window.

So which was it?

Pic coming later...

Nigella Express by Nigella Lawson

Nigella's Way

To create self-raising flour from plain flour - for 150g/1 cup plain flour use half-teaspoon baking powder and half-teaspoon of bicarbonate soda (also known as baking soda

007.5's tip

Ocado deliver cakes, you know. Really rather nice ones. You can even get them decorated.

Nigella's Way
If you accidentally over-salt a dish while it's still cooking, drop in a potato slice..

007.5 Way
If you over salt a dish while you are cooking, recite the mothers' motto: 'I made it and you will eat it and I don't care how bad it tastes.'

Nigella's Way
Cure for headaches: Take a lime, cut it in half and rub it on your forehead. The throbbing will go away.

007.5's Way
Cure for headaches: Take a lime, cut it in half and drop it into a big glass of gin and tonic: Drink the gin and tonic. Repeat at will.

Nigella's Way
If you have a problem opening jars, try using latex dishwashing gloves. They give a non-slip grip that makes opening jars easy.

The Real Woman's Way
Why do I have a man? If not two? And there are much more exciting things to be done with latex, come to that. Nigella, you can do better!

Nigella's Way
Freeze leftover wine into ice cubes for future use in casseroles

007.5's Way

Helllooooo! Left over wine??~*?

The Perfect Husband

My H picked up the phone yesterday and my secret recording device recorded the result.

The God Delusion by RIchard Dawkins

After a long absence, I went to Church last Sunday morning to hear Teenspy sing.

My, things have changed with our new Vicar.

I was delighted to learn that he doesn't obsess about out-of-date Christian values like charity, oh no. He has put a sign up on the perfectly serviceable ...ahem... loo beside the vestry declaring that it is not a public convenience and cannot be used as such. Excellent: we don't want all those tourists who come in to admire our beautiful Hawksmoor Church to think that they are welcome, in any way "at home" or, heaven forbid, "visiting friends". Oh no, we don't. Think of the harm they might do! They might not flush properly; they might slip on an old loo roll and sue us; they might even come in to the church just to use the loo should word get out, and then where would we be? Huh, in some guidebook to accessible toilets, probably. Furthermore, the water is metered- how could we, a congregation drawn from a particularly rich pocket of London, possibly afford the kind of expense that goes along with loo flushing just whenever by whoever? We didn't get rich by lavishing hospitality on visitors. Oh no, vicars and his select friends only should be allowed to pee, that's what I say. National Lottery funding for restoration of the Church, paid for almost exclusively by the poor, is no reason to allow the hoy palloy to use its facilities.

Oh, and we don't even allow all the hoy palloy in any more I was gald to see. The other evening, a tramp walked in off the street and into the Church whilst I and some others were having a fund raising meeting with the vicar's wife. She soon sent him packing. Good for her! Well, how was he going to contribute to our drive to raise money for the, ah, dispossessed?

The Vicar has also altered communion so that we don't catch nasty germs from one another: bread is now strictly for dipping. To us atheists, that makes enormous sense but I fail to see how it squares with any kind of faith in the sacrament. Ho hum, I guess vicars don't have to be believers....

The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins

Don't read this if you are acommitted Christian - it could change your life and then you wouldn't be able to use the church toilets any more.

Contented Dementia by Oliver James

The 007.5 has some illustrious ancestors (yes, I can trace my roots back to Robert the Magnificent, Count of Normandy, father of William the Conqueror) [Ed: yeah, Robert the Devil you mean]. She also has some closer relatives. Amongst those, a mother and a father.

My father is here to stay with me this weekend. He is one gun short of a battleship, one hammock short of a mess, one compass short of a bridge and declining steadily.

"It's a lovely evening" he said as we stood earlier today on the pier in the morning sunlight, overlooking a glistening Thames, watching Britain's last steam driven twin engined tug chug past.

I thought about this comment.

"Yes, father, it is." agreed I.

I took him to visit the HMS Belfast to remind him of his youth mis-spent at sea. It was a good choice....well, the key is I gave him no choice for he is unable to cope with enough information at once to make a choice. It was that or ear piercing at Selfridges and I figured he wouldn't be interested in that so decided for him.

Although nearly 80 and unsteady on his feet, he was able to whiz up and down the ladders in the ship - having spent 15 years at sea, it must be an art that is hardwired. I had to be more careful, what with my enormous bust to overbalance me. I managed, but remind me not to wear platform stillettoes next time I go on a boat. Oh, and perhaps my makeup and jewellery was not seamanlike.

Then I saw something horrendous: there was a young man coming down the ladder as if it were stairs.

"Young man" said I. "Never show your bottom to a lady"

He looked starey eyed and startled (perhaps it was the gel bra but probably he is simply not used to be being instructed by his olders and betters (youth of today, eh?) [Ed: well, you were definitely older]. I smiled sweetly at him. Perhaps he saw Jaws with red lipstick. I adjusted my wig for maximum effect.

"..or a ladder." I continued.

He seemed suddenly relieved, smiled at me nervously, and kind of ran off.

Sigh, I am not the daughter of a long line of admirals for nothing. [Ed: snort: you get seasick on the dlr, never mind an actual boat.]

Book Review

Good tips. Don't contradict, don't ask for opinions, don't give choices. Do talk about the distant past and present information clearly and firmly.

BTW Even so, there is no such thing as contented dementia.