Elfies Rule OK.......

....finding your inner elf...is easy when you try....whatever elf you want to be...

Deck the malls....

Ye gods – it’s happened again. The narrative runs something like this. Somewhere in space and time, a businessman with a mill or two to spare dresses up a slice of unused land as a Christmas theme park. With promises of a “magical experience” or a “festive day out”, he proceeds to extract money from punters – lots of them. The opening day is followed by tears of disappointment and angry requests for refunds when said punters discover that the snow isn’t real, that the reindeer is a decrepit donkey bearing wooden antlers, and that the elves turn out to be all too human with needing fag breaks and the minimum wage, just like anyone else. It has happened before; in 2008 in Lapland – in the New Forest, not in Finland – and in Milton Keynes last year. The venue this time was the “Magical Journey” in Sutton Coldfield and the venture promoted by television doyen of design, Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen. Indeed, it seems to have become almost a metaphor of Christmas itself, the triumph of seasonal hope over actual, mundane experience. Maybe it’s good in us, this atavistic longing for a place that never was, a mist-enshrouded forest at the foot of a mountain where elves dwell and trolls lurk – and wishes really do come true for those with the right attitude. The sad truth is that no reality can ever match even the most jaded and clichéd of fantasies. Nowadays, the maestros of the season are the store managers who deck the malls with a thousand boughs of holly, piped carols a-playing and cash machines jingling in the place of sleigh bells. By the way, Selfridges of London is looking great with its gold-and-green indoor theme, and fairytale dressed windows. If you can, do pay it a visit.

The yummiest Mummy of all....

I don’t normally “do” movies in this column, but I have just witnessed a beezer, a corker, the grandmother and grandfather of all Mummy movies. Forget those anaemic, contemporary CGI-ridden remakes; hearken to Hammer House’s The Mummy (Terence Fisher, 1957), starring Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee. You won’t recognise the latter thesp by sight; he is covered in bandages, throughout. You will tremble to his frighteningly good performance, his menacing, shuffling presence spreading dust and terror among all those who encounter him. The set is atmospheric to say the least; a gorgeous, absinthe-induced, art nouveau fantasy, interspersed with flashbacks to a multicoloured Egypt, 4000 BC – ye gods – the British Museum was never like this! I won’t give the plot away but watch out for a gloriously funny twist towards the end that will have you falling out of your seat – if you haven’t done so, already. Whatever, do get to see this yummiest of all mummies – or Mummys…?

From ear to eternity....

In episode one of the current series, my eyes sought the honest, upright apparatus that was ever in the hall of the Apprentice house. At the sight of the circle, I thought I was dreaming – but no. The telephone format really has changed. Maybe the producers and crew had grown tired of the endless tide of phallic jibes that stemmed from the familiar model; it hardly matters. I just wish mine had been the imagination from which this piece of divine design has sprung. The new telephone is not only cool, but gives rise to a world of metaphors. The circle is a symbol of eternity, unity and integrity. When the phone rings (hah!) the silence – and the circle – is broken. We could go on and on about talking in circles and passing the news around, but… I wasn’t even sure how to google this product but finally, “cordless circular telephone” brought up a spate of links and images. Try Currys for one of these cool numbers - and brace yourself for the price.

Yes, honestly; I wanted to be Lynsey...

It is with sadness I have heard of the death of Lynsey de Paul, that seventies’ songtress and writer, whose sultry ballads on Top of the Pops evoked pink cocktails and late-night piano bars. O, how I wanted to be Lynsey, spending many hours, much lip gloss (I still have a Max Factor lippie from that era) and bags of imagination in trying to achieve the de Paul pout. The latter ingredient I needed in plenty, since with my thick glasses and complexion liberally sprinkled with zits, I hadn’t a coal’s chance in a furnace of achieving semblance with my idol. As the 1970s progressed, the Biba-inspired look and smoky voice faded from fashion, unable to translate to the cut-and-thrust commercialism of the 1980s. However, Lynsey continued to work, channelling her creativity into acting, art and further song writing. Her contribution to life and art will continue to sparkle on a planet rendered a little more grey and less glamorous in the wake of her departure. Lynsey de Paul (1948-2014, RIP).

The Moon and I: a guide to living alone

Recently, I put “UK dating sites” into a search engine and came up with over 3 million hits. This set me thinking. Supposing there are about 100 people on the books of every dating agency, then there are over 300 million people in the UK looking for a partner – strange in a territory that has a population of just over 64 million – do people looking for partners somehow mysteriously reproduce themselves in cyberspace? Yes, yes – I know that many people will be on the books of more than one agency, and that not all of those links I found will refer to an actual agency. Still, when you think that not every person who is looking for a partner is registered with any dating agency, and reproduce the UK numbers on a global scale, you are coming up with an astronomical number of subjects. Surely, living alone (and being happy with it) can’t be that unusual. I decided to do these folks a favour, and write my own personal guide to surviving alone, in all areas of life. Eating Alone It’s not difficult to eat alone, not the least because you decide what to eat and when to eat it. If you must be in company, try setting up mirror in front of your place setting or a portrait photo of a loved one – but do not use the photo of someone from whom you are “in recovery”. For further tips on this activity watch the scene from the movie The Sixth Sense, where the bereaved Anna marks her wedding anniversary by dining alone in a swanky restaurant - yes, it can be done. Sleeping Alone Like eating, this is not only not difficult, but a great pleasure if you do it in style. Buy the best you can afford of everything; bed, duvet, bedding, jammies, bedside rug and so on, and it’s wall-to-wall comfort, all night long. No wrestling over sheets and covers; you decide when to go asleep and when to wake up, you become king or queen of that six-foot square for those glorious eight hours of nod. And insomniacs can witness the beauty of the sunrise without the misery of a snoring, grunting uber-contented entity for company. Bathing Alone To do this, take one good bathroom and a decent, bath-sized apparatus. Fill bath with a liquid of your choice: water, champagne or asses’ milk. Get into bath and relax for four hours. Remember, the solitary subject need have no worries over staying in the bath for too long. Living Alone Many people regard this scenario with horror, but being the monarch of all you survey brings huge advantages – see “eating alone” and “sleeping alone”, above. What is more, a prolonged period of solitude is often the prelude to a grand, creative career. The possibilities are endless; blogging, novel-writing, composing music, painting, meditating…really, the sky is the limit.

The Magic Kingdom...

The IKEA experience is for everyone who has ever longed to enter those roped-off home interior constructions so beloved of swanky department stores. Unlike these places, IKEA does not crush and humble you with grandeur and opulence. On the contrary, it is gratifying to leave behind scruffy, everyday life-on-the ground and enter a dreamland of streamlined fittings and tactile, muted fabrics. It is even more gratifying to know that you can reproduce this anodised world by buying the items. On the surface, IKEA is just like any department store. There is a familiarity about the sight of goods sold cheap and piled high, the gleaming cups and glasses, the towels, sheets and cushions. But soon, the subtle differences tweak at your consciousness. There are no departmental cash registers ringing merrily in tune with nonexistent piped muzak. Troops of obliging sales’ assistants and household brand names are just as conspicuous by their absence. The actual goods have an eerie look, as if everything has been made by elves and deposited untouched by humans in the vast caverns of the store. Like Alice’s descent into Wonderland, there is no escaping the walk-through that follows the showrooms. The constant stashes of acid-yellow nylon bags never let you forget the purpose of the footslog. When you surface at the end of the trail, the sight of the warehouse, the fast-food outlet and the play area nudges you back to reality. Now, the child in you has had its day and the actual children take over. With your money spent, it’s game up and party over.

Field of the Cloth of Gold

On last week’s Culture Show, Tom Dyckhoff decided to fly the flag for that ancient construction, the tent, actually the oldest structure of mankind. Originally, “we” draped animal skins over (mammoth?) bones. These structures later developed into the elegant yurt and the majestic tepee. With Glastonbury approaching, Dyckhoff punched the air for eco-friendliness and portability in matters of accommodation. The plus points of the tent are myriad. In less developed societies, tents are made of the detritus of everyday life; wooden poles, animal skins and pieces of felt. Tents can be erected and dismantled with the minimum of disruption to the environment. Tent dwellers own the minimum of possessions and are less likely to be the carbon guzzlers of this earth...the pluses just go on and on. During the course of the broadcast, Dyckhoff became so excited, that he seemed to be positing the tent as the answer to all of our housing ills. For a brief moment in time, I almost agreed with him. Then, I remembered those intractable human habits of having to wash and use the loo, of needing gas and electricity for eating, heating and lighting and of simply and stubbornly wanting to settle down and in one place – and how dare we. But even if we could get over all of this, it is my guess that it would not make a darned bit of difference to the shortage of affordable housing. If tent chic caught on, this form of accommodation would become every bit as exclusive and expensive as the house, the flat and the garden shed. Just imagine what the billboards might say: - exclusive new tent development - Field of the Cloth of Gold – view our show tent today – from £1,000,000 for a two-compartment tent...what do you think?

Josef Siebel - shoes that I can walk in...

Over the years, I have griped much about the pitifully limited range of shoes available to women as opposed to the vast range for men. By “shoes” here I mean items that you can actually walk in, items that don’t pinch, chafe or irritate when you put them on your feet, items that don’t threaten to trip one up, catch in gratings or fall to pieces as you walk along. Hearken to this older post of mine: There are plenty of shoes out there that look good…if you lead the Jolie/Kidman lifestyle, tripping from chauffeur-driven car to movie set, and then home again. Mock-croc patent and suede ankle fringes over impossibly spindly heels are useless on rough, urban terrain, bedevilled by the elements…plenty that are no doubt comfortable…but what if you don’t want to negotiate the world in fleece-lined, slipper-like booties that flap around your ankles like a pair of toothless gums? After a while searching (in a shoe store) I thankfully grasp a streamlined, leather walking shoe, only to be told: those, Madam, are for men…

All that may have changed. I may have found the answer in Caspian,(left) by Josef Siebel, a pair of comfortable, leather lace-ups with soles that actually touch the ground as you walk along – revolutionary, eh! There are no finicky embellishments attached to the uppers, just a clean and lovely styling that teams beautifully with contemporary feminine clothing. By the way, the Josef Siebel company has been making shoes since 1886, ensuring its status as Europe’s largest footwear manufacturer. Now, a fourth-generation family business, its shoes, sandals, boots and clogs for men and women offer the “highest level of comfort” – but don’t ask me…

Shake for the Sheik: why I love belly dancing...

Baked potatoes, pastries, hot pies, pizza, mountains of buttery pasta, endless cups of tea and stacks of digestive biscuits, fish and chips….comfort food for a cold, wet day but, oh, the price to pay, in the shape of a thickened waist and a pair of flabby hips, symptoms of our prolonged and miserable winter. My interest in belly dancing did not originate within an amateur class taking place inside of a gym disguised as an Arab souk, no; it stemmed naturally from looking disconsolately at my winter waistline in the mirror, of a morning, of wishing the surplus covering away and swaying in response to the need to do something about it. The instinct to move rhythmically is almost certainly a primal one, born of an atavistic link to a serpentine ancestor, perhaps? Whatever, the number of warm-weather cultures that espouse this torso-driven dance cannot be incidental; Turkey, Egypt, Morocco all have their versions of belly dancing. I’m still struggling with the hip movements, have yet to don silken veils, hang rattling gold charms from my midriff or master the use of finger cymbals – who cares? It’s great fun and I’m already down to last summer’s waist size…ready now, shake for the Sheik….

Welcome in the household fairy....

Every spring, the days grow longer, hotter, brighter, sunbeams stronger. Shine into your every room; grab the mop, seize the broom. Make your lodging clean and airy; welcome in the household fairy. Make your spaces fresh and sweet; shiny, sparkly, tidy, neat. Smudges, scuff marks, grease and grime have had their day, done their time. Don your finest gloves of rubber; start to rub and scrub and shudder. At the muck, the dirt, the fallout; fill the basin, wash it all out. Over the surface you must go; up and down and to and fro. First you spray, then you scrub; wash and polish, rinse and rub. Up the walls and down the stairs, over the cupboard, under the chairs. Clean the windows, dust the ledges, don’t neglect the mouldy edges. When it’s finished, you can feel smug; gleaming brasses, straightened rug. Open the door to your neighbours; see their jaws drop at your labours.

Lamborghini: the Italian Dream Machine...

Lawksamussy and shiver my timbers! As a soon-to-be retiree (only 4,375 days to go until I leave the world of work), I was having visions of a life of idyll-ness; my feet up all day, contemplating crosswords and puzzles, drowning in biscuits and cocoa, blooming flowers peeping in the open window, the cat dozing on the sill...perish that thought. Soon, our highways and byways are going to rock to the sound of that Italian futurist dream machine, the Lamborghini, driven by an army of doting grandmothers and delighted grandads....dearie me! Whatever happened to the humble bus pass?

The Lamborghini made its first appearance in 1963, the child of Ferruccio Lamborghini, in response to the Italian demand for fast and beautiful machines, Ferrari, Bugati, et al, no doubt a result of Tomasso Marinetti's 1918 futurist manifesto, declaring the racing car to be more beautiful than the Victory of Samothrace, something like that. Now, the UK grey brigade is getting in on the act - don't ever say that this government doesn't fund performance art. Since I have not yet raised the quarter mil needed to buy my own machine, I leave you with a picture of the Lamborghini Aventador, courtesy of Google. All together now, vrrrooooooooooomm... See the kind of people who really drive the Lamborghini...

The truth about red nails...

There really is nothing new under the sun. Every time we hit upon a grand and novel idea and proceed to carry it out, we are carrying on a grand and ancient tradition. All that changes is the technology. Digital Imaging? There are prehistoric paintings of the walls of caves in Altmira. Long-distance phone calls? Our forbears lit fires that signalled to their neighbours, until the countryside was ablaze with twinkling conflagrations. This technology only worked at night, and it cannot be a coincidence that evening calls are still cheaper. Everyone knows that the Romans beat us to it with the bath, but I’ll bet that even they were channelling – ha!- more ancient technology. No, there really is nothing new out there, least of all cosmetics. We’ve long known that the Egyptians made perfume, and eye shadow, and mascara. They waxed and henna-ed their hair, and rubbed lanolin into their skins. When it comes to nail polish, we’ve got to hand it to the Chinese, who were using gold and silver pigments c. 3000 BC. Red and black replaced these colours, the polishes being made of beeswax, gelatine, vegetable dyes, gum Arabic, and egg whites – gosh! Of course, the Egyptians were not to be left out. The ordinary folk wore pale colours while royalty wore red, a pointer to the most popular colour of today. Well, the colour has taken a tumble in favour of the more sophisticated offerings from trendy nail bars, but I wiggle my fingers for Chinese cosmeticians and Egyptian royalty. To celebrate tradition, witness my “handie”….

Tears of the Cyclopes

In ancient Greece lived three Cyclopes; Arges, Brontes, Asteropes. Mighty strong young men were they; forging armour night and day. Lightening and thunder for Zeus they threw; with all the power and might they knew. Thunderbolts crashed from mountains high; thrown by the Cyclopes who had one eye. This all-seeing member in the centre of the face; could see everything, everyone and every place. The power of these Titans who lived long ago; is with us still today, you know. Look round your kitchen for the all-seeing eye; ignore not the engine with which you wash and dry. Your towels and sheets and shirts and socks; undies, blouses, hankies, frocks. If to the Cyclopes you cannot relate; your domestic washer, then hear me, mate. Load your clothes into the drum; start the engine, hear it thrum. See it start to gather speed; soap and conditioner to it feed. See the suds run down the window; tears of the Cyclopes, I assure you. Shake and rattle, roar and rumble; the clean-machine begins to tumble. Soon your clothes will be quite dry; through the power of the Beast with the all-seeing eye. So never, ever, ever doubt; the might of the Cyclopes is still about. Rendering our laundry fresh and clean; trashing about in the washing machine.

Fashion Classics: Black Leggings...

Kingdoms rise and governments fall, winter turns to spring, to summer and to Fall, yet the black-legged silhouette goes on forever. What is it about this taut little garment that brings out the finer points of every woman, even those of us not possessed of an Elle Macpherson pair of pins? What convergence of science (optical physics, fabric technology, aesthetics?) created a garment that looks good with everything, from bulky winter jackets to filmy summer shifts, clown-bright jersey dresses to muted peasant smocks? And it’s oh, so-oooooo democratic, the little black dress of the twenty-first century. Right now, I am crowing with delight, having just gotten my mitts on two Esmara (aka Lidl) products, a pair of black leggings (£3.99) and a pair of black footless tights (£2.49). Visually, there is not much between them. Both garments score high on comfort and fit. However, the tights are finer in weave and will behave nicely under pinafores and dresses, while the sturdier leggings are like cosy, skin-tight trousers…aaah! I am nursing the reorder codes carefully.

Let's celebrate the selfie...

Nowadays, the selfie is everywhere, on websites and on social media boards. From posturing politicians to singing school kids, to bored office workers, everyone is getting in on the act. With the pictures, come the words and in the past month, I have seen more socio-political analyses for the rise and rise of the selfie than at any other time. Some journos have even argued that it is a measure of how “selfish” we are all becoming. Now that I refute; what is wrong, I say, with recording the golden moments in one’s life with the aid of a simple digital camera, smartphone, whatever? Rembrandt recorded his changing face throughout his lifetime. What is the passport or ID card photo only a legal form of selfie? So, I say, ignore the po-faced moral pundits and snap away. For some new year cheer, have a good larf at one of my erstwhile snapping efforts. Happy 2014.