Racks and wrecks: why I am off my trolley with buses.

Will transport companies EVER put in place buses that are designed for passengers AND their shopping, luggage, buggies, children, wheelchairs and so on, to travel comfortably together - I do stress the comfortable bit. Recently, I endured a nightmare journey from Heathrow to the suburbs, on an airport designated bus. Quite simply, I was trying to look after my trolley suitcase, computer bag and handbag. Ravenous, I wanted to consume a sandwich while travelling in comfort. A not impossible feat, you would imagine, but the very few luggage spaces were already occupied when I got on the bus - at the airport, I stress - the craft being no different from a central London bus. I had no choice but to occupy a "normal" passenger seat while holding onto my computer bag and handbag with one hand, and clutching my roving-inclined trolley with the other. Every time the bus turned, lurched or even swayed slightly, I was obliged to become a human octopus, struggling to prevent my possessions from clobbering other passengers. Eventually, another "baggage" passenger disembarked and I was able to occupy his space, but not before I had become an enraged, sweating, humiliated wreck. The irony is - it does not have to be like this. When I lived in central Europe, even "town centre" buses were long, elegant transport cabins, with one or two seats abreast at one side, a wide aisle for walking up and down, and a floor-level rack along the other side. Suitcases leaved singly into this rack, while the smaller top rack was for lighter baggage. Sways, turns and lurches made no difference; the luggage stayed in place throughout the journey. When whatever passenger disembarked, he could simply retrieve his suitcase without disturbing that of anyone else. Best of all, the rack was bayed at intervals, leaving space for buggies, wheelchairs, walking aids, whatever. This seating arrangement enables the passenger to sit alongside his or her secured luggage or child or invalid companion, and allows him or her to eat, read, listen to music and actually enjoy the urban voyage. Of course, I am aware that in chilly, old Great Britain, any sucker unable or unwilling to pay £50 or so for a taxi deserves every discomfort and humiliation that the system can throw at him. If we have to haul luggage onto those boxy, rack-free "passenger" buses, all I ask is that designers leave enough room - in the downstairs deck, at least - between and underneath seats, for suitcases - please.

War on terra: why does the female foot maintain its battle-zone status?

First, congratulations to Nicola Thorp for her stance in wearing flat heels to work. Over the years, I have waxed much lyrical on the eternal tussle between fantasy and reality that is the female foot zone. With the coming of age of Birkenstock and Fit-flops, Ecco and Josef Siebel, I thought that comfort and rationality had finally triumphed. But in the past decade, the fictional Miranda Priestly waved a pair of stilettos under the nose of sensibly-dressed secretary Andie in The Devil Wears Prada (David Frankel, 2006) while only last year, actual movie stars stood firmly in jewelled flatties on the red carpet in Cannes, deaf to howls of media derision. This year, the spat between receptionist Nicola and her bosses has proved that this sartorial war on terra is alive and kicking. When will men/bosses/people in authority generally learn that high-heeled feminine shoes are not workaday items of dress? Stiletto heels do not lend themselves to eight-hour work shifts, book-ended by fraught, commuter commutes. They are for parties, first dates and award ceremonies – a trope that even the canny ladies of Cannes eschewed. Stiletto shoes fulfill a yearning, a daydream, an aspiration, being the sartorial equivalent of gothic vaults, gleaming skyscrapers and a soaring FTSE index. That is the fantasy; the reality is aching toes and ankles during active hours, with the long-term price of trudging into middle and old age with damaged knees and spinal cords, and corned, calloused and bunioned feet. Ladies, refuse to pay – today.

Remembering Aqua Manda

Now that the long, hot days are upon us once again, the whiff of an orange cocktail the other evening sent me on a Proustian trip, a heady recollection of a scent from the Seventies called Aqua Manda, made by a company called Goya – ah! Aqua Manda was a sublime concoction of orange and flowers, of spices and other, more mysterious ingredients contained within a dark glass bottle, trimmed with gold and topped with stopper decorated with a fruity relief. The Aqua Manda experience was a pleasure from start to finish, from running a finger over the said relief to the opening of the gold-trimmed flask and applying the cologne, to spending the day in a cloud of the glorious aroma. Then, I discovered the accompanying products, including talc, soap and a foamy Aqua Manda bath lotion, a long soak in which was akin to spending a thousand nights in a floral bower. Never did I scratch my head when asked about a birthday or Christmas gift; I had but one mantra on my tongue: Aqua Manda. Challenges were not for me; any lass who longed for a vial of Charlie or Rebel or Tramp could stick it in her backpack and go hike – this teenager wanted to wallow in Scherezade-type fantasies of oriental palaces and adoring oil millionaires queuing up to do my bidding. Time changes everything and one birthday brought not Aqua Manda, but lemon-based Aqua Citra. Just for a change, Mum said. Talk about striking a sour note in a girl’s dreams – what was Goya thinking of? I went off the scent after that and on discovering that life brings bills rather than mills, it faded from memory. But I do have my Proustian moments and following the most recent one, a quick Google revealed that the Aqua Manda Perfume Company relaunched the products in 2013. The Seventies are back...