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….