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.

When Life is not a gift....

It's been said many times and in many ways but I'll say it again; rampant social inequality is a recipe for trouble. It goes like this. There are folks in this world with lots of stuff who need other folks to do stuff for them. By implication, the folks doing the stuff won't have as much stuff as the folks they do stuff for and will require stuff while doing it. Tell me, were the Grillo sisters supposed to wear Primark's best while working alongside their luminescent designer-dressed employer? Or to carry out their dutues jumping from one public transport shebang to another while their "betters" hovered along in chauffeur-driven ease? All in all, were the sisters supposed to aspire to the buttoned-down lifestyles of Cistercian nuns while all those around them worked and played with the gaiety and glamour of a Renaissance royal court? Yes, I know stealing is wrong but I also know that the recent non-incidental incident is a metaphor of the monumental social inequality of our times, in short, one of numerous situations that are bound to end in tears, trauma and trials. I really don't see a way through the situation for poor rich families who need folks to do stuff for them, apart from fishing for employees among the slightly less wealthy, folks seeking glamour and prestige by association rather than actual money? In short, why did the Saatchi-Lawson family not simply take on unpaid interns?

Christmas, Milton Keynes's Style

Since 2008, I have been reporting on a strange, Yuletide complaint, namely that a minority of the population feel obliged to visit a Christmas "theme park" at Christmas-time. This is an odd facet for a festival that is defined by its artificiality. After all, every shop, office, factory, domestic home and public space turns into a Christmas theme park at Christmas, what with piped carols, festive trees, fairy lights and ropes of tinsel. Well, unbelievably, it has happened again, this time in the wilderness of Milton Keynes, where a Winter Wonderland was forced to close after one day's trading, following complaints by punters of a Santa Claus that was too young and skinny to be authentic and an ice-rink supposedly made of plastic. Sure, it's execrable greed and fraud on the part of the purveyors but really, I'm beginning to run out of sympathy for the soi-disant victims. Surely folks with a wad of dosh to dispose of upon seasonal delights should have learned by now that the best Christmas themed events ever take place in shopping malls. The nearest one to me boasts a tableau of singing teddy bears, a giant tree, bars and restaurants, and a raft of shops selling every luxury on the planet - what better place to have a Christmas spending blow-out, followed by a rib-straining meal with Partner and children? After all, apart from a few brief days around two thousand years ago, Christmas has ceased to be a real place. Christmas is where we choose to make it, rendering our surroundings jolly and comfortable for our Loved Ones. Most of all, though, Christmas is the goodness and cheer we carry in our hearts. How and wherever you choose to spend Christmas 2013, have a peacful and happy time.

Shouldn't have gone to Specsavers....

The Christmas advertisements are rampant just now and I am not impressed; except for that super little gingerbread man singing Be My Guest in the Morrisons offering, they have all left me feeling queasy. Even the Bear and Hare from John Lewis, though cute and cuddly, is lacking something – dialogue maybe? Nope, my ad du jour is the wonderful offering from Specsavers. As a person who has supported a raft of optical professionals throughout her life, I have a right to comment. I just lurve the sequence. The door busts open on a room filled with senior citizens, all apparently awaiting something. A young lassie heaving a ghetto blaster hurries inside and the music begins – and her dance begins with it. Shake what yer mother gave ya, she shouts, among other aspirational taunts. Soon, the entire cohort of joy-filled older folk is swaying and synching to the beat. The door opens and another woman comes inside, a much older (than the dancing lassie) and rather puzzled looking person carrying a basket of hopeless bingo balls. Should’ve gone to Specsavers, says the questioning voiceover. At this point, I always shout a resounding no! The dancing lassie is my spiritual sister, and long may us short-sighted people bumble through the world…

Post Office Encounters...

One week ago, I went into my local post office to buy a stamp. I have gotten used to personnel trying to hustle me into changing my broadband and telephone service provider, so I wasn’t bothered about that. However, on this occasion, the sales’ woman also asked me if I had life assurance arranged – yes, life assurance. I was so shocked that I didn’t have the presence of mind to dismiss her with a simple “yes” but mumbled a few personal details before deflecting her. All this happened in front of a queue of people, by the way. I’m not complaining about the woman, in particular. She is only doing what she is paid to do. But could someone “high up” in the post office please explain why members of the public must be subject to an onslaught of aggressive sales’ technique every time we try to access a vital public service? I know the post office has to make money and all of that, but there must be a better way to sell services that entail discussion of sensitive, personal information with the sales’ person. The really biting question is: just how do I avoid being accosted by sales’ people every time, yes, every time, I walk into this particular post office? Short of wearing a cheeky “I’m only here to buy stamps” badge, I don’t see what I can do. (I have sent a copy of this complaint to the Post Office website.)