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.