The return of glamour

The breathless excitement heralding the new fashion collections in magazines usually leaves me a bit cold these days (it's only ever a rehashing of something from a different decade) but the Sunday Times Style magazine succeeded this week in making me feel, ooh, quite tingly.

First they showed a fashion layout for now with figure hugging clothes. Not a smock or empire line to be seen! And how much sexier the models looked. Empire line, kaftans and smocks have been one of the worst trends for years. Unless you are tall with an ironing board figure (straight up and down, like Paris Hilton), empire line does you no favours. I've tried several variants but always end up looking like Abigail from Abigail's Party. This was particularly gutting when I was keen to buy a floral maxi dress to waft around in on my holiday.

So I'm pleased to see the return of the waist, missing for too long. Before the empire line we had the abomination of jeans and trousers cut miles below the waist, with teenagers flashing their "T" bone thongs, tattoos, muffin tops and God knows what else. And it wasn't just teenagers but women who should know better.

The Style magazine also featured some of the clothes and accessories for autumn. The return of black! Yippee. Gorgeous, gorgeous shoes - brogues with heels (I love those), Mary Janes, t-bars, in patents and metallics. Pencil skirts. Fitted jackets. All very yummy. At long last, a return to glamour. We will all look like laydeez!

Put howling women singers out of their misery

If there's one thing guaranteed to set my teeth on edge, it's the shrieking, toneless caterwauling of the vast majority of women singers.

Very few women can sing well, in my opinion. Most women deliver a pitch that is nasal in the extreme, or, if they think they can sing (Celine Dion, Whitney Houston, even Lesley Garrett), they indulge in cheap vocal pyrotechnics and the kind of screeching that would do credit to a tom cat.

I have to change stations if "I will always love you" comes on. Or "Eternal Flame." Or, the latest horror, Fergie's "Big Girls Don't Cry." She's gone for that dreadful sob-trapped-in-the-throat sound originated by Michael Jackson which is copied relentlessly by singers including Beyonce and Britney and everyone on those tawdry TV talent shows. Do they think it covers the term "emotions?" Fergie has also perpetrated another crime which is trying to sound like a little girl.

Beverley Craven doesn't seem to have dealt with the most basic of vocal challenges, getting rid of the sound of gulping in breaths. And Madonna, well, nasal in the extreme.

Maybe I have overly sensitive ears. But the only women singers whose voices are harmonious and pleasant are Barbara Streisand, Julie Andrews, KD Lang and Karen Carpenter. As their best bodies of work were many years ago, you can see I don't rate any of today's women singers. What do you all think?

UK Inc is so depressing

At the time of the World Cup there was initially quite a lot of patriotic fervour about the England team and the nation as a whole. Flags suddenly appeared all over the place and the country was on a brief high, unified and optimistic.

It all ended in tears and the country went back to its normal brooding state of resentment and confusion. Unlike the US, France, Italy and Germany, the UK has no true sense of identity. Scotland, Wales and Ireland yes; England no. Until recently, it was bad to even display the flag of St George because it was owned by the fascist fringe.

I find myself pondering over England's sociological status and identity confusion. I made the decision this week to stop buying papers, except on Sunday. The reason is that every day, the papers are just full of doom and gloom about the UK. I'm not talking about terrorism, murders or any other crimes, but simply the cascade of stats everyday that paint the UK as one of the worst places in Europe.

Let's take yesterday as an example. Britain has the worst behaved teenagers in Europe. Earlier in the week, it was revealed that 15 year old girls drink more than boys their age, and get drunk on average once a week. Wonderful. A former boxer dies after challenging three yobs who were smoking. In Gloucester, flooded houses were looted and vandals and children have vandalised water bowsers. Other people meanwhile were marching in and taking far too much water with the "I'm all right Jack" selfish attitude that prevails these days.

Then there are depressingly regular reports about obese teenagers; teenagers armed with knives; bullying; Britain having the highest number of teenage mothers in Europe; Britain having the highest number of university dropouts in Europe.

That's just the youngsters. Then there is what I consider the hidden scandal of how the elderly are treated in care homes and by the NHS; the NHS in general (crippled) and poor public transport.

It all adds up to a picture of a thoroughly unpleasant, divided land. It's unlike other countries where the majority of people are principled, honest and caring. I despair of the mentality of people. What makes someone think it's OK to damage a waster bowser? Or loot someone's flooded house? Or for a gang of teenagers to choose a victim and knife him to death? It's as if millions of people have grown up among wild animals with only a will to survive but no psychological training on respect or self-esteem.

I wonder how we got to this state. A lot of commentators and the Daily Mail blame either "the government" (and I do believe the avaricious Thatcher years have a lot to do with it because the divide between rich and poor became too great) or lax parenting. I think it's a combination of the two plus a general resentment that although we're supposed to be one of the richest nations in Europe, our priorities are wrong and somehow a lot of our public services - the NHS, education to name two -are worse than those found in third world countries. We'll happily spend millions parading up and down with America in countries where we seem to think we have a God given right to "restore justice" based on flimsy evidence. We give great tax breaks to the super rich allowing them to have some sort of "domiciled" status that means they don't pay any income tax. We fail to uphold the family as the structure on which a successful country is based, but make it so attractive to be a single mother there is no incentive to work.

I know there are positives about the UK. Er.....well, the sense of humour and the beauty of the place are the two things that immediately spring to mind. But it's all far outweighed by what is wrong, and I try not to dwell on it because it's just too depressing.

The rise of the humble blackberry

There are very few good things in life that are free. Blackberries are one of them. I was interested to read today that demand for the fruit has grown by 15% in the last year. Sadly though the word blackberry has been hijacked by the accursed BlackBerry hand-held. And the innocent, delicious pastime of "blackberrying" has probably all but disappeared. I doubt if the young even realise you can help yourself to very fine blackberries in the wild rather than going to Sainsburys to buy cultivated punnets from countries like Mexico and Holland, for around £1.99.

But blackberrying can still be done, and a fine pastime it is.

When I grew up in Devon everyone was at it. My dad was an avid blackberryer, and even when emphysema had taken hold, he was still blackberrying, although one time he tripped into a bramble and was virtually held upside down while my mother ran screeching for help.

Where we live, in a leafy suburb of London, there are brambles everywhere. Look, I cry to John as we go out for a walk. Look at all those brambles! We must come back when they're ripe with suitable receptacles.

He humours me while dreading that I may mean it, because I get the impression that taking nature's bounty is not the done thing in this neck of the woods. Last year a piece of wasteground near the garage yielded an absolute bounty of the black beauties and I was in there, happy to get scratched, pushing my way through the brambles to get to the juicier specimens at the back of the bushes.

Unfortunately that was the first and only time because that little piece of wasteground then became a shrine to the car (someone else's) and was hastily stamped out.

And what delicious things were made from blackberries when I was young! Bramble seedless (jam without the pips); blackberry and apple pie; blackberry and apple crumble. Now I have them stewed on my breakfast cereal. I do buy them from Sainsburys but no matter where they come from, Mexico, France or UK, the cultivated ones don't taste anything like the wild blackberries.

So I'm looking forward to the time when they ripen, although I imagine the lack of sun is probably not helping. I'm not telling you all where the bushes are because if you've got any sense you'll be out there too with your Tupperware. Just don't try to pick them when they've gone over. A Devonshire saying is (and excuse me for this), if you leave them too long, the devil piddles on them.

The delicious irony of it all

I had to smile when I read the headlines generated by the Food Standards Agency's discovery that it's not only what the papers euphemistically call "low income families" who eat convenience foods high in fat and e numbers. What the Independent today calls "middle class families" (a bold step nowadays to refer to class!) are equally guilty. In fact, there is hardly any difference between what the two types put in their trolley, whether that trolley is being pushed around in Lidl, Asda or Waitrose.

What made me smile was the imagining of shrill rebuttals and disbelief in the middle class homes of the chattering classes. The people who pay through the nose for organic produce and sneer at "low income families" saying that their children are hyperactive and fat because they're fed a diet consisting of the McCains range, cheesy lunchables and the Colonel's bargain bucket. Their chocolate is by Green & Black, not Cadbury, their crisps by Kettle and not Walkers; they rarely pay less than a tenner for a bottle of wine, and they like to buy fresh herbs and whatever's trendy to stave off ageing, pomegranate, blueberries, etc.

Yet despite all their foody posturing, they still lack knowledge of nutrition and health. Or perhaps they have the knowledge but still succumb to the lure of the ready meal. As one commentator pointed out last week, actually we do all know about nutrition and what we should be doing (making meals from scratch, freezing them, eating five portions of fruit and veg a day) but the way of modern life is not to do this. It's all about ease and convenience.

Today at the gym for example, I saw a car searching for a space closest to the building. Everyone seems to do this, whether it's the gym or the superstore. It's no longer "normal" for children to walk to school, even when they can, or for anyone to walk to the shops, even if they're 10 minutes away. We've become use to this life of sloth and indolence. So we all pretend we're too busy, our lives too hectic, to possibly cook our own meals from scratch. But really we're just deluding ourselves.

Goodbye to the Beckhams

With much fanfare, pouting and posing, the Beckhams have finally gone to Los Angeles.
It doesn't mean that we won't be spared all the usual dross about Victoria's latest shock diet or David's latest haircut. As seen this week, whatever they do in America is instantly broadcast in blighty: for example, Victoria's ridiculous attempts to look sexy while draped over the bonnet of a car, and her appearance on the Jay Leno show. There she apparently criticised Eddie Murphy. Go girl go! That man is the lowest form of life and I'm glad to see that Girl Power is reintstaed following the Spice Girls reunion.

I DO think that David is flushing his career down the toilet. It seems to me that a few months ago when he wasn't being selected for England or Real Madrid he was probably desperate for a new challenge and a megabucks contract in LA probably seemed the perfect solution.

Of course then he got recalled for England but the die was cast. He's gone out there five years too early in his career and he won't be playing for England in a year's time because he won't be good enough. The slow pace of US football won't be sufficient.

Will he succeed in converting Americans to soccer? I doubt it. Others have tried, including Pele. Beckham has the glamour factor, but soccer just won't be fast or furious enough for the Americans.

I wonder how it will all turn out. Will the Beckhams get swept into Scientology, a fate that seems to befall anyone who gets in with Tom Cruise? Will Victoria ever be able to dress down, or will dressing down continue to mean her own brand of jeans with vertigious high heels, huge bag, full slap, immaculate highlights etc.

They are such determined icons that you have to give them some respect. They give hope to chavs and wannabees everywhere.

Back from Cyprus

Yes we're back from Cyprus after two blissful weeks. It was hot and sunny throughout, and on a couple of days quite uncomfortably hot in the early 90s. Quite a shock to get back to Stansted and see the rain and grey skies.

We stayed in a resort called Hotel Nausicaa (also known as Blue Village) where we were pretty much the only Brits among literally hundreds of Scandinavians. This had its advantages: they seem to be role model parents and their children, always beautifully dressed with sun hats, rarely cried or screamed like their British counterparts. In restaurants they sat smiling and eating the same food as their parents. How do they do it?

The hotel stands in beautiful grounds with the loungers arranged on grassy terraces. There were two swimming pools or you could walk to steps leading to the sea. The water was very clear and a stunnihng turquoise.

We were in a town called Protaras which is on the SE coast, about 8km from Ayia Napa. We went to Ayia Napa for dinner one night. I was amazed at how it has changed since I was last there in 1991. Then, it was just one street and a church. Now it's a sprawling development with a new harbour. It was indeed full of Brits, and after a pleasant dinner overlooking the harbour (delicious kalamari) we had a couple of drinks in the "Queen Vic" pub where the staff are mostly British and the beers are draught.

Eating out in Protaras is a hit-and-miss affair. It's a town developed only for tourists and offers a range of different dining experiences. What we found is that a restaurant can be excellent on one night, but terrible the next. For example, we sought out Anemos after seeing it was recommended in the AA Guide to Cyprus. The first visit was excellent: we both had fresh sea bream and it was wonderful, as was the Kyperounda chardonnay (a more expensive local wine at Cyprus £9.25). The restaurant wasn't too busy that time and the service was excellent. The second time, we decided to go for a meze (18 courses). It started off very well with the dips, grilled halloumi and garlic mushrooms. But chips were brought before the final plate of meat, so we had nothing to accompany the pork souvla, spit roasted chicken and sausage. The meat was either dry or fatty, and it was disappointing there was no fish course. This time the restaurant was very busy and the service was bad.

The most consistent restaurant was the Nicolai Tavern. We went there four times and had a good experience every time, more or less (John's pork souvla was a bit dry). Their house wines were unusually good, and the kalamari stifado was excellent. But the puddings were disappointing: just crepes or ice cream.

Our last night was reserved for Parko, a hotel restaurant with better than average service where we'd enjoyed an excellent tornedos Rossini on a previous visit. But, such is life: on our last night, not only were we sat next to some smoking Brits on the left and a screaming toddler on the right, the food was terrible too. John's tornedos Rossini was rare rather than the medium he requested, and my sea bream was dry and bony.

If you've never visited Cyprus I'd recommend going to the northern (Turkish) side which is prettier and more undeveloped. It's a long time since I was last in the Greek side (1991) and it's been developed hugely since then. It's a wonderful placew for sightseeing and variety.

Huge opportunity for grown-up MySpace

I was reading an article recently - and unfortunately I can't remember where it was, because I read so much damn stuff - about the rise of social networking sites like Facebook, Bebo, MySpace. The gist of it was that these sites are the playground of the young: that it's their way of interacting, and we oldsters have no reason to be on them and we're all sad.

I disagree!

We have more need for these sites and provide a better usage model, in marketing parlance. Let's face it, the kids see each other all day at school and then they rush home and spend hours either chatting online or completing turgid and detailed profiles about themselves.

Whereas we oldsters may have moved house quite often, moved jobs, lost contact with schoolmates and former colleagues, plus we might be on the second or third divorce so maybe looking for a new soulmate. We're also keen to do "proper" networking to build our business contacts. Linked In is a good site that offers this, but not much else. Plus we usually have interesting hobbies - photography, travel and so on - where we'd like to share photos and experiences. If you combined all this in a compelling website that wasn't patronising, we wouldn't need to frequent the kids' sites.

But I haven't found a site yet that caters for this potentially huge market, so I do have a presence on Facebook and MySpace, although I'm in a minority in the UK. None of my friends or colleagues in the UK over the age of 30 are on these sites. (I did consider Bebo just a little too young for me!). So Tom, Jeff, the Google team. Seize the mettle.

Katie's fan hits back

Very amused to get a couple of anonymous comments from someone who sounds like Disgusted of Kensington, hitting back at my "Katie Slapper" piece. I suspect it's the same person - possibly Mensa candidate Katie herself - because both times Michelle Mone from Ultimo got a blasting. The funny thing is, I wasn't all that positive about her either (see my last par) - but I did enjoy the way she was the only one so far who put Katie Hopkins in her place.

Over the weekend, other women pitched in with their views on Katie (whose sexploits, btw, were plastered all over the tabloids yesterday). The headline "Superbitches are sad" reflected the views of India Knight in the Sunday Times who said Katie is a sad relic from yesteryear, trying to out-bitch everyone. Ulrika Jonsson (please, no jokes about pots and kettles!)in the News of the World said she was a traitor to all women. "She flirted, simpered, bitched and backstabbed her way to the semi-final. And then she bottled it."

It's time to move on now from Katie, whose 15 minutes of celebrity is now over. But a word to my anonymous comment writer: I would have thought Katie would be a keen Eurovision fan herself. Her 80s wardrobe and make-up certainly suggests that! Perhaps next time you'll be bold enough to give your name?

As for the winner of The Apprentice: my money is on Kristina. Very early on in the series it was clear she was head and shoulders above the rest of the candidates with her mature, objective, strategic insight. She would be a definite asset to Sir Alan. He said a while ago he wanted someone who was fully rounded who could run one of his companies. Kristina could do that easily. Simon is too young; he's a loose cannon. He might have good ideas (not sure that we've seen any) but he lacks gravitas and business acumen.

My celebrity lookalikes

My cool celebrity look-alike collage from MyHeritage.com. Get one for yourself.



I found this in someone else's blog...neat huh? I had to try three photos before it found one that worked...and then the matches I was given were (a) male and (b) Japanese! I've used some of the women who were said to be matches but I kept the #1 match, a male!

Apparently you can upload pictures of your ancestors and the system will try to match them with other people. Probably early days yet, but exciting technology as their database develops.

Paris Hilton: what did you expect?

I had a little snigger when I heard that Paris Hilton had been released from jail so soon on "health grounds." What health grounds, I wondered - a broken finger nail?

But really folks, what were you expecting? That she would do her full term and emerge chastened and remorseful? I knew there would be some sort of dodge to get her out quickly. Money is everything, even with the law.

What surprises me a little is the sentiment around her release. It's like wolves baying for blood. OK, so she's a pampered princess, an heiress whose biggest daily challenge is changing clothes several times and accessorizing the dog's jacket to match. She has a useless, worthless life, but she seems happy enough with that. I don't think she's troubled by enough brain cells to want more.

It seems to me that most of the antipathy is fuelled by nothing more than good old-fashioned jealousy, and outrage that money can open doors anywhere, it would seem.

Folks, get over it: if I take a good long look at the life of Paris Hilton, I can guarantee it's going to be one disaster after another: superficial relationships based on money, drugs, alcohol, dissatisfaction. Unless she finds a cause, or purpose for her life, she will drift. The roller coaster of plastic surgery will inevitably follow as she tries to keep her looks (though I'm always perplexed about this "Paris is beautiful" thing because to me she looks like an anteater). There's nothing very lucky about a life like that.

I am surprised her advisors didn't see this as an opportunity to relaunch her on a better path. Naomi Campbell apparently performed her community service as a cleaner very cheerfully - or so she says in the book that inevitably followed. I was half hoping that Paris would serve her time humbly and then come out fired up with the desire to reform the penal system. But I forgot - I guess you need a few brain cells to do that.

Katie Slapper gets her comeuppance

Wasn't last night's episode of The Apprentice gripping? You could practically read the thought processes as Katie, red in the face, realised the game was up and had to stand down.

The only unfortunate aspect, to me, is that she'd made the final and will probably think she would have won - had she not graciously stepped aside.

It was pretty obvious that Katie was simply there to win the game, not to do the job. She was still denying this on TV today, but Katie, sorry, you're exposed by the fact you didn't even bother to read up on Sir Alan and his companies. If you'd done so, you would have realised he doesn't have an office in Exeter, Bournemouth or any other place where your family and helpers live, and a relocation to Brentwood was inevitable.

It's also obvious that Katie has created a brand, herself as monster, to get some notoriety. She'll be briefly in the public eye as a symbol of slapperdom, ruthlessness, whatever. But she'll then sink like a stone and she'll probably find her colleagues and friends a little more wary of her.

Last night's "The Apprentice You're Fired" programme was also excellent simply for the spectacle of successful businesswoman Michelle Mone giving Katie a piece of her mind. "I would nae employ ye," declared Michelle, the Scottish founder of Ultimo. Katie was unphased and gave some sardonic reply about being glad that Michelle represents public opinion. Michelle snapped back that Katie had too high an opinion of herself and if she was really as successful as she makes out, why was she not sitting in her seat? Priceless.

A few years ago I emailed Michelle Mone with a new business suggestion. I suggested that Ultimo start selling good-looking support lingerie. Not their backless bodies, but waist cinchers and "big pants." At that time, I was way ahead of Gok Wan (How to Look Good Naked) and she could have gained a big competitive advantage by grabbing this potentially huge - in more ways than one - market. But I didn't even get a reply. Not very entrepreneurial, Ms Mone, eh?

Finding out your real age

Nancy Dell'Olio raised a few eyebrows this week when she said she had no qualms about trying for a baby at her age (which is not known, but widely believed to be nearer 50 than 40) because her "real age" is 26.

Real age, rather than biological age, is calculated by assessing many factors including your fitness levels, diet, your immediate family's health, how often you floss your teeth, how many miles you drive and how many friends you have, amongst other things.

I blithely imagined I would have a real age up there with Nancy's because I'm always able to tick "no" to all the boxes that ever ask if you've had asthma, epilepsy, dropsy or whatever; I exercise around twice a week, eat a largely healthy diet, take vitamin supplements and have no financial or other worries.

So I took the Realage test, which is free and accessible here.

It turned out my real age was five years younger than my...er...real (biological) age, but there is plenty of room for improvement. One of the surprise findings is that I don't take enough vitamin E. I had to grab the bottle of high-potency multivitamins and minerals that I take and enter some of the numbers. It contains 10mg of vitamin E when I should be taking 40mg or more, and potassium levels were also low. I don't eat enough grains or rice each week and I don't eat enough of the healthy fats found in nuts and olive oil.

Of course, twice a week isn't enough exercise (I knew that).

It helps if you know your resting pulse rate, cholesterol levels and blood pressure before you take the test. I've had all these done and they were all average but I couldn't be bothered to find the results, so by entering "average" without giving exact data makes the test compilers suspicious.

And no surprises that because I drive around 12000 miles a year, and have a mobile phone conversation at least once every journey (although it is hands-free), I'm at greater risk.

It is food for thought though and well worth doing.

Cold turkey on Big Brother

No, the new inmates weren't given some chilled poultry to enjoy. What I mean is that I, the curious girl, the mysterious Gail, have gone cold turkey on Big Brother. For the first time, I'm not going to watch it. My colleague Matthew has also made the same vow.

For me, it was Shilpa-gate that did it. What bugged me about Shilpa-gate was that eveyone got on their high horses about it but bullying has been rife in Big Brother ever since it started. Remember Shabahz from the last series? Even Jade was bullied the first time round and humiliated when she took all her clothes off, exposed her kebab in a drunken moment, and wasn't rescued by queen bitch Kate Lawler.

Plus, as Matthew says, you waste the whole summer. And the people are usually so dull, so stupid, so tiresome. There's rarely any repartee or badinage. Sometimes the challenges are good, but they're usually few and far between. So, begone, Big Brother, I despise you.

Anyway, I was spared from temptation last night, the night when Davina goes into shriek overload as the housemates go into the house. I was living it up in Swindon, dining at Picklejohns with some pals. Really scrummy curry. And such good company! Paula Lender-Swain you're the tops. There, I did it!

Incandescent: it's the Daily Mail again

I shouldn't ever pick up the Daily Mail. Remind me not to. It always renders me incandescent with rage; apoplectic; nay, I become "Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells" (if I lived there, of course).

Anyway, I somehow found myself reading the tired old rag today. What aroused my ire was a story about a woman's record £4m divorce settlement. The woman is pictured "beaming" at the news, and the underlying message from the Mail's story is that yet another poor hard-done-by man has been fleeced by his ex-wife.

The Daily Mail hates women. If you analysed the paper's coverage, you would find it regularly adopts a negative approach to women on anything relating to work (women should stay at home), single mothers (beyond the pale), career women (women should stay at home) and older women who try to look good (beauty is only for the young, old hag).

Whenever there's a story about a successful businesswoman deciding she can't have it all, and giving up work, the Mail crows about it triumphantly and the next day runs an article where more women state the same thing, giving it the chance to refer to "a trend."

Yet women who have "only" been housewives are similarly derided by the Mail when they have the cheek to expect a decent divorce settlement. Take this into account, misogynists of the Mail: often a woman has given up her career prospects to stay at home and have children. She contributes directly to the husband's career by making it easy for him to work. She makes ends meet in the early days of his career. If you priced her contributions individually - cleaning, washing, childcare, ironing, shopping for his family's birthdays and so on - it would come to a high price.

I guess what bugs me the most is that women continue to buy the Mail. They don't see how it diminishes them. The Mail in its advertising used to be directly pitched at women. Ironic, isn't it. I often wonder if the editor and his team laugh at the irony of persuading women to read a newspaper written by men who hate them. I guess they would see it more as an opportunity to re-educate foolish women about the error of their ways.

Hoorah for Princess Stephanie

I've been trying to give up my Hello magazine habit. Whenever Prince William, his ex girlfriend or The Queen feature on the cover, I find it easy not to buy it that week. They are pretty dull, after all. William gets more and more like Edward with every passing day. But I'm never going to be able to give up Hello completely because I'd lose touch with Princess Stephanie.

Now here's a more interesting and colourful royal! In fact the whole Monagasque dynasty is far more interesting than our dry old German born Windsors.

Princess Stephanie, just to recap, is the youngest daughter of the late Prince Rainier and his filmstar wife Grace Kelly, who sadly died in a car crash with Stephanie as their vehicle went out of control on the sharp bends leading to the palace.

She has had a most varied and fascinating life: a model and popstar at various times and always very interested in circus life. Indeed, she has had relationships/marriages with lion tamers and acrobats and lived in a caravan at one time. She is also notorious for relationships with "the hired help," including a bodyguard, Daniel Ducruet, whom she married and then divorced within days of him canoodling with another woman.

And while all this has been going on, Stephanie has often famously fallen out with her sister Caroline, who likes to appear very regal and stately these days but in her younger days was quite wild and married a middle aged playboy against her parents' wishes. Hello always shows the Red Rose ball in Monte Carlo each year and sometimes Stephanie isn't there because she's fallen out with Caroline again.

I'm very fond of Stephanie; she lives her life and thinks "to hell with the rest," and being a princess, she comes under a lot of scrutiny and is brave to do her own thing. Lately she looks very sad in pictures. And we haven't seen much of her in Hello! lately. (Note to editor: no need to go downmarket and follow OK! Who cares about soap stars and WAGs?).

Stephanie, time to bounce back: a new career perhaps? I think she'd make an excellent chat show host and Parky is way over the hill.

Sell your blog

Now folks, if you want to get lots of hits for your blog, write about Elizabeth Hurley or Carole McGiffin.

I know the ladies may not appear to have much in common, but Google searches for "Elizabeth Hurley Indian wedding" and "Carole McGiffin - naked" frequently drive people to my humble site, although I hasten to add Carole McGiffin was fully clad when I wrote that she'd make a good dinner party guest a few months ago.

Since I started blogging, I've tried most of the tips and tricks to try to build traffic. There are always new blog communities, catalogues and portals being started, and on the whole they're a waste of time. Mybloglog and Britblog are honourable exceptions. Mybloglog is great. It's a bit of a schmooze-fest where you visit other people's blogs, leave positive feedback and join their community. But it's the biggest traffic generator. Britblog is the only directory in the UK that I've found where you can find blogs by their location and subject matter. I've been able to find quite a few local to me.

A few weeks ago I plugged a few sites I've found and enjoy reading. Interestingly, I didn't tell their creators, but they all got back to me saying thanks, so your visits must have shown on their tracking data. Mybloglog has very good visitor data for a modest fee.

One thing I've decided not to subscribe to is the manipulation of Technorati rankings. Bloggers are forever trying to find ways to improve their Technorati ratings. Basically, you need other blogs to link to you. So there are several sites where you can add a whole list of unknown people to your favourites, and lo and behold, their rankings shoot up. I did try it once but nobody seemed to reciprocate. Technorati will lose credibility if this goes on. Surely it's better to attract readers organically through your subject matter?

So here are a few more blogs of note that I've found:
1) Moon's David Bowie Webdream Not surprisingly, a blog about David Bowie - but loosely. There's other musical content too: a recent piece about Freddie Mercury for example.
2) There are a lot of blogs about finding serendipity, enriching your life and so on. Sumangali is a UK writer with a well written, good looking and thought provoking site.
3) One of the few techy sites I read is yack yack. Some good tips and info here.
4) If you like vintage and retro, check out Retro Romance
5) Finally two blogs from former colleagues: Lucy's and Marc's. Happy reading!

Nothing to wear!

Male readers suppress that wry smile. It's true, I have nothing to wear! You see, I indulged in a Trinny and Susannah style raid on my wardrobe, having brought down the summer clothes from the loft. Garment after garment was thrown into a black bin liner. "Too old," "too middle-aged," "never wear it."

The outcome was that there's a lot more room in the wardrobe, but finding an outfit for the office yesterday was quite a trial. The fluctuations of the English weather don't help. Normally, for my one or two days in the office, I wear dark trousers or a skirt and a jumper (short sleeved for summer). Before you visualise reindeers on the jumper or cute embroidery, they are very plain cashmere jumpers from M&S. And I usually wear some large-ish beads in dark colours.

But now that we're on the cusp of spring and summer, my two grey skirts were ruled out because opaque tights don't seem right, but nor will I be seen dead in sheer tights. And it's too early for bare legs, so that ruled out last year's pair of navy city shorts too, and a cream skirt that I love but have only worn once.

So that left me with trousers: black or brown, two pairs, or new, cream flannel (but I have the sneaking feeling they make me look fat). There are three other pairs but they've all mysteriously gone half-mast. Perhaps I'm confounding science by continuing to grow? The only way I can wear those trousers again is by buying ballet pumps, but as they're the most uncomfortable footwear known to woman, and old hat now to boot, I won't be doing that.

Eventually I put on what I call my David Bowie Oxford bags: fairly wide dark brown trousers that come up to the waist, Simon Cowell style. (But that's trendy now, right?). But what a time it took. I thought I looked a bit wintery at the time I left home when it was sunny, but by the time I got to Swindon it was pouring with rain and I was lamenting the fact I hadn't brought a coat.

Ideally, I should seek out some beautifully cut Joseph trousers, uplevel my cashmere to Brora and source some spectacular beads. I need more shoes too. And I used to have several simple shift dresses in plain colours, but they seem very old-fashioned now with all these ghastly smock and empire line frocks around.

Clothes shopping has become a bit of a bete-noire. I just don't like doing it. When I go into most women's shops, there's a niggly voice inside my head that ruins the experience. It's constantly saying "your arms are too big for sleeveless," "you can't wear empire line," "your thighs are too big for those." And with shops like Zara, where the clothes are mysteriously sized, there's the stress of wondering what size you're going to have to have to buy. I am a fairly normal size 12 to 14, I would add (US eight to 10).

So I always scuttle back into the relatively stress-free environment of M&S in Marble Arch where the inner voice is largely silenced, and some of the Autograph and Limited collections are very good.

But it's not always a happy experience. There are always depessing racks of clothes that refuse to sell: the jumpers in hideous colours, ghastly cheap looking peasant style flouncy skirts in Per Uno and acres of Footglove shoes built for comfort. Coupled with hideous changing rooms with mirrors that act like searchlights, this is often not a pleasant experience and probably why so many of us buy clothes there without trying them on and then have to bring them back.

Mail order is not the answer either. I get some wonderful tops in flattering colours from Kettlewell Colours which don't need to be sent back, but when I bought clothes from Boden they always seem to be disappointing in fit and quality, but too much of a faff to send back, so they're kept but seldom worn. Life is too short to have to wait in for couriers all day, or have to go to the post office and queue for 20 minutes. So what's a girl to do? Answers on a postcard.

Find us the song and we can win Eurovision again

Across Britain today over the Sunday brisket the conversation will be dominated by one topic: Eurovision.

We narrowly avoided the dreaded "nul points" last night thanks to Ireland and Malta, but we still finished second from bottom.

Serbia won, so I'll be going round to the bookies to collect my winnings tomorrow. A surprising winner really; the singer looked like Jeanette Krankie and she was accompanied by women in suits who looked like jailers. It was a powerful ballad of lost love (or something), as were a lot of the eastern European entries. Distinct schism between their songs and the puerile formulaeic nonsense of western Europe.

Of course today there will be a lot Meanwhile of angst and hand rubbing across western Europe. "We can never win", "It's the Eastern bloc vote," "we should pull out," etc etc.

Tosh! The new reality is that the countries which have joined Eurovision do tend to vote for neighbours rather than the song, but that doesn't mean that a song with breakthrough can't win. Look at Finland last year. They'd never won before and they're not the sort of country normally backed by any others than the Nordics.

If you look at the songs from the western European countries present - a pathetic number - they were largely terrible. Terrible. Ireland had a weak stereotypical song and the worse performance of the night. The singer was flat: it was like Jemini (nul points) all over again. Germany was a little Frank Sinatra-esque and actually not a bad song, but too sophisticated for the show. France, well, let's draw a veil over that one. Spain with a boy band could potentially have been good but it was very naff.

The UK's was so outdated, so cheesy. It may have been ok in the times of Bucks Fizz, but not in 2007. And it's no use being outraged, people. When we chose the UK song, the BBC fielded a panel of young Europeans and NONE of them said they liked Scooch. Maybe next year you'll listen.

So if we want to improve our chances, we need a better quality song and performer. Let's stop these endless TV shows that bank roll the West End productions of millionaires like Andrew Lloyd-Webber and turn the format into finding a song for Europe. This would be a great showcase for songwriting talent.

Let's stop trying to revive the careers of has-beens and again let's choose who sings in a week-by-week talent competition for song and performer.

Meanwhile, to restore the balance to Eurovision, have two semin-finals, one for western Europe and one for eastern Europe. It won't mean the end of the bloc vote but it means a more representative blend of countries, and hopefully the likes of Denmark, Belgium, the Netherlands, Malta and Norway will return: it was sad without them.

When all's said and done, last night's show was wonderfully staged and very entertaining. Drawing 300 million viewers, it must surely have one of the biggest audiences of the year and as such should be taken seriously by the UK and the BBC. We brought the world the Beatles: we should not limp out cowed by the defeat of Scooch. I'm off to collect my twenty quid.

UK riding high for Nul Points

Well, today's the big day - and for the first time I've been into a bookmaker's and placed a bet on Eurovision!

I'd decided to back Ukraine and Serbia, but hearing that they were first and second favourites, I decided to stay with Serbia but go for a wildcard: Germany at 33 to 1. The bookmaker was a bit sceptical, saying the voting's all political so Germany have no chance. I probably know that but I still cling to the hope that a song from western Europe can still win.

As you aren't able to vote for your own country, it stands to reason that Ukraine will do well. They will pick up the votes from Russia and Belarus for a start. Serbia will collect the votes of FYR Macedonia and maybe Moldova (pop: 200?) but probably not Croatia. Serbia I think will pick up votes from a wider selection of countries including western Europe.

Belarus are also highly fancied.

The UK's odds were 40 to 1 at the time of betting. Maybe a safer bet would have been likelihood of UK (or Germany or France) scoring nul points. Sadly, quite high.

I saw in The Times today there's a new book called Nul Points which examines the 14 worse losers of all time. Said to be very amusing, so it's just one click away!

You've only got yourselves to blame

One by one they fell. The great stalwarts and bastions of Eurovision. Denmark, Norway, Switzerland, favourites to go through with prancing vampires; Belgium and the Netherlands. Iceland, Israel, Portugal and Malta. Austria.

Among them, some great winners. Who could ever forget "Ding a Dong" from the Netherlands? Or the first transsexual winner, Dana International from Israel?

The voters of Europe (boundaries loosely defined for the purposes of this programme)turned their backs on western Europe and voted in the young pretenders: Georgia (first time), Serbia, FYR Macedonia, Belarus, Latvia, Bulgaria, Slovenia.

You've only got yourselves to blame. I can imagine that in Georgia there was probably huge excitement around this glittering festival of song and although the people couldn't vote for their own entry, a Tango'd woman with a strange head movement reminscent of Foghorn Leghorn, they voted in droves for their nearest neighbour.

While in western and northern Europe, I can imagine that the good burghers of Norway, if they were even watching, didn't bother to pick up the phone for Denmark and vice versa.

Fortunately, as I said yesterday, the Big Four, UK, Germany, Spain and France, were exempt from the semi-final and lording it over the rest as the bankers of the show. And we still have some famous Eurovision countries with us: Greece, actually represented by a London lad; Ireland; defending champions Finland (another rock entry) and Sweden, represented by a glam rock group called The Ark (most of their clothes indeed came from it).

So what of the songs, the stars of the show?

The songs I liked best came from Norway, the Netherlands, Andorra, Albania (where was Greece when they needed them?) and Iceland. But of course they all fell.

It seemed there were three distinct types of song. One, the eccentric, where strangely dressed shouty people clown around (Israel) sprinkled with transsexuals (Denmark, though it was hard to be certain). Two, overblown songs intended to represent the country's traditions. Lots of whirling dervishes in the background, backcombed hair, dresses like Morticia Adams and too much make-up (Slovenia, FYR Macedonia). And three, the traditional Eurovision shanty. A jolly little tune with a nice chorus that sticks in your head like a mallet: Norway, Belgium, Netherlands.

So in Saturday's battle we'll have traditional Eurovision battling it out against the New Pretenders and a couple of eccentrics (Germany from what I saw of them). The only song that was noticeably different was Serbia, where a female soloist who looked a bit like a man simply sang with no dancers, dry ice or outlandish costumes.

The outcome is fairly predictable. Unless western and northern Europe throws off its apathy, the newcomers will undoubtedly reign. Here's a picture of Scooch, the UK entry. It's probably the last time they'll appear in print.

Maybe next year we should reach some pacts for the semi-final. The Big Four should each officially support their neighbours to help them get through. UK could vote for the Nordics, Germany for Austria and Turkey (no change) and Poland; Spain for Andorra, Portugal and Malta; France for Belgium and the Netherlands. What do you think?

Join me tomorrow (Sat) as I assess the likely winners...and on Sunday as I lament (or celebrate?) the result.

Eurovision Latest

Tonight we have the Eurovision semi-finals, being shown on BBC3 of all channels (pah! and where's Lorraine Kelly?). This is when some of the countries are evicted before they even get started.

Fortunately the good old Royaume Unis doesn't have to go through this potentially humiliating experience. Which is just as well, given our poor track record of recent years. As we're one of the main funding engines for Eurovision, we're exempt from the qualifiers and the relegation process should we end up with "nul points" again.

Anyway, I consider it my duty to suffer the semi finals and bring you the news tomorrow plus my tips for the top on the big day, Saturday.

I'm not tipping the UK to do very well at all. I don't believe the UK entry has moved on sufficiently. It's still grounded in the 80's when Eurovision was all about cheesiness and camp dance routines. Now, as we saw from Lordi winning last year, the Eurovision audience wants, dare I say it, something more contemporary. More representative of modern music. Scooch is not that. It's a curio, to be played at parties along with Agadoo and the Birdie Song.

None of the songs we chose from were particularly suitable. Justin Hawkins had to be ruled out on the grounds of his teeth alone. Let's hope that Morrissey delivers next year on his threat to be included.

I wouldn't be surprised if a solo ballad wins this year. It could be the year for Malta, for example, who nearly always field a solo singer, usually of ample dimensions.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Join me tomorrow to hear the form!

The wasted career of Iggy Pop

I was introduced to Iggy Pop via David Bowie way back in 1977. I came home after a three-day camping "holiday" for the Duke of Edinburgh's award was thrilled to see that "The Idiot" had arrived in the post. I listened transfixed, amazed at the industrial sound and the air of menace that dominated the record. This was the first record where he collaborated with Bowie and it saw Iggy's rebirth from punk has-been to godfather of punk.

Over the years I've seen Iggy performing twice - and he is, undisputedly, a wonderful performer. I've also bought most of his albums. With very few exceptions, they have been very poor.

Therein lies the rub.

I've just read the new biography by Paul Trynka and it left me with a nasty taste in the mouth. A biography has long been overdue: there are books about Iggy but they are mostly superficial and bland. I knew all about the excesses of his life, the drugs, the alcohol, the psychiatric hospital. But what becomes clear from the book are Iggy's delusions about himself and his supreme arrogance and ego.

He might be happy living in Miami and thriving on royalties from ads and films, and finally condescending to reunite with the Stooges to give them some income, but if Iggy seriously reviews his career, Ian Hunter from Mott the Hoople was right when he said Iggy never had the talent to make it big.

The three albums he did with David Bowie were excellent, the rest, dire. Yet Trynka says that Iggy always resented Bowie and considered him less talented. There is no comparison between the two. All Iggy ever had going for him was the ability to perform and to adopt the persona of "Iggy Pop". He cannot write good songs on his own: a lot of his material is mawkish and overblown. Maybe if he had worked with good people more consistently, and had better career direction from lazy record companies, he might be a bigger star today with more than just the honorary title of godfather of punk.

Abolish vile premium rate phone-ins

I was hoping that the recent scandals around TV show phone-ins would result in some big changes. I wasn't naive enough to assume they would go away - clearly the broadcasters, production companies and telephony companies are making too much money for that to happen - but I was hoping the watchdog would set some rules.

Fat chance. Another toothless watchdog with some pathetic guidelines. "Callers should be told when they've spent £10 or more. Callers should be told how many other people have rung in." Duh. How about: callers should be told that contrary to what the programme is telling you, the winner has been chosen, so hang up now? Or that your chances of winning are virtually zero so why waste a pound, loser?

I just happened to catch the last few minutes of a BBC children's TV programme just now, "Extreme Animals." I was horrified to see a phone-in at the end, with kids being urged to call a premium rate number to vote for their favourite animal. This is such appallingly bad TV, and so greedy for the BBC to try to fleece parents' phone bills.

I would like to see the regulator ban phone-ins from all children's programmes plus phone-ins which are not linked to a public vote, for example Big Brother, the shows to select pop stars / musical stars and Eurovision. Let's scrap the rest. We should treat viewers with more respect rather than urging them to waste money on voting for their favourite animal or which meal the chef should cook. After all, as we now know, the chef has already cooked the meal, Richard and Judy's winner has already been chosen and the GMTV ten grand challenge doesn't bother with you if you live in a block of flats or somewhere inaccessible for cameras.

The rehabilitation of Sven

Fascinating to read a sympathetic and factually correct account of former England coach Sven-Goran Eriksson in the Sunday Times.

Far from being the money grabbing, woman-chasing idiot he has been made out to be by the rotweilers of the sporting tabloid press, he came across as thoughtful, considerate and likeable. A man who talks to his elderly parents (who live nearby) everyday. Who, far from taking any fee paying public speaking opportunity available, actually did more non fee paying appearances. Who, instead of fleecing the FA for every penny even when he stopped working as England coach, agreed to take £2.25m instead of the £6m he was entitled to.

Most significantly, Sven was, without doubt, the most successful England coach of the modern era. Played 38, won 26, lost % was 7.9. Let's compare that with Alf Ramsey, shall we, because let's face it, we only ever talk about 1966. Played 33. won 20, lost % 21.2.

Sven was utterly vilified by the UK press, most of it zenophobic because a foreigner had the audacity to manage the England team. Well, not many candidates would accept the post. What I find galling is that the vitriol was largely based on lies.

The problem is that England should have a good national team. Look at the number of international players who choose to play here. But the reality is different. Expectations are far too high. The pysche of England is inextricably wrapped up with the success of the football team. Was it Sven's fault that some of the highest paid footballers in the world bottled out and missed penalties? It wasn't the first time this has happened.

Most significantly in the article, after the disasterous defeat at the hands of Portugal, Eriksson begged the UK press not to "finish off" Rooney (sent off)or the idiots who missed the penalities. He asked to be vilified because he wouldn't be needed again.

Proof again that here was an honorable man, mistreated by the press and public at large.

Celebrities who lie about their looks

Lying celebrities. The ones who say their good looks are down to genes and healthy eating. They make me so mad. They add to the worries that women have about their looks and ageing. Sophia Loren for example: fabulous in her 70s. She enigmatically says she has a special recipe for her good looks. Yes, probably everything going! Face lift, brow lift, Botox, Restylane. Or Goldie Hawn, who says she has had no surgery (but today's modern equivalent is all the collagen and injections, and she no doubt has those). Joan Collins is the worse. You can see from her frozen face, and the funny little wrinkles on the side of her mouth, that she isn't natural, but she insists nature was very kind to her. Tosh.

Then there are Victoria Beckham's ludicrous breasts. A picture in Hello this week shows the two footballs looking as if they've been stuck onto her flat bony chest. Apparently, claims Jordan (Katie Price), Posh told her they were fake and even gave her a flash in a loo. Yet she steadfastly maintains she's had nothing done. (Frankly dear, you should ask for your money back, they're appalling).

So respect to the celebs who come clean. Jordan for one. Goodness knows why she had Botox at her age. I saw Bonnie Tyler recently ("It's a heartache") and she happily confessed to Botox and Restylane. Toyah Wilcox. Anne Robinson. I don't think they lose face by admitting it. They show they're human and they have the same worries and frailties as the rest of us. Meanwhile the celebs who lie, who disguise themselves and turn up at hospitals in the dead of night, are trying to perpetuate some sad myth about themselves and they just seem ridiculous.

By way of a small commercial....

I've created a new blog, gail_scrapper to allow me to indulge in my scrapbook and card making passion. I noticed that quite a few of the ladies on uk scrappers have blogs and discovered there's a definitive guide to crafting websites - their button is now on my craft site. Now all I have to do is generate traffic. Are there enough hours in the day?

Size zero over exposed

Last night there was yet another TV programme showing you how to get from size 12 (that's US size 8) to double size zero within 5 weeks. That's the third programme in about 5 weeks.

I'm sure the programme makers would say "the intention was to show how it can lead to mental disturbance / food disorders", blah blah, and try to justify how they're creating a debate in the broadcast media.

Tosh. What the three programmes have all done is shown how frighteningly easy it is to drop dress sizes if you have a laser focus and friends in the medical and personal trainer professions. You can see why the likes if Nicole Ritchie and Posh Spice have become so hooked on being tiny. They get a buzz from being in control.

I wish we would ignore all this size zero nonsense. The more press attention it gets, the more mainstream it becomes, rather than a sickness and malaise spread by the media and adopted by airheads with nothing better to do than starve themselves.

I would love to see a leading UK designer like John Galliano put hour-glass shaped models on the catwalk and feature clothes for hour glass-shaped women. Not fat women. Hour glass shaped. The Sunday Times reported yesterday how the catwalks in Mumbai, India, were an inspiration because the beautiful women they featured had real busts and real waists and real hips. Not the emaciated, boyish, straight up-and-down figures you see on the UK's catwalks. Perhaps they're all boys? There's a thought.

The trouble with Derriford Hospital

My mum (Giz) was in Derriford Hospital, Plymouth, overnight after falling and dislocating her shoulder. It's the third time this has happened. She doesn't appear frail; she walks a lot, has a healthy diet and maintains a big and immaculate garden, as well as being social secretary of a widows' organisation. But it seems that elderly ladies are more inclined to stumble and fall, and when they do, they hurt themselves.

The second time it happened, Giz was staying with us in London. She tripped in the front garden in the evening gloom. We took her to Whipps Cross, a hospital in danger of losing its A&E, and we were well impressed by the speed, and quality, of the care she received. She was seen within 5 minutes, given immediate pain relief, and her shoulder was put back very gently. The next day she was taking the sling off because the pain had gone.

Not so with her first and third times, both involving Derriford Hospital. Admitted late yesterday, she was given no pain relief despite asking several times. Eventually someone grudgingly offered gas and air (do they still use that?!) or Co-Codemol, which she has at home. Before it was given, the doctor attemped to put her shoulder back by waving her arms around until she screamed in pain. The damage he has done means her shoulder will now take longer to recover.

Then, before she left today, the staff "mislaid" her phone and handbag. She saw them ransacking bins searching. All the time the staff were laughing and joking and the ward was a filthy tip.

Derriford has a "fair" rating but I have always had a low opinion of it after my dad died there. He was in hospital for several weeks and I always believed the standard of care he received was poor. The problem is that the majority of people don't complain. A lot of our hospitals are worse than those in Third World countries: the MRSA statistics confirm that. Yet we somehow tolerate it. Why?

Of course I now have a niggling concern that the great care she received in Whipps Cross was because we were there with her. Maybe an elderly lady on her own is vulnerable and likely to be treated with disdain by hospital staff. The care the elderly receive is a big worry to me: so much is said about stupid girls starving themselves to size zero, yet many elderly people are forcibly starved and cruelly treated in unscrupulous residential homes. But it's not a fashionable cause and so it doesn't receive the Jamie Oliver spotlight treatment.

Back from Boston - brrr what a freezer!

We've just returned from a few days in Boston, US, where John ran the Boston Marathon. It was his 15th marathon and #8 in the "tick box" list of top 10 marathons. Just Chicago and Amsterdam left!

The weather was dreadful the whole time. Dire warnings had been issued for marathon Monday (Patriot's Day). Record levels of rainfall were expected. Icy winds. Runners were warned to dress up and how to avoid hypothermia. John left for the buses to take the runners to the start, a long way out from Boston, at six in the morning. It was raining then, and the runners got cold and wet waiting. Once the race was underway, the rain more or less stopped and the wind was not too bad. With temperatures around 50 fahrenhait, it was better for running than hot weather.

John came in at less than a minute outside his personal best, which for the weather conditions was very good: even the elite runners all finished up to six minutes slower than normal. He was very pleased with his run: all the training with the Orion Harriers the past year had paid off and he didn't struggle at Heartbreak Hill or hit the wall.

The photo I took of him in the park, overlooking the swan boats, was after the marathon as we wearily walked back to the hotel. By then it was very cold, which you can see from his face and "apparel." It's quite wearisome for me even though I don't run. I usually try to whiz around the town on the underground, wherever we are, to try to take pictures, but this time because most of the marathon was outside of Boston, and because of the weather, I went to the finish with other spectators whose partners were in the sports party with us. I shot some camcorder footage of John finishing but I'm no Pedro Almodovar so heaven knows what it will be like.

As for Boston itself, we did a "duck tour" (John is pictured driving the duck along the river) and a two hour trolley bus ride, and inevitable shopping. Boston has history and they seem proud of it. I was very taken with the gas lights that stand in the Beacon Hill area. I tried to take some pictures at night but the slow exposure was a disaster. Fortunately I was able to buy some decent pictures so I can use them to make a scrapbook page.

Food-wise, it's never a gourmet's delight on a marathon weekend because of the relentless carb stacking. But we did find a gem of a restaurant, Antonio's, not far from our hotel in Cambridge Street near Government Centre. It was small but very lively and busy, filled with locals, and mega decibels of conversational shouting. The pasta dinner, organised free of charge for the runners with partners paying $20, was a bit of a washout. In freezing temperatures and rain we were herded into the adjacent big top to queue, and as you would expect for mass catering, the pasta was fairly solid and congealed. I'm putting my foot down on pasta dinners, feasts, whatever they want to call them. From now on we're going to a civilised restaurant like Antonio's! After the marathon, we went to an Irish pub, Kinsale, and a jolly time was had with plenty of steaks and Guinness. My steak was the equivalent of £10 but far better than the £28 steak I had in Smiths of Smithfield.

Next stop is Amsterdam - John has already signed up for that one in October. Right now, glad to be back in blighty to enjoy some of the nice weather. Ironic to think that the Rotterdam marathon was abandoned because of the heat while Boston's marathon was shivering in the rain and wind!

Spandau Ballet - there's no need to reunite

The BBC carried a news item today "for ageing New Romantics." (thanks!). Viz a viz, Spandau Ballet have now agreed to reunite, following their acrimonious court case. Mind, their ageing fans will have quite a wait because lead singer Tony Hadley claims his diary is too full for four years.

Four years?! I mean, nice work Tony, you've scored a few points with the fact that following one or two appearances on reality TV, you have a good gig going with Butlins and Pontins, but my advice would be to act quickly. The band members must all be pushing 50 so who knows if one of them might snuff it by four years.

Frankly, I wouldn't care if they didn't reunite. I wasn't a big fan of SB. We used to refer to Hadley as "the opera singer" because of his strangled vocals. I hated "Gold," although some of their earlier songs were OK. I remember dancing to them wearing the uniform of the time, stripy red and white knickerbockers, flowing belt, frilly white shirt and ballet pumps. Yes, quite.

It's ok when a pop star grows old with you, eg David Bowie; but when a group disappears and then decides to resurface to hopefully pay off their mortgages, it's very disconcerting to see them all looking fat, jowly, bald and/or grizzled. It reminds you of your own mortality (and appearance). I think we all believe we look the same, hardly any different, so seeing Tony Hadley et al with beer guts and enough chins to rival the Chinese phone book is a bit of a zeitgist moment.

Mind, I don't think we're talking the Take That reunion, are we? Those boys do look a bit old to be a boy band now but at least they've still got their own hair and teeth.

I remember watching a terribly sad programme a while ago featuring 70s band The Sweet, who were still gigging. Their lead singer Brian Connolly (now deceased) had been a heavy drinker and paid the price: he was shown shuffling into a club, a shadow of his former self after a stroke, but still trying to perform Blockbuster and the other hits. Tony and the gang, don't do it! Leave us with our memories, with you in your prime.

The Apprentice loses its bite

The Apprentice, UK version, has moved to mainstream television on BBC1 and, regrettably, is running out of steam.

What was unmissable TV for the first two series is now formulaeic and tired. Clearly, most of the challengers were chosen simply to create good TV rather than be taken seriously as talented businesspeople. I'm horrified at the low standard. The guy who was evicted last week was a car salesman: nice enough but with no strategic vision or leadership qualities. The bankrupt entrepreneur Rory, who was evicted this week, was a prissy lecturing headmaster who was so obsessed with reining in the show's inevitable loudmouth Tre that he forgot about winning the task. Meanwhile another contender evicted this week had kept quiet about the fact he was a product designer because he was "having an off day" and missing his family. He should have resigned rather than been fired, having deprived someone else of the opportunity to take part.

The problem with Sugar and the UK format is that he's nothing more than a box shifter and what he's looking for is someone who's tactical, a salesperson and mild-mannered. Someone like Tim, who won series one after being invisible for most of the show. Any candidates with a marketing or legal background are there just for TV impact, because Sugar is not looking for impressive brains or marketing acumen.

The tasks are mostly sales focused and becoming dull: sell coffee in central London? I watched the US version when it was shown late at night on BBC2 recently and the tasks were more interesting because Donald Trump is looking for more of a visionary achiever. There were fewer of these "sell as much as you can in 10 minutes" type tasks and more around marketing and advertising.

Scrapbook Update

Today we planted some more roses (David Austin's Gertrude Jekhyll & Scepter'd Isle)so I was thinking ahead to a rose themed scrapbook layout and took some photos. Now I have the "befores," with J digging the holes, and in a few months' time I will have the "afters," with (hopefully) masses of roses in full bloom. And now I can start accumulating rose themed papers and embellishments to go with the layout.

That's how it works. And to such an extent that I sometimes change my clothes to make sure I'm wearing a colour that co-ordinates with the paper in hand.

It's often agonizing when I see a particular paper in a magazine and then find it hellishly difficult to get hold of. This happened last week when I decided I to have some daisy papers from the Twelve by 12 range, Colorflowers II. I looked up the UK stockists but none of them had the exact same papers. I looked at the US stockists. Same thing. The designer has her own online gallery, but no shipping to the UK. Then, in an inspired moment, I asked on UK Scrappers if any of their sponsors (scrapbook retailers) had the papers in stock. I struck lucky, and now have these papers tucked away waiting to be turned into a birthday card for J's mum.

Anyway, here are some recent LOs (layouts to the uninitiated). Next week I am off to the US for work, but hopefully might the chance to find a craft store. I've never been in a US craft store, and imagine it must be a veritable Aladdin's Cave. And of course I do need some rose themed materials.

You've got to read this

One of the funniest books I've read for a long time is "Who moved my BlackBerry?" by Martin Lukes and Lucy Kellaway. It's about the hapless marketing director of the UK subsidiary of a US multinational. In David Brent (The Office)v vein it covers a year in the life of marketing director at A-B Global (UK), Martin Lukes, through a series of emails, texts and messages "sent from my Wireless BlackBerry hand-held." It's just tooo funny. I was laughing out loud on the plane as I read it.

The intro from Martin Lukes is a good opener to what you can exepect: "In your hands is a highly unique book, which pushes the envelope literature-wise. As you will see, it is a 120 per cent honest account of a year of my life - a phenomenal year of personal progress, corporate scandal and marital drama.

It not only chronicles my promotion to one of the foremost executive positions globally, but is also a profound journey of personal learning, aided and abetted by my coach, Pandora.

"I am often asked why I want to share my deeply private philosophies with such a wide audience. I always say, it is because I am passionate about learning. I have grown from my own mistakes, both in the professional space and the personal one, and I believe that there are many key takeaways for you here too. "Who Moved My BlackBerry[trademark]?" is a creovative[trademark] work - to use a phrase of mine that has now entered the business lingo. I anticipate it will be the must-read of 2005. All my very bestest, Martin."

Disappointing flavours from John Torode

I was very impressed with Australian chef John Torode and his expertise on the recent Masterchef series so I decided to hot foot it round to his restaurant, Smiths of Smithfield, in London's Faringdon.

As a judge on the programme, Torode frequently made comments about dishes not having the right flavours or being seasoned properly, so I reasoned that my taste buds were in for a gastronomic treat. I must say, I get a bit irritated when he constantly berates contestants for not putting enough salt in their food. Isn't he aware of the guidelines regarding salt? Personally I never add salt to my food and I don't like the taste when restaurants have overdone it. Anyway - back to the review.

Smiths of Smithfield is opposite the famous meat market and has four floors all with a different dining experience. We went for the top floor which is the serious restaurant. Offering wonderful views over London it had a great vibe and was packed out (as were all the other floors).

The menu is refreshingly non-pretentious; none of those ridiculous trios, timbales or anything else plagiarised from French menus. Torode specialises in sourcing the best in ingredients and the menu faithfully records the provenance of the fish and beef.

Dorset crab on toast was a disappointing starter. The crab had very little flavour; it didn't even taste very strongly of crab, and the toast was so hard that slicing into it made a piece ping across the table. An inauspicious start. My companion had smoked eel which had a good texture and subtle flavour.

Next up was Hereford sirloin which came with the vegetable of the day, courgettes (a strange choice, as this is the one vegetable that can be counted on to be dull dull dull) and large square shaped chips.

The chips were divine, the courgettes were, well, dull, and the steak was erring towards medium rather than the rare I asked for. For £28 I expected a melting texture and a most memorable steak, but it was very similar to the old cow "aged 21 days" sold in Sainsbury's. It wasn't the best steak I've ever had - that was in an obscure pub in Dublin.

Finally, rum and raison bruelee had a pleasingly crunchy top and a crisp, light shortbread biscuit, but the rum flavour was non existent. What was left was a pleasant enough rich gloop, but disappointing when you were expecting some wonderful flavours which weren't delivered.

So in summary I'd say that Smiths at Smithfield has a great vibe but on the top floor it doesn't deliver the fine dining experience that it promises. More work needed on the flavours and the seasonings, Mr Torode.

My favourite blogs

"Millions of blogs out there, some of them must be good" is a quote I've seen somewhere. I've been reading my way through the world's blogs, within reason, having become a member of various blogging communities like fuelmyblog , spicypage.com and the excellent mybloglog.

I imagine what we like in a blog is very subjective. I tend to only read blogs from the UK and USA, although I would love to find a well written blog about life in Japan for example. I like blogs which are well designed, where you don't have to click on links to view the content. Pretty photos are good - I should do more of this myself. I like blogs where the writer's voice and spirit comes through, OR blogs that tell you things you didn't already know. Quirky blogs.

So in no particular order, here are some of the blogs I've discovered, and the reasons why I like them:

1.The Slim Blue Line. This is the blog of a UK policewoman. Revealing and no holds barred, it's a valuable glimpse into a tough job. Disheartening sometimes to read about the chauvinistic attitudes that still prevail. Her latest entry is about the dilemmas of dealing with domestic violence.
2. davidbdale.wordpress.com. This is fun. David Bale writes novels in 299 words. Character, conflict, emotional impact. And sentences! Everything you want in a novel, without one extra syllable.
3. Janey Godley is a Scottish stand-up comic, actor and playwright. Her blog is a good example of the personality of the writer shining through. She comes across as funny and feisty. http://janeygodley.blog.co.uk
4. Very useful for my job is this blog about branding. Always something interesting to read.It's promoting a company, but in a very positive way because the entries showcase their expertise. Very clever.
5. Lots of blogs offer a free service. I like this one from designer Dave Richards in New York that offers e-cards and ideas on how to keep in touch with friends. Nice, because with our busy lives it's easy to lose touch with friends.
6. Blogging has become mass media, and big companies have set up blogs, some of them coming unstuck because they attempted to deceive their readers. The Kodak "Ink Is It" blog is a great example of how companies can use the blogging genre and provide value and fun to their readers and not just a promotional platform. It uses two kooky characters who love ink, and it's very quirky and well done.

So that's a few of mine. I'd love to see some of your faves.

Flog It

Speaking to James from the ad agency today, we discovered a mutual interest in selling stuff on Amazon and Ebay. James prefers Ebay, where he's big in cosmetics (I didn't ask), whereas I prefer to buy on Ebay and sell on Amazon. Reason for that is mostly laziness. You don't have to take pictures of your wares for Amazon, not if they're books, CDs or DVDs, which is what I flog.

It's quite a little money spinner. As I keep telling J, my Amazon sales are subsidising my magazine purchases.

The great thing about Amazon is that you set a fixed price; they calculate the P&P and allow for this, and you don't have to do any transactions with the sellers. Amazon deposits the money directly into your bank account.

It's surprising what some items go for. You discover, for example, that the Manic Street Preachers special edition goes for less than a pound (not viable in my view) whereas the Doris Day CD is worth at least eight pounds. I was amazed to see that a John Galliano book I have is offered at no less than £150. Quite a lot of CDs go for around £2 - £4. You have to decide if it's worth it, by the time you've factored in bubble wrap, brown paper, trip to the post office. I think it is worth it to get shot of the damn things. And any greatest hits compilations (particularly Now!) sell very quickly.

I had a biography of businessman Gerry Robinson on Amazon for ages and when he featured in the recent documentary about what he would do to revitalise the NHS, I had an immediate offer.

For paperbacks, I have a different modus operandi. I use a website called Read It Swap It (link on the right) and have only had one bad experience. You choose a book from someone's reading list; they're sent your list and choose a book (or decline); you post the book, and an email is generated to say you've done this, and then when you receive it you give feedback. Very simple and it works perfectly. I had one bad experience when the swapper didn't communicate at all; took about three weeks to send the book (usually it's done in two or three days) and when it arrived, it was so horribly dog eared and dirty I didn't want to read it.

But now I have a little pile of books waiting to be read, which is a luxury for me as I'm such an avid reader.

Europe has nothing to fear from UK Eurovision entry (again)

Last night the nation decided. The UK entry in the Eurovision Song Contest in May is a group called Scooch, with Bucks-Fizz style formulaeic cutesy song.

I've often thought that the BBC isn't serious about winning because we always have such turgid entries, and of course winning it would result in huge expense. But this year, they clearly put some effort into it. All of the songs, with the exception of a dreary ballad from Brian Harvey, were very good. I liked the montage of clips from other countries who have already picked their entrants. And I liked the guest panel from across Europe voted. Unfortunately, the British public didn't back the horse the panel suggested (Big Bruvaz, the rap number). I didn't like it the most, but I reckon it had the biggest chance of Eurovision success.

When I first saw Scooch I knew right away they would win. Classic Buck's Fizz style cheese, where you take a group of averagely attractive people and give them cutesy outfits, cutesy dance moves (aeroplanes) and a few lines heavy with suggestion ("salted nuts sir?").

Win it did, but by the third airing, my brother and I were both groaning and saying we wouldn't want to hear it again. It's beyond irritating.

The only black spot of the night was Terry Wogan, normally the lynchpin of Eurovision, but now so curmudgeonly that it didn't seem he was being amusingly ironic. It seemed like he really does hate it all. Time to pension him off and bring in Jonathan Ross.

Elizabeth Hurley's jaw dropping Indian wedding

If old Liz Hurley was looking for the wow factor with her Indian wedding ceremony, she certainly found it.

The photos in Hello! are truly jaw dropping.

Regular readers to my blog will know I don't care for Hurley very much. As Sarah Kennedy (Radio 2) said earlier this week, what's she famous for? The films all go direct to DVD. That's true enough. My gripe with Hurley is that at 41, and a successful businesswoman with her swimwear and film production companies she should stop acting like ageing cheesecake and posing in skimpy dresses or bikinis and instead become a role model for women breaking the glass ceiling.

Anyway, that's by the by. Round 1 of the nuptials, in the UK, was a disappointing affair I thought. Some old castle, and no sign of the owner's wife (Lilli Maltese, who was famously upstaged by Liz at her own wedding when she turned up wearing a skirt that flashed her knickers). Everyone was wearing white; there were dozens of bridesmaids, and no real celebrities (Patsy Kensit and Trinny Woodall don't really qualify) except for Mr & Mrs Elton John.

Liz's dress was a bit of a disappointment to me. The floaty tulle skirt reminded me of Adam Cooper in the male version of Swan Lake. And I didn't think she would wear a tiara again after her last outing was criticised by one of the weekly gossip mags as mutton dressed as lamb (or even worse, Courtney Love).

One week later, and the bridal party goes out to India, flown around on a private plane. And now we're cooking with gas! Liz is radiant in a deep pink Versace Indian bridal gown; the guests are in pink (Liz's side) or orange (Arun's side) and the colours are dazzling. Arun arrives on a black horse; there are fireworks, Bollywood dancing with Liz flashing her enviably toned midriff, a cricket match and an English tea, plus the spectacle of the guests having to camp overnight in tents at one point, although the tents did have their own loos and showers so it wasn't like Carry on Camping.

Liz looked lovely throughout, except for the emerald worn high on her forehead. I've never liked green with pink. Arun, I have to say, looked a bit wet. Somehow his shoes, many of which were specially commissioned, looked like something Abanazer would wear in Aladdin. Arun suffers from Grant Bovey / Jude Law syndrome, which is when a man knows he is goodlooking and he unfailingly presents his best side and his most radiant smile to the camera whenever it's on him. It doesn't make for the best wedding pictures, which for Hello! are those where the couple lovingly gaze at each other.

I dread to think of the cost, which was no doubt borne by Hurley. One of the papers reported last week that Arun is far from a millionaire, although his parents are wealthy. He was even flying with airmiles until Hurley got him upgraded.

Eurovision approaches - excitement mounts

I'm a huge fan of Eurovision and looking forward to choosing the UK's song on Saturday. I see no expense has been spared in providing the brighest stars in the galaxy for our delectation: Brian Harvey, formerly of East 17, whose car ran over him; Justin Hawkins, the long haired screamer from The Darkness, and Liz Mclarnon, formerly of Atomic Kitten.

I've already heard the Hawkins entry, and my advice to him would be "don't ring us, we'll ring you."

The great thing about Eurovision is that it plays really well into the British sense of humour. It's very kitsch and camp. We know the songs and dance routines and costumes are terrible, but we still like it. Our stiff upper lip and sporting fairness does us proud as we sit through the political voting, quietly seething as nobody votes for the UK because we don't have any Euro friends now (America isn't eligible to vote). We can't even count on Ireland or Malta these days.

It doesn't really matter if the UK song is a pile of poo because we know deep down we can never win. What with the unpopularity issue, and the Baltic block vote, we're destined to always be down the bottom of the list along with France, still resolutely singing in French, and Germany, who always seem to choose someone wildly eccentric.

Last year I felt faintly optimistic because I did think that Daz Sampson was in with a shout. I thought it was sufficiently "Eurovision" to win, albeit a little edgy. I was confounded when Finland won with heavy rockers, a sign that the "la la la" Eurovision song and the ripping off of skirts may be a thing of the past.

One thing for sure: we can never be relegated because UK contributes too much to the funding of the whole shebang.

So tune in on Sat folks, and put aside your reservations about picking up the phone. Lots of irreverent fun. The actual contest this year, hosted in Finland, is bound to break the mould. Will they play it straight and try to dazzle us with dry ice and lighting, or will they play it tongue-in-cheek?

The Monday Pot Pourri: Plymouth Argyle snatch defeat from the jaws of victory; the New Angel reviewed and good news about language lessons

Language lessons from age seven
Glad to hear the news today that language lessons are to be taught at primary school, from age seven. It's a constant source of shame and embarrassment to me how badly the Brits speak languages when abroad. It's no longer sufficient to shout in English. My own language skills are pretty bad, I hold up my hands. I don't know when children stopped learning languages at age seven. I remember learning French at primary school. We sang jolly songs like "Sur le pont D'Avignon," and pretended to be shopkeepers. I don't know why it's not compulsory beyond age 14 either. In my view, should be compulsory, along with English & maths, until age 16.

The New Angel, Dartmouth: restaurant review
Fabulous weather at the weekend and thoroughly enjoyed my time in Plymouth (except for the match of course. How did Plymouth Argyle lose against Watford? They were infinitely superior!). Took Giz to Dartmouth for Sunday lunch at the New Angel. This is the place now owned by John Burton-Race (Channel 4 TV show fame) which has always had an excellent reputation. My verdict is: should try harder.

Service was very good and the pudding - vanilla, Cointreau and orange baked Alaska - was sublime. I could sense that it was a work of love, so painstakingly perfect, with lightly browned meringue that was soft and crunchy, and a gorgeous marmalade-y type syrup around the edge.

But the starter and main were, frankly, disappointing. If Burton-Race has not been spending enough time in the kitchen, I would urge him to return. Both plates were lukewarm and lacklustre. The Dartmouth crab tortellini initially had a delightful explosion of flavours in the mouth, but was quickly overwhelmed by coriander. And why was it floating in a tepid fish tasting water? It was neither a reduction or a sauce, and added nothing to the dish.

Blackawton lamb should have been meltingly tender but was hard round the edges. Mum had the pork plate and said it was tough. And to round it off, Hildon water, which as Michael Winner fans will know, is water beyond the pale.

Good luck Plymouth Argyle

Going down to Plymouth this weekend, the old ancestral home. John is staying in London because he's running the Hastings half marathon on Sunday. Last year we took Rachel and stayed the night, but I didn't take to Hastings very much - very scruffy seafront - and it was bitterly cold, so this time I decided to take the opportunity of seeing Giz (mum), Chops (brother) et al.

Our weekends usually follow a set routine of going to Endsleigh garden centre and Buckfast Abbey; having a look at the cemetery at St Mary's Church, playing consequences and having a roast on Sunday - pork or lamb which is not something I do very often as John doesn't like either.

This time our itinerary will be different for a couple of reasons. Plymouth Argyle are playing Watford in the FA cup, at home. None of us is going to the match, but we're going round to Chops' pad to watch it on Sky. It's a revenge match, for what happened in the early 1980s when Watford beat Plymouth 1-0 in the semi final (see an earlier posting). Let's hope Plymouth win. I gather Watford are at the bottom of the Premier so rubbish anyway.

And for the first time, we'll go on a tour of craft shops. I sent Giz on a recce of a craft shop in Ladysmith Road during the week. She was walking in that area, reliving her youth. Grandma and Grandad lived in Mount Gould Road nearby for 54 years. Apparently a family bought the house, so it looks in fairly good nick (we thought it would be turned into flats). But all the fruit trees have gone from the lovely garden.

It used to be paperweights, not craft shops. I stopped collecting paperweights a few years ago (I have about 30) but the best place for buying limited editions still remains the Devon Paperweight Centre at Yelverton.

Hoorah for Charles & Camilla

Prince Charles and Camilla have been in the news in the last week. Camilla went into hospital today for an operation that's been the cause of too much undignified interest among the tabloid press. I hope it all goes well, particularly the long recovery period.

I think we'll all agree that Camilla has risen to the challenge of being Prince Charles' wife very well indeed and does the nation proud on their foreign tours. She has taken to it far better than any of us ever expected.

If only she and Charles had been allowed to marry years ago, we would have avoided the ridiculous charade that's now going on with Mohamed Al Fayed and his ludicrous claims about the royal family trying to kill Diana. Why oh why? She and Charles had been divorced for some time. The French authorities say she was NOT pregnant. I begin to wonder if Al Fayed is losing his marbles. It seems Dame Butler-Sloss might share the same opinion. This very expert legal brain has painstakingly waded through thousands of documents and can see nothing to substantiate his wild claims.

Meanwhile Prince Charles speaks sense (for once) and condemns the Macdonalds burger culture. Hoorah. If we must "save it for a treat," then so be it, but anyone who has seen "Supersize Me" must be aware that this stuff is poison. Macdonalds can talk about their salads as much as they like: if people go there for a burger, they aren't going to have a salad. And if people want salad by choice, they won't go into Macdonalds where they have to tolerate that awful old fat smell. I wish people would vote with their feet but their profits aren't falling anywhere near fast enough.

Spring has arrived!

Finally the sun came out and I was able to dash outside and take some photos of the spring bulbs in all their glory. We planted these back in October and it's always amazing to me to see how the shrivelled little bulbs are transformed. Last year I had some anemone corms, and I didn't know which way up they went (very hard to tell) so I was thrilled to see that most of them flowered.

The pictures aren't great: hopefully I can get John to take some better ones tomorrow. Because then of course I can make a spectacular Spring spread for my scrapbook! I have everything ready and waiting.

One curious thing: when I printed the photo above, it came out fine except for my hair which turned into a cartoon-like purple haze! Quite nice really :-)