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 :-)

Frock Horrors

Come on own up - one of the reasons we like seeing the red carpet parade at the Oscars is to see who blew it, in terms of their dress and hair! I always look forward to the Hello magazine Oscar coverage for this reason.

This year Sky were trumping their high definition coverage, but it turned out to be just a preview show with Fearne Cotton. Very disappointing. She's got the right combination of cheek and bubble but she would have benefitted from having a co-presenter so that when she finished an interview she could turn to someone and chat, instead of inanely looking at the camera and saying "she looked lovely." Patrick Kielty or Graham Norton would be great for this. Maybe we'd get some honest assessments of the frock horrors!

We didn't see all the stars in that prog, but here's my take on the ones we saw. Firstly, what's with that awful beige / nude / skintone colour? It doesn't suit anyone. Even Penelope Cruz looked washed out with a dress the same colour as her skin. She looks so much more vibrant in a colour like red.

Helen Mirren looked wonderful. Usually her dresses are a bit so-so. But this year she looked spectacular. Her figure was amazing for her age. And, good for her, she turned down the pre-Oscars Botox and fillers. Hurrah for a woman who looks great for her age (60) without that spooky, smooth, bland look (Nicole Kidman, Cate Blanchett).

Talking of Cate Blanchett, she looked very skinny in a gunmetal grey tight fitting number. JLO looked huge. I lose track of whether or not she's pregnant; it seems there's a new story every week, so perhaps she is and I've forgotten. If she isn't, she may have been eating too many pies. Jennifer Hudson looked pretty ghastly.

I remember seeing Rachel Weisz but I don't remember what she wore, so it must have been one of those beige numbers. You start to cry out for something emerald or fushsia.

Apart from those ladies, and a couple of others whose names escape me, we didn't see any of the other big stars. So I'll have to wait for Hello to see what Angelina Jolie, Halle Berry, Cameron Diaz, Charlize Theron, Kate Winslett and the other big hitters wore. Renee Zellweger always wears the same style of Caroline Herrera dress, so I don't consider her a contender. Last year's winner for me was Theron in that striking Dior black dress. And Salma Hayek, who was wearing a vivid colour and showcasing a spectacular bosom.

Not to mention our own VB. I'm sure she must have been lurking somewhere. In fact I saw a picture of her at the pre Oscars party, and she did look pretty good in white.

Why it's bad form to ask about the weekend

In the days, a couple of years ago, when I was a singleton there was one question which struck terror into my heart. On a Friday, "what are you doing at the weekend?" and on a Monday, "what did you do at the weekend?"

Quite often I would have a great reply having been to a spa, or down to Plymouth, or a dinner party / cinema / shopping.

But occasionally, if it had been a busy week and I hadn't made any arrangements, I would have to mutter "oh this and that, quite a quiet weekend really," while secretly seething.

The truth is, that when you're out of the first bloom of youth and back on the market after a divorce, it's hard work to organise a social life. Most of your friends are married or coupled up, or, in my case, very far flung because I've lived in so many different places.

Even now that I'm approaching the status of smug married, I still get vexed if I'm asked on Mondays what I did at the weekend. Quite often, it's just "stuff." You know, doing the shopping; housework; going to B&Q to look at light fittings; doing a Sunday roast; going to the gym. But you're made to feel inadequate for not having rushed off paint balling or abseiling whatever it is you're supposed to do at the weekend.

When I was a singleton I was convinced that people were asking me about my weekend for a specific reason. If they were coupled-up, and enjoying the sort of weekend I describe above, they wanted reassurance that even single people have a dull life and are not tripping the light fantastic in London or Las Vegas at the weekend.

I have to confess that on a couple of occasions I did make up some activities I'd done at the weekend, just to confound the questioner. "Oh yes, well on Friday I gave a dinner party for the Saatchis (Nigella and Charles)and Jonathan Ross and his wife Jane, such nice people; on Saturday I went to a burlesque night in London and on Sunday it was great weather for ballooning." The mouths dropped open....

The book within

When I was training to be a journalist a few years ago, one of the reporters who taught us, Reg Scott, who went on to become Lord Mayor of Plymouth, memorably said: "Every journalist should write a bloody book."

The thought's always stayed with me, and even though I turned my back on journalism in 1988 for the odious world of PR and advertising, I've no doubt that oneday I'll churn something out.

It won't be Dostoyevsky though or even a Mills & Boon. I'm afraid that my populist tastes mean that my two book ideas at the moment are:
1) The Potato Diet
2) What happened after Extreme Makeover? (This is probably more like a magazine article than a book).

On (1), back in 2004 I lost around 2.5 stones (that's 35 pounds for my US chums), largely thanks to the potato. At that time Atkins had become all the rage, and I did try it for six weeks but never felt comfortable about the lack of fruit and veg and the disgusting amounts of cream and fat. I started having, every day at the work cafeteria, a jacket potato with smoked mackeral and salad. I had a decent breakfast, and didn't need much for dinner. And gradually the weight fell off, plus I felt good. Potatoes are good for you. They still get a bad press. The GI diet for example only allows new potatoes served with protein to minimise their high GI (or is it a low GI?).

But the whole crux of dieting is that you should find one that works for you, and for me, potatoes are filling and comforting so I'm not bothered about all this pseudo nutritional guff about sugar surges and energy drops. All I know is that when I eat a high protein diet, I'm too fatigued to go to the gym.

The other book idea stems from my fascination with the US (and now UK) programme "Extreme Makeover." I would love to find out what happened a year or so after the makeover. I don't see how you can turn Randy from the Blue Ridge Mountains into a handsome stud who goes home to the wife whose looks approximated his when they married, and not expect trouble. Their confidence must soar; they must suddenly want to become sociable after hiding themselves away. Yet we never hear what happened. What do you think folks? Food for thought, or back to the drawing board?!

Hey laggards - get into the blogosphere

Yo, calling all you 30 and 40 somethings. Where are your blogs, your profiles on Myspace?

Reason I ask is that I've carried out an exhaustive search on Myspace and can't find hardly anyone I know, which, considering that I work in the technology industry, is a bit damning! We should all be role modelling here....

I was hoping to find my lost penpals (see an earlier posting in archive) but I doubt if they're posting in their maiden names. Should anyone know of Cheryl Morris from Mass, US (I can't even remember whereabouts), Karen Walker from Swindon and Julie Cox from Pevensey, Gail Tyler is still looking for them!

I realise that Myspace has a young age base....it seems very big among teenagers and 20 somethings. Bit galling in fact to find your only friend is "Tom" when lots of people have dozens of friends and they're all having a blast.

Still, I seem to be making some friends at my other new site, mybloglog, which I belatedly discovered some months into trying to promote this wretched blog. Hi to any of you guys who are visiting!!

Poor old Britney

I'm normally the first to sigh and say that celebs going into rehab should pull themselves together. But, unusually, I feel some pity - and understanding - for Britney Spears. Firstly, the poor girl is the subject of every tawdry daytime TV show in the UK today, and no doubt many others across the world. They're all analysing why she shaved off her hair and is she close to a breakdown. The reality is, Britney just wants to be left alone, but every thing she does is reported and commented on.

Even if she announced she was retiring, she'd still be photographed going to the supermarket or falling out of a cab. The headlines would just get more derogatory.

I'm sure many women can empathise with the hair thing. It's quite common to cut your hair off after a relationship ends. Britney's is a more desperate act. She was defined by her long blonde hair. She rejected that, dyed it brown. But it still didn't work. Now she shaves it off, to stop stylists fiddling with it and giving her hair extensions (a very tedious business, believe me - I had extensions back in the year 1999 before they were trendy!).

It seems to me Britney must have really loved her husband and she's devastated by the split. It's even worse for her because she has everyone muttering "told you so." She did what quite a few people do after a break-up: she reclaimed her single status and went clubbing. But again, everyone started tutting and asking about the children. The truth is, the children were probably at home being cared for. Not like many of the kids in Britain today who are home alone while their parents go out getting drunk!

Britney checked in for rehab and lasted 1 day. That's because her heart isn't in it, yet. She needs the anaethetising qualities of drink or whatever it is that's propping her up.

We should cut Britney some slack and let her drop gracefully out of public life until she's ready to face celebrity again, if ever.

Friday fun: the dining challenge

I am an inveterate list maker, and not just prior to going to Sainsburys. Life is so much easier when everything is on a list.

In my head I'm always making up lists. My top 10 favourite songs, books, dinner party guests, films, gripes, you name it.

I've been mulling over who I would invite to a dinner party. I'm thinking of people alive and present, not the deceased, although I would probably have a list for that too (Anne of Cleeves, Rasputin, Leonardo, Liberace, Van Gogh etc).

I'd be looking for a combination of wit, intelligence and gossip, maybe with a little controversy. I would invite:

1) Jonathan Ross - I imagine he would be excellent if conversation flagged. He's always got something to say.
2) David Bowie. As Ross is in awe of DB, his presence would stop JR dominating proceedings. Plus he's an interesting cove in his own right (ie my idol since 1972 but that's by-the-by)
3) Princess Stephanie of Monaco. She's just fabulous. I'd love to hear about life at the circus and who she's dating now (I think she's between husbands).
4) Carol McGiffin. She was married to Chris Evans at one time, and is now on "Loose Women" on ITV. Very forthright. We often have the same standpoint. For example: Robbie Williams going into rehab? He's got everything - he should just pull himself together and stop being so self pitying.
5) Rupert Everett. I loved his autobiography. HIs anecdotes would be very droll.
6) Stephen Fry: I imagine he and Rupert could be a scream together.
7) Carol Vorderman: well we all love her.
8) Marguerite Patten: she's such an interesting lady and would have such great stories about austerity in the war, powdered egg and so on.
9) Michael Jackson. Would be interesting to see the real man. And I would ask him about his nose and whether or not he saw Jermaine on CBB.
10) Naomi Campbell. If all else fails she could always start a fight....

The biggest problem in Britain today

The biggest problem in Britain today is one that everyone seems to be avoiding.

Obesity.

Gillian McKeith's programme You Are What You Eat neatly illustrated the scale of the problem this week. Two sisters, both with teenage children, and all of them overweight. The sisters seemed to have normal intelligence. Yet they had no idea about nutrition or what they should be eating. Their habits were appalling, and obviously their children were just going along with it. The kids were being bullied and were miserable about being fat. Yet to start with, they rejected all the healthy foods, and it was ONLY through their fat parents role modelling what to eat, and getting them involved in food preparation, that they started to change their habits.

It's a huge uphill battle because the majority of overweight adults don't want to change their habits. They don't see the connection between the poor health they suffer (arthritic knees, diabetes, heart conditions, high blood pressure, constipation) and the food they consume. Let's face it, it's much harder, and more expensive, to eat healthily. Busy parents who work will find it tough to cook meals from scratch when they get home and have hungry kids to feed. You have to get organised, prepare menus, cook at the weekend and make sufficient quantities to freeze.

The resistance to healthy eating was illustrated by the Rotherham mothers, who, rather than have their children eat the healthy lunches their school was providing, decided to push burgers and chips through the railings. Jamie Oliver's campaign to force the government and schools to provide healthy, freshly cooked meals in place of pre-cooked rubbish like turkey twizzlers and chips, was laudable in that for some children it's the only healthy meal of the day. But it avoids the biggest issue: somehow Britain's parents need to understand the problem, get the message and change their habits.

The repercussions if they don't are already known. Children will die before their parents. The NHS will drown under the weight of obesity-induced illnesses.

Yet I don't see much action. The government introduced some namby pamby traffic lights system to indicate what's in our food, but not all the retailers adopted it, leading to confusion. There's been more investment in school meals: good, but not good enough (we're still below all the other EU countries in terms of amount spent per child). Vending machines in schools are banned from selling chocolate, crisps and sweets. What else?

My immediate suggestions would be to make PE mandatory on the curriculum at all schools (and not just for 30 mins a week) and to reinstate domestic science at all state schools, to try to re-educate on nutrition.

Then we have to tackle the parents. I'm giving this serious thought and would welcome your ideas and support.

Those M&S changing room mirrors

I'm glad to see that former (and still aspiring) politician Robert Kilroy-Silk is keeping his finger on the pulse of the big issues of the day. He's apparently written to Stuart Rose at Marks & Spencer claiming that the women's changing room mirrors give an unfairly flattering aspect (yes flattering).

I was pretty gobsmacked at this because I distinctly recall an incident involving myself, an M&S changing room, two pairs of trousers and a mirror, just before Christmas. Suffice to say, they must be skimping on fabric these days and the trousers went unbought.

I was going to write to Mr Rose myself (I think we could enjoy a flourishing correspondence) to urge him to improve the changing rooms: to provide more flattering mirrors and less harsh lighting.

Mr Kilroy-Silk's data seems to be anecdotal, and therefore not robust: his wife and "some of our friends" claims the mirrors are flattering. So what? They buy the clothes and find they hate them when they get home? Big deal - take them back.

I'd suggest to Mr Kilroy-Silk that he takes up some more important issues. How about today's report that the UK is at the bottom of a Unicef league table showing that our kids have the worst life in Europe (and even the US), and that our poverty levels are worse than countries we often look down on - Greece, Czech Republic, Poland. That's a far more substantial issue.

Giving me the needle

One of life's most terrifying questions to me is: Can you sew?
The answer is No, and I won't even try now. Trousers needing hemming are outsourced to the dry cleaner's, or sometimes, shamefully, velcro is deployed.
My mum Giz is equally as bad. To both of us, the words "fancy dress party" were enough to bring on an aneurysm. She laboured all night once to produce a yellow rosette for Chops. He was too embarrassed to wear it. Another time, she chose to send me to a fancy dress party as a "flowergirl," which meant wearing a normal party frock and a headdress she had laboriously stitched with flowers. "What's a flowergirl?" I asked, mystified. Giz's piece de resistance was me as a Pilgrim mother. We were performing the Pilgrim Fathers something-or-other at the Polytechnic on closed circuit TV, and Giz was instructed to make me a suitable outfit. My apron was superb: a pillow case hanging from string round my waist.
Mind you, my sewing was no better. It was responsible for nearly all the humiliations I suffered at school, starting at age 9 with the ridiculous and cruel Mrs Thompson (catchphase: "hands on heads, arms folded, fingers on lips").
We all had to embroider a piece of binker, it was called (a holey piece of cloth), followed by a piece of, well, sacking. Even the boys. And one memorable day, she held up one piece and derided it saying even the boys could have done better. It was mine, of course. Moving to PGS, domestic science lessons were even worse for me than maths lessons. Two back-to-back classes on a Thursday afternoon with the acerbic Miss Coleman. Unfortunately, progressing to a sewing machine, the formidable Viking Husqvarna, didn't do me any favours. I found it very difficult to thread the damn thing and could never get any momentum once it was threaded. Miss Coleman decided once to tell the class that instead of a brain in my head, I had a turnip on my shoulders (I must have been the precursor of Graham Taylor).
I never finished anything I started. In the first year, we had to make aprons lined with bias binding in the colour of our house. Fortunately my friend Shonagh finished mine in the summer holidays. Then I had to make a kind of smock top out of flowery fabric. Never finished. Finally, in the third form, I chose to make a knee length navy skirt, thinking it would be farly easy. Miss Coleman summoned me during a break to put it on, and then made me model it in front of the fifth form girls, the ones who'd chosen to do O level domestic science and were therefore good at it, so they all sniggered. That skirt was never finished either.
It's a shame really because I would love to be able to make myself clothes that no-one else has got, that fit perfectly, using Vogue patterns. It's a mystery to Giz and me where her mother's sewing ability went. Grandma was superb - she made Giz's wedding dress, Elizabethan with a stand-up collar. She could dance too, and neither Giz nor I can. Still, looking on the bright side, I don't suppose Grandma could name 10 species of British bat, and Giz and I can both do that.

Greetings from California

Temperatures reached a fairly unseasonal 79 fahrenhait in southern California today. Not that I was able to sunbathe and enjoy it. I'm incarcerated in air conditioned (ie cold) buildings, attending the annual sales & marketing conference. It's my 10th consecutive conference.

The flight out, on Friday, was fairly uneventful. I didn't get upgraded, nor did I get a room on the executive floor of the hotel- unlike some smug colleagues who somehow managed to wangle it!

I saw "The Queen" on the flight and Helen Mirren was certainly remarkable in the role. She just IS the Queen after a short while, unlike the characters of Pricne Charles and Tony Blair who seem like caricatures.

Anyway, after arriving at our hotel, I managed to stay awake until 8pm, then allowed myself to go to sleep. Miraculously, I slept until the alarm went off at 7am! Now that did make my colleagues jealous.

There won't be any postings from me until I get back to blighty on Thursday.....

Already looking forward to having a ruby and watching decent TV!