When the lights went out ...

THERE I was on Saturday, fresh from the shower and looking forward to a day of recreation. Then the lights went out. And it wasn’t just the lights. The house was silent. No chugging fridge or whirring Sky box. Nothing. And, judging by the twitching curtains down the road, the rest of the street was in the same boat.
It turned out that Pylons-R-Us, or whoever controls our electricity supplies these days, had decided to switch off the power without so much as a by your leave, a card through the letterbox or a polite knock on the door. This was not particularly helpful, especially to the neighbour who had been enjoying a leisurely shower when the deed was done.
Meanwhile, I had my own mini crisis because, towel wrapped around my head, I had been about to blow-dry my hair. OK, to most people having soaking wet hair might not rate very high on the scale of human suffering, but if you’d ever been unfortunate enough to see my hair without the aid of volumising blow-drying and ceramic straighteners, you’d think otherwise.
And, the thing is, until all the power goes out, you don’t realise just how hamstrung you are without electricity. And I don’t just mean the discovery that nowhere in the house do we have a mirror placed near any natural light source, hampering my attempts to put in emergency Velcro-rollers.
You soon discover it’s very near impossible to do anything in a modern house without the aid of electricity.
Now I’ve experienced plenty of power cuts. Back in the 1970s, when I was very little, power cuts were a regular occurrence. In fact, thanks to a long and drawn-out power worker’s dispute, we had regular, even scheduled, power cuts. You’d look in that day’s paper to find out at what time, and for how long, yours would be. And then you just got on with it.
You lit a few candles and played Ludo – it really wasn’t that much of a hardship and was quite an adventure for a toddler. But we’ve come a long way since then and we rely on electricity for practically everything. Back in the 70s, you might have only had heating on one floor but it was a gas fire lit by a match and unaffected by power cuts.
So, on a Saturday morning in 2008, not only do we find ourselves with no lighting and – heaven help us – no television, we also have no heating. There’s no chance of a cheering cuppa because we have no way to boil a kettle. Even the hob needs electricity to light. Although the laptop is charged, there is little point in switching it on; no power means no Internet. And with every minute that passes, you can just hear your frozen food thawing out.
As it turned out, the power was out for less than an hour so I didn’t have to break out the Trevor Bayliss wind-up radio/torch/beacon/siren combination we had bought “in case of emergencies”. Quite what this emergency might be I’m not sure – perhaps an 8.3 earthquake hitting Mickleover? But, with the first-aid box, tins of soup and bottles of water stashed in the pantry, it constitutes our emergency kit as suggested by that government booklet sent out a couple of years ago. Of course it didn’t suggest just how we are supposed to heat said soup. But then I am beginning to suspect that the real point of the leaflet was to give us something to do rather than actually help us.
What I really needed on Saturday was a leaflet entitled: “20 Ways To Style Your Hair When the Power’s Off.” Or, better still, a wind-up blow-dryer.
I might just drop Mr Bayliss a line about that one.

Making the best of a bad job

I RAN into an old work colleague the other day and, as great as it was to catch up, it left me wondering how we could both have such fond memories of working in a place that was, quite honestly, horrible.
We were treated as an inconvenience: always the last to know but the first to be blamed. Our one toilet doubled up as a shared locker, and we had only one chair between six of us.
If we were lucky enough to get a lunch break, the only place to munch our sandwiches was sitting on the stairs leading to the basement. We were so understaffed that we worked an hour late and came in an hour early every day. All for no extra pay.
When business suddenly tailed off, our boss insisted that, rather than allow rival companies to realise what was happening, each of us should take a turn walking around the town for an hour, so those left behind would at least appear busy.
Yet, while staff moral was low, camaraderie was sky high. I’m sure you can imagine though, after a year of being treated like this, I wasn’t the only one at the Christmas bash who over-indulged at the free bar. The next morning, of course, complete with what I am pleased to say was the worst and last hangover of my life, turning up for work was even more depressing than ever.
A friend reckons that you don’t know you’ve got a good job until you’ve had a bad one. But being well looked after by your boss is no guarantee of workplace happiness. If the chemistry’s wrong your colleagues can be every bit as aggravating.
I’ve been very lucky – most of the people with whom I’ve worked have become friends. But we’ve probably all worked somewhere where office politics and cliques have been an integral and very unpleasant, part of the environment. It’s funny how so-called professional rivalry has the habit of making people behave in an entirely unprofessional manner. And even in the most serene office environment, there are things about your workmates that can drive you mad.
Take, for example, staff rooms. I once shared one with colleagues who never cleaned up after themselves. They could see nothing wrong with crumby worktops, gunky plugholes and slimy crockery. I stopped using the fridge completely when I opened it to discover the cure for something growing at the bottom.
Not that I lay any claim to being the perfect co-worker either. I have what I describe as sa pecial system of pyramid filing. Others may choose to call it a great big wobbly pile of papers on my desk, but, believe me, I know what I’m doing. Besides, I once read a study that said a messy desk is the sign of an organised mind. And then there’s that whole empty desk equals empty mind thing. I really don’t do it to annoy my work mates. Although I have to admit the temptation to aggravate does occasionally overtake even me.
Years ago, I worked with someone who was tidy to the point of obsession. Every pen, pencil, notebook, telephone and tissue box was lined up at precisely 90 degrees to the desk. Even her coffee mug had a special spot. But, rather than being irritating, this little trait actually inspired quite an entertaining game.
While she was out of her office, I’d move a pencil a degree or two out of alignment. Then through the glass door I’d watch as she returned and, a split second later, as she formed a puzzled frown swooped across the room to replace the errant object. It was petty, I know, but come on there’s really only so much perfection a girl can take!

There's no need to be down in the mouth!

Visiting the dentist is never a pleasant experience. Being tipped upsidedown, poked, prodded and scraped is no-one's idea of fun. Especially when there's always the possibility that you might have to undergo the whole ordeal again, this time accompanied by the sound of a drill squealing through your skull. So when I was given the all-clear recently, I was pleased enough. Until, as I was jumping down from the chair, the dentist asked: "Have you ever had a problem with your smile?" What sort of a question is that? My mouth opens and closes just fine. And I seemed to be able to form a smile, although by this point it was becoming ever more strained. I sensed that what he was really asking me was whether complete strangers came up to me in the street to tell me that my teeth were crooked. OK, they may not be perfectly straight or blindingly white, and my smile is a bit gummy, but I'm pretty sure they're not that bad. Yet all of this could be easily fixed, apparently, and the dentist seemed disappointed when I declined the chance to look like a toothpaste ad. Besides, I hardly dared ask the cost, having already had to force down a gulp at the price of a check-up and scale and polish. I suppose the credit crunch bites for dentists too. After all, someone has to pay for the leather sofas and original artwork in the reception. Obviously, I'm not going to identify the dentist concerned. The idea of pointing the finger at someone who may one day be hovering over my delicate gums wielding a sharp needle and a vibrating drill seems just the least bit foolish. But it left me wondering just what defines perfection and how far are we prepared to go to achieve it? Out of curiosity, when I got home, I consulted the internet – always the Font of All Knowledge, after all – to find the answer.
Apparently there are set "rules" for what constitutes a "perfect" smile. "Ideally," the rules state, "only the pink triangular parts of the gum between the teeth show."But, it notes, an "irregular gum line" – clearly I have one of these – can be easily "corrected". It's all to do with something called the "Golden Proportion". The Ancient Greeks discovered it, and before you ask what they knew about cosmetic dentistry, apparently it applies to all things in nature.In dentistry terms, this means that each tooth should be a certain size and dimension in relation to those that surround it. There was also a lot of talk about symmetry. But, in my experience, symmetry has very little to do with beauty. Take supermodel Kate Moss or actress Keira Knightly. Both women are undoubtedly beautiful and neither seem troubled by not having what you'd call the perfect smile The Americans, of course, have a completely different attitude. To us Brits, "bad teeth" means that they are going rotten; to our friends across the Pond, they are simply uneven.
But the fact is that Mother Nature knows little of such perfection, so anything altered to appear so is, well, plainly artificial.
If you happen to be lucky enough to have been blessed with naturally even, pearly-white teeth, then that's wonderful, but for the rest of us, why the urgency for perfection? If everyone had the correct formula for a perfect smile, surely every grin would look the same as the next. And where do you stop? Supposing I have my smile "corrected", do I then need to inflate my lips, paralyse my frown and have someone vacuum up the fat from my love handles?
When I think of it like that, I'd rather stick with my God-given quirky flaws.

Raise the song of harvest-home!

WITH food prices marching ever upward, I can’t be the only one whose trips to the supermarket are becoming more considered, these days. Last week I was about to pick up the fancy French conserve that is thrice the price of the budget version. Then it occurred to me that I buy it only because it tastes “homemade”. So did I really need to pay over the odds for something I could easily make myself?.
You see, this is my favourite time of year. The minute it begins to get just that little bit back-endish, I’m off in a flurry of pie baking and soup making. Now, though, it’s also making economic sense.
Nearby, I noticed a huge pile of strawberries, all “reduced to clear”. They may not have been the prettiest, shiniest, shapeliest berries (although experience has taught me that visual perfection has little to do with flavour), but they were fresh enough. What’s more, there were also blackberries. And I hadn’t tasted blackberry jam since childhood.
When I was small, we had ancient wild bramble bushes at the bottom of our garden. Long, late summer days always seemed to end in trips to the brambles, bowl in hand, hunting for the juiciest, ripest berries. Even the necessary thorn pricks and inevitable inky-purple stained fingertips were worth the reward of all things blackberry: pies, crumbles, fools and jam.
Just the sight of them in the supermarket made me yearn for those days and I couldn’t resist. An afternoon in the kitchen filled the pantry with jams and stacked the freezer with fruit pies.
Actually I’m getting scarily domesticated. I’ve even started gardening. Well, growing salad leaves at any rate. I did make several squirrel-spoiled attempts at pumpkins, but this year I was determined to branch out.
I realise that veteran allotment owners out there might not be too impressed by the 122g of short, bendy carrots that I harvested last week, but I thought I did quite well for a first attempt. And mighty nice they tasted too.
Next year, of course, I’ll know that if you want six-inch long carrots, you need to give them at least that much depth of soil … but I’ve seen Gardener’s World; even the experts don’t always get it right.
Even for the newbie veggie grower, it can get pretty competitive. As I patted myself on the back for my carrots, a friend texted me with a picture of her bumper potato crop. Well I couldn’t let that go, so I countered with a snap of my carrots (with nothing to measure their size against, they looked rather impressive) and, for good measure, threw in one of the large, juicy, ripe peach that had unexpectedly sprung up on the patio tree.
Soon, I suppose, I’ll be getting photographs of bountiful beans and tons of tomatoes. But just wait until next year …
While I can’t imagine myself ever knitting my own muesli, or turning the garden into a set for The Good Life, I’m determined to expand, although my loathing of garden creepy crawlies means my family reckon I’m much more a Margot than a Barbara.
Nevertheless, all that sowing and tending, and waiting for the weather and Mother Nature to do their magic, keeps you in touch with the turning seasons in a way that purchasing packaged, out-of-season produce, not to mention processed foods, never can.
Even buying locally grown in-season fruit and veg will do that. And while I won’t claim that it’s going to save the planet, it’s certainly not doing it any harm.
And, you know, I’ve a hunch that, with cost of living skyrocketing, I’m not going to be the only novice veggie grower, or careful shopper, enjoying a sense of self-satisfaction, come next year’s harvest.

Sweet nostalgia!

IT was a trip to Matlock Bath that brought back memories of my childhood. Although I'd passed through many times on my way to Bakewell, it had been years since I stopped off there.

Now a walk around Derbyshire's very own "seaside" resort was like taking a trip back in time, with its kiss-me-quick cheerfulness, ice-cream kiosks and fish and chip shops.

But this is Derbyshire, so rock shops here are full of fluorite and Blue John, rather than sticks of the seaside version. Nonetheless, there are still plenty of places peddling fudge and candy floss.

There's nothing like a sugary trip down memory lane and the shops that particularly took my fancy were the old-fashioned sweet shops. In one I stared wide-eyed at shelf upon shelf of huge jars of traditional sweets.

From sherbet pips to cinder toffee, sarsaparilla tablets, bulls' eyes, floral gums and barley sugar. Name any old sweetie and I'll bet it was there.


The shop also had a huge selection of liquorice products: wands and wheels and fudge as well as liquorice-filled chocolate. I didn't really like the sound of that. Actually I didn't like the sound of any of them, since I've always loathed liquorice. So much so that, to avoid it, I always ate my sherbet fountains with a spoon.

One of the delights of a visit to Chesterfield was that wonderful fragrance that hit you the second you stepped off the train: the smell of Refreshers coming from the Trebor factory

As an adult I visited Hershey, Pennsylvania, where the intoxicating aroma of chocolate fills the air. Mind you, there is a town that celebrates candy; even the street lamps resemble chocolates.

Every summer, in homage to my schooldays, I treat myself to a pick-and-mix bag. Such things were usually reserved for school holidays because it was all too easy to spend a small fortune filling up those huge paper bags with sweets.

What I was allowed to have every week was the wonderful tenpenny bag. Which for today's kids would probably cost about a pound.

Funny isn't it, how when you get all nostalgic, you end up turning into your parents? But when I was a little girl, ten pence worth of sweeties could last you all weekend. I reckon for that amount I could get a toffee log, a couple of flying saucers, a chocolate saw, some parma violets, a marshmallow cable and four halfpenny chews. Sometimes, though, I just blew the lot on some Love Hearts and a candy watch.

We had plenty of novelty sweets, too. We were the first generation to experience Space Candy, a sweet that exploded alarmingly in your mouth when you dropped some on your tongue. It was utterly compulsive, if slightly unpleasant. If you dipped in the packet with a wet finger you ran the risk of activating the candy before it reached your mouth, so popping some in the direction of your eye. Health and safety would have had a field day.

Yes, eating sweets can be hazardous. We've probably all lemonade-crystalled ourselves into sneezing fits. And you underestimate the tongue-slicing power of a cracked sherbet lemon only once.

Back in Matlock Bath I decided to try a bag of "Derbyshire Mix". I'd never heard of that before and feared it might be a modern invention, but oh what a treasure trove it proved to be: humbugs, and fruit rock, rhubarb and custards, and satin pillows aplenty.

I tried to resist but had got only as far as Cromford before giving up any pretence of maturity and taking a sneaky dip-in. But then I was betrayed to my fellow bus passengers by a pear drop-induced coughing fit.

I thought briefly about offering the bag around, but held back. Some things you just have to indulge in by yourself.

Stop me and sell one?

IT’S getting harder and harder to get across Derby city centre without being waylaid by someone with a clipboard. Whether they’re trying to sign me up to their catalogue or sell me car insurance, I seem to be a particular target. I think they assume I must be married or cohabiting, or have children, or drive a car. Doesn’t everybody?
Well, no actually. And once they discover that I don’t fit their demographic profile, they invariably send me on my way with: “Oh, I’m sorry.” As if I should be disappointed that I can’t help them fill out their forms.
There seems to be a remarkable illogic to it all. A few years ago there was a trend for legal companies wanting to help you sue someone who might have been responsible for a mishap.
“Have you had an accident?” they would ask as they stepped out in front of you, almost causing one of their own. I can’t count the number of times I was stopped by these people. Until, that was, the six weeks I spent hobbling through town on two crutches.
Time after time I passed by the same people, who now seemed blind to my obvious impairment. Actually, my accident was largely self-inflicted, so I’d probably have had to sue myself. Nowadays the only people who don’t stop me are the ones giving away free samples of things I might actually want, like chocolate.
I don’t object to people trying to earn an honest living. It’s better than hanging around on street corners – although I suppose that’s precisely what they are doing. No, what annoy me are the looks of abject surprise when I don’t want to sign up to the latest offer. Clearly I have taken leave of my senses. I mean, who wouldn’t want a new credit card/insurance policy/health club membership?
You do have to give these clipboard pests credit, though. Because some are so devoted to their cause that even inclement weather won’t deter them.
During a recent spell of bad weather, I watched from my sheltering spot in a shop doorway as a representative of an energy provider attempted to persuade passing Derbeians to sign to his company. You had to admire his persistence. It was teeming it down, people were hurrying past and yet, despite raindrops falling from his nose, he continued his relentless pursuit.
Only two actually listened. One of those stopped only because the red man on the pelican crossing had prevented her escape. The other decided to chastise him. Yet, even as she disappeared into the distance, his sales patter continued, rising a decibel for every step she took away from him. I wondered whether he’d get a single taker all day.
Aside from the obvious security risks of handing over your personal details in the middle of St Peter’s Street, do people really sign up right there and then? Nowadays, even charities have begun to use this technique. Don’t you miss the days when fundraisers stood on street corners rattling collection tins?
Even the wonderful Westfield Centre doesn’t provide much refuge. And there we have another niggling group of people: the ones who try to spray perfume, curl your hair, or massage cream into your hands.
To be honest, my patience is beginning to wear thin. They seem to station themselves at the narrowest crossing point, preventing any chance of escape. I don’t mind them asking once, but how maddening is it when, having collared you going in one direction, the same sales person literally corners you on the way back?
Actually – accidentally as it happens – I discovered an effective tactic for discouraging them. When one young lady grabbed my hand offering to attend to my cuticles, I carefully explained that I sometimes had a nasty reaction to skin creams. She looked horrified and withdrew immediately.
So now when I’m stopped, one of the first things I mention is “allergic rash”. You’d be amazed just how quickly they scatter. If only the clipboard people were so easily deterred.

Remember the days of the old school yard?

THEY say you should never go back. Well, I’m glad I just did. What a pleasure it was to attend the open day at Dale Community Primary School, Normanton, held as part of the celebrations to mark the school’s 100th birthday.
I was at Dale between January 1974 and July 1980, and with many talented teachers who made lessons fun and inspiring, we looked forward to each new day. Without doubt, it was the happiest time of my childhood.
On this open day there were lots of reminiscences about our wonderful headmistress, Miss Clarke, and her colleagues. Of course, there was sadness as we remembered those who’ve passed away, but mostly there was joy at meeting familiar faces from the past, and making the acquaintance of former pupils from other eras.
Barbara Brocklehurst, now one of Dale’s teaching assistants, used to be a “mum at the school gate” when I was little and it was good to catch up with her. And I was so pleased to be reunited with Mrs Bowen, one of Miss Clarke’s deputies, without whom the annual summer fairs just wouldn’t have been the same.
It was also lovely to have a good long chat with Mrs Fox, who, together with Mrs Salmon, helped to run the school like clockwork. Together we looked at old photographs gathered by former staff and pupils, and by Living Derby. We shared memories of some of my favourite teachers like Mrs Smith, Miss Roberts, Mrs Wilson and Mr Odell.
Mrs Fox’s most important task, as far as the children were concerned, was taking care of our bumps and scrapes. She was always there with a comforting word and a kind smile and, of course, a dab of “magic” – tincture of iodine. It stung like crazy, but we all wore our yellow-stained skinned knees with pride. No school year would be complete without a few visits to Mrs Fox’s room.
Ian McMahon was there, as always. He joined Dale when I was in the third year of juniors, right at the beginning of his teaching career. The driving force behind much of the school’s sporting success, he also happens to be a darned good teacher and, during the day, was the butt of quite a few jokes; a sure sign of respect and affection. Present-day Dale pupils were fascinated with tales of his platform shoes. Well, sad to say, I am old enough to remember their debut at a school disco about 1979.
Accompanied by current headteacher Linda Sullivan, I took a tour of the school. Going back into those little classrooms, almost 28 years to the day since I last walked through the gates, was certainly an emotional experience; but it was also fascinating. There’s a new dining room and hall; an old hall divided into classrooms; blackboards replaced by interactive white boards; and even indoor plumbing.
But it was the similarities that struck me most. There’s no doubt that formal education is taken very seriously at Dale, but still evident among present-day staff and pupils is that sense of shaping a new generation of young people, socially as well as intellectually.
And that balancing act can be no mean feat. The school’s catchment area has never been one of Derby’s wealthiest, and many of its pupils come from homes where English is a second language. But Dale always provided its own very close community and continues to do so. It’s a happy school, and it was a delight to go back. I hope it won’t have been for the last time.
Living Derby is helping Dale compile a book to mark the centenary and encourage anyone with memories or photographs of their days there to get in touch. They can be contacted through the school, or by emailing info@livingderby.com.

ENDS

Wheezy come, wheezy go?

I’VE never been one to run to the doctor’s at the first sign of a sneeze. In fact, I could manage for years without going near the place. But now a reluctant trip to the surgery has given me a new lease of life. After years of assuming that the wheezing and coughing that I’ve intermittently experienced was part of the allergies from which I’ve suffered since I was a baby, I was beginning to suspect there was something else going on.
Occasionally, you see, the coughing would result in puffing, and louder wheezing, and a breathing pattern that would run away with itself. If I’d been honest with myself, I’d have realised that these “dos” were triggered, not just by exposure to pollen, but by a range of other things like traffic fumes, wet paint and cigarette smoke.
But a long-standing, if irrational, fear of the doctor’s had helped convince me that, even if I did have the condition I suspected – asthma – then I could look after it myself. Besides, I was doing the NHS a favour by not placing a further burden on its already creaking system. In its 60 years, the guardian of our healthcare has remained largely the pride of the nation, but in many ways it’s been a victim of its own success: more people cured means more people around to need other treatment. In truth, of course, I was being far from altruistic. I’ve inherited my paternal grandmother’s anxiety about doctors. She would probably have removed her own appendix if she’d had to.
Two months ago, matters were taken out of my hands when I had what turned out to be a proper asthma attack in front of assembled loved ones. With witnesses, I knew I could avoid the doctor no longer. Once my appointment was made, I managed to fill in the intervening three hours winding myself up into a panic. What if I was wrong? What if my extensive trawl of the internet had failed to reveal some terrible disease? I could have Blackwater Fever, Ross River virus, or some other dreadful illness.
Of course, I am a typical victim of the information age. Inundated with medical information from television dramas and documentaries, the internet and newspapers, I daren’t even look at health articles in women’s magazines. Because, less than 24 hours after reading the symptom checklists, I’ll have developed four or five of them. This time, despite my legs wanting to walk in another direction, I made it to the surgery.
And there’s really nothing like sitting in front of a doctor to make you face the truth: which was that I struggled so much, and so often, that I automatically avoided spending much time outdoors, taking long walks, or doing anything very active when the pollen count was high or the wind blustery. Without realising it, I was missing out on many of the things I’d previously loved.
After a detailed consultation, measuring my peak flow each day, trials of anti-asthma drugs, and a couple more visits to the doctor, my amateur diagnosis was confirmed: I officially have asthma.
Initially, I felt much better just knowing what was wrong. I did research and became an asthma bore to everyone who made the mistake of asking how I was. Then I had a wobble. I started to worry that I had become one of those characters in Victorian children’s fiction: the invalid weakling cousin forced to spend her days indoors. Of course, this picture is entirely outdated. Modern treatments, many pioneered right here in Derby, mean that most of this country’s eight million sufferers can live almost normal lives. For me, it’s transformed the way I feel, live and act.
Rather than being the one hiding indoors, I’m now the one suggesting meals in the garden, walks to the supermarket, even trips to flower shows. I curse myself for not going to the doctor’s much sooner. Because yes, having asthma is scary. Yes, it can be debilitating. But in all likelihood it can be easily controlled – you just have to respect it and then you can go on living.

Being pale is not a crime!

WHAT is this obsession with getting the perfect tan? I don’t mean by roasting yourself in actual sunlight. Let’s face it, chances are that the long-term sun worshipper risks the permanent appearance of a wrinkled prune, never mind the well-documented health risks.
No, I’m talking about that WAG favourite: the fake tan.
Come on, admit it. If you’re a girl of Northern European complexion, you’ve probably been slathering it on by the bucket load. Now I’m beginning to think I may be the only pale woman left in Britain.
You see, this year I decided to go “au natural”. Not, you understand, that I’m in any way opposed to artifice. I rarely leave the house without a decent coat of make-up and my hair long since lost its colour virginity.
But, while I might, from time to time, assume the mane of a blonde or redhead, I’ve become bored by the weekly ritual of streaky ankles, orange fingertips and the constant aroma of digestive biscuits.
OK, I’ve never been what you’d call a natural beach bunny. At the first sign of sunlight I encase myself in layers of clothing and SPF50. But this year I’m content to be what I am: fair and freckly.
Yet this seems to bother other people. Just try being truly pale and buying make-up. Assuming you can find a colour that matches your ivory tones, you still can’t go to a beauty counter without the saleswoman setting about “warming you up” with her latest bronzer.
Why do I need to be golden to be happy? I’m not sad, I’m not sick. I’m just pale.
You might be wondering why my photograph shows me with a decidedly golden glow. Let’s just say that without the intervention of Photoshop, all you’d see would be a mop of hair and a pair of eyes.
Last year, The Year Without Summer, I’d gradually allowed my fake tan routine to slide. There’d been no sunshine, so absolutely no-one had acquired a natural tan. Everyone knew that all those golden girls were faking it; it didn’t seem necessary to go through all that rigmarole.
Until, that was, a young man promoting a new beauty salon stopped me in the middle of Derby. I say stopped, it was more like grabbed, but anyway, he kindly informed me that I looked “in need of a makeover” and invited me to visit the establishment.
Perhaps I’m being harsh on the lad. Perhaps he was showing refreshing honesty rather than relying on outrageous, if predictable, flattery. But it struck me that he might be a more successful salesman if he avoided insulting potential clients.
Could I possibly look that bad? I called on my so-called friend for moral support. She said I looked “a bit peaky” which is code for: “To be honest, you look so pale I want to bring you smelling salts.”
I protested: “But I’m not ill. This is what I look like. All the time. Underneath all that blusher – this is me.”
She looked confused and then her faux-glowed nose crinkled up in sympathy. It wasn’t the reaction I’d hoped for, but it was the moment I decided to stop pretending. To embrace my natural pallor and play the pseudo-sun-kissed game no more. To just be me: pale – and content.
And I’m not the only one rebelling: there’s even a Facebook group for those who refuse to conceal their alabaster skin. It’s not because we don’t care, or because we’re ill, or even that we’re being brave. It’s just that we’re, well, comfortable in our own skin.

No Henman - no summer?

WHAT are we going to do without Tim Henman? As if having no England football team to support wasn’t bad enough, we now have the prospect of a fortnight of Wimbledon without Tiger Tim to cheer on/ anguish over.
Since our favourite tennis ace announced his retirement last year I’ve been wondering what on earth I was going to worry about all summer long. No more can I indulge in my annual ritual of initial optimism and excitement, followed by anxiety and eventual disappointment.
At least, I thought, there’ll be Euro 2008 to watch. That’s sure to end in a dramatic penalty shoot-out exit for the English at least. What more could we want? Of course, thanks to a dispassionate qualifying campaign, our brave boys were all sitting on the beach somewhere, while I tried to find solace in supporting Sweden and Spain
It’s not been a good year for us Brits. Eurovision was a disaster. It’s not a sport, but it’s scarcely a song contest either. And if we ever needed a reminder of just how few friends our country has, then Eurovision is it.
Not that we mind being up against it. We’re very comfortable with battling the odds, punching above our weight, and all the other clichés we love to cling to. It’s our thing. It’s what we do best and without someone to get behind, the Brits are lost.
We need someone to drive us to distraction and worry us silly. Especially those of us who follow the fortunes, or rather misfortunes, of Derby County. Let’s be honest, all the worrying, even the tension. was over by Christmas. After that, it was more of an endurance test as our beloved Rams tested the theory of “just how bad can it get?”
Soon, we’ll have the Olympics, of course, and doubtless we’ll find ourselves temporary experts of Greco-Roman wrestling if one of our own starts to do well. Remember how, for five days, we all loved curling?
But back to the tennis, where we do at least have Andy Murray. But then he seems a young man remarkably reluctant in his Britishness. Fair enough, if he prefers to be Scottish alone then that’s OK. I still consider Scotland part of the UK, and I do have Scottish blood.
But there’s something else that prevents me from wholeheartedly throwing my enthusiasm behind him. From his acquired mid-Atlantic drawl, to his hangdog body language, there’s something decidedly discomforting about him.
Something tells me that Mr Murray is not exactly enamoured with the sport at which he excels. It’s difficult to get behind someone, to live and die with every serve, volley and smash, when you’re not quite sure they care themselves.
We Brits like our sporting heroes to have old-fashioned gumption, to hold on to the very last, to fight, to work, to show that good-old bulldog spirit, whether they win or not. We want them to draw every last breath out of us, to tie our guts up in knots and make us gnaw on our nails. Somehow Murray has so far fallen short.
Perhaps I’ll have to rely on the world of motor sport. F1’s young Lewis Hamilton is a wonderful prospect - talented, successful, dashing, happy to be British. And, if recent weeks are anything to go by, he’s possessed of that essential trait of all true British sporting heroes: the ability to shoot himself in the foot from time to time.
Well, if there were no chance of him messing it up, it just wouldn’t be fun, now would it?

A degree of uncertainty?

Is someone trying to tell me something? In the last week I’ve received no fewer than four e-mails from educational establishments offering the “degree you’ve always deserved”. How do they know I deserve one? Or, for that matter, that I don’t already have one?
As it happens I was one of only four of our 40-strong sixth form not to opt for uni. I’d had enough of lectures and essays and attempting to cram 200 years of British and European history for a three-hour exam. Subsequently, I’ve gone through life degree-free and perfectly happy.
Until, that is, all these e-mails arrived. When four different universities declare you have “unfulfilled potential”, and offer courses especially tailored to the “requirements of the mature working person”, you just have to take a closer look.
But what course might I choose? I got a decent pass at A-level geography, and so began there. Now, come on don’t laugh, there’s much more to it than pointing out Dar es Salaam on a map. As it happened the universities were similarly unimpressed: not one offered any such degree.
The point I’d missed, of course, was that what these universities have in common – aside from having no campuses other than a computer server (that alone should probably have alerted me) – is that they offer “Life Experience” degrees based on the knowledge you already have.
I began to consider my own great bank of accumulated knowledge.
What kind of degree could I get? The history of Star Trek? Shopping telly? The long-term psychological effects of supporting Derby County? Unfortunately, none of these options were on offer, so I turned to the find-your-degree guide.
It turned out that five years of Sunday School entitled me to a bachelor’s in Bible studies. And successfully balancing my cheque book for the last 20 years should see me all right for a doctorate in economics. OK, it took me two attempts to pass my O-level, but I’ve never failed a maths test since.
But I was a little concerned by the reassurance that I had “worked for this degree no less than someone who sat in a classroom”. I mean, there wasn’t even an examination to pass. These degrees were intended for someone in search of an ego boost. Someone who felt they deserved recognition.
And recognition, of course, comes at a price. Although the precise cost was not readily displayed on any of the websites.
I wondered, then, other than providing that ego massage, what use a phoney degree might be. Despite assurances that I could include it on my CV, business card, passport or any other official document I fill out, surely doing so might well prove fraudulent?
Indeed, a quick internet surf revealed a story about several New York City fire fighters who were arrested for purchasing bogus diplomas in order to earn promotions; and another report that several on-line universities were shut down some years ago when it was discovered that hundreds of unqualified people in the US and UK had used their fake qualifications to get jobs as computer experts and, even more worryingly, as teachers.
With fake degrees available to anyone with access to the internet and a credit card, where could it end? With people walking around giving out medical advice based only on ten years of watching Casualty? The mind surely boggles.
Personally I think my ego’s content to go on acquiring the random bits of trivia that occupy my brain and not worry about a degree. It seems to have worked so far. It’s what they used to call the University of Life.

It's an age thing.

HERE’S a cautionary tale. When we were at school, some 20 years ago, someone of my acquaintance was two years older than me. Since achieving professional renown, he now claims to be two years my junior. Any one of more than 200 people from his year could expose him as a forty-something and yet he persists.
So why do people lie about their age? I used to lie about mine. But I was 16 and trying to get served in a pub.

Nowadays, of course, I’d like to claim to be younger, but it’s fraught with problems. Lie too much and you run the risk of looking haggard for your “age”. And if you run into someone with whom you went to school, well the game’s quickly over.Age, of course, is one of the few things we can do nothing to change. No amount of skin creams, or Botox, or exercise will make me any younger. They might make me feel or look more youthful. But the fact is, I’m 39 and I’m only going to get older.
But is it any wonder we’re tempted to lie about our age? Age has become the ultimate label with which we identify and divide people; it’s hardly surprising we are so keen to conceal it.

Yet when we were children we scraped every last fraction into our age. We were four and a half, eight and three-quarters, and nearly ten. Adulthood changes this. A few months ago, a visitor to the house asked me how old I was. Before I knew it, I found myself blurting out the answer. At first I was annoyed that I’d answered so readily and then annoyed at the impertinence of the question. But why are we so insulted? If we think we look younger than we are, we are more than happy to encourage that kind of enquiry. Shouldn’t we just take the rough with the smooth?

When I was about to turn 30, I spent half the year imagining it was the end of something. The death of youth, I suppose. Of course, come my 30th birthday, I felt exactly the same as I did the day before, only without the illogical sense of panic.
Victor Hugo noted that 40 is the old age of youth while 50 is the youth of old age – I’ll have to let you know on that – but in the meantime I’ve decided to celebrate each birthday that, God-willing, passes by and not fear them. It's really just a matter of attitude.
We celebrate every birthday up to 21, but then we turn 30, push 40 and hit 50; and it sounds more and more gruelling as the years roll on. Once we reach 80 – there we go again, that's considered a stretch - we stop wishing happy birthdays and begin to congratulate each other. The marks of 90 or 100 are considered increasing achievements, as if living to 100 is something we can all achieve if only we try hard enough.

Now congratulations on wedding anniversaries I can understand, because marriage would seem to be something at which you have to work. But our age? I can’t help suspecting that a lot of this conditioning comes from greetings cards manufacturers; those cards with numbers on always seem to be the most expensive.

But lie as we might, we all have to put up with increasing maturity. But we don’t have to be governed by the numbers on our birthday cards. It’s your life that’s important, not your age.

So let’s just get on with living and stop worrying about birthdays. You never know, we might just start enjoying them again.



ENDS

Funny foreign food? Count me in!

YOU had to feel sorry for them, a young American couple in a foreign land, trying to make head or tail of the menu. Actually they were in London last Saturday, in a South Bank fish restaurant. And they weren’t trying to order anything all that complicated – just good old British fish and chips.
It had all begun so well. Granted they might have got a more authentic experience had they opted for the chip shop further down the street, but here they were, doing their best to join in with Londoners and sample the local delicacy.
That was until the waiter asked them whether they’d like some mushy peas. They just stared at him as if he’d begun spouting Ancient Greek. I suppose it doesn’t really sound very encouraging, does it? Mushy … peas? Imagine if you’d never had them, never heard of them even, what that name might conjure up.
Sadly for the unfortunate pair, the waiter wasn’t a native Brit either, and couldn’t really manage to impart the ambrosial delight that is mushy peas. They politely agreed to try one portion between them.
When their meal arrived they examined the bright green goo, poked at it with a spoon before drizzling the tiniest amount on their chips, sampled it gingerly with eyes closed, then decided against further experimentation.
Apparently they weren’t the first visitors to these shores to have similarly baulked. During Euro 96, dozens of Turkish football fans billeted in Nottingham were reportedly flummoxed by the “strange green sauce” that the chip shop had dolloped on their takeaways.
As it happened, Mum and me had the fish and chips too. We were off to the theatre and in traditional mood. The problem was that, while the meal was excellently cooked, plentiful and lovely to look at, those mushy peas lacked a certain something. I think it was tradition. They were elegant, and while I’m not morally opposed to elegant eating, there’s something about mushy peas that is inherently unsophisticated.
These mushies had been expertly crafted from fresh peas and pureed with mint. They were lovely. But just weren’t a patch on the ones they used to serve at the Stanton Street chippy.
There are some things that are delicious and wonderful despite their lack of refinement. I mean you really can’t beat cinema nachos. We all know that real cheese has never been that texture, or that colour, and yet with the promise of the latest blockbuster, there’s simply nothing better.
At least with mushy peas the description is fairly explanatory. Some foods are not at all what they seem, as I found out in a small town neighbourhood restaurant in Colorado, where they were serving something called Rocky Mountain Oysters.
The waitress asked if I’d had them before. I assured her that I’d eaten plenty of oysters and she seemed content. Perhaps her initial hesitation should have stopped me in my tracks.
Anyway, the appetizer arrived. Everyone had a taste and agreed it was really quite scrumptious. Sort of mushroomy actually. So there I am three days later, still congratulating myself on my new discovery, when I overhear a conversation between our tour guide and a fellow passenger, and then I come over all nauseous.
Guess what? Rocky Mountain Oysters have nothing to do with oysters, or even mushrooms. They’re buffalo meat. And they come from the part of a buffalo that, how shall I put this, accommodated part of his manhood. I won’t worry you with the method of acquisition, let’s just say it’s not necessary to kill the buffalo and that further information would make your eyes water.
Now I’m normally quite happy to live on the culinary edge, but although I eat fish and seafood, it’s more than 20 years since I’ve willingly eaten a piece of meat. At the time it wasn’t a moral choice, but now I felt guilty that I’d consumed the most delicate part of a poor buffalo, and, let’s be honest, enjoyed it.
The previous day I’d been introduced to some buffalo that had appeared in the Kevin Costner film Dances With Wolves. Now I couldn’t help but wonder whether they had known that I’d just eaten the crown jewels of one their brothers.
Oddly, when I’ve recounted this cautionary tale, it’s been my more carnivorous friends who’ve been the most appalled. But I’m not surprised; I’ve heard a coach load of holidaymakers in Norway refuse point blank to sample reindeer meat on the grounds that it would be “like eating Rudolf”.
Funny that, because the previous evening they’d happily munched away on a leg of Larry the Lamb. We're talking Shaun the Sheep here, people.
But who am I to judge? And besides, if you can stomach it, I can recommend a very tasty, appetizer.

Men see only ... green

IF George Clooney described your violet blouse as “purple”, would you care? Probably not. But what is it with men and colour?
I may be entering dangerously sexist territory here – but why is it that the average human male can see only around a dozen colours? Where women see emerald, jade and moss, men see only green. While we extol the virtue of our new coral shirt, a bloke will insist that it’s orange.
When we want the dining room chimney-breast painted ochre, they hate the idea of yellow. And I’ve learned that they’re not being awkward; they actually do think that cobalt is … well, just blue.
But why? Little boys were just as exposed to boxes of Crayola Crayons as us girls. Don’t they remember the sheer joy of all those gorgeous colours like magenta, raw umber, sepia and carnation pink?
I admit I was a tad obsessive about my crayons – lining them up in order according to the gradual change from one colour to the next, so blue-violet was next to violet-blue, green-yellow beside yellow-green and so on. But surely men must have learned a bit about colour back then? So where did it all go?
It might just be that precise colour designation is not important to men. If he likes his new sweater, a fella doesn’t care whether it’s charcoal or slate; to him it’s just grey and comfy.
Well, it might not all be their fault. While only a tiny proportion of one per cent of women suffer from a form of colour blindness, as many as eight per cent of the male species are similarly afflicted.
Which admittedly doesn’t explain the remaining 92 per cent, but there might be a legitimate medical answer here too. Some scientists believe that men’s brains may be less efficient at processing and understanding colours. Most women apparently see colours in the red-orange range much better than men – which might account for the female love affair with pink.
Women may have to accept that colour is just not as important to men. So it must be pretty annoying being subjected to that much detail when all you want is a basic description. And let’s be honest: does anyone actually know what “taupe” is?
But it’s not just our appreciation of colour that is so different. Take our approaches to shopping. I’m going to make sweeping generalisations here, so apologies in advance for those exceptions to my rule. For most men, a shopping expedition, when it cannot be avoided, is a matter of military precision: identify, locate, acquire, and retreat. But for women shopping is a more holistic experience. Yes, gentlemen, I know we drive you mad with our browsing and comparing, our coffee breaks and yet more browsing. Especially when we invariably return to the first item we tried in the first shop. It’s a girl thing and for that we’re sorry. But for us, shopping is an emotional issue. In order to buy something, we have to love it. We can’t just make do.
To balance things out, it’s time to admit to some genetic mutations in most of the females of my acquaintance. There is a little known, but highly evolved, area of the female brain that perfectly deducts 10 per cent from the cost of any item of clothing when required to announce it to a member of the opposite sex.
And another that instantly recognises any outfit previously worn by another woman. So you see we aren’t just being greedy when we want another new dress – it’s a genetic necessity.
If all this were not enough, there’s also a language barrier that exists between the sexes. Take that horrible and contentious word “fine”. When a man describes something as fine, he means that it’s perfectly acceptable, that it fits the bill precisely. The frock that looks “fine” is “just right”.
But to a woman, the word is poison. It represents the barely acceptable; it’s part of the “if that’s all you’ve got it’ll will do” range of adjectives. Men, if a woman tells you that your suit is fine, it probably isn’t.
It’s like a man’s reaction to the word “cute”. To women there is nothing disparaging in describing something or someone as cute; quite the opposite actually. But we’ve noticed that it’s not always a concept with which men are comfortable.
We do understand there are language difficulties and we don’t want you to panic when we ask you if we look “OK”. What we want is an honest answer. All right, absolute honesty should probably be reserved for the times you think we look fabulous. But please don’t say we look fine. Of course, if we’ve spent four hours getting ready and still look like a dog’s dinner, then a lie will be – just fine.

The Play's The Thing!

IT was Lord Olivier who said it: “I believe that in a great city, or even in a small city or a village, a great theatre is the outward and visible sign of an inward and probable culture.” So what does it say about Derby, that we have closed our only professional theatre in a Comedy of Errors, while allowing the virtual destruction of a Sleeping Beauty just down the road?
Because whether you prefer Shakespeare or Charles Perrault, Derby without a theatre is just plain wrong. It’s perfectly ridiculous to suggest that a city of almost a quarter of a million residents – and a potential audience catchment of twice that – cannot support a provincial theatre.
It’s certainly not that there isn’t enough interest; I used to be a regular at Derby Playhouse and the place was always packed. Neither am I convinced that the Westfield Centre is to blame for all Derby’s ills.
I don’t know the answer, but I do know why I eventually abandoned the Playhouse. Not because I didn’t enjoy the entertainment on offer – although there did seem to be a strange obsession with trying to incorporate the revolving stage into almost every production – but because the place was just so darned uncomfortable.
Anyone who ever ventured inside will tell you that the auditorium was always hot and airless, even after expensive “improvements”. At the interval you’d find scores of theatregoers heading for the exits to take the air before wondering whether they could bear to go back inside. What the refit did achieve was to remove any element of character from the building’s interior.
I’m not one of those people who dislikes everything modern; in fact I love modernity and I may be the only person left in the city who doesn’t yet hate the Quad.
But a theatre should feel special – not like the budget airline check-in area at East Midlands Airport. There’s simply nothing like a gorgeous, old-fashioned, dark, luxurious theatre. Nottingham’s Theatre Royal and Wolverhampton’s Grand Theatre are prime examples.
Returning Derby’s theatre to the then still intact Hippodrome would have been perfect. But when it comes down to it, it doesn’t matter whether you’re in the Duke of York’s in London’s West End, or a former cinema like the Palace in Mansfield. It’s the thrill of the greasepaint that matters.
For some, of course, that thrill is too much. I’ve a friend who never goes to the theatre because she is so terrified that an actor might make a mistake that she cannot bear to watch.
Then again, I have another friend who is a passionate devotee, but who, 20 minutes into the first act, is always sound asleep. You can set your watch by him.
Yet even he would have struggled to doze off during one performance in Nottingham last year. There must have been a dozen large school groups in attendance. Hemmed in on three sides, I bemoaned my misfortune as hundreds of teenagers bobbed up and down, waved at their friends and chucked sweets to each other. I’d forgotten how loud you like things when you’re 15.
One girl had clearly never even seen a theatre before. She was so used to watching telly that her teacher had to explain to her that she was about to witness real, live actors, not a projection on to a screen. You couldn’t make it up.
As the lights dimmed, several embarrassed teachers hushed the exaggerated squeals of delight, but still I feared for the rest of the afternoon. I needn’t have worried: five minutes later, the teenage audience had fallen into silence, every one of them transfixed by what was going on before them.
At curtain’s fall they all jumped to their feet, cheering and whistling wildly. Their reaction wasn’t conventional, but it was genuine, and it was testament to the power of theatre.
Because, despite the apparent artifice of its props, plots and players, a visit to the theatre is one of the most “real” forms of entertainment. If the cinema is an escape from reality, then theatre is surely a journey straight into it.
There is nothing more intimate or immediate than watching a group of talented actors love, laugh, fight and mourn their way through a well-crafted story. You’re in their characters’ world, and each time it’s as thrilling and magical as the first.
That is perhaps theatre’s greatest gift, and it’s one on which the next generation of Derbeians looks likely to miss out.
But there is still hope. If the dream of a rescued Hippodrome is fading, perhaps we can count on a revitalised Playhouse, where touring, repertory and amateur productions could all find a home. We could even dedicate it to our own great dramatic actor, and patron of Derby’s theatre scene, the late Sir Alan Bates.

All creatures great and small?

I WAS waiting for a bus when I saw it: the most beautiful ornament in a garden by the bus stop. It was a statue of an eagle, or a falcon, or something like that. Or at least I thought it was a statue – until it swivelled its head and blinked at me.
It turns out that a bird of prey is resident in a seemingly ordinary suburban Derby street. Some people apparently keep the unlikeliest creatures as family pets. And I began to wonder why.
Take ferrets. I’ve been told they are affectionate, playful and, contrary to popular belief, fastidiously clean. But even though I’m told that you can take them out for a walk, somehow I can’t imagine ever curling up on the sofa with one.
And chipmunks. My cousin Jonathan kept chipmunks, and they were very cute in a Walt Disney way. But they spent most of their days asleep. Which is a common problem with rodents. When I was ten I longed for a gerbil and was excited beyond all reason when it was my turn to take care of Spike, the class gerbil, for the weekend.
Friday evening was fascinating: Spike explored his new surroundings, eyed the goldfish with suspicion, chowed down on his seed, sipped his water, even enjoyed an excursion around the family laundry basket.
But, come Saturday morning, Spike took to his tiny straw bed, curled up and went to sleep. And there he stayed until dusk, despite all my attempts to rouse him.
And so it continued all weekend. When we went to bed, Spike got up and then kept the whole house awake by running around and around in his exceedingly squeaky wheel. It was such a disappointment. Come Monday morning I’d decided to give gerbil ownership a miss.
Some animals just make better pets than others. I can’t help thinking that there are people who must be disappointed when their pygmy goat starts eating granddad’s prize begonias; or their alligator grows too big for the bathtub. There are some animals that just don’t suit being domesticated.
I mean, monitor lizards and geckos for goodness sake – should anything that can lick its own eyeballs really be a family pet?
And how anyone can keep a tarantula as a pet is beyond me. As a confirmed arachnophobic, I’m completely unconvinced by one pet shop’s promise that the pink-toe variety is “placid, cute and furry”, particularly once I’d spotted that it was also “fast and agile”.
And who in their right mind would want to give a home to a giant hissing cockroach?
Anyway, what happens when these exotic creatures escape? You hear about wallabies loose in the Peak District and panthers on Dartmoor. The traffic in Derby is bad enough without dozens of motorists rubber-necking because hordes of sugar gliders are now swooping low over Markeaton island.
Personally, I prefer my animal friends to be of the more cuddly variety. As long as I can remember I’ve had cats. You’ll notice I don’t use the word “owned” here, since any cat lover will tell you the first thing you find out about felines is that they belong to no-one but themselves. As they say: “Dogs have owners; cats have staff”.
But even cats can cause you extreme embarrassment. My first cat, Angie, was a genuine lady who absolutely refused to do anything remotely undignified. But she was skilled hunter and loved nothing better than showing off her catch to the rest of the pride, particularly if we had guests.
A birthday party of mine once descended into chaos when she brought a long-dead field mouse through the cat flap. I don’t think she understood that the high-pitched squeals of my friends were not cries of appreciation..
Cats have distinct personalities, too. Can anyone claim that of stick insects or snakes? Our current feline lodgers, Erin and Gracie, are sisters but couldn’t be more different. They’re charming, sweet as pie, and utterly enchanting. But Gracie’s an adventurer, an explorer who’s always looking for the next thing, the next game, a higher bookcase on which to climb.
Her sister is more cautious. While Gracie is the first to greet a visitor, be it a friend, neighbour or the gas man, Erin hangs back, looks on and mulls things over before introducing herself.
They do both like to sleep on a fluffy duvet and, as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing more delightful than being woken up by tickling whiskers and kitten kisses, even if it is a couple of hours earlier than the alarm I set.
But that’s what worries me about exotic pets: it’s hard to imagine the owner of a giant African land snail cuddling up for the night with his or her slimy friend. It sounds, quite frankly, rather messy

My life with Ozzy Osbourne.

THE week I spent working for Ozzy Osbourne was one of the most amazing of my life.
What? You don't believe I worked for the legendary rocker? OK, you'd be right. But I was once mistaken for a member of his entourage.
A few years ago, way before MTV's The Osbournes introduced us to him and his remarkable, often dysfunctional, family, I happened to be in San Antonio, Texas, at the same time as the great man himself.
More than that, it seemed Ozzy, his family, and the band were ensconced in the same hotel.
I didn't know this until two teenage Texan girls began trailing me around in the mistaken belief that I could introduce them to their hero. They'd been hanging around the hotel lobby, heard my English accent, and assumed that I was part of the Osbourne entourage.
They accosted me in the lift, told me they were "two of Ozzy's greatest fans", and asked me if I was going up to his room. I pleaded ignorance, and, to be honest, was so out of the loop on head-bangers I wasn't even sure I'd recognise him if I'd met him over the breakfast buffet.
But they had logic on their side: I was British, Ozzy was British, we were staying in the same hotel, and I had just pressed the button to go up to the penthouse.
Actually I had pressed the button for the floor below the penthouse, having been unexpectedly upgraded when I checked in. But no amount of protesting was going to change their minds because, to get to the "exclusive" top two floors, residents had to use a lift accessible only to holders of a special key. I had one, Ozzy had one ... you get my drift.
Undeterred, the teenage rockers followed me out of the lift, across the corridor and to the door of my room, where they begged me to let them meet their hero, just for a minute.
I was tired, hot and hungry, and there was a frozen margarita with my name on it on the bar downstairs, so I opened my door wide to let them see its very ordinariness - no sleeping rock stars, no guitars, no wild party aftermath.
The most rock and roll thing there was my discarded straw cowboy hat on the bed. "Now do you believe me?" I said.
They didn't. So I'm afraid that I resorted to the only thing I could think of.
I told them that, if they didn't leave immediately, I was going to get one of Ozzy's "security guys".
They looked at one another, then at me, and retreated to the lift and back down to the lobby. I was too weary to feel guilty. Besides, at least they now had a story to tell the folks back home.
I never did meet Ozzy, didn't even see a trace of him, not even a decapitated bat in the hallway. But my new stalkers continued to hang out in the lobby just in case.
That wasn't my only temporary brush with fame.
I once spent 10 days on a coach tour through California trying to convince the little Australian girl on the seat next to me that I wasn't "Muriel from Muriel's Wedding". I'm not convinced she ever believed I wasn't.
And, thanks to a misunderstanding on the telephone, I once had to explain to a magazine editor that no, I wasn't the daughter of Lord Rippon of Hexham.
Mind you, even people I know have mistaken me for someone else, or rather someone else for me.
I was once "spotted" in the Oak and Acorn at Oakwood; a pub I've never visited.
"You were drinking a G &T and chatting up this bloke," I was told.
"I certainly was not, I don't even like G &Ts!" I protested.
"Well it was definitely you."
At first I was annoyed that this person thought I was so vacant I wouldn't even remember where I'd spent my Saturday night. Then I began to panic.
What if I had a Doppelganger? My double might, even now, be out there drinking G &Ts and chatting up strange men, or, worse still, committing some heinous crime that might someday be attributed to me.
Then I remembered what my Nana used to say about doubles; that encountering your own was a harbinger of some terrible fate.
What if I met this mystery person? We live in the same town so I might just walk into her in the middle of Top Shop.
I managed to shake myself out of my superstitious paranoia, but I made a mental note never to stray into the Oak and Acorn … just in case.

Embrace technology – but don't forget your memorable word

THE wonders of modern technology mean we can access everything at the touch of a button. But woe betide you if you forget your memorable word...

I Spent a long time waiting in the bank last week. I'd managed to lock myself out of my account trying to use the internet banking service.

Eighteen months ago, it had all sounded so wonderful. They had promised checking my balance, transferring money and arranging direct debits could all be done without going into a branch or standing in a queue.

And yet here I was, waiting in one. The officious computer interface had informed me that I had incorrectly entered my passcode, so I'd had a friend oversee my next attempt. But the interface decided that was wrong too. And then that it was wrong a third time, even though I had a witness to prove otherwise.

Clearly the bank's own system had a problem, so I was happy to ring the "helpline". It was then I fell foul of my own disorganisation. The irritatingly cheery lad on the other end of the line asked for my "memorable place" and my "memorable word". The trouble was they weren't terribly memorable at all - I couldn't even remember having set them. Slightly embarrassed and utterly stressed, I panicked and gave him the likely answers. It had all been going so well up to that point. But now, impossibly cheerful lad informed me that one of the answers had been wrong.

He couldn't tell me which one. No, I couldn't have a second guess. And now he had to lock me out of my bank account. I would have to present myself, in person, with photo ID, at one of his branches, if I ever wanted access to my paltry fortune again.

Subsequently, come first thing on Monday morning, I found myself waiting in my local branch behind a nice Polish family opening their first account, while I cursed all technology and my faith in it.

My inability to remember my memorable place and word, of course, was now paling into insignificance by comparison with my ire at the faulty automated system. By the time I emerged from the bank, my passwords reset and my money accessible once more, I was ready to abandon all electronic devices and throw in my lot with the technology-eschewing Amish people of North America (although I seem to recall even they had credit card terminals in their gift shops).

It wasn't to be because, by the time I got home, I'd used the ATM, paid by chip-and-pin in Tesco, texted home to explain why I was running late and, although I knew what time it was due, monitored my bus's arrival through its newly-installed Star Trak information system. I'd even entertained myself during the journey home with some soothing music on my iPod.

Of course, it's not the technology that's the problem; it's our reliance upon it. Unless you're a fellow gadget geek, you probably won't understand this, but as far as I'm concerned, life without the internet or mobile phones has become unthinkable.

Last year, a fault with a BT line caused chaos in our house. We had no phone line and no internet. No internet, of course, means no e-mail and I just knew that the only really urgent e-mail I had ever received was waiting, right then, to pop up in my inbox, in need of an immediate reply - if only I could get to it.

I couldn't do any work either because my access to the outside world had been cut. It was two days before I remembered the encyclopaedia on the shelf behind me. But gadgetry is just so much easier - and a lot more fun. I remember vividly the entire family gathering around to watch the first-ever cycle of our tumble dryer.

My mum treats the computer as if her every tap of the keyboard might unleash nuclear Armageddon, but she happily Googles for her lace-making supplies. My dad, who is so naturally suspicious of new devices that he waits until he has observed someone else successfully using them for at least a year before he will buy in, actually gets more texts in a day than I do.

As a lover of the latest technology, I use self check-ins at airports, and self check-outs at supermarkets. But I'll admit that even I was bewildered by the automated public toilet I encountered in Stockholm. From the light, the door mechanism and the seat warmer - yes really - to the flush, the soapy water and the hand dryer, everything was automated. For me, it was a step too far. There are some things that are just better done manually. Anyway, how does it know when you're ready for the next stage?

That said, even our cats are microchipped, which means that their temperatures can be taken without the usual indignities.

So, embrace technology, book some yoga lessons - and make sure you make a note of those memorable answers.

Clowns and jugglers and mimes, oh my!

A RECENT study by the University of Sheffield, into appropriate decor for children's hospital wards, concluded what I could have told them long ago: clowns are scary.

After a personal life-long terror of those whitened faces, drawn-on smiles and enormous flapping feet, I can vouch for it.

And I'm not alone. Coulrophobia, to give clown-fear its proper title, is one of the most common phobias on the planet. Three years ago, hundreds of residents of Sarasota, Florida, a town with a proud circus heritage, successfully campaigned to prevent the erection of 70 giant clown statues around their hometown on the grounds that they were terrified at the prospect.

Theories abound about just why these red-nosed entertainers are so frightening. I, for one, don't recall being traumatised by someone dressed as a clown, and I'm not convinced that it stems from not being able to gauge a clown's real feelings. They're just plain creepy.

I do know that I was already a phobic when my parents took me on my first circus visit. And I recall vividly the disappointed and bewildered look on my father's face when his little girl burst into tears at her first sight of his big-top favourites.

You'd think the advancing years would have cured me. If anything I've got worse. I've tried to find comfort in the experiences of others and logged on to scores of anti-clown websites. On ihateclowns.com there is even a forum on which coulrophobics can blog about their own experiences; another website offers clothing and accessories with anti-clown slogans. But none of this has cured me.

Any claims I might have to a genuine phobia, however, are pooh-poohed by friends, who claim that I'm just being miserable. You see, I'm also one of those people that squirms at the mere mention of "street entertainers". I know what you're thinking, but let me try to convince you otherwise.

Take mime artists - and I wish someone would. What could be more irritating? All that "help me, I'm stuck in a box" play-acting just winds me up. I mean, just how many times can you watch someone struggle with an invisible balloon?

It baffles me that someone would want to spend all day doing Marcel Marceau impressions when they could be doing anything else. But then again, the website worst-jobs.com regards mime artistry as "ideal for theatre artists who can't sing, or act, or remember lines".

There exists, believe it or not, an I Hate Mimes Club. And there have been some pretty high-profile mime haters too. A character in a Terry Pratchett book outlawed miming and punished exponents by forcing them to climb an invisible ladder out of a scorpion pit while reading a sign saying: 'Learn the words'.

I don't even think they're all that popular. Be honest, when you see mimes in the street, how many people are standing there watching?

It's the same with jugglers. Is there actually a point to juggling? The World Juggling Federation is an organisation dedicated to "promoting the sport of juggling to a worldwide audience". Juggling as a sport? I'm not even convinced it's an entertainment.

How hard can it be? The average 9-year-old girl can do it. Anyone can learn to juggle, surely? OK, not me, obviously, because I have absolutely no co-ordination, but it would seem to be within the reach of those with even basic motor skills.

There are other forms of silly street performers, too. Stilt-walkers, for example. As a child I could walk on stilts, quite competently as it happens, but they don't impress me either.

Acrobats are amazing, of course, and trapeze artists and tightrope walkers too.

Fire-eaters are also impressive, but, on the other hand, once you've seen one .... And just how do you find out you can do that without setting yourself alight?

I don't think it's so much what these street artists do that bothers me, it's that they choose to do it at all.

There you are, minding your own business, when suddenly, out of nowhere, appears a smart-alec on a unicycle, ambushing you into his performance, making you part of his act whether you want to be or not.

Then there are the street musicians. Not the gypsy violinists, flutists and classical guitarists, who can all add wonderful ambiance to a street scene. I'm talking about the ones with the didgeridoos. The ones who leave you wishing they didgerididn’t.

When the language is in tense

YOU see them all the time when you're on holiday abroad, the Brits whose approach to communicating with foreigners is to speak in English very loudly and very slowly, all accompanied by not necessarily helpful hand gestures.

If you're anything like me, you've probably shuddered at the Basil Fawltyness of it - and then wondered whether you'd be any better.

Taking into consideration the five years I spent studying French, my ability to speak it is shockingly weak.

Five years of describing objects in a room - the dog was in the basket, the cat on the chair, the mouse under the table, as I recall - are of little help when you need to know whether the cassoulet is vegetarian-friendly or not.

Perhaps it's just me. My years of French study were somewhat scarred by a very minor detail in the textbook we were required to use.

It featured a family whose pets included "un chat et un chien" - and a monkey. Yes, a monkey; every French home should have one, apparently.

This particular simian, if I recall correctly, wore a hat and a scarf and rode a bicyclette. But it was also named Nikki.

And, let me tell you, years of "Oui, Nikki le singe?" from the witty teacher every time I answered a question soon wore awfully thin.

I simply stopped putting up my hand.

These same textbooks had been handed down through successive generations of students since at least the 1950s.

Now, you might assume, as we did, that French in 1984 was pretty much the same as French 30 years earlier.

How wrong we were. As we began our O-level studies, a new teacher came to the school.

Appalled by the state of the books we were using, he was rendered nearly apoplectic when he discovered that, thanks to the directions of Cours Illustres, we were all in danger of habitually insulting every French waiter we encountered by calling him "garcon".

Apparently, the appropriate word was 'monsieur'. And it had been thus for a couple of decades or so.

Instead, the teacher created his own lessons, which, much to our amusement, generally featured the singer Michael Jackson.

I can only assume it was an attempt to "connect" with the youth. Regardless, I for one was only too pleased to leave the days of Nikki le singe behind me.

By the luck of the draw, on the day of my French O-level oral examination I was required, in French, of course, to pretend to arrange a date with the examiner.

Even at 16, I suspected this was a pointless task. Not, you understand, that I'm especially opposed to the idea of arranging dates with Frenchmen, especially if he is of the David Ginola variety, but I knew that if I ever were to go on holiday to Paris, I'd surely be far more likely to need directions to the Eiffel Tower or a nice little bistro on the Champs Elysee. And besides, I mused to myself, if Frenchmen are so romantic, shouldn't he be asking me?

Make-believe romantic assignations aside, much of our lesson time was spent learning about past participles, future progressives and past perfect tenses.

All of which would surely prove very useful for those of us planning to move to France, write a novel in the French language, or seek a job at the UN. Since few of my classmates have done any of these things, I suspect that our time might have been better employed. The point, surely, is to be understood in a foreign language, not to pass off one's self as a local?

When you think about it, when was the last time you used a perfectly conjugated sentence in a food shop? You're in the chippy. You don't say: "Good evening, madam. I would like four pieces of deep-fried haddock and four portions of chipped potatoes please." You say: "Haddock n' chips four times, please."

Call me revolutionary here, but I think all most of us really need is a few basic sentences and as many nouns as possible. While it would be rewarding to pass the time of day with the locals discussing the state of the French economy or the philosophies of Descartes, when we're on holiday, our needs are basic: to eat, drink, relax, find our way, keep safe and call for help in an emergency.

For some bizarre reason, just about the only French word I can instantly recall is chaussettes, or socks, but, until I looked it up, I had no idea what they called a fire extinguisher (it's extincteur, by the way). You tell me: in a pinch, which is likely to be the most urgent?