My salad dressing days


Where’s the party?
April 11, 2008, 1:34 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

The party, it seems, is in a high street bank near you.

Yes, really.

I had to make a secure phonecall to my bank from a branch of my bank because there was no chance at all I could talk to a real life human being face to face. Go figure.

I walked into my bank and Coldplay was blaring out of a multitude of speakers. A handful of perky, lipsticked twentysomethings were hanging out chatting with their perky, lipsticked twentysomething mates (the staff). They looked startled when I approached them and pointed me wordlessly to The Secure Telephone.

I dialled the number and made my introductions.

‘Now, are you sure you can’t be overheard by anyone?’

‘Whaaaaaaat?’

‘ARE YOU SURE YOU CAN’T BE OVERHEARD BY ANYONE?’

‘I’m not sure I can hear myself. There appears to be a radio station pumping out of the speakers in here!’

‘YOU’RE IN A RADIO STATION?’

‘No! There seems to be be a radio station playing in here, VERY LOUDLY. So, no, I don’t think I can be overheard.’

‘Right…’

So, there we go. If you’re a time-poor, zonked-by-7pm thirtysomething mother-of-two, the place to go for a quiet boogie is your high street bank.

(NOT a nightclub, which is high on hen and stag nights and low on emergency exits, and where you will have three square inches of dancefloor on which to get on down.)

(And NOT your partner’s mate’s 40th birthday bash, where you will have a square mile of dancefloor on which to shake your groove because all the guests are clock-watching in case they’re late for the babysitter and because, with the lapse of decades, everyone has forgotten how hard it is to dance to Joy Division.)



So long as I’m ahead of Kerry Katona
April 6, 2008, 11:12 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

A programme I accidentally clicked on whilst browsing the BBC iPlayer archives:

Find Me The Face: Yummy Mummy

Duration: 60 minutes

Two of the UK’s top model scouts compete to find new talent. In this episode they search for mothers in their thirties who may be up to industry standard.

*******

There’s an industry standard?

Yikes.