Peel back the pages of history and once upon a time there was such a thing as a tea trolley. Not just the kind that once stood in the corner of the dining room having long been transformed into a handy shelving unit for loose change and old magazines, but the ones that would bring sunshine into every gloomy stressed admin office all around the country every weekday around 2.30 p.m. Offering delights such as crisps, chocolates and left over puddings from lunch, this Goddess from the kitchen would appear out of nowhere proudly exhibiting a shrine of goodies. Sadly, there are generations out there that will have no idea what I am on about….but on the flip side, there is a special clan of us aged 50+ that will nurse such fond memories forever and wipe away a wistful tear. We will remember how that sudden sugar rush had saved our mortal souls time and time again and probably more constructive work had been achieved between the golden hours of 3.00 p.m. - 5.00 p.m. than all the rest of the working day. This makes me think how different it is nowadays, especially with many working from home. No sexist jokes being repeated, no impromptu singing, no sharing out the polo mints, no secret farting, no emergency counselling sessions…which I find sad and perhaps unhealthy somehow…apart perhaps from the farting bit!
I’ve discovered a new best friend. A post-it note! I just love them…they have now become my new buddy when it comes to retaining any kind of sanity. Yep, I would even go so far as to say that they have been my biggest secret weapon against a constant forgetful and muddled brain… and, luckily, it requires very limited concentration to scribble down things such as `put bin out’, ‘take bread out freezer’ and `use Ovestin cream on a Monday and Friday ONLY (note to self: it is extremely helpful to wake up and ALWAYS look at mobile phone to check what day it actually is!) . Most definitely my ability to concentrate seems to now fluctuate from unreliable to non-existent. I often think if a time will come when I will need a `post-it’ to remind me to read another `post-it’ which relates to a `post-it’ I was meant to action two weeks ago…unless, of course….there is the ultimate `post-It’ that reads `Sod it! Nothing’s that urgent anyway’!
How easy should it be to open a box of washing machine liquid capsules? Surely, as a grown woman with average intelligence and respectable muscle power I should be able to master such a menial task. But how can I put this….it appeared that the box in question was obviously (and quite rightly so) designed to protect young fingers from figuring out how to open the contents and, as a result, no amount of squeezing, pushing, thumping or broken nails were going to penetrate this plastic chest that contained my washing pod treasures. My little golden nuggets of stain removal pearls, which promise to conquer low temperatures (but never actually do) remained well and truly safely locked away it seemed… forever. But no, hail the success of a screwdriver!
There surely must be an art to wearing high heels without buckling my knees in the process. But to be fair, I rarely have the opportunity (or inclination) nowadays to subject my feet to the trauma of walking along with crushed toes. In fact, I have found that the aging process has gently manoeuvred me towards comfy trainers now and the occasional purchase (under darkness) of ‘odour eater’ shoe insoles. How I envy those women who effortlessly glide across the floor in their 7” designer footwear, walking with catwalk precision and towering over 80% of the population. Alas, my last attempt at walking in high heels recently ended in total disappointment. The story goes…Wishing to release my inner wild child yearnings I ventured out wearing my best red velvet shoes (which are only worn on very rare occasions due to the fact that I have a rather expensive handbag that matches) and armed with a sophisticated poise I attempted to conquer the world . Things would have worked out better perhaps if I’d chosen the road instead of the pavement to strut my stuff. I just didn’t see that pavement crack at all…not even gave it a glance. Stumbling out of my shoe and howling in shock was definitely not my finest moment. And just for added embarrassment, the heel was well and truly stuck! So much so that my husband, after he had composed himself, had to rescue it using brute force. And where was this unfortunate incident, I hear you ask…in Covent Garden?...in Paris?…nope….outside Aldi!
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