How do you like your toast in the morning?

ROSIE MCGEE

There’s a lot not to like about being in hospital. I can state this as an unequivocal fact as I recently had the pleasure of three long weeks held hostage in one. There isn’t enough time left between now and the eventual end of the world to detail each and every thing that annoyed me, every comment that irked and every slight to common sense and good manners I underwent. They were simply too numerous and too pestilent. Before long I accepted that if I was going to make it out alive I’d just have to shut down the grumpy part of my brain and accept it all or else I was in danger of having an aneurysm or, worse still, being more closely “monitored” than I already was.

So as I endured all the horrors of the ward I tried to remain upbeat about the fact that most people were under the delusion that in a hospital fabric has the same properties as brick and therefore pulling a curtain means that your conversation cannot be heard by those six feet from your bed. There are now people who I could convincingly impersonate based on the amount and depth of detailed, personal information I now know about them.

A plea to the man in the street: keep your opinions to yourself

ROSIE MCGEE

Lots of things about modern British society perplex me. The culture of insanely long pauses on reality TV shows, the fact people seem to actually like eating at Nando’s and jeggins are just a few. However, all of these merely intriguing phenomena pale into insignificance compared to the entirely baffling, widely held notion that it is entirely acceptable to shout at complete strangers in the street, or in some other totally unsolicited way comment on people you do not know as they go about their business.

I’m not talking about greetings, pleasantries and other totally innocuous comments in the vein of "good morning" or "beautiful weather we’re having". If anything I don’t think there is enough of that sort of nice, old fashioned chit chat. Instead, what I take issue with is people who deem it their God given right to pester unsuspecting members of the public with their inane drivel.

Leisurely lunches: the enemy of customer service?

ROSIE  MCGEE

You can hardly turn on the TV or open a newspaper without someone banging on about we’re losing the ‘work-life balance’. Apparently we work longer and harder than lots of our European neighbours getting fewer public holidays to boot. What with the added trauma of a recession causing people to fear for their jobs it’s easy to conjure up mental pictures of masses employees being chained to desks for anything up to the maximum 48 hours a week toiling ceaselessly in exchange for a few pennies to keep the bailiffs from the door.

As someone blissfully excused the horrors of working in an office I always have a great deal of sympathy for those who do. There’s lots about it to hate and everyone who endures it has their own personal favourite. Back in the days when I did have to, mine was always the totally unnecessary stress of trying to get anything done in your lunch hour. Seemingly innocuous tasks would turn into one of the labours of Hercules if you needed to perform them in that precious 58 minute window between a morning of drudgery and an afternoon of willing the clock forward.

Feeling unwell? Medical staff can have that effect

ROSIE MCGEE

For many years I have enjoyed good health. I took it for granted never realising how truly inconvenient it is to suffer for any prolonged period. Now, I have a medical condition set to last for months and along with the other physical symptoms I also have to deal with an increased number of medical professionals. The friendly toned, chirpy books I’ve bought keep telling me: pregnancy isn’t an illness. So then why does the endless stream of appointments, check ups and scans make me feel decidedly off colour?

Primarily because the people I have to interact with all seem to have had a routine lobotomy performed immediately prior to my arrival. I’ve read that the poor old NHS is overstretched and underfunded, that staff have unreasonable and impossible targets to meet but even so that doesn’t explain some of the rude, unhelpful and downright inexplicable behaviour I’ve endured.

Tapping at your last nerve: two perspectives on the pitfalls of office typing

NAOMI SAFFERY

There are many, many reasons why working in an office – any office – can be a challenge for those among us who would rather be lounging by a pool, with a cocktail in hand and generally enjoying a life of decadent debauchery.

One reason why working in an office is so challenging is the furious – nay, frenzied – speed at which people type. Is it just me or are there people in offices who genuinely feel that waving their administrative schlong around via typing at warp speed, will land them in the boss’s lap, complete with promotion, bonus and an all-round pat on back?

The icing on the cake? Common sense, apparently...

ROSIE MCGEE

With Christmas thankfully dispatched for another year and many more weeks of long winter evenings, what better time to take up a new hobby? Combining my love of food and talents more usually associated with your Gran (please see my efforts at mastering knitting), I signed up for class named ‘Cake Decorating for Beginners’ and thus began my first foray into the weird and wonderful world of local authority-subsidised adult learning.

The weekly classes, held in an old, grand Victorian school building complete with the antiquated signs marking boys’ and girls’ separate entrances, began with the inevitable getting-to-know-you ice breakers, the prospect of which makes most civilised people want to groan out loud in sheer dread.

Once the teacher had furnished us all with her life story, the students were encouraged to do the same. As this is all about buzz words like ‘inclusivity’, ‘diversity’ and never, ever, on pain of death, discriminating against anyone at any time, for any reason, we didn’t go round the group à la corporate training courses and most other situations where people have to introduce themselves. Instead we were invited to chip in only when we felt ready to. Nothing so draconian as having to take turns. How wonderfully liberal yet senselessly time consuming, as throats were cleared and everyone looked awkward and shuffled.

 

The only man of the group began. No surprises there. Sorry chaps, but it’s a known fact that you love to steam roller ahead in such situations. Twenty minutes crawled past as we went through employment history (recently took early retirement from middle management in the Post Office), marital status (was engaged a few years ago but now single) and other interests (learning to cook and gardening). I suddenly felt as if I’d spent more time with him recently than my nearest and dearest.

Next up was a lady who talked at length about a bereavement she’d suffered. Now, I would never gripe about someone needing to talk about their loss as a part of their own grieving process. Unless it had all happened more than 20 years prior and had nothing whatsoever to do with learning to cake decorate. After two such lengthy and personal disclosures an uncomfortable silence fell over the room. No one wanted to be the next person to go. What could you say? How much delicate detail would you have to go into to top that?

It was mild despair that made me suddenly blurt out, a little too loudly: “I’m Rosie. I can bake but I’m not very good at decorating cakes and would like to learn how to do that”. Silence was maintained for a full minute; the clock ticked, possibly even the only bit of tumbleweed in South London blew past outside. Even the teacher didn’t quite know how to respond to my direct, yet highly relevant statement.

 

The following week, as we practised applying icing to a dummy cake (yes, such things exist), more personal information was traded. The very nice woman at the workstation next to me confided all her medical history and details of the time spent in hospital after being sectioned by Dr Raj off the telly. I didn’t have the heart to ask what her name was again.

Two latecomers joined the class: one heavily pregnant teenager and another woman so obese she couldn’t stand unaided. Should she really be learning how to add more calories to a cake?

All these people from different walks of life had one major thing in common: they were totally incapable of baking. Anything. When asked to bring a cake in to work on the following week panic erupted. The teacher, in a bid to quell the mounting hysteria, recommended buying one from the supermarket. But it didn’t calm the mood in the classroom. 

I suggested looking online for an easy recipe but they were too far gone down the route of out-and-out terror. Only the soothing maternal reassurances from the teacher that she would personally bake them one each and bring it in next week (at a cost) took them from a near-frenzied mob back to a group of adult learning students.

And that was when I cracked. My desire to be an epic smartarse overcame my manners and I had to sarcastically ask what were my fellow students planning on embellishing with their icing sugar and egg white mix on if the act of combining butter, sugar, eggs and flour and then heating was so anathema? Even more peculiarly the same centre ran a course called ‘An Introduction to Cake Baking’ and suggested students consider taking it in conjunction. Of course none of these bake-o-phobes had taken up the offer.

As the only person who had made the logical progression from mastering baking tasty, ugly cakes to wanting to create something prettier, I was genuinely mystified as to why all the other students were there. There is no conceivable reason for learning such complex sugar techniques if your eventual plan is stand poised with a piping bag ready to ice onto a nice eight square inches of nothing at all.

However, it’s slowly becoming clear to me that what I have in fact signed up for is a big, bizarre weekly group counselling session. But, at £90 for a 10-week course, it’s far cheaper than proper therapy and you get the added benefit of learning a few new skills too. Read more by Rosie.

Starter for ten: how old are you?

ROSIE MCGEE

I have a question: since when has it become acceptable to ask a woman her age? Is it just me or is everyone else suffering from this unpleasant change in manners rules? For all your sakes, I hope it’s not universal; that I’m the only one undergoing this new form of intrusive rudeness.

Either way I have personally been suffering greatly. Let me explain. I must look younger than I am. That’s not me being big-headed; it’s based on the fact that the whole world can’t stop asking me for ID. The same supermarket I’ve frequented at least once a week for last half a decade won’t sell me a drop of the hard stuff without first seeing my driving licence.

It doesn’t matter if I’m buying a bottle of vodka and a jumbo packet of condoms or a hundred quid’s worth of tinned tuna, loo roll, satsumas and one small bottle of beer: I’ll be asked either way. Whether in a work suit or super casual in tracky bums and one of those body warmer thingies that fashionistas attempt to justify by calling a ‘gillet’, I don't seem to be able to pass for 18.

I firmly believe that height has a bearing on this misconception. At 5’4”, I’m two inches shorter than the average British woman and, even though not tiny by any stretch of the imagination, a bit littler than many others. A friend of mine who is 5’11” bitterly complains about never being asked to prove her age.

“Come to the pub with me,” I promised. “You’ll be asked then.” And so we were, by a very young person only just old enough to work there. My friend beamed with pride as she handed her ID over for inspection. “What a compliment!” she gushed. Teenage barmaid then thoroughly ruined the moment for all concerned by letting slip the damning remark: “Oh my god, you’re old!” We were 24 at the time.

“They’ll say something along the lines of: ‘You really do look younger!’ Thanks, but I still think you’re a tool.”

That particularly soul-crushing incident aside, now I find the thing about looking younger than one’s years is that your conversation sounds odd to others. People can’t understand why I’m banging on about spending my Saturday nights on the sofa under a blanket handmade by aunt, sipping wine and watching Jonathan Creek on DVD (I have the complete box set) instead of talking about the wild and crazy parties I go to. And this confusion manifests itself in a question to clarify my exact age.

Of course I smile, in a gentle yet patronising way, and reply: “It’s rude to ask a woman her age.” Once upon a time that would have been the end of the matter, but not any more. Now the blighters invariably come back with things like “but seriously, how old are you?” Which forces me to snap back with “but seriously, it’s rude to ask.”

However, I often give in and reveal the much discussed number for no other reason than I want to conversation to move on and it’s clear that it’s not going to without some form of personal revelation on my part. At times like this I feel like defiantly asking: “Is there anything else you’d like to know? My bra size, maybe? Or my income last year as per my tax return?”

Last time I checked with my etiquette guru, the rule was that a lady never mentions figures explicitly. It’s fine to say dinner was expensive, but not exactly how much you paid. Similarly there’s nothing wrong with saying you’ve dropped a dress size but it’s less tasteful to specify which one you now wear. References and allusions are permissible but tricky to get quite right. If you find yourself ending a sentence with ‘if you know what I mean” then you can be confident you’ve got it wrong.

Coming out and demanding an actual number is never, ever acceptable. Furthermore, then refusing to let the matter drop until you’ve got it, is nothing short of conversational bullying. Most of the time the social nemesis is gracious enough to be a good winner once they’ve wrestled me into age disclosure submission.

They’ll say something along the lines of: “You really do look younger!” Thanks, but I still think you’re a tool. Before you berate me for being ungrateful, I do accept it’s a compliment – of sorts. Maybe only because I’ve been brainwashed by countless Sainsbury’s cashiers into believing that and now blindly accept it as fact.

Don’t worry, I’m not smug about it. My lifestyle of hard drinking and worrying will soon make deep inroads into youthful appearance and I can then enjoy watching people awkwardly trying not to tell me I look older than I am. Read more by Rosie.

Tidings of discomfort and nausea

ROSIE MCGEE

Not content with the trauma of getting married this year, I decided to do the double and go ahead and start breeding. Initially shocked at my own fertility and the fact that all those naff Sex Ed videos they showed you at school weren’t lying, I’m now slowly managing come to terms with it and accepting that it is actually a wondrous thing.

While I am definitely enjoying looking limply at heavy shopping bags waiting for someone else to offer to carry them, my new condition still comes with some well-publicised pitfalls made even worse by the business of Christmas.

For starters, I can’t drink. Aside from not wanting to cause my unborn child brain damage, the smell of anything alcoholic turns my stomach with such uncharacteristic violence I have to look in the mirror to check it is actually me and that no Quantum Leap-style body swap has taken place.

This does mean I can forgo standing around on cold train platforms or shivering outside bars waiting for taxis as now, for the foreseeable future, I am the designated driver. Yes, I get the heady pleasure of watching everyone else get tight, red in the face, generally bellicose and/or licentious while I sip on enough sugary soft drinks to ensure I’m toothless by the New Year.

I’ll never understand those weirdoes who make disturbing statements like: “Oh I love not drinking; you’re the only person who can remember it the next day.” Why, out of interest, would I want to remember and an evening of other people breathing their foul booze stench breath on me and confiding in me about the affair they’re having/the fact that they’re looking for a new job/filing for bankruptcy? Delete as appropriate.

It gives me no sense of power and lofty superiority knowing they’ll be feeling bad the following morning, worrying about what they let slip. For one thing, the chances are I’ll be just as sick and the secrets they imparted really weren’t up to much anyway.

Then comes the day itself. I’m counting down to it with a building sense of dread. The moment I discovered I was with child, I instantly developed a nasty aversion to chicken of any sort. At the moment the thought of being within six feet of a roasting one brings me out in a cold sweat. And what, may we ask, is going to be on the menu come 25th December? A huge, poultry-stinking, cousin of the chicken, turkey, most likely cooked for double the time necessary and another hour just to be on the safe side giving it the texture of cardboard. Delicious.

So as you’re all sitting down to your Christmas feast wearing new trendy jumpers and tucking into a glass of Champers, think of me in clothes which are rapidly getting too small, sipping on an Appletise, or maybe even a Shloer if I’m lucky, waiting for the contents of my stomach to begin a riotous surge up my oesophagus the second I see the centrepiece of a traditional Christmas lunch emerge from the kitchen and head my way.

But it’s not all doom and gloom. I’ll still get presents ... right? What’s the betting that instead of something that might actually cheer me up through the next few months of hormonal insanity I’ll get gifts for when the baby comes. Great. And what’s the betting that the nice sparkly something the husband might once have bought seems a bit too decadent as now all spare money should be saved for, you guessed it, when the baby comes. Oversized 100% acrylic cardigan from Primark it is for me then.

From now on I’m going to have years of Christmases that are not about me, that begin at 5am with little voices shrieking, that see me in Mothercare buying creepy children’s Christmas outfits or in drafty churches watching terrible nativity plays complete with inadvisable live donkey. And while I’m sure a part of me will love every moment of it and say afterwards that I wouldn’t have changed it for the world, is it too much to ask to want one last one for myself? Read more by Rosie.

The right hand doesn't know what the left hand's doing...

ROSIE MCGEE

If there’s one thing bound to get any woman, of any age, grumpy, it’s getting married. For all the joy and newly-wedded bliss of being joined in a legally-binding union to the object of your affections, it is an ordeal.

Whether you go for the full-blown circus of horse-drawn carriages, a dress the size of a small car and sit-down seven-course banquet for two hundred, or a do with the least possible amount of fuss, it still ends up causing no end of stress. I know this first hand, as this summer I went through it. Twice. Thankfully both times with the same man or else this would then be a slightly uncomfortable tale of modern bigamy.

Somehow, I survived, and once it was finally over started to look forward to that magical moment when all the gifts from generous friends and family arrived. Along with the predictable plates and spoons, I also picked out a few items that were less practical but much more fun. Or so I thought. Of these the one I eagerly anticipated the most was a large punchbowl.

 

Once upon a time a classic wedding gift, the punchbowl has fallen out of favour as punch itself has, inexplicably, become very unfashionable. Armed with glass punchbowl (complete with ladle and eight cups) I could begin a one-woman revival bringing a delicious drink concept back to the masses. And what better excuse than Christmas to start that?

My plan hit an early stumbling block when I discovered that some nefarious product designers had created a ladle impossible to pour from if you are left-handed. Left-handed like me. In a flash it set me off on a tirade against the years of unfair leftie discrimination I’d suffered. The pain of being told constantly as a child that your handwriting isn’t neat enough – hardly my fault when pens are made to be held in the right hand – came flooding back.

Followed by the bitter memories of an agony that endured all through my teens, nearly thwarting my attempts at learning to drive due to my inability to tell left from right. At a point in my formative years, some prize twonk had helped me learn it by explaining that my right hand was the same as my writing hand. My infant brain accepted this and it was years, via the odd fit of hysterical crying and wearing different coloured bracelets on either wrist, and even my driving test, until the damage was undone.

Indignant at yet more unfair favouritism towards you eight-out-of-nine people who are so boringly right-handed, I contemplated a sternly-worded letter to the department store from which the now offensive item came, followed possibly by a further missive to my local MP, and then finally some legal advice on whether this contravened my human rights in any way or was in breach of one of the numerous pieces of anti-discrimination legislation.

The sad fact is that we’re not a trendy minority and making too much hue and cry about having to buy special scissors or use normal ones looking special only opens us to the sort of ridicule directed at Ned Flanders and his Leftorium.

But we’re used to the pain of verbal taunts, the subtle thorns embedded into the English language waiting to rip our sensitive, left-handed flesh. We’re accused of general clumsiness and branded “cack-handed”. And, out of interest, who decided that a bad dancer had “two left feet”? To all these cruel and insensitive accusations, I would like to say one thing: how do you reckon all you smug righties would manage in a world where everything was the wrong way around?

But it goes a lot deeper, a lot more subliminal. Aside from all the mild slurs, we’ve also been branded diabolic. For those of you not bang-up-to-date on your ancient languages, the word ‘sinister’ comes from the Latin sinistra originally meaning ‘left’ but then - and I’d love to know how - it then went on to also mean ‘evil’. It’s really heart-warming to know that, because I hold my pen in a certain hand, I’m seen as being in cahoots with Beelzebub himself.

However, it’s not all doom and gloom of the underworld. Such glassware design bigotry does mean that this festive season I do not have to worry about staying sufficiently sober to pour the punch without dropping the ladle, smashing the bowl and causing litres of boozy liquid to cascade onto the frocks and chinos of guests as they gape in horror. Instead I can waft around, as gracefully as my plastered state allows, insisting someone else mans the bowl and keeps the drink coming. Because I cannot physically do it myself. Read more by Rosie.

Are season's greetings too much to ask for?

ROSIE MCGEE

GRUMPY CHRISTMAS

Am I the only person under 40 who still bothers with Christmas cards? A great deal of time and energy goes into choosing the right one, often starting months in advance. Not only is care and attention paid to the card itself but then I faithfully write a personal message in each one. None of this sign-the-name-shove-it-in-the-envelope business. I’ve decided if you value someone enough to send them a Christmas card then you should at least be bothered to write a personal sentence to them inside it.

I’m definitely in the minority with this philosophy. Without specifically shaming anyone in particular, I’ve even received cards that don’t contain my name at the top, merely on the envelope. Such aloof bits of paper conjure up either a minor celebrity signing away as if it’s the latest kiss-and-tell autobiography or the world’s most stressed woman ploughing through 3,256 cards before knocking out 912 mince pies. Surely no one who sends me a card is that famous, or that harassed?

Totally impersonal cards are like a blank email. Yes, it’s nice to know you dedicated a second and half to thinking of me, but really I’m a little offended you couldn’t spare me the full minute. However, I would take any of these over nothing at all, or worse: Christmas card criticism. The season of joy on earth and good will to all men means I socialise to the point of exhaustion and near nervous collapse. To each occasion I always take cards – for my hosts and for other friends I might see there. Why? Over-zealous card compulsion? Irrational desire to keep writing my own name? No, because it’s polite.

At least, I think it’s polite. As a child I remember people thanking my mother when she handed these envelopes over, smiling and making appreciative noises. Sadly that’s not my experience. I’m often greeted with a look of definite irritation and statements like “Oh, I’m not doing cards this year”. Suddenly my gesture of good will is four inches square of unwanted paper making all around it distinctly uncomfortable. Longing for the courage gleaned from a third glass of mulled wine, I imagine saying “Well, maybe you should. It is tradition, good manners and stops you feeling so awkward in situations like these.”

Instead I nod and look sympathetic as the excuses start. It’s either “work’s been manic”, or “as we’re away for Christmas we didn’t the see the point” or, increasingly, “it’s not very environmentally friendly”.

With the word ‘RECYCLE’ ready to burst out of my mouth at volume, I find it safer to stick to a non-committal “Mmm” while wondering when the whole world became so lazy that writing out a Christmas card was too much effort.

This maddening trend is symptomatic of society losing sight of the little thoughtful actions which make it a more pleasant place to be. I’m so sick of hearing that everyone’s so incredibly busy it’s a miracle they even have time to go to the bathroom. And yet these are often the same people updating their status every five minutes on Facebook announcing what they’re watching on the telly or having for dinner that night.

No one’s suggesting you make the damn thing from scratch in a frenzy of gold pen and glitter – just spend a few minutes, once a year, to remind people why they’re important to you.

However, if that’s still beyond you due to a job as rocket scientist, on-call brain surgeon or self-appointed television critic, then at least have the good grace to thank someone who has taken the time.

At Christmas it’s common to put differences aside, so is it really too much to ask for a little good will towards a well-intentioned friend proffering a few kind words lurking behind a picture of Santa getting stuck down a chimney? Read more by Rosie.

When is an anniversary just an irritation?

ROSIE MCGEE

BIRTHDAY SPECIAL

Happy Birthday, Grumpy Young Women! As one of the resident grumps I’m impressed but not surprised that we’ve managed an entire year recording our rattiness, while slowly but surely putting the world to rights. All that self congratulation aside, I can’t help but wonder whether this should be celebrated as a birthday or actually as an anniversary. And if the latter is the case I suspect we might we heading toward one of my real pet hates: the celebration of anniversaries that aren’t really anniversaries.

Before I really get going I would just like to state for the record: I’m not exactly a fan of birthdays either. They’re a bit like the Devil’s heroin luring you in with those addictive early hits packed with sugary cake and the heady pleasure of being a year older and therefore able to do more. But before you know it, it’s stopped being fun and you’re locked into a totally toxic relationship with this one day of the year which taunts you for months beforehand and then causes you to act like a borderline psychotic, culminating in a week-long hangover/shame cycle. Or maybe that’s just me.

Still, however bonechillingly dreadful the birthday is, at least there is no ambiguity about it. The date is there, in black and white on your driving licence and in your diary circled in furious red pen with ‘AGGHHHHH’ scrawled across the page. It could be worse, though: unless you’re a reigning monarch, there is no possibility whatsoever of going through that merry hell more than once each calendar year.

Then there are anniversaries, and even though it’s none of my business, and even though technically it does affect me, I’m so often intensely irritated by how other people choose to celebrate them – sorry, not people, couples – and how they choose to mark the ‘birthday of the relationship’. I can already feel a shudder coming on.

In my rather disapproving mind, you are you are only permitted to celebrate your wedding anniversary and that is it. At this point, I expect many of you to heartily disagree to the point of removing a shoe and hurling at your computer screen. Hold fire for a just a second. If you still disagree after hearing my reasons, please feel free to leave a comment.

My problem starts with the date itself. What is it actually anniversary of? The first time you met? Romantic in a way but also a bit creepy. I imagine on these celebratory evenings the lucky twosome play vomit-inducing music like Savage Garden’s I Loved You Before I Met You and other cringy numbers from their Top Ten Tunes for Stalkers CD.

So, how about a first date? A bit more sensible but sadly we’re not Americans and the majority of Brits didn’t have an official first date with their significant others until they’d already exchanged saliva along with a string of donor kebab meat on the walk home from some salubrious nightspot.

So that conveniently brings me to the first kiss. Again, in theory a reasonable idea if you were lucky enough to have your first kiss in a Hollywood movie. Personally I can think of nothing less romantic than an annual reminder of misread signals, jerky head movements and the taste of someone else’s beer breath mixed with nerves. Yuck. And just when you thought it couldn’t get any classier, there’s always the possibility of celebrating the consummation of your relationship. Best of luck telling your mum that your wonderful partner is taking you away for the weekend to commemorate the fact however many years ago he, or she, got to shag you.

A more sensible solution lies in celebrating the date when you ‘got serious’. But that all so wishy-washy, so unspecific. At least there's no ambiguity with a wedding day. It is the ultimate act of getting serious with someone, requires no awkward explanation and even has the added benefit of coming with its own annual gift guide.

I accept that people do celebrate other ‘unofficial’ anniversaries as the general trend is to marry later or possibly even not at all. And I do understand that couples wish to honour the period of time they have spent together in a committed relationship. It is an impressive achievement.

For those of you determined to never walk down the aisle, I can begrudgingly accept it. However, what happens when a couple does marry after many years together? Cast aside the original anniversary? Or go through the whole rigmarole twice a year? By the time you’ve also added in Christmas, New Year, Valentine's Day, two lots of birthdays, the year quickly becomes a bonkers merry-go-round of cards, naff novelty gifts and so-called special occasions on which you feel compelled to have an amazingly extra special, totally exhausting great time. Read more by Rosie.

Exploding the myth: not all women are obsessed with shoes

ROSIE MCGEE

Despite the vicious rumour perpetuated by Carrie Bradshaw, Imelda Marcos and the like, not all women love shoes. Many, including myself, are markedly indifferent to them and endure with a grimace the effects of this popular misconception.

For starters there’s the commonly held erroneous belief that a man can get any woman into bed by complimenting her shoes. I have visions of this new gospel being whispered from one wide-eyed gullible Romeo to the next. Whoever started this falsehood must have brainwashed his disciples with the following logic: praising a woman’s footwear must mean that a) you’re in tune with what’s important to her and b) you’re the sort of bloke who notices the little things and, supposedly, girlies love that.

Well, yes, we do like it when you pick up on small details. However, any headway made is then negated when the best you can offer is: “I like your shoes”. Please, not that old chestnut. When men have made a big fuss over my footwear I have assumed they either had terrible taste or were plain lying; my shoes are routinely the worst part of my outfit.

Chaps, listen, there’s no such thing as a fits-all compliment or holy grail of the chat-up line. Getting it wrong actually makes you look worse than saying nothing, as then we only suspected you were a moron.

But what I really dislike about current shoe mania in popular culture is the tacit subliminal suggestion that any old frump with no knowledge of the matters of style can suddenly become a trendy fashionista by saying “Oh I love shoes, I can’t resist a pair of gorgeous shoes.” Oh, so wrong.

If you don’t believe me, I’ll defer to higher authority. Coco Chanel nicely put it by saying: “Elegance does not consist in putting on a new dress.” Just as sex appeal and instant femininity cannot be achieved by suddenly cooing over the latest creation of Manolo Blanhnik.

Not only that, it’s also becoming the most god awful cliché. We’ve seen it on the TV shows and now accept it as an unwritten lore. Rather than stressing how individual you are it has quite the opposite effect, announcing loud and clear to the world that someone else has to make these decisions for you on what you’re supposedly passionate about.

Call me a fat fascist if you want but I can’t help noticing that this phenomenon is more common amongst larger ladies. I understand that feeling - to some extent. When you’ve gained weight, nothing fits and the shops are full of gamine size six assistants glowering at you, the solace found from a non-judgemental sling-back can be very comforting indeed. But it’s a sticking plaster on a broken limb.

Hiding behind shoes that bolster your confidence won’t give you the impetus to lose a few pounds, which will undoubtedly make you happier when you look in the mirror. It’s fine for Sarah Jessica Parker to prance about drawing attention to her feet as the rest of her body is pretty much perfect. She’s not using them as some sort of diversion. And if that is your goal, think about how realistic it is. Large body, small feet. It’s going to have to be some pair to disguise your entire frame.

So can we, please, all drop the pretence that irrational behaviour around impractical footwear is an essential characteristic of being a stylish woman? I don’t care if this makes me sound like my mother: killer heels, narrow toes and other instruments of podiatry torture aren’t very good for you. They damage your back and in some cases have a most unfortunate effect on posture. Who hasn’t seen that girl walking down the street in incredibly painful looking shoes leaning so far forward it looks like she’s running away from her own bottom? There’s no way that can be beneficial to her long term health.

You only have to open a celeb magazine to see grotesque pictures of Victoria Beckham’s bunions caused by years of wearing shoes which deformed her feet to the point where she needs major surgery to have them removed. While we all wish Mrs B the best when she goes under the knife for the first time, ah-herm, we should remember that this injury is self-inflicted.

Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not suggesting we should all bin our stilettos in favour of a sensible lace-up pair from Clarks to be worn exclusively for the next 20 years of our lives. Statement shoes can be awesome, and glamorous as hell. Worn with a simple outfit, like any eye-catching accessory, they’ll look stunning. But this is the little secret no one tells you, they don’t have the power to miraculously halve your BMI or turn you into someone totally different. Read more by Rosie.

Kindly spare me the details

ROSIE MCGEE

Minutiae, oh how I hate it. I’ve never been one to get bogged down in the finer details or spend an especially long time dotting i’s or crossing t’s -much to the chagrin of my former employers. Instead I tell myself I’m a concept person, all about the big picture, the big idea and the bottom line. Of course there have got to be box tickers lurking around behind the scenes making sure all the various admin gets done, papers filed and so forth. But let’s be honest, who really wants to hear about that?

I doubt you’ll see a new glam TV show premiering soon chronicling the trials, tribulations and love trysts of a bunch of office assistants. Not exactly cliffhanger material; Joe Public is highly unlikely to tune in each week to discover if that stationery order did come in on time and whether in fact there were enough green biros in it. No, instead we want to know about life and death, courtroom dramas and what the thin, pretty, suntanned girls from somewhere wealthy in California have chosen as the theme for their next school prom.

So we’re agreed, life’s little tedious things exist and have to be done but people are not interested in knowing all about them. Or are they? I can only assume the answer to be yes, as everywhere I look, turn or listen someone is either banging on about their lives in mind-numbing detail or worse still, encouraging me to talk about it. There’s small talk which I’m fairly partial to. Life’s too short and too tiring for big talk all the time. A gentle bit of conversation about not very much, especially with someone you don’t know terribly well, is a civilised way of interacting. However, there’s got to be a line or at least a sliding scale. What I’m complaining about here is the minniest, teeny-tiniest of talk. Chatter that makes discussing the weather look positively highbrow.

I’m sure anyone who has ever had the misfortune to work in an office has encountered one of the worst culprits of this horrid phenomenon: one half of an overly communicative couple. This is the person who rings their co-conspirator at lunch time (which they spend sitting at their desk surfing the internet and always look noticeably awkward when you invite them to the pub). The conversation, which is held in a whispery voice (you may well be ashamed of yourself), goes along the following lines: “What are you having?” Pause. “A sandwich.” Pause. “Tuna.” Pause. “Cucumber.” Pause. “Chocolate bar.” Pause. “Kit Kat. What are you having after yours?” Kill me, kill me now, or at least tie my arms so I can’t seize the telephone receiver and batter them to death with it before explaining down the line what I’ve done, blow by blood-spattering blow.

Since when did true love mean recounting the finer points of every morsel of food you’ve eaten that day? Or in fact ever? If that’s not bad enough then there is the person who questions you about the downright mundane, forcing you to come up with something to say about which there is nothing. “How was the supermarket?” this person will ask as you march back in with a carrier bag in your hand. It was a supermarket: irritating in its own right but also handy as it sells food. Then it moves onto: “Did you get anything nice?” Before you know it, you’re going through the plan for tonight’s dinner as if it were a military operation. 19.12: turn oven on to 180˚C, and so on.

And the whole time I’m thinking to myself that the other person cannot possibly be genuinely interested in my responses to these questions and is therefore either buttering me up for some truly horrible favour or having a bet with someone over how long they can keep me gibbering away. Either way, my gut instinct is to get the hell out of there and run for the hills.

If, by some miracle, you’ve survived the whole day of such torment, then it continues on the way home. Get people on a train armed with a mobile phone and they love to ring home (the place they will be in about half an hour) and go through every single tedious, uninteresting thing that happened to them. The outcome of the marketing meeting, how someone double booked a meeting room and what Jo from Accounts thinks of their new hairstyle ... and so it incessantly continues. In short: verbal torture against the eardrums of other hardworking, tired people who do not give a damn about your day.

Small talkers extraordinaire, please, stop invading the commutes of others with information you can easily discuss when in the privacy of your own home instead of instinctively turning the TV on and proceeding to ignore each other all evening. Or, maybe spend your journey reading a newspaper or a book so you’ve actually got something of interest to discuss. Or even better, meditate for a little while on why you’re so empty and needy you have to fill every waking moment with stream of babble about nothing very much. Read more by Rosie.

It's October, can we turn down the heat a little?

ROSIE MCGEE

Am I the only person wondering if the weather is currently on acid? We’re well into October and yet temperatures are hovering somewhere around the mid-20s in Celsius. Bearing in mind that this time of year the average maximum temperature is 14˚C but the mercury can easily dip as low as 6˚C, that’s insane.

Maybe this is the point where we should be blaming global warming or thanking our lucky stars that, after an August almost completely bereft of any sunshine, we now get to top up our vitamin D levels before the long dark winter begins. But still, whatever the reason, however pleasant it is, it’s starting to really annoy me. I like summer but it doesn’t get me all mushy and sentimental the way autumn does.

Autumn is my favourite season and from the moment the new season winter coats appear in the shops I feel a little tingle of excitement as my little mind fills with fantasies of me walking in parks with golden leaves falling, wearing oversized hats and drinking hot chocolate topped with marshmallows.

However I cannot get on with my saccharine love affair with autumn if what is ostensibly summer weather persists a good six weeks after it was due to leave. Of course it’s highly probable that at some point in mid-January, stony broke, half a stone overweight and suffering from acute SAD I’ll be craving sunshine and warmth so badly I’ll consider booking a week in the Canaries or something else equally close to lunacy.

Right now, with serotonin levels normal I can think of nothing more pointless than putting myself through all the horrors of international air travel to go somewhere that has average January temperatures of 19˚C: also known as room temperature. If I wanted to feel the heat of room temperature then surely I just go into a room. In fact I have several in my house negating the need to schlep all the way to an island in the Atlantic Ocean.

If it’s the highly paradoxical ‘Winter Sun’ you’re after then you will simply have to go somewhere where it is not winter. In short, the Southern Hemisphere or places very close to the equator. Nothing further north than 12˚N is not going to be warm enough. To be clear, it’s not the heat I dislike, quite the opposite; I would just like it in the appropriate places at the appropriate times when I am expecting it and accordingly prepared.

Due to the overly clement weather such matters are not yet a pressing concern. No, now is when I want it to wear my new boots especially bought for autumn weather in different russet shades. Instead I can only look at them longingly as they patiently wait, the aromatic waft of new leather filling the room as I’m still comfortably wandering around in flip flops.

It’s not only the boots, but my entire wardrobe that has been thrown entirely out of kilter. For although this freak weather is wonderfully mild, it has also been predictably, Britishly, wet. So each morning as I take the dog out to the woods for his hour of terrorising something that is not me, it’s a case of wading through bogs of rotting leaves, mud and puddles presumably filled with mixture of dirty water, left over canine slobber and the tears of fellow dog-walkers. For these expeditions into the forest of darkness I’m togged up in jeans (to protect my legs from muddy, leafy mulch) and a thin waterproof coat (to protect my torso from the onslaught of dog paws covered in muddy, leafy mulch).

Good preparation, you might be thinking. And yes it would be if the weather wasn’t still so temperate that even before 9am doing anything more than standing still in this get up causes me to turn an unflattering shade of puce while sweat bursts from my every pore, liquid rolling down my face and body in such fast flowing rivulets that I start to worry about dangerous levels of dehydration.

Back at home my post-walk cup of tea is more to cool me down than warm me up. I look longingly at the ready stocked woodpile. No fires will be lit for a while yet- aside possibly from a few more barbeques to capitalise on the late heat wave. And it all fills me with a sense of sadness. Summer, like all good things, should come to an end, and let us move onto the natural next phase of chilly mornings and dark cold evenings followed by the further pleasure of the grumbling about how much we miss the warm weather. Read more by Rosie .

The grumpy girl's guide to shouting out of windows

ROSIE MCGEE

I sometimes feel as I’ve just got to grips with how mind blowingly irritating life can be when something new comes along to irk me. The latest such annoyance is the growing, and totally unacceptable, phenomenon of shouting out of windows - especially at me. To ensure we’re all on the same page I’m going to start by laying down the rules on this matter.

The only thing ever acceptable to shout, yell or scream from an upstairs window is ‘fire’ or ‘help’. As far as I’m concerned there is no other word or phrase which justifies leaning out of a bedroom window and squawking into the street.

Downstairs windows are a slightly different matter and while leaning out of them there is a greater variety of phrases which can be safely used. What will determine whether or not it is appropriate is volume and content. For example, I have no problem with someone on the ground floor speaking at a conversational volume with another person, say in the front garden. An enquiry like: “Have you seen my glasses?”  and subsequent discussion about the whereabouts of said eyewear is perfectly fine provided it’s at speaking volume.

 I am also happy with same person poking their head out of same window and shouting, “telephone, it's for you!” or something equally short. Loudness isn’t a problem provided you’re not having a full blown chat. Basically, exercise some common sense. It wouldn’t be practical to have a drawn-out discussion about dialectic forms of government in Plato’s Republic through an open window; nor would it be polite.

You may feel that so much thought on a relatively small topic may be a tad over the top but for me it’s been an on-going issue for years. My dislike started as a child with my own mother. On the way to school most mornings she’d hang out of the bedroom window and shout “Goodbye! Have a good day!”  as I was half way down the driveway. Of course it’s a nice thing to say; yet it irritated me. Wasn’t this a conversation that could have been had inside the house? Why must it be shared with the neighbours? I never said this to her as I knew her intentions were good, but sorry mum, it’s just not very ladylike behaviour. This from same woman who’d routinely tell me off for screaming like a fishwife, especially when I was outdoors being overly noisy. Shouldn’t she obey her own rule?   

Even so I grew up with the notion that yelling in or onto the street was ostensibly forbidden. And I assumed that was a universal lesson. Clearly not in the case of the small, maddening children next door. Not content with hours of popping their oversized heads over the fence to pester my dog, they continue the barrage when inside. It was about six as some guests and I were enjoying a civilised drink in the garden basking in the still mild weather when a head leant out a bedroom window and garbled an incomprehensible sentence.

Children don’t always have the clearest speech but this utterance sounded like it had been heavily subjected to the Doppler effect. Us grown-ups, startled from pleasant chatter, didn’t know how to respond. What was worse was that this stream of babble was clearly a question as the little savage kept his head there waiting for an answer. Well how are you supposed to react to that? Ignore it? Acknowledge it? Say “awfully sorry old man, couldn’t say that again, could you?” Or go for broke and scream “get back inside you irritating little brute!”

Sadly it’s not only the minors who’re at it. A few days later while out on my morning dog walk, I was assaulted again.  The dog’s an inquisitive creature that strays a foot or two into front gardens sniffing shrubbery and grass. I try to stop him but most of the time he’s not doing any harm. Imagine my shock when as his little paws wandered about eight inches onto a paved driveway, some horrible creature popped her head out of the front bedroom window as if on a spring and screeched at ridiculously loud volume: “Get that dog of my driveway. Now!”

 In legal terms, she had every right; we were trespassing on what I presume is her property. Did she really need to scream that at me like some sort of banshee? I calculated that it would take an able bodied person a maximum of seven seconds to walk downstairs, open the front door before making the exact same statement. If she’d done that, calmly, I would have accepted her demand as totally reasonable, and would not be currently complaining about it.

 I don’t care if I sound like a snob but that behaviour is crass, and well, common. There I said it. It boils down to a question of class. Not in the old fashioned sense of higher and lower orders, but in terms of personal conduct. There’s no danger whatsoever that when people discuss her they’ll say, “Now that’s a classy lady.” Read more by Rosie.

If you're going to fake it, fake it well.

ROSIE MCGEE

This summer we true Brits have been trying to soak up every last ray of sun. Lily-white, goosebumped limbs have been freed from warm sleeves and denim trouser legs. And I, like many others, am not especially keen on exposing flesh which bears a certain resemblance to corned beef.

In order to feel a bit more comfortable about showing off so much skin I have been known to give nature a helping hand and dye the top layer of my dermis a slighter darker colour. And what’s wrong with that? As someone with what can only be described as an ‘English rose complexion’ by kind people and ‘pasty’ by unkind people, I’ve been faking it for years.

Over the last decade fake tanning has really taken off and evolved. I think back with a shudder to the revolting product I used as a teenager; from The Body Shop, it smelt like acrid artificial watermelon, it streaked like hell and often made me itch so much I scratched over the top layer of skin, removing the need for me to exfoliate. All the fancy quick-drying, airbrush-effect stuff now available is light years ahead of that revolting goo.

Now we’re all a lot more clued up about the dangers of the sun - skin ageing, skin cancer and so on - it’s become more and more popular to get your tan out of a bottle. I don’t care what you say; everyone I’ve ever met looks better with a bit of colour. Provided you don’t go too far and end up looking like the creepy little man from the Tango adverts, it is a quick way to noticeably improve your appearance. Did you know that most women look half a stone lighter when tanned? It hides all sorts of marks and blemishes and just makes you feel more confident, which always makes you look better.

Right, so we’re agreed, fake tan’s a wonderful thing. Or is it? Like any sort of chemical substance, it’s dangerous when it falls into the wrong hands. More than any other beauty product, it takes time to get right and unlike smudged eyeliner or pancakey foundation, it can’t be immediately remedied. If you make a real mess of it, you’re stuck looking dreadful for several days unless you’re willing to scrub yourself raw. And that’s what bothers me, having to look at others who’ve well and truly cocked it up.

Low level offenders include the person with golden arms and deathly white hands and the individual with the odd missed patch, especially around the knee - neither of which is great but just about visually acceptable. What I honestly cannot bear is being forced to observe the person who didn’t rub it in properly so now has what looks like a trickle of melted chocolate, usually frozen in time, rolling down an ankle or heel.

Not to mention the true wally who forgot to wash her hands after applying and now looks like she’s been mushing apricots solidly for the last month. For god’s sake - how hard is it to remember to wash your hands? You know, it’s that small thing you supposedly do every time go to the loo. Remind me never to come to their house for nibbles - or any sort of food in fact.

Then there’s the person who doesn’t own a loofah so never exfoliates it off properly as the top layer of skin starts to shed. I live in fear of conversations with such offenders as I invariably find that the resulting patching is worst around the neck and décolletage area. And I can’t stop staring at it the whole time I’m talking to them. If you’re too lazy, broke or disorganised to purchase this bit of kit then at least improvise. Use the pan scourer for all I care, just get that disgusting flaking skin off.

It goes without saying that I have committed every single one of these beauty crimes at some point in my life. As I said, it’s tough to get the hang of it. But do you know what I did each time I messed up spectacularly? Had the decency to hide it from the general public and then learnt from my mistake. With great power (to look radically better) comes great responsibility (to make a decent job of it). So please, embrace safe sun tanning but take the time to get it right before showing it off to the rest of the world. Read more by Rosie.

Do you promise to spend your life savings on a wedding...? I don't.

ROSIE MCGEE

It strikes me that if a person is rude enough to ask someone why they’re not married to their long term partner then they should expect an honest, albeit uncomfortable, answer. But the many women who are routinely assailed by this conversational grenade are polite creatures so they shelter away from the blast, instead hurling it right back by honestly answering “Because I think it’s a dreadful waste of money. I’d rather spend my cash on the deposit for a house/a trip around the world/starting my own small business.” Delete as appropriate.

If it was simply a case of nipping down the town hall wearing something clean, preferably in a moderate state of repair, saying a few vows and then going for a cup of tea afterwards, I bet a lot more non-marriage fans would come around. Personally, I think the most prohibitive factor in your average modern couple tying the knot is the huge expense it seems to entail.

You’re right Shelly: blowing your savings on a big poofey dress that on the day you’ll be too tired and then too pissed to appreciate is nothing short of lunacy. The hours you worked for that, the tax you paid and the things you missed out on to save it all up all gone so fast. Ahhh, but this is the ‘most special day of your life’, you’re about to tell me. Is it? According to statistics a lot of those special days will end in the divorce courts at some point down the line, so you’d better be sure.

Of course we’ve all fallen madly, head-over-heels for someone only to discover at a later date that the object of our affections is actually best mates with Satan himself. And at that point, rightly so, you want to be a million away miles from them. Let’s just hope you didn’t spend the best part of £20k on the act of legally uniting with the person who didn’t turn out to be your soul mate after all.

It’s the parents who get my sympathy. Chances are they dipped into their savings, wanting to give their little girl her big white wedding. On the whole they’re nice like that. Things will probably be completely different by the time I’m in that position but right now I’m tempted to draw up a legally binding claw-back agreement. Divorce within a year, you’re paying me every penny back; within two, 50%, and so on. In this day and age you can happily live in sin, have babies out of wedlock and many other things our Victorian great-great-grandmothers would be thoroughly shocked about. There’s no actual necessity to marry, so you’d think people would take their time and make sure before entering into the big wedding circus.

Do you want my honest opinion as to why they do? Because culturally we’ve developed this notion that the bride-to-be is some sort of deity. It must be pretty nice to have eighteen months of people talking about your big day and how it’s important to get exactly what you want. Pushing the boat out, spending that bit more than you can really afford as it will be your wedding - who would not enjoy that? The rest of us have to make do with one day per annum of being the centre of attention, and that still comes with the downside of being a year older.

However, the prospect of upcoming nuptials allows you to behave exactly as you like: throw tantrums, make unreasonable demands and bore your friends to within an inch of their lives talking about it. Going back to being a lowly normal person after a prolonged period in the elevated status of ‘bride’ must be a bit of a downer. Not the best way to start married life. But I suppose it’s your life and your money. If you’ve earned it, it is up to you to do want with - even big meringue dresses or the release of 50 white doves to symbolise your love.

As soon you as receive your first invite you know the summer wedding season is officially underway. I got mine a few weeks ago and it’s an unbearably intricate affair. The invitation itself is hidden behind a labyrinth of three inner envelopes plus bits of issue paper (I’m taking that level of ridiculous excess to be a litmus test for the entire event). And even though it isn’t until September, I’m sure the blushing bride is already on an extreme diet, making appointments to have her teeth bleached and has filled every Saturday between now and then with dress fittings, cake tastings and floral consultations.

Then will come the big day when 150 of her closest personal friends all cram into a church looking like a Coast concession has thrown up on them while she and her betrothed stress about forgotten rings, whether everyone’s having a good time and that rain cloud threatening to ruin the pictures. I’m sure that feeling really is priceless. Read more by Rosie.

Congratulations to Rosie who recently had a modest but lovely wedding in Mauritius.

Image: Sharron Goodyear / FreeDigitalPhotos.net