Fat melting

Life's little luxuries are too much for some of us to give up. During these times of recession, sales of shoes and chocolate have actually increased. In the last six months Cadbury's sales have risen by 12 per cent – apparently its all down to the new stay at home culture, which promotes the ideal of curling up on the sofa with a bar of melted cocoa. Reluctant to buck this trend, I bought a brand new pair of shoes for a friend’s wedding. I have to admit these elegant specimens were not in the sale, but the constant drizzly weather drove me to it. And what’s wrong with a little material pick me up once in a while? Having spent a week in the French Alps walking up mountains, swimming, running and exploring a more frugal way of life, I felt I deserved it. You see walking in the Alps is a whole day event. It’s hard on the thighs going up as you lean into the mountain (for fear a strong wind might blow you off ) and coming down your knees cry out for a bit of relief as you contend with rocky pathways, your eyes squinting in the afternoon sun. Of course, after an all day walk came the obligatory demi (half pint) in local pub followed by an ice cream. It seems holidays and diets clash in my head. Yet on returning to the cooler shores of South Devon I found I had actually toned up - walking all day obviously burns more calories than desk sitting despite the volume of food ingested. Finally free of walking boots, I headed into town hours before the wedding for a handbag only to get sidetracked by shoes. Shoes, I have learnt, can actually help you lose weight. This isn’t some old wives tale which involves eating seaweed and going to bed in your high heels - I’m talking about anti-cellulite shoes. These clumpy looking inventions are a type of footwear intended to change the way you walk by putting pressure on different areas of the foot and leg. Certain muscles that are generally ignored while walking are utilized while one is wearing the anti-cellulite shoes. By changing a person’s gait, these shoes claim to improve circulation, reduce varicose veins, and even melt accumulated fat. Fat melting shoes? They sound dangerous. Aside from claiming to literally burn away fat, the wearer’s posture is apparently also improved so it’s easier to breathe and joint problems can be relieved. So you see it isn’t just weight loss that is encouraged by these shoes. The product of Swiss engineer Karl Muller, anti-cellulite shoes - or Masai Barefoot Technology (MBT shoes) - were invented as a result of vacation inspiration. Muller found his back pain eased after days of walking barefoot around Korean paddy fields. Walking around barefoot down the High Street or across the moors is completely ridiculous, so Muller invented shoes which would mimic this basic of instincts – walking barefoot. Reports suggest anti-cellulite shoes may bring idle muscles back to life, but the only sure fire way of losing weight is more rigorous exercise. So at £150 a pair these boat-shaped shoes will have to stay on the shelf. It was after this allusion of quick weight loss was shattered that I went for a traditional, if not slightly flamboyant, pair of towering satin black heels with a ruffle on the front. They looked much better with my zebra print dress then any pair of MBTs would and they were much more appropriate for a wedding. And anyway, by the end of the evening I was barefoot.

Camelcide

This week an American newsreader branded the Australian Prime Minister a “serial killer” after he announced £10million plans to control a feral camel plague by culling the mammals. Miss Burnett, an anchor on US financial news channel CNBC, took particular objection to the plans exclaiming live on TV: “There is a serial killer in Australia and we are going to put a picture up so we can see who it is.” The camel lover then brandish a picture of PM Kevin Rudd before adding, “He has launched air strikes - air strikes - against camels in the outback.” Australia is currently struggling to control more than one million feral camels that roam unchecked through the outback. The herds destroy fragile ecosystems and trample over sacred indigenous sites. They are eaten and raced and used to haul heavy loads. Interestingly, the one humped, Dromedary camels or two humped, much hairier, Bactrian Camels, can run at speeds up to 40mph in short sprints and they can maintain a speed of 25mph for up to an hour. Far from being mythical creatures used to market cigarettes, Dromedary Camels exist in Australia (obviously), north America and north Africa. The Irish one, the chatterbox and myself travelled for 17 hours in the aircon-less minibus towards the Algerian boarder with Morocco for a camel ride - the last thing on our mind was hanging out of an aircraft taking pot shots at them whilst chewing on a camel burger.

Slap and tickle

She was clad in multi-coloured clashing Lycra. A tea-towel was wrapped around her head and her small belly strained against her swimsuit, which was layered over a pair of knee length cycling shorts. Ducking our heads to enter the changing room myself and my two girl friends stood in our bikinis ready for the wash-down.
As we stepped across into the bathhouse, or hammam, the Moroccan woman, who had earlier been cleaning our room, waved us back with her arms and motioned for us to take off our swimwear. The intense 45 degree heat, the mayhem and dust of Marrakesh, had led us to the hammam. A traditional Muslim bath, the hammam is a social event as well as a deep, skin-shedding clean.After an initial, very British hesitation, we whipped off our bikinis and shuffled into the tiny tiled room wearing the Emperor's clothes. With three of us to be scrubbed down and only one lady to wash us, everything had to be done in turn. This meant the other two women either played a limited game of 'I spy' with the tiled interior of the hammam or watched the third member of our group being covered in black soap, washed down and then scrubbed vigorously with an abrasive pad while lying down completely naked on the floor.
The scene reminded me of a team of environmentalists leaning over a beached whale rubbing it (or whatever it is they do) and pouring water over them in an attempt to keep their temperature from rising before they roll them back into the sea.
We had opted for the private bath, shying away from the public gathering — hot water is still considered a luxury for many Moroccans and weekly bathing rituals are normally performed in public hammams. Rows of dimpled bums sit waiting their turn while fresh-cheeked ones, half their age, stride confidently across the hammam to collect clean warm water. In our hammam, at the bottom of the riad we were staying in, it was just the three of us and the Moroccan woman dressed like Mrs Motivator.
The giggles started almost immediately, erupting as each of us was woman-handled and scrubbed in full view of the others. Buckets of water are frequently thrown over you as rolls of scrubbed off skin get washed away. Arms and hands, which had been making vain attempts to hide busts and other more private parts, began to relax as the pointlessness of trying to hold onto any remaining dignity became apparent.
Mrs Motivator had seen it all many times before. The comedy of the hammam was further fuelled by our difficulties communicating with Mrs Motivator.
Her attempts to instruct us in pidgin French and Arabic ended up with her physically moving us around the room like puppets with arms often left aloft, hanging motionless in the air while we tried to work out if she was going to scrub our armpits. The last person to wash me like that was my mother — and I was very young.
But the subject of the hammam proved an ice breaker as we travelled around Morocco and swapped experiences with other European faces. One handsome blue-eyed Danish man acted out his hammam experience (unfortunately he was fully clothed) and said in perfect English: "I didn't understand what he was trying to tell me to do and so he slapped me on the backside to try to get me to move." Undeterred by having his bottom cupped by a Moroccan pensioner, he was returning to the hammam the following morning. Despite the hilarity largely brought about by embarrassment, the hammam did leave me with impossibly clean skin which was amazingly soft. Only this week I recounted my hammam experience to my two male housemates, as we settled down for a takeaway and movie night. Far from seeing the embarrassment or the hilarity of the situation they immediately banded about ideas for a new porn show and asked if we could introduce Thursday night bath nights at the house. Perhaps we Brits are more liberal than we think.

Loss

I sheet of dust came off the file as I balanced on the bedside table to reach the shelves. The exercise bike, boxes, picture frames, files, books and a rolled up rug spread chaotically over my old bedroom floor. I was searching for my degree certificates in amongst the junk which had been shifted from other rooms, that were in use, in the house. I stumbled upon my creative writing - a long forgotten stash of poems, plays and short stories handed in for inspection by an ageing professor with spidery hand writing and a posh voice...
Cracked, lined skin.
Grey, wiry hair.
Wrinkled fingers fumble, the crinkling of plastic,
that earthy, musty scent.
Folding and filling the small white paper,
his lips wet it, the fingers working without guidance.
Click,
a flame momentarily lights up his face and the lines appear deeper - more troubled.
His brow full of memories.
His strong resonant voice echoes, echoes louder than before.
Smoke collects about him and the tightness returns making it difficult to breath.
Tap,
the ash hits the tray.
His foot rests heavily, awkwardly.
He drinks the cheap bitter coffee - he's not staying, but he has nothing else to do.
His loose change bounces on the hard plastic.
He stands up and finishes his coffee as if he has business to attend to.

The look policy

A 22 year old law student from west London was confined to the stockroom of a Savile Row shop because management found out about her disability. It seems her prosthetic arm clashed with the company's 'look policy'. Abercrombie & Fitch employees have to pass a veritable fit test to tread the boards of their stores. I walked into their New York City store with my friend and we assumed they were all models. It's a cunning marketing ploy. Women queue up to have their picture taken with actual male models perched in the doorway with buff bodies and winning white-toothed smiles. We found ourselves wondering around the store, full of stunning employees, not sure where to look or what exactly we were supposed to pick up. The look policy dictates that workers must wear a 'clean, natural, classic hair style' and 'look great whilst exhibiting individuality'. In short, it's their job to present the American ideal - an ideal portrayed through TV shows and airbrushed images. Riam Dean didn't fit the American ideal. Born without her left forearm, she has worn a prosthetic limb since she was three months old. Her plight follows that of a disabled children's TV presenter, who was the victim of a campaign by parents who complained she was scaring toddlers. They said Miss Burnell, who only has one arm, was not suitable to appear on the digital children's channel. The fickle world of fashion and showbiz dictating that nothing less than perfect is good enough.

Angel of Iran

Neda and her music teacher had gone to join an anti-government protest as thousands of young Iranians took to the streets. Moments later the 27-year-old philosophy student, who had singing lessons in secret, fell to the ground from a single shot wound. Neda Agha-Soltan was killed on Saturday during a protest in Tehran sparked by the disputed presidential election which saw hard-line incumbent Mahmoud Ahmadinejad re-elected. A series of huge rallies have been held in the city by enraged supporters of the more moderate candidate Mir Hossein Mousavi. In scenes reminiscent of the Tiananmen Square massacre, rebel Iranians have been bloodily suppressed. A video of Neda's death has been circulated around the world and the apolitical woman has become a symbol of the fight for freedom and democracy. The graphic, hard-hitting amateur footage shows the young Iranian on the ground, her helpless music teacher willing her to stay alive as blood pours from her chest wound and spreads over her face. Within an hour, footage of the video had been posted on You Tube as evidence of the killing of innocent and largely peaceful protesters. Neda's name means 'voice' or 'call' in Persian and already she is being hailed as the voice of Iran. Neda was one of thousands of women who took to the streets to demand a recount of the presidential vote which they believe was rigged by the Government. About 70 per cent of Iranians are under 30 and are growing up in a digital media age linked to the western world by Twitter and social networking site Facebook. Iranian women, who are persecuted for not adhering to strict Islamic dress codes, are blogging, reaching audiences outside the regime. Photos of Neda have been used at demonstrations around the world from Istanbul to Los Angeles. Twitter users have been tinting their profile pictures green in solidarity with Iranians and a Facebook page entitled 'Angel of Iran' has been set up to honour Neda. Nearly 12,000 people have joined the group adding video footage of the moments leading up to her death and her death itself. Discussion boards are packed with messages of support crossing borders, religion and culture. It seems Neda's death is fuelling the passion for democracy in Iran.

Nettle-eater

Last week about 50 people chewed through two foot long stalks of stinging nettles. They had one hour to eat as many leaves as possible and beat the current champion nettle-eater. The winner is the person with the longest length of empty stalk. This wonderfully bizarre English competition stems from an argument between two farmers in the mid-1980s over who had the longest stinging nettles. I know it sounds mad, but stinging nettles make great tea. The first time my fellow vegetarian colleague tried to make me drink nettle tea I was far from convinced - it has an unfortunate smell like sweaty feet and looks like pond water - but the dark green liquid has an abundance of health related properties. Even the Romans used it to cure chronic rheumatism by flogging each other with the stingers. It can soothe allergic reactions such as hay fever and gargled it can heal a sore throat. Nettles are also very useful when suffering from the alcoholic excess of a night before. These soft yet prickly leaves have been used for hundreds of years as a folk remedy, brewed as teas, steamed and eaten like spinach or applied to the skin as a painkiller. I'm not suggesting we all hurry out in search of wasteland to pluck these weeds from the ground and start beating each other with the stalks or chewing them, but there's something to be said for natural remedies.

District and Circle

The weekend before someone in a hurry knocked her over at Victoria train station. She went flying twisting on her heels as she hit the ground. Slightly inebriated she gathered herself up and carried on walking to the train. The two-hour train ride passed uneventfully and she got home, by now in some considerable pain. It turns out she had fractured her ankle and broken some bones in her foot. All because someone was in a hurry. When the tube strike crippled the transport network in the city last week, thousands of commuters stood like confused and lost sheep stuck outside train stations, groaning at bus queues and ringing to warn already absent bosses they would be late. Business leaders estimated it would cost the economy £50million a day. The city had been forcibly slowed down. I normally move like a silent, slightly uncomfortable country bumpkin from one carriage to the next, then onto a new train, unaware of the true distance of places in the blackness of the underground. Bus people are different. Used to the constant stop start of the bus, they accept the journey and take their time reading and people watching from the space above the ground. I too was pleased to be out of the hostile tunnels. It was just as he described it in District and Circle. But I had rushed then - anxious to arrive on time to hear Seamus Heaney read his own poetry. His lyrical Irish tone captivated the audience and that poem, which sits somewhere near the beginning of my autographed book, summed up the hurry which pervades London life...a crowd half straggle-ravelled and half strung like a human chain, the pushy newcomers jostling and purling underneath the vault, on their marks to be the first through the doors.

Patience is a virtue

My housemate played us the clip which had been posted online. It shows the retired soldier breaking through a police cordon, dropping his plastic bag on the ground and clambering onto the bridge in southern China. He shunts up the metal sides and reaches over and shakes the suicidal man's hand. Moments later he pushes him off the bridge. Admittedly the clip was fairly comical - perhaps it was the disbelief that someone would actually do that. Apparently Mr Lai was annoyed by the suicidal man's selfish atttempts to kill himself which had caused a traffic jam. After the push the suicidal man fell 26ft onto a partially inflated air cushion. The suicidal man, who is recovering in hospital, told police he wanted to kill himself because he was heavily in debt following a failed construction project. Mr Lai didn't care. He was being held up. His impatience got the better of him and he finally cracked after being held up several times before by 'selfish jumpers'. I was chatting to the eccentric literary enthusiast, who shares my love of strange artwork, about the Chinese pusher. You see every time there's so much as a near fatal incident it's our job to get to it. We're the ones cursing the traffic, slipping under the police cordon, approaching the emergency services and the family. There's a buzz which comes from a breaking news story, regardless of whether it's fatal, a near miss or a miracle escape. But next time you're caught in traffic on the motorway spare a thought for the suicidal man.

Mind over matter

A woman lost almost four stone in weight after she was hypnotised into believing she had had a gastric band fitted. Thirty five year old Marion Corns spent £780 on five sessions with a specialist hypnotherapist after her weight ballooned to more than 15 stone. The married housewife had been tipped-off by a friend who had been hypnotised and successfully given up smoking. Marion discovered the Spanish clinic also carried out 'gastric mind band' therapy. The mum of three was given a virtual tour through the operation with imagery, hospital aromas and props. She was hypnotised and talked through every step of the medical procedure as if she were in an operating theatre. The 'surgeon' told Marion her stomach was the size of a golf ball. Four months later and cue a slim line Marion. She was splashed about the newspapers, women's magazines and online sites. So it seems losing weight is really just a case of mind over matter.

Dead man's father

He came over and introduced himself. His voice was even and firm despite the tragedy. His houndstooth blazer, gently infused with cigar smoke, strained against his stomach. He reached out his hand and I shook it. He was the dead man's father. "I tried to catch your eye yesterday but you didn't look up," he said. "Do you work at the Herald?" It was half way through the trial and he had listened to the details of his son's death pieced together by legal experts and played out in the court. The woman at the centre of the love triangle had stood in the witness box, but her estranged husband, the man responsible for stabbing this father's son, waited in the dock. "How are you coping with the trial?" I asked him. His movements were slow and racked with grief, but his voice stayed steady, "It's been good to piece together what happened to him on that night. There's a lot we didn't know." He talked about his faith pulling him through and about his son, his eyes welling up but his face displaying little emotion. His openness and honesty disarmed me. Never before had a bereaved relative walked over to introduce themselves and spoken so readily about their feelings. "If it was up to me he would be hanged," the elderly Christian father said. He was concerned the jury wouldn't find the tattooed defendant, whose jealousy and possessiveness led him to kill, guilty of murder. We spoke again after the jury delivered their verdict. Two hours they sat in the room and unanimously decided the killer was not a murderer. Eight years for manslaughter and he'd be out in three. Fighting back the tears the dead man's father took out a cigar and lit it facing away from the wind. Smoke curled up between his yellow finger nails. His thin white hair blew across his face. "He has destroyed nine people's lives and not even got one year in his sentence for each of those lives he has ruined. He will probably be out in three or four years and have his life back. We will never pick up the pieces," he said.

National Escargot Day

In ten days time Cafe Rouge will be serving them up for less than £5 a portion. They'll be 34,000 of them. In Norwich one restaurant is planning a snail hunt to celebrate National Escargot Day. People can hunt for 20 huge cut-out snails around the city with the chance of winning Eurostar tickets to Paris. Heston Blumenthal, the owner of the best restaurant in the world, makes porridge with them. Thankfully vegetarianism creeped up on me ten years ago and the delights of sautéed snails on Parma ham porridge have eluded my taste buds. Instead I have spent the last two weeks rummaging through my flowerbed like a crazed horticulturist lobbing the slimy creatures into the park. I'm hoping it will take them a good few weeks to regain consciousness (having been thrown through the air with vengeance) and even longer for them to crawl back onto my garden. Unfortunately some snails live for up to 15 years. Perhaps I should collect them and sell them on for profit? There are hundreds of forums telling you how to keep pet snails. One such site informs you that snails do react to stimuli and can get bored. It's therefore 'imperative' to keep your snails in a fairly interesting home, with nooks and crannies to hide and compost or peat for them to burrow in. Can you imagine getting up in the morning and stepping over Marjorie the snail on the way to the bathroom after she's left a trail of slime in her wake? The same site also tells prospective snail owners that snails respond well to being handled, and though primarily nocturnal can be encouraged to emerge at other times of the day very easily. Oh great. So they come crawling out of the nooks and crannies in your house and do what exactly? Suddenly having them in the flowerbed seems to be the lesser of two evils.

Cider, kayaks and a canoe

The Sultan spent millions on caviar and the finest champagne. As part of his momentous celebration he flew in Michael Jackson. The total bill for his 50th birthday party topped £18 million. It was one of the most elaborate celebrations and Prince Charles was among the guests. The Sultan's 60th birthday ten years later in 2006 was much less decadent, but it still featured a military parade, a canon salute, foreign dignitaries, a fireworks display and huge posters bearing the monarch's likeness which decorated city buildings. Aside from actual royalty and Hollywood stars, the only folks eligible for extremely lavish birthday celebrations are the ones who can foot the spiralling bill. One American billionaire celebrated his 84th birthday with a 12-hour bash. Musical performances from Christina Aguilera and Bette Midler and a stand-up routine from Robin Williams entertained a crowd of nearly 500 guests. With no gold reserves in the basement or locked in a vault in the big smoke, I opted for a less extravagant birthday party. There was no diamond encrusted fruit cake designed by a Tokyo chef, no electronic invitations, no galloping horses, performances by superstars, lavish cars or jewellery. Instead I opted for a day out on the river at £9 per head. Eight of us paddled along in kayaks and two of my friends, eager to stay dry, opted for a canoe. Thirty minutes later we docked on a grass verge and sat with cider in hand. The return journey was rather more eventful with six light headed twenty somethings ending up in the river after capsizing each others boats. Who needs a performance by the King of Pop when you have cider, kayaks and canoes?

The Gold Digger

"I've just bought two thousand pounds worth of gold. It's about 95 grams." The optometrist had spent a third of his Isa on the so-called financial safe haven upsetting his dad in the process. "How do you know if you've bought it?" I asked, concerned at the ease at which he had parted with so much money over the internet. "You get a certificate and it's held in a vault in London," he replied reassuringly. I couldn't decide if he had completely lost the plot after years of testing children for squinty eyes, or if the optometrist was on to something. Money is losing its' value and worried investors are harking back to Roman times and lining their pockets with the precious yellow metal. One American woman is being accused of lining her handbag with £8million worth of gold - not in one go you understand. This trusted employee of one of America’s biggest jewellers, stole more than 500lbs of gold slipping earrings, bracelets, necklaces and rings into the lining of her black leather bag on a daily basis. Prosecutors allege that the 50 year old vault manager, Teresa Tambunting, repeatedly stole glittering items of gold over five years. When someone at the firm finally cottoned on to the inventive inventory, police searched the gold digger's house. Officers found her haul in 12 big buckets which she kept in the basement of her suburban home like lost treasure.

The Achiever

Most people would think giving up a well paid job as a scientist for the MoD and working part-time in a bookshop, whilst doing charity work in the midst of a recession, is crazy. But that’s exactly what Miss Jones has done. She has taken a leap of faith that few of us are willing to make and now she is reaping the rewards. I met Miss Jones on her return from L’Aquila, the Italian town hit by a massive earthquake earlier this month. My first thought was that the photographs of Miss Jones in her Shelterbox T-Shirt, standing by a recently constructed tent in the village of Assergi, don’t do her justice. But then the slim 36-year-old had travelled for 36 hours to reach the quake hit region as a member of the Shelterbox Response Team. As the team arrived in the shadow of Gran Sasso d’Italia (the Great Stone of Italy), snow-capped mountains and green fields masked the destruction. In the village of Assergi, 20kms from the epicentre of the earthquake in the Abruzzo region of central Italy, hundreds of families began to wake up and get out of their cars. The quake, which killed nearly 300 people, injured thousands and left hundreds of families homeless, caused wide spread devastation in the early hours of Monday April 6. Measuring 6.3 on the Richter Scale the earthquake and subsequent nightly aftershocks had turned the town of L’Aquila into a river of rubble. Villagers living in Assergi had been told to leave their unstable homes. Seeking shelter in nearby fields they had abandoned houses with cracks in the walls and debris from upstairs bedrooms weighing down on kitchen tables below. Miss Jones trained as a response team member with Shelterbox, a Cornish based charity which provides boxes including 10 man tents, cooking utensils, tool kits and blankets to people in disaster struck areas. It was her first deployment. The well-travelled, Italian speaking scientist who works part-time in Waterstones, had shaken free of her previous office based existence.

J.A Rush

Some men go to extraordinary lengths to be with a woman. But some men, including J.A Rush, take it a step too far. The American was so smitten with a woman he met last week in a bar in Naperville, Illinois that he called in a phony 911 report of gunfire in the city's far north west side. According to the three page police report, 33 year old Rush, hoped the gunshot distraction would leave the way open for him to swoop in and apprehend the inebriated woman he had been chatting up earlier on (she was so drunk, she was in the care of officers). Police trying to trace the emergency caller soon found out who the culprit was and confronted him. Rush denied making the phone calls, but his mobile told a different story and rang out in his pocket whilst police questioned him. Now he faces trial on a charge of placing a false emergency call. Surely asking her would have been a far simpler way of getting a date? All you have to do is Google it. In fact if Rush had searched for dating tips, he may have realised that although aversion tactics sometimes work, third parties (especially law enforcement) should not be tricked into leaving a half-cut woman alone whilst they rush off to the O.K. Corral. Intrigued by shared dating tips and for the benefit of J.A Rush, I thought it prudent to see what one should do when in a situation which calls for a bit of dating know how (and translate what they really mean):
1. Why are you asking them out, is it for the right reasons and what do you expect as a result of them saying yes or no? At this early stage, one would assume it's because you think they are hot. Surely the humiliation of being turned down is something you deal afterwards?
2. Be prepared that the person you ask may say no and in which case do not take the rejection personally. Sound advice, but a total lie. They obviously don't fancy you. Deal with it.
3. When asking someone out choose your moment carefully and practise what you might say in advance so that you don't appear tongue-tied. What are you meant to do – get your note book out?
4. Make sure that when you ask someone on a date you smile and keep things fun and happy. Being confident and smiley will elicit a far more positive response. Ah, a bit of multi-tasking. Whilst reading from your note book smile idiotically and appear fun.
5. Try to avoid dutch-courage such as using alcohol to boost your courage levels as this will often backfire. Getting your note book out, whilst smiling idiotically, appearing fun-loving and trying to maintain an air of sophistication after downing several shots of Sambuca is likely to fail.
Lastly. Don't ask someone out when they are in a group of friends. Timing is everything. Okay, so avoid drunkenly walking up to a man or a woman in a bar whilst they are enjoying the company of their friends, don't interrupt their conversation or get your note book out whilst smiling idiotically, appearing fun-loving and downing drinks.

The Dark Side

Photographer Cecil Beaton had been trying to arrange the shoot for three months, but she still turned up an hour and 15 minutes late at a suite in New York's Ambassador hotel. According to Beaton, the blonde bombshell squealed with delight and leapt onto the sofa putting a flower stem into her mouth and pretending to smoke it. I get the impression he wasn't too impressed with her avant garde nature. Pictured laughing into a cushion with apparent abandon, her slightly puffy eyes smile back at the camera. Marilyn Monroe was the ultimate blonde and dated a string of high profile men, yet her dark haired co-stars pocketed fatter wage packets. Now, in the midst of a recession, blonde women are dyeing their hair brown to be taken more seriously in the office. Twenty first century screen siren Scarlett Johansson kick started the trend by adopting a more sober shade. Researchers (or rather Superdrug staff handing out surveys) found 62 per cent of people think brunettes look more professional than blondes in the workplace. This has led to fair headed women darkening their locks - with the current economic climate partially to blame. The researchers found redheads have the most sex - enjoying a romp three times a week, compared to twice a week for brunettes. Blondes emerged as the most adventurous in the bedroom. Brushing the survey twaddle aside, I decided I wanted a change and it was after much debate (and without the aid of Superdrug's statistics) that I crossed over to the dark side. Whether it results in a fatter pay cheque remains to be seen.

Kung Fu Panda

If you don't know who Susan Boyle is you will shortly. She's 48 and never been kissed. A friendly church worker with downy hair creeping over her un made up face. Bushy eyebrows, fuzzy hair and a nylon gold flecked dress your great grandmother would have been proud to wear. From a tiny village in Scotland she shuffled onto the stage drawing sniggers from the audience - that was until she opened her mouth. The single unemployed cat lover has an amazing voice. Following her rendition of I Dreamed A Dream from Les Miserables the audience gave her a standing ovation. For most of her life she has been overlooked by everyone (with the exception of her cat Pebbles). So when my northern Irish friend with the husky voice asked why there are no decent men around I thought of Sue. I'm not referring to her mannish looks. I'm also not suggesting ladies should let their eyebrows grow out of control and walk around with a nest of hair all day. And I'm certainly not about to set up campaign group lobbying for hairy women, but perhaps, myself included, we need to stop failing to notice people. Take Mr Muddy from the dating website. He may have be consigned to the proverbial scrap heap of potential husbands for having smaller proportions, but what if he's hilariously funny? It's a bit like swapping Bond for Kung Fu Panda. Set for an evening of Daniel Craig running about in a suit/impossibly tight shirt relatively unscathed as missiles explode all around him, I got a text message from my housemate. It read: "I went in for Bond and came out with Kung Fu Panda". "Never mind" I said, "It's meant to be funny". And it was.

Napoleon complex

An angry male of below average height who feels it necessary to act out in an attempt to gain respect and recognition from others and compensate for his abnormally short stature. Also synonymous to little man syndrome. Okay so he wasn't Mr Angry, but there were height issues. “He just needs a good stretching,” she drawled in her husky northern Irish voice. Poor Mr Muddy - an inch or two taller and he may have got himself a farmer's wife. But just how big a deal is height? Scientists have warned small men do make more jealous husbands and lovers than their taller, more relaxed counterparts. Diminutive males from Napoleon Bonaparte to Tom Cruise have been accused of overcompensating for a lack of physical stature (and not just by wearing heels). The conventional wisdom is that Napoleon overcompensated for his short height by seeking power, war and conquest. Earlier this week French president Nicolas Sarkozy threatened to walk out of the G20 summit saying he would not accept a compromise if the final communique did not come up to his expectations, and especially if it failed to call for stricter regulation on tax havens. In fact what he actually said was far more synonymous with short man syndrome, informing aides: "If things don't advance in London, there will be an empty chair. I'll get up and leave." Well that's Napoleon complex for you.

Rice milk

“What do you have on your porridge?” The police family liaison officer inquired, his uniform carefully pressed and his black shoes buffed to a high shine. The three of us waited in the foyer of the crown court for the Dartmoor based judge, who learns French and wears a flat cap, to start proceedings. It was the sentencing of the teenage boy racer found guilty of death by dangerous driving. He killed his girlfriend when the car he was driving left the road, flipped over and smashed into a tree. Floral tributes swamped the spot near the blind bend and other parents, who had also suffered losses there, campaigned for speed cameras and lamented the loss of another young life. Two of us sat on the bright green chairs and the FLO stood up. The slightly older sergeant talked animatedly about his position as a firearms officer and the impossible fitness test that saw him pitted against much younger recruits. He had been at the scene of the accident when the driver shouted “I think I've killed my girlfriend”. Wrapped up in a high visibility coat and gloves he had been at the same spot more than a year later when the jury visited the crash site. “So what do you have on your porridge?” The conversation brought about a light hearted relief from the reality of the situation and once again we were on the same team. “Rice milk,” I laughed. A few moments later the the teenagers name was read out and we hurriedly gathered our professions about us and walked into court room one.

The Collector

Mr Gainsborough-Roberts' full length black coat was emblazoned with a sequinned image of the legendary blonde. The eccentric sixty-something-year-old also wore a faded blue tie and waistcoat from which the screen siren pouted seductively. He digressed endlessly as he sipped his 11am glass of white wine. “Well I used to collect posters from the cinema from about the age of seven,” his upper class accent and tongue rolling blended his answers into a posh inaudible mumble. But the real collection started with a £15,000 dress. Now, eighteen years later, he has the world's largest genuine collection of Marilyn Monroe memorabilia. Costumes, folded hap haphazardly in acid free tissue paper, had been stuffed into drawers in uninhabited rooms at his Jersey home. Outfits, jewellery, shoes and photographs from the too short life of the glitzy fifties show stopper mingled with Elvis' ring and Audrey's make-up set. A life size wax work model made by Madame Tussauds stands in his kitchen. In the next room, the iconic red sequinned dress from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes had been tried on by the Monroe lookalike who wiggled across the carpet leaving a trail of jewels behind her for the PR girls to pick up. Now, thanks to the six feet tall white haired collector, it was on display - carefully fitted around a specially made mannequin. The cocktail dress Monroe wore in Some Like It Hot and the Niagara “wiggle dress” were gems in the fanatic's unrivalled collection. Backstage photographs taken by Eve Arnold during the filming of The Misfits were also laid out behind the glass. A legend born from her untimely death and her unhappy life.

Whisky Mac

The ninety five year old from Surrey set a new backstroke world record. Mr Harrison swum to victory despite having undergone two spinal operations in four years, the last of which was six months ago. The fastest elderly swimmer to compete in the race, he puts his speedy sportsmanship down to Whisky Mac. Two thirds whisky and one third green ginger wine. I'm not quite sure how the regular warming tipple helps Mr Harrison's coordination but no doubt it eases any age related aches and pains. I was introduced to Whisky Mac whilst on a Dartmoor escape. Moorland gave way to woodland as the path narrowed and steepened. A stream ran through the trees and daffodils had randomly set down roots in amongst the ferns. We spotted the fire from the stone cottage before we saw it - breakfast cereals and milk were laid out on the wooden table in the late morning sunshine adding to the feeling of escapism. “Hello, hello” we shouted as we entered the dark cottage, our enthusiasm momentarily shattering the peace. The others had arrived the night before and lit the fire, left a pile of walking boots in the porch and unpacked boxes of food delivered to the door by wheelbarrow. After an outdoor breakfast we headed towards the moor. Dry bracken cracked beneath our feet as we followed our own path up the hill. Reaching the top we drank in the view suddenly appreciating what was on our doorstep. Reclined against rocks at the foot of Bowman's Nose in the early afternoon sunshine, our faces up to the sun, we passed the home made cocktail around as, resting in a comfortable silence between bursts of walking.

Flowers

She came into the room and disarmed me with flowers. Her instant, constant chatter was verging on nervousness and had I not known her grief that's what I would have mistaken it for. The photographer arrived early again. She was anxious to accommodate him and generously offered to buy him a drink even though the newspaper was footing the lunch bill. Her answers to the quick fire questions hinted at an inability to make decisions and my shorthand spread down the page like ancient Egyptian script. It was a simple question about her favourite clothes shop which drew a sad response. “Since Helen died I haven't really enjoyed shopping. She was a really good shopper. That's been a big loss. Going back to clothes shopping has been hard and does not seem very important any more – and it's not after the loss of a family member.” A promising young actress Helen died in a Boxing Day car crash. When her brothers and father went to see the mangled vehicle they decided to turn their heart-breaking loss into something positive and the foundation was born. The arrival of food allowed for a brief breath of air and my thoughts momentarily wondered to another family and another painful loss. Prescription drugs attempted to numb his mother's pain and she wandered soullessly into each subsequent hour. For a second she looked up at this stranger in her living room, just a few days after the death of her youngest child. “I don't mean to be rude, but why are you here?” I regret not being honest. Instead of saying, “I don't know, I find this intrusive and difficult and I'm sorry your son has died.” I told her it was to write a tribute to her son because friends, teachers and past acquaintances had called the paper with the news. The truth was I had searched the archives, phoned friends and teachers and past acquaintances. I had accessed the electoral role and I knew where they lived and what their jobs were before I arrived. With Helen's mum time had healed some of the wounds like a scar you gradually get used to or a limb you learn to live without. When the plates had been cleared away and the bill paid she put the flowers into a wet tissue and wrapped them in a plastic bag, “Helen would never go to lunch without bringing flowers,” she said.

Allotments and armchairs

Last month a small leather armchair sold for £19million. The twentieth century chair designed by Scottish-Irish Art Deco designer Eileen Gray was sold by Christie's for a record breaking, not to mention recession busting, sum. The crinkly muddy brown leather is framed by two ornate horns resulting in a menacing looking 'dragon's armchair' despite its' 24 inch height. Selling for six times its' original estimate, this affliction on all tasteful furniture, counted among its' previous owners the late fashion designer Yves Saint Laurent. Upholstered in natural hand antiqued water buffalo hide the sprung back is encased in Mongolian horsehair. One could politely describe it as an eccentric vintage piece – no doubt similar credentials to the new owner – but nineteen million pounds? Can you imagine adding such a museum piece to your insurance? They'd think you'd gone mad. Anyone who dared to sit on it would probably be taken outside and shot by the butler. Determined to obtain the fashionable heights of shabby chic, I opted for a stripped-down, budget version of Gray's masterpiece. The two miss-matching yellow pine chairs cost me a mere £20. Sally and I had hunted through Steptoe's yard and been victorious. Delighted with my buy and armed with a sander I began to peel away the high shine in order to carry-out my own DIY shabby chic. As the used-to-be varnish and dust floated into Sally's coffee I could see the potential already. Shabby chic, I have discovered, incorporates any badly painted (usually white) reclaimed wooden furniture which wouldn't look out of place in a French boudoir. These worn looking wardrobes, dressing tables and mirrors are like a Plain Jane in fancy dress. My bargain chairs are however destined for my kitchen and not the bedroom. Once I have defaced them with forget-me-knot blue paint cracked with a blow torch, they will be transformed into reputable shabby chic items. Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Mole and his girlfriend were turning over the soil and portioning off his newly acquired allotment. After what seemed an eternity at number three on the waiting list he had finally got his own plot of land. I was busily relaying the types of vegetables planned for the allotment when Sally said: “It must be an age thing.” Sat outside happily sanding down the chairs whilst drinking tea, I queried “what, you mean allotments and armchairs?"

Ashes to ...

Apparently there is life after the inferno – and not just in the spiritual sense. Cremation always seemed so much more civilised than a coffin burial; rather than decaying in a box, cremation offers a cleaner, express exit from the world of the living. This was until I discovered the creepy underworld of cremation. Scattering remains over a cliff top during an emotional tribute is simply passé. Ashes, on the other hand, can be mixed in with virtually anything. There are literally hundreds of companies effectively waiting in the wings of the funeral parlour ready to sell you back your relative as soon as the music stops playing. When the day finally arrives – and I sincerely hope it is way in the future when my own health starts to ail – I don’t want my dear mother melted down into a cat and placed on the mantelpiece. The problem is other people don’t mind having grandpa Bill made into a spitfire, or heaven forbid, a mug. Can you imagine the look on the face of an unsuspecting guest when you reveal to them they are in fact supping from aunt Nerys? Environmentalists can even send their dearly departed out into the ocean in the form of a moulded Reef Ball. Slumped over a bar at the wake, conversations would run something like this: "Sorry to hear about your dad." "Oh don’t worry; he’s at the bottom of the Atlantic helping build up deteriorating coral reefs and creating a new marine environment off the coast of Florida."

Thinner?

Incense burnt slowly creating pockets of mist with the low lighting, which subtly invited us to relax among the various Asian artefacts. Acoustic versions of songs made famous by back-in-the-day crooners, merged into one in the background whilst we sat ticking boxes. The check list was endless. Have you got verrucas, heart problems, breathing difficulties, pains, diabetes - an aversion to strangers? Lulled into a false sense of security and happily ticking away at the 'no' boxes, the final inquiry glared out from the questionnaire like a bar of Green and Blacks when you're on a diet. What would you like to change about your body? What a clanger. After 21 years of friendship we often find ourselves finishing off one another's sentences or in this case speaking in unison; “thinner?” we queried. All this for a massage? Signing our lives away and absolving the spa from any responsibility should we experience a sudden velocity towards the floor. The last time I had a massage was in India after five days trekking in the Himalayas and several near head-on collisions on the journey through Rajasthan. Two tiny Indian women with leathered faces and rough hands prepared the room. There was no preamble, no questionnaire. A few minutes later I heard Jen's voice from the other side of the curtain. "Have you got any clothes on?" she asked, a note of slight discomfort in her voice. "Well,” I replied, “she's dressing me in a paper loin cloth, does that count?" There is after all, something to be said for English conservatism and box ticking.

Dismissed

"Did he stab her on the doorstep? Did he immediately follow her upstairs and stab her? No. He did what all murderers do and made her a meal." I can imagine the looks which passed between my journalist friend and the Detective Inspector as the turkey-necked defence barrister made a last ditch attempt to persuade the jury of his client's innocence. The 65 year old with thinning white hair, lung cancer and diabetes stabbed his young Filipino wife six times in the back. The trial wasn't about whether or not he had inflicted the wounds which left her fighting for her life. It wasn't about the scar all the way down her chest where surgeons opened her up to save her. It was about his intention. He pleaded guilty to wounding with intent to do grievous bodily harm, but he told the court he didn't want to kill her. He plunged the knife in the first time after she made a flippant remark about going into town "to find men to make babies with". The five other wounds were to "shut her up" and "teach her a lesson". Her affair with the salsa dance teacher had humiliated him. The tumultuous relationship, strained by the 36 year age gap, had fallen spectacularly apart and she told her husband she wanted a separation. Now it was up to 12 randomly selected strangers to decide if he would live out the rest of his years behind bars. The prosecution barrister, young and good looking, painted a different picture to his learned friend. He wasn't the spectacled, coughing, cuckolded pensioner, but an enraged jealous man who didn't want anyone else to have his wife. The barrister played the 999 call in court. At first the defendant lied to the woman in the ambulance control room. He told her there had been a bad accident and his wife had fallen on a knife. When the woman in the ambulance control room asked the caller exactly what had happened, the truth came out. The jury heard the young wife's emotional evidence and watched as the confused looking older man, who'd also sworn on the Bible, repeatedly said he hadn't intended to kill her. Four and a half hours later the jury were asked to return a majority verdict in the attempted murder trial. Two hours later the jury was reconvened having failed to come to a decision. The judge dismissed them. Now 12 more strangers will sit and watch the young Filipino wife and the 65 year old with thinning white hair, lung cancer and diabetes and try to decide what his intention was.

The Red Paperclip

A fish pen, a door knob, a stove, a skidoo. One year and fourteen trades later, a tiny fairly insignificant piece of stationery has morphed into a house. Fast forward three years and the Canadian tourist attraction in the town of Kipling is being traded again. All offers are on the table but the owners would prefer several 1990 Burgundy Dodge Caravans with low mileage. So far seventy four people have offered everything from an ex husband with the children thrown in, to a pair of inline skates, a church pew, and two rib eye steaks. Personally I wouldn't go for the steaks - after 10 years of being a vegetarian it could have a worse effect on my constitution than travelling through India – but what an idea. With cash becoming increasingly tight and no voice or musical talent for busking, relying on my bartering skills is the more reasonable and less embarrassing option. So far this month, I have bartered my writing skills for Joan (who, by the way, is now hanging on the dining room wall and has already provoked comment from every house guest), a spa day, a hair cut and I'm working on a weekend in the Cotswolds. So what's sparked the resurgence in bartering? None of my friends are actually suffering because of the recession, but it's given everyone a free pass to barter like crazy. Okay, so I don't fancy being hit over the head with a newspaper again – an unfortunate yet comedy moment in Cambodia where I pushed the price too low in a Valium induced haze – but bartering is definitely the way forward.
My friends, the stoner and the investigative journalist, are lining up a trip to Bulgaria under the guise of looking for a house. No doubt they'll be greeted by an attractive lady dressed in heels and a poorly cut suit with lipstick seeping beyond the confines of her mouth. She'll think she has the upper hand. It will be a few drinks, lunch and a hard sale. But as the stoner pointed out, “If we haven't got any money, then we can't buy a house.” “Simple,” I said. “Get yourself a red paperclip.”

Embrace

I'm sharing my living room with a 94 year old. I spent hundreds of pounds for the privilege. She sits on a white wicker chair with red rose heads tumbling down her black skirt. In her gnarled hands she embraces an alabaster plaster cast of Ione Rucquoi's head. Her name is Joan. Until tonight she didn't have a name. Now she's a sculptor's grandmother. "Careful it's heavy," Ione says, tired and at the point in her pregnancy where she's close to bursting. I carry the bubble-wrapped image inside and set it down by the table. Ione follows me in and as we take off the cloudy covering we chat again about the picture, who the lady is and the shoot. The background to the image replays in my head - the untimely death of Ione's sister, the old lady she never became, her youth captured in the cast. It's a striking image but one you can live with. PJ's image of two sisters picking over an ox heart, blood smeared around their mouths, is still wrapped up and hidden behind the sideboard banned from causing offence. The women in the house don't like it. Some of Ione's images are stronger and uncomfortable, but Embrace has a sadness to it and a complex beauty. "Oh my god that scared the hell out of me," my housmate exclaims when he walks though the door and is faced with Joan.

Tupperware

They all sat there pretending to be ladettes passing tacky underwear around the circle. The chubby blonde girl with too much enthusiasm was hosting the party - the one who sold me my house. Robs invited me to make up the numbers and I went despite knowing I would hate it. With the risk of sounding like a chastity belt wearing prude, the only people I can conceivably see wearing any of the Ann Summers' range have limited acting abilities and get filmed whilst waiting for a mysterious Norwegian plumber to call by. I mean to say most of their thongs would look like a piece of plastic stuck round a bloated bird half drowning in sea water. We sat drinking red wine out of plastic cups and eating inexplicable amounts of crisps so that when the vibrators got passed to you, your hands were already too busy to hold it against your nose. If it wasn't for the neon pink and flashing lights (apparently they guide you in the dark), some of them could be mistaken for weapons used by sexually suppressed redneck police to rough up criminals. As soon as one person got up to leave the awkward gathering of strangers, we dived for the exit. “I felt like I couldn't breathe in there,” Robs said as we ran for the safety of the car.
“So you don't try things on then?” my house mate asked when he returned from work to find me turning the lounge into a jungle of randomly selected and recently purchased plants. “No, not at this party thank god,” I said. It was the sort of evening where you wish you could get back that two hours of your life and put it to better use. “Oh,” he said visibly disappointed at my description of the girly meet. “Sounds more like a Tupperware party.”

A shaky start

"Just don't write anything which could get you sacked," he mumbled through a mouthful of toast. "Oh, come on" I said looking for a sign of reassurance, the confidence notably dropping out of my voice and my finger already erasing the first traces of my blog, "What could I write which would get me sacked?"
It all started with the comment "You could rest a pint of Guinness on that behind." It was the sort of remark, made in jest, which added weight to my brother's childhood insistence that I was in fact adopted. With wiry, Afro blonde hair, skin that soaks up the sun and a sizable African woman's bum he had a point. "Thanks uncle Nicholas, it's almost as big as yours," I grinned. Then came the dreaded question. I don't mean the one which seeks to prise open the doors to your love life and invite frank comment on the suitability of various men to be welcomed into the family. I mean the one, which all people who write for a living are asked, "When are you going to write a book?". Let me be clear, coming from my dear uncle, who once told my brother's ex girlfriend she dressed like a Romanian refugee, this comment was not innocuous. So I decided after much deliberation to start little by little, so hopefully each sentence will roll into a paragraph and finally I'll have a jumble of words knitted together through wit, humour and empathy; a mixture of me, people I've met, stories I've covered and all in the public eye.