My salad dressing days

So proud of my kids. They got their Industrial Catering and Prison Management badge.

“I had to get fully undressed to go to the loo.”

“To get it on, I had to dust myself with talc.”

“Going to dinner parties, one knows how much to eat before it becomes uncomfortable.”

“Thank you M&S for making me look so much better (when dressed)!”

Oh dear gawd…

It was one of the earliest scientific concepts we explained to our kids. Proud was the Daddy whose two pre-school children chorussed ‘Displacement!’ when asked why the bath water level rose when he got in.

Which is why I harbour a deep suspicion of what the nation’s favourite department store likes to call ‘shapewear’.

I mean, all that flesh, it has to go SOMEWHERE, doesn’t it?

Cinched waists without rib removal surgery? How marvellous.

But I can’t help wondering whether displaced lumps of excess flesh might start protruding elsewhere.

Urgh.

In other news: Grazia announces that ‘Foot-binding is back AND SEXY!’.

Today’s new stories digested into words of as few syllabubs as possible:

Celebrity may or may not have had boob job

Celebrity attends party with policitian’s wife whilst wearing an expensive dress

Pregnant celebrity goes out for dinner

Celebrity is happy, despite being fatter

Celebrity takes off clothes to promote reality TV show

Celebrity hangs out with other celebrities whilst trying to flog her perfume line

Wind blows celebrity’s dress but she laughs it off

Model is thinner than she used to be

Celebrity is happy, despite being thinner (probably)

Ex-politician’s daughter takes up yoga and changes religion

It didn’t last long, my youthful religious fervour.

Having begged our parents to let us attend Sunday school, my sisters and I quickly grew bored of colouring in pictures of Jesus.

My flirtation with the school Scripture Union club went the same way. Courtesy of Calliphoria Vomitoria.

“You must never kill one of God’s creatures,” said Miss P, earnestly.

“So, you shouldn’t kill animals?”

(Looking back now, it never occurred to me to ask whether she was vegetarian.)

“No, because animals are God’s creatures.”

“What about blue bottles? Is it OK to kill blue bottles? Because they’re annoying.”

“Yes, it’s OK to kill blue bottles.”

Even the daftest ten year old could rumble an inconsistency like that.

Godless for the ensuing decades, I do still take great satisfaction in a little blue bottle mass suicide event.

I make a mercy dash to the local mini-mart for some milk and KitKat Chunkies.

As I pass the fruit’n’veg section, a solitary apple flings itself onto the floor behind me.

I look around but there is no evidence of any human being having made contact with this apple so I take a few steps back and place it back in the carton.

I saunter down the next aisle and as I turn the corner, a packet of Tilda rice belly flops onto the floor.

I am, by now, suspicious.

Again, there is no-one around.

Before I pick it up, I gaze upwards to see if there are any cameras poised on me.

‘This must be some sort of experiment. A psychological experiment. Probably some university boffin is trying to evaluate levels of altruistic behaviour latent in late night supermarket shoppers on finding a misplaced product which they themselves have not misplaced.’

I give some thought to how my actions might be viewed by this researcher. If I leave the rice on the floor, they will shrug their shoulders and later write in their peer-reviewed journal that the results were as expected: people are lazy, self-interested sods. But if I pick it up, I envisage them responding to a TV journalist, smiling and saying that they were pleasantly surprised and that they conclude that, despite what we are led to believe by the mainstream media, Joe Public does give a damn and community spirit is not (yet) dead. I see the fuzzy CCTV footage of myself, heroically rescuing the suicidal rice packet and returning it to its rightful place at the far end of the Indian food section.

This feels good.

So I pick up the rice.

We pass the sign that says ‘No under-18s in the bar area’ and we are just about to ask the ruddy-cheeked bartender (a) what constitutes ‘the bar area’ and (b) where small children can be tethered instead when he bellows ‘No under-18s in the bar area’.

We establish the exact location of the bar area (this side of the fireplace) and the fact that small children can be either tethered approximately 75cm away from the bar area or allowed to run around like loons in the beer garden.

‘Why are children not allowed in the bar area?’ asks my son.

‘I have no idea, darling,’ I reply.

His brow furrows as he pauses for a minute.

‘Maybe it’s because kids might make some noise and the man can’t hear what people are trying to order,’ he speculates.

This seems as plausible a reason as any, so I reply: ‘You are probably right, honey.’

One graceless waiter and four rounds of oven chips with assorted protein types later and we decide to make tracks.

Before leaving, we do, however, establish that canine customers are permitted in the bar area.

How delightful.

OK. So I’m a little late to the party but I finally watched ‘The September Issue’ last night. And I’m all like: yo, Anna! You edit a glossy women’s magazine fergawdssake. You’re not solving world poverty. You’re playing big girl’s dress-up with the under-nourished. Even your daughter has rumbled you. Now go take a humility pill.

Next!

Is this the most vile toy ever?

Gender stereotyping – check
Promotion of rampant consumerism – check
Landfill-bound plastic tat – check

(Hat tip: Pink Stinks)