Growing old - disgracefully

Call me a weirdo, but ever since I was a little girl I've often wondered about what type of old lady I would be... like I said, call me a weirdo!

I remember seeing Margaret Rutherford in Blithe Spirit and thinking she was probably the coolest old lady I'd ever seen - all tweed skirts and bead necklaces swinging about: brilliant! I quite liked the idea of being one of those 'stuff and nonsense' type of old ladies - the kind that can say anything and unconsciously intimidate everyone they meet.

Then, of course, there's the elegant Audrey Hepburn type - impeccably dressed, silk stockings, hair in a chignon.... I think to be this kind of old lady you have to be that kind of young lady, and I've never ever been able to pull off the groomed look so I think this is going to be unachievable.

Mad cat lady with lots of carrier bags, wearing pop socks and a pack-a-mac? Well, that's probably an easier look! Plus you get to stop and stare at people (it's only old ladies and toddlers that can get away with this), and that's quite a fun idea....

And then there's the hair - my daughter is convinced that old ladies have white fluffy curly hair so that they look like clouds, ready for when they float up to heaven (morbid child). Perhaps I will have a purple rinse? Or dye it jet black. Who knows...

Whatever I end up being, I sincerely hope I'll be a cool old lady. In the meantime, there's a fetching tweed cape they're selling in LaRedoute - maybe I should start collecting my old lady costume in readiness!

Sarah ;)

Those were the days... I think!

Thank goodness for all these austerity cutbacks! OK, I admit that’s not something you’ll hear me say every day, but stay with me!

Do you remember your twenties? When being invited round to friends for a “dinner party” meant a mince based dish served with lashings of powerful garlic bread. And it didn’t matter one jot what you brought to drink - it could come in a plastic bottle for all anyone cared (and often did). I distinctly remember having a conversation with a male friend about the options for buying beer: cheap so you can drink a lot - vs - expensive and gets you pissed quick. It was an important debate! A time when red-wine mouth and Walls Vienetta for pudding happened regularly. When we all smoked - even those of us that didn’t.

Then the swanky years hit - when “dinner party” meant visiting a wine shop (note: not an “offy”, a “wine shop”). It seemed perfectly OK to take advice from the man in red cords and a pink rugby shirt about “palettes” and “acidity” and “new world”. Food went up a notch and ingredients had to be organic, and “sourced” rather than bought. It was served in Le Creuset, rather than the foil dish it came in when it was pulled from Asda’s freezer section.

And then the recession hit. Or was it children? Or age? Or did we just grow up a bit? Either way, we don’t go to dinner parties anymore. To be honest, I think I’d be too tired. And luckily it seems that most of us have calmed down and found a middle ground somewhere between the two. We can eat (low fat) mince based dishes served with lashings of powerful garlic (ciabatta) bread. Your wine still shouldn’t come in a plastic bottle, but a plastic cork is OK. And the Vienetta? Well, stick a tub of Haagen Dazs in the middle of the table and we can all have another glass of wine while we wait for it to soften enough to get the spoon in...

Sarah x

Me & My Dad: The Penny Pinchers!

When I was growing up, one of the phrases I remember quite clearly was: “hmmm, petrol situation’s getting a bit dodgy…”, always said by my Dad, usually on a long journey, and often said whilst travelling down a motorway. On the upside, it at least gave the journey a bit of thrill factor - let’s spurn those overpriced motorway service stations, let’s see if we can squeeze out a few more drops and make it to a nice, off the beaten track (AKA “cheaper”) petrol station. More entertaining than playing I Spy, real edge-of-the-seat stuff!

You see, my Dad is ‘careful’ with money and I think - no, I know - it’s a trait I’ve picked up and run with the older I get. When I was still living at home, I would sometimes request that the heating be turned up a bit - “it’s up at 64 degrees already!”, my Dad would exclaim. “If it was a summer’s day and 64 degrees outside, you’d be walking around in a t-shirt!”. It’s a bit tricky to argue your way out of that one - especially when you’re 9.

I remember when, as a family, we would go to get our collective hair cut (by a nice lady called Jane who ‘did you’ in her kitchen - much cheaper than going to the hairdressers, plus if we all went together it saved on the aforementioned petrol). Whilst Jane was sorting out my Dad’s mop of hair he asked her to clear up an argument that he and my Mum had recently had: namely, is washing up liquid basically the same as shampoo? I think you see where this was going… (Just for the record, Jane confirmed that it wouldn’t do his hair any harm if he wanted to wash it in the cheapest brand of bright green washing up liquid available. Apparently, it’s the conditioner that counts…)

Our house was regularly “lit up like bloody Blackpool”, and paying for a car park space was something only idiots did. Even if it did mean a bit of a walk… Creosote for your fence was a waste of money when you had a bucket of old engine oil to hand (result: lovely smart black fence, but no naked flames to be used within a 500 yard radius please). Dad’s taste in wine is legendary in our family - his philosophy is if he can get it for under £2.50 and it doesn’t make him sick, it’s a winner. When we moved house once he had the phone installed in the kitchen, on the wall - to prevent people from getting too comfortable and thereby talking longer. Phone calls, of course, must always be made after 6pm. Oh, and a sachet of any kind (sugar, ketchup, vinegar, salad cream) made available for customers in that coffee shop? Well, that was just begging to be snaffled...

Of course, these days it’s easy to wrap up all this scrimping as being “eco friendly”. Don’t use the tumble drier, turn the heating down (or preferably off all together), reduce, re-use, recycle, etc. My Mum had the lid of a Nescafe coffee jar as the handle for her oven for quite some time - see, maybe my Dad was actually just ahead of his time!

The thing is though, I appear to be exactly the same. Let’s not put the heating on, let’s just buy a hot water bottle instead. (Preferably in Poundland). See a penny, pick it up, and all day long - you’ll be a penny richer than you were yesterday, result! And if you’re ever out and about, and find yourself in need of a sachet of pepper or a nice lemony-fresh wipe (from KFC, c1998, probably a bit dried out now), then just let me know. I’ve got a handbag full of them.

Sarah x