Top Tip for Troublesome Shoe Laces

If the ends of your laces have become floppy and frayed, either:

*  dip the ends in wax  or

*  dip the ends in superglue

then with damp fingers roll them until they have a nice firm end

Double entendres to the usual address…

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Way hay! I’m back!

Sorry about my absence, chaps.  My phone and internet has been off for a week and for some reason my mobile wouldn’t allow me to put any text into a new post.  I will see you this evening…..

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Body image – don’t let the media tell you you’re not beautiful

Sex appeal adI will be 48 in a few days and suffer from the common illusion that I am 30.  Obviously, I only have to look in the mirror to know that this is not true.  But the question is, how do other people see us and why are we so frequently disappointed or unhappy with our physical appearance?

This week, I have been reading a cross section of the women’s magazines as I am planning to write an article which needs to be targeted at a certain audience.  Before I slipped into a coma, I was struck by the constant stream of items about how to make yourself more this and more that, better skin, better hair, more sexy, thinner, younger, less pear-shaped, more dateable, less leaky, a better cook etc etc.

This is not news.  Women have been told they’re not good enough for years and, despite public discussion about the healthiness of this attitude, women perpetrate their own misery by allowing themselves to be insidiously indoctrinated day by day by absorbing the negativity that is thinly disguised as light-hearted self-improvement.

Don’t get me wrong; I love lipstick, face creams, shoes and frocks as much as the next chap but it’s not ALL I like and being pretty and slim is not all I want to be.  Part of my perception of myself as a women involves intellect, humour, strength, compassion and love but these subjects are rarely presented to us in the media as necessarily desirable characteristics.  If you want a man, you have to be slim, glamorous, fantastic in bed and non-confrontational and, apparently, years of feminism have done nothing to change this other than to sneer if you don’t also have a top job, three children, bake cupcakes and have a statutory number of orgasms a week (alone or in pairs).

I’m curious to know how men feel about the way the media presents women and how they feel about their own social representations.  In a recent article I touched on the dilemma for men of being told to connect with their feminine side whilst simultaneously being vilified for doing so.  How many times have we heard men saying that they prefer women with curves and yet the magazines still insist on using physical anomalies as models.

How do men feel when women scamper off to Chippendales shows, howling and baying like animals over the oiled up, muscle-bound specimens parading before them?  Is this not rank and revolting exploitation of men?  How can we demand that women are not treated as sex objects when women behave like that towards men?  Double standards doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

Health also plays its part.  There are plenty of fat healthy people and there are plenty of thin unhealthy people.  Being too thin can have associated health problems eg hormonal dysfunction, brittle bones, heart problems and digestive imbalances.  Being too fat can cause diabetes, joint problems, heart problems, hormone imbalances and so on.  So we are lead back to moderation and self worth. 

Extreme body sizes at both ends of the scale can be an indicator of lack of self-esteem, lack of control of our lives and a fear of emotional exposure.  Psychological health is a massive factor in our acceptance or rejection of our physical selves and until we address that, and identify where our dis-ease lies our bodies are only an end product, a symptom. 

Fresh air and exercise have a phenomenally positive effect on our mental and physical wellbeing; reconnection with nature lifts the spirits and grounds us in more ways than one.  This connection will show in our faces and in our demeanour.  Never underestimate the power of a good walk.

When I look at another human being the first things to attract me will be warmth, intelligence and humour, whether in men or women.  Of course, there are physical attributes that I find particularly attractive but that’s just gift-wrapping.  Bodies change shape, hair lines retreat, boobs and biceps sag, the perfect face becomes ugly when it is unloveable, but the essence, the soul of a person is there forever.

One of the great things about being involved in Steampunk is that the people who engage with it are all shapes and sizes and, because they make up their own outfits and personas, they dress to show off, flatter or disguise their figures with the clothes of their choosing rather than what they can cobble together in the high street chain stores. 

Fat, thin, busty, muscle-bound, tall, short, masculine, feminine, black, white, handicapped, beautiful, bonkers; they’re all there and they’re all gorgeous.  But what is most noteworthy is that they are confident and lovely because they dress on their own terms and present their souls and bodies on their own terms. There are no identikit Steampunks, no lifestyle magazines to say how they should be.  The only absolutes are to be courteous and splendid.

And so I say to you all, men and women, rejoice in your beauty.  If someone tells you that you look great, smile and say thank you.  Accept yourself for who you are and work with it.

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Sunday Poem 175

With thanks to Phil Wilkinson for pointing me in the direction of this one.

One Art – by Elizabeth Bishop (1911- )

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
 
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
 
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
 
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
 
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
 
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

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Keeping small clothes tidy

Goth gloves in a freezer bag

Goth gloves in a freezer bag

I have lots of small clothing items, such as gloves and stockings, that are really easy to lose and/or are delicate.  Having nearly lost two pairs of lacy, gothy gloves recently, I have taken to putting them in plastic freezer bags with the zippy top.  This way you can write on them exactly what’s inside eg ‘lace goth fingerless gloves’ as opposed to  ‘crocheted goth gloves with laces’ and keep them conspicuously together.  Tights and stockings are then safe from splinters or hang nails when rummaging through one’s drawers in search of hosiery (or gothy gloves).

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Sunday Poem 174 – bugger WordPress

This poem concerns a topic which is of great interest to me.  I have been short-sighted since childhood and detest my spectacles with a violent passion.  I feel that when I wear glasses a visible barrier has gone up between me and the rest of the world and that no-one can see me.

This may have something to do with the fact that I have good eyes, big and blue, and I would hate anyone to miss my one good feature.  I have worn contact lenses for the last 25 years and I love them very much.  As my eyesight deteriorates with age, I am now trialling a new system whereby I wear a long-sight lens in one eye and a short-sight lens in the other; my brain fills in the gaps and I can pretty much see everything now.

I dread the day when I can no longer wear them.
Conversely, I do love a chap in specs.  Double standards are so repellent……

Glasses good, contact lenses bad – by John Hegley (b. 1953)

In the embrace of my glasses
I openly accept my vulnerability
and affirm my acceptance of outside help.
As well as providing open acknowledgement
of the imperfection of my eyesight
my glasses are a symbolic celebration
of the wider imperfection that is the human condition.
In contrast contact lenses are a hiding of the fault
they pretend the self-sufficiency of the individual
and minister unto the cult of stultifying normality,
they are that which should be cast out of your vision:
they are a denial of the self,
they are a denial of the other,
they are a betrayal of humanity.

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Court Out: Ten Top Tips for dealing with Magistrates

Under no circumstances is anyone a nincompoop

Under no circumstances is anyone a nincompoop

Today the Wartime Housewife was up before the Beak.  Not for the usual offences, but for several motoring misdemeanours committed in December last year.  I was completely guilty on all fronts but, in my defence, the problems were caused through stress, over-work and impecuniousness. 

I was going to just cough up the fine, as I was desperate to get the whole thing over and done with, but a friend (who knows about these things) strongly advised me to appear in court and plead mitigation. Consequently, I turned up at Kettering Magistrates Court this afternoon with a guilty plea and a carefully written and truthful account of why the offences had happened together with an equally truthful financial statement.  I gave a copy of each to the Magistrates and sat still while they read it.

I was quite relieved to see three women officials there because, rightly or wrongly, I felt they would understand the pressures of single parenthood perhaps better than men.  They behaved in a solemn but kindly way towards me and I answered their questions clearly and respectfully.

I am happy to say that the sentence was light.  I was given six points on my otherwise clean license and was handed down a minimal fine, with an additional victim surcharge, which I was given time to pay.

Should you find yourself in a similar situation, my advice is this:-

1.   Don’t get yourself into this situation in the first place

2.   Appear in court

3.   Dress nicely and soberly

4.   Plead guilty if you are guilty – don’t bugger about

5.   If you don’t have a legal representative, take time to write out your plea of mitigation. Don’t rely on your memory.  Read your statement out clearly or give copies to the Magistrates to read

6.   Behave respectfully and with contrition

7.   Do not cry.

8.   Ask for time to pay based on realistic ability

9.   Pay your instalments as soon as you can

10.  Don’t do it again

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The Wartime Housewife is Unwell

She will be back tomorrow….

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A surfeit of lampreys and a recipe for Fried Eels

15th century eel fishing

15th century eel fishing

Last week, Boy the Elder ate himself sick.  No really.  He ate so much food over the course of a day at his father’s, that he spent the entire night vomiting and had to stay off school.  Apparently he had simply grazed on anything that cast a shadow, including the ingestion of all the remaining roast potatoes (of which there were many) a mere half an hour after one of their father’s legendary Sunday Lunches.

When I rang his school to inform them as to why Boy the Elder was absent, I said merely that he would not be in due to a ‘surfeit of lampreys’ and his school is such that they understood immediately. 

As I’m sure you know, Henry I of England died of “a surfeit of lampreys” according to the chronicler, Henry of Huntingdon.  The lamprey is a type of eel which is much meatier than your average fish and was a very popular food for the rich in the middle ages.  They have to be very thoroughly cleaned and gutted before cooking or they become toxic, which is probably what actually did for Henry.  Interestingly the RAF made a lamprey pie for Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation in 1953; I hope they weren’t trying to tell her something.

 However, despite being used mostly as bait for fishing, lampreys and eels in general are a nutritious and filling food and should not be overlooked as a free food source.  They are plentiful in many rivers and canals and can be caught with a rod and line or special traps.  Here’s a recipe.

FRIED EELS for 4

Utensils:
2 x medium bowls
1 x chopping board
1 x large frying pan with a lid

Ingredients:
2lbs / 1kg eels – washed and skinned
1 egg – beaten
flour for coating – seasoned with parsley, salt and pepper
1 oz / 30g butter (or just a good knob thereof)

Method:
Cut the eels into 2” / 5cm chunks
Coat the pieces in beaten egg then coat with the flour
Melt the butter in the frying pan until really hot but not burning brown
Fry the eels, turning gently once to seal them
Lower the heat, cover the pan and braise until the eels are tender
Serve with crust bread as eels are somewhat oily

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Sunday Poem 173

Yet again WordPress let me down despite preparing posts before I went away for the weekend.  Sorry…


Still Falls the Rain -
by Dame Edith Sitwell (1887-1964)

Still falls the Rain—
Dark as the world of man, black as our loss–
Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails
Upon the Cross.

Still falls the Rain
With a sound like the pulse of the heart that is changed to the hammer-beat
In the Potter’s Field, and the sound of the impious feet

On the Tomb:
Still falls the Rain

In the Field of Blood where the small hopes breed and the human brain
Nurtures its greed, that worm with the brow of Cain.

Still falls the Rain
At the feet of the Starved Man hung upon the Cross.
Christ that each day, each night, nails there, have mercy on us—
On Dives and on Lazarus:
Under the Rain the sore and the gold are as one.

Still falls the Rain—
Still falls the Blood from the Starved Man’s wounded Side:
He bears in His Heart all wounds,—those of the light that died,
The last faint spark
In the self-murdered heart, the wounds of the sad uncomprehending dark,
The wounds of the baited bear—
The blind and weeping bear whom the keepers beat
On his helpless flesh… the tears of the hunted hare.

Still falls the Rain—
Then— O Ile leape up to my God: who pulles me doune—
See, see where Christ’s blood streames in the firmament:
It flows from the Brow we nailed upon the tree

Deep to the dying, to the thirsting heart
That holds the fires of the world,—dark-smirched with pain
As Caesar’s laurel crown.

Then sounds the voice of One who like the heart of man
Was once a child who among beasts has lain—
“Still do I love, still shed my innocent light, my Blood, for thee.”

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