The object of my affections

Bruno Sebastian Fielding.

Born Tuesday 24th October at 4am.

I have fallen hopelessly in love.

Ani Yoda'at Rak Milim Achadot

Autumn. The traditional time of year for, errr, night classes and new linguistic challenges.

No namby pamby Latinate languages for me. I want something hardcore with a different script. God forbid that I should take the easy way out.

So far my vocabulary is limited to cheers and shoulders back, tits out, but hey ho, that’s never held me back before.

And we all know the best way to learn a language. That’s right. Sleep with the natives….

Shalom, kids.

New addition to the vestibule dynasty

Conversation with my sister at 1am this morning:

S: Big bad sister of mine, I need your help. Would you be able to tell me if I’ve gone into labour?

Me: What? What? What’s happening? Tell me.

S: Well, every few minutes I feel like I can’t breathe, I go all hot and my stomach sort of goes into spasms.

Me: Those are contractions, you idiot. Either that or a multiple orgasm.

S: It’s definitely not that. I’m never having sex again. What shall I do?

Me: Time them and when they’re three minutes apart you need to be in hospital.

S: I don’t want to go to hospital. It’s an hour’s drive away.

Me: That’s why you should go now. It’s only going to get worse.

S (dreamily): Maybe I should be like the !Kung women. They just go off and give birth under a tree.

Me: You do not live in Botswana. You live in the Lake District. Look out of the window.

S: It’s raining.

Me: Exactly. Get in the car now.

S: Do you think I could just finish my emails first?

Me: No.


4am: My brother-in-law calls to tell me she has given birth. Two hours, no drugs, a boy. Hurrah! I shall be boring you, dear readers, with gushing homages and photos forthwith.

Unholy alliances

I spend the weekend in the Lake District at a christening in a Catholic church. Enough said, really, but for those of you who require more details of my Saturday trials and tribulations...

11.30am: I am kneeling on the floor ironing my dress (scarlet - an homage to the cardinals). My mother walks in.

Mum: You're not very good at that, are you? Would you like me to do it for you?
Me: No, no. You don't have to do that.
Mum: Let me help. I want to.
Me: Really, it's fine. I mean, it's not like you're my MOTHER or anything.
Mum: What do you mean? Yes I am.
Me: (recovering quickly from moment of horror at confusing mother with girlfriend). Oh. Hmm. Sorry.

1pm: I walk into the church. I am the only woman under forty without a child.

1.30pm: The priest is telling a story about seeing a lamp-post with recording tape wrapped around it which, "as you know, is a sure sign of evil and witchcraft." I sneak a piece of nicotine gum into my mouth but suspect that it is against church etiquette to chew, so suck on it surreptitiously instead. After 5 minutes my tongue has gone numb and I am starting to dribble. The priest is still going on about the devil.

3pm: I stand with a group of old school friends for photographs.

Photographer: Now, if you girls could all stand in a line and hold the babies up for the camera? Lady on the end there in the red dress? Oh. Well. Never mind. You can just hold up, uh, your glass.

6pm: I have a conversation with Mrs Turner, aged about 103, married to the curate for sixty years until he died two months ago. Since then she has given up church and spends her Sundays in the pub instead. She has a very large bosom and likes hunting. Like her hounds, she barks rather than speaks. We are both slightly tipsy.

Mrs T: Lovely to see you! Fancy a couple of fingers?
Me: ?!
Mrs T: Large one, Barbara! I'll have the same again.
Mrs T: Are you here for the christening?
Me: Er, yes.
Mrs T: You haven't any of your own, of course. You're far too clever for that sort of nonsense. Good for you.
Me: I was so sorry to hear about your husband.

Mrs T knocks back two fingers of whisky, beckons me forward and says, confidentially, 'You know, my dear, Hugh and I were always, well, only very LOOSELY affiliated.'

She gives my bottom a lingering pat. My cheeks turn the colour of my dress.

Old habits die hard

As some of you know, if something comes in liquid form, I cannot refuse. And thus it was that I find myself this evening happily handing over £50 English cash money for two bottles of what can only be described as fruit juice. Actually, the accompanying literature, '22 reasons to drink Mangosteen juice' (worth in itself a tenner at least for entertainment value), describes it thus:

“Pharmaceutical drugs are developed for specific effects for a targeted physiological function (no kidding). They are potent and often toxic to other areas (anyone who has seen me in the mornings can testify to that). Supplements utilize the holistic properties of plants – often having multiple or combined benefits. The dialogue will rage for many more years, sadly, at the expense of understanding the value of both sides. Obviously, the answer is ‘moderation in all things’ and most wise Americans know the value of each approach. Free radicals relentlessly attack the body cells, like vultures or piranhas, they ‘rape, pillage and plunder’. Mangosteen juice mops them up and helps hinder the damage.”

So. As moderation is ever my watchword, and because anything that comes in a bottle has to be tried at least once (remember that 'liquid hayfever remedy’ anyone?), I hand over my credit card and am now the proud possessor of two bottles of the stuff. It even comes with a handy shot glass to make me feel at home.

Obviously, one wouldn’t want to put all one’s eggs in one basket. Bearing in mind the maxim of moderation, I nip into my local corner shop on my way home and purchase another sort of fruit juice, tried, tested and perfected over millennia. The damage? £2.19.

I shall be sharing the results of my trial with you all forthwith.

The fingers of a born athlete

Hot new scientific research published this week in the British Journal of Sports Medicine (essential reading for Lady V along with the London Review of Books, Vogue and, er, Playboy magazine) revealed that girls who do well at sport tend to have a shorter index finger compared with their ring fingers. The two fingers are usually almost equal in length. The link was most noticeable among runners, footballers and tennis players.

I did some research of my own. Clearly I am a natural born athlete and shall therefore be changing career. No more literary endeavours for me. I shall be taking on Beckham at his own game forthwith.