He started something he couldn't finish....

When the idols of your teens and twenties get old, it certainly makes you think about your own mortality. And so it was this week when I discovered Morrissey had turned fifty! Morrissey, who's words seemed to define my younger years even if I wasn't a depressed bloke living in Manchester. There was something about the way he articulated feelings of inadequacy and not fitting in, the joy of not fitting in as well as the travails, that really meant something to me. What's more I loved the way he embraced the intellectual, ordinary and comi with equal fervour - from Shakespeare, John Donne, Oscar Wilde, French film to kitchen sink drama, Carry On and Ealing comedy - and made them part of an unexpected but somehow sensible whole that seemed quintessentially British. I still feel a wave of happy nostalgia listening to The Smiths.

And then there is the man himself. For someone who claimed to eschew sex, he was a very sexy proposition indeed. And he knew it! As he moved sinuously around the mic stand, showing off his lean and hairless chest, he was the hottest geek in town. He's grown into a rather solid, muscular middle aged man but is still sexy despite himself. I would!!!

Musically I felt, in common with many, that he suffered for the lack of Johnny Marr and I haven't bought one of his records in years as he seems to have become stuck in a groove. But I can't help loving him, so here's raising a vegeburger to Morrissey.

Something for the ladies

Yesterday I went shopping and decided to buy myself a few books. I like nothing better than shopping for books and Waterstones had their never-ending three for one offer on. Having chosen two books easily, I was stumped for a second choice. I absolutely refuse to read anything called 'The Something or Other Club' or 'The Wotsit's Daughter', as most books seem to be called these days, so the choice was limited.

Then I saw something interesting; a book of erotic stories written under deliberately daft pseudonyms by well-known women authors such as Joanne Harris and Fay Weldon. Having delved very little into erotica, I thought this might be of interest and took it home with my more homely books in a brown paper bag, well a Waterstone's bag really.

In time-honoured tradition, once home, I flicked through the book looking for the naughty bits (the grown up equivalent of looking up 'bum' when you first buy a dictionary. Actually I still do that!). And naughty it most certainly is and, interestingly and probably not entirely surprisingly, naughty in different ways depending on the author.

The difference between authors is illustrated by their chosen nomenclature for areas anatomical. Some just opt for your straight Latin names while others go round the houses trying to find a euphemism that fits the bill. I can't work out which I prefer. The scientific names are helpful when you are trying to work out what is going on but leave one rather cold, while the euphemisms are rather silly and sound vaguely like something out of Penthouse.

The best stories for me are the ones where the author has accepted joyfully that she is writing a book of erotic stories and just goes for it. Less successful are the subtler, more artful efforts. C'mon girls, you agreed to be in the book, do the job properly and give us a thoroughly rude story. Stop beating about the bush - literally!

Not sure I've been 'turned on' to making erotica a regular on my book case, and I suspect this is a book of tasteful, literary erotica, but it's a good three for one (ooh-er).

The Flirting Gene

I've been wondering today if there is a flirting gene because if there is, I haven't got it. It's no good, I'm crap at flirting. I don't think the opposite sex finds me completely repulsive but I'm certainly no man magnet and as, in a moment of quiet despair, I contemplated a future as an old lady with only her vacuum packed cats for company (owing to my allergies), I mused on what makes some people good at flirting and indeed what flirting actually is and how you do it? I know women who are no oil paintings yet men pant at their feet whereas I could walk through a room in a thong and nipple tassels with the body of Elle McPherson and no one would notice me. It's clear I'm going wrong somewhere.

According to Wikipedia (yes, I am that sad), flirting is: 'a common form of social interaction whereby one person obliquely indicates a romantic and/or sexual interest towards another. It can consist of conversation, body language, or brief physical contact. It may be one-sided or reciprocated (encouraged)'

So social interaction. I'm good at that. I am open, friendly, warm and genuinely interested in people so why can't I flirt properly? Having spoken to friends I am getting a feel for what I' m missing. Apparently you must laugh at all their jokes and not make your own, you must make them feel like they are the only person in the room and that you find them incredibly interesting and be touchy feely.

Well now last time I did any of those things, in both cases accidentally. I a) picked up an OAP who wouldn't take no for an answer and b) was admonished by someone who didn't appreciate my attentions (that's Wikpedia's one sided option I believe). It doesn't exactly encourage one to pursue the flirtatious route. But where have my naturally flirty friends learned their craft? At their mother's knee, from other women, at school even? Or do they have it as naturally as I feel I don't have it.

Anyway armed with their advice I am going to flirt with everyone until it becomes natural. If all else fails, another friend has advised a low cut top and lots of eyeliner.

Move over Liza, Edith and Judy - a new gay icon is on the scene

Our show in the Brighton Fringe has received three very positive reviews so far and one in particular from a gay, lesbian, transexual and bisexual website. The writer hoped that we would receive the 'cult stardom' we deserve (shucks!). More importantly the reviewer recognised that I wasn't dressed as the Hinge half of Hinge and Bracket but was working a 20s-30s bohemian vibe. Yes, I feel gay icon status approaching.

So what makes a gay icon and indeed could I be one? A certain element of tragedy, overcome womanfully yet always with you, flickering across one's face in those quiet moments. Er, check-ish. I've had my share of 'tragedy' like anyone but nothing on the Judy scale, nor have I been a prostitute (see Edith and Billy), an alcoholic (see Liza) or had a life threatening illness (see Kylie).

A tendency to dress theatrically? Check, sometimes. Although I don't wear silk pyjamas at night but sport a Dennis the Menace teeshirt and some grey jogging bottoms. Not terribly diva-like. A voice suffused with sadness? Well I do make old ladies, and indeed our reviewer, shed a tear (for the right reasons hopefully). A self-destructive drink or drugs habit? Well, I do sometimes go a bit heavy on the Diet Coke and have a chronic Ventolin dependency. Does that count?

I think gay icon status would be rather marvellous actually although I do wish their straight brethren noticed my charms as readily. It would be nice to think they do but don't express it in the same way, I doubt it though. So in the absence of any convincing straight attention I'll take what I can get and bask in the temporary glow of a positive review. You'll excuse me while I lie on my chaise longue with a glass of absinthe, being tragic.

Flora among the bluebells

Bluebells are one of our most beautiful and ephemeral sights. For a matter of a couple of weeks you look between the trees and there they are, carpeting the woodland floor with a haze of blue. The smell they give off is an intoxicating whiff of hyacinth mixed with something altogether earthier. Going into a wood full of bluebells I always feel I've seen something unexpected and precious, even if they do return each year without fail.

I went up to the woods a few weeks ago and the bluebells were at their best. Seen from a distance they looked like a cloud of purple blue suspended just above the ground but close up I could see each delicate, individual plant as I inhaled their heady scent. I went again yesterday with Flora, hoping to share with her their beauty. They are still there, not quite as abundant as before and probably coming to the end of their days. Where do they hide I wonder?

I decided to take a photo of Flora, literally among the bluebells (despite the risk of her getting earwigs down her back) and convinced her to lie on the ground like Millais' Ophelia, surrounded by the flowers. I am no photographer and tend to point, shoot and hope for the best so I was astonished at what a beautiful photo resulted.

I captured two precious and ephemeral things; the bluebells and my daughter's eleventh year. The bluebells will return as they always do but Flora will never be eleven again so this serendipitous photo is a special gift for me.

The ambient sausage roll - coming to a Co-Op near you

Our local Co-op is selling ambient sausage rolls. The words ambient and sausage roll don't usually pop into your mind together, so I mused for some time on how a sausage roll might demonstrate ambience. I suppose if you cooked it there would a sausage rollish ambience but in this case the sausage roll is said to have the property of ambience rather than creating an ambience. According to my dictionary ambience relates to the immediate surroundings.

Of course I am being a little facetious as I used to do cuttings from The Grocer when I worked in advertising in pre-internet days and know very well that ambient food is food that can be stored at room temperature i.e: the ambient temperature of the food. Basically it's fresh food that doesn't need refrigerating but the use of the word 'ambient' makes it feel far more important and mysterious. So next time you buy an ambient sausage roll, take it home and if it fails to create an atmosphere march straight back to the Co-Op with your lacklustre processed meat filled pastry product and complain.

The Da Vinci Commode

Leonardo Da Vinci. What a man! Painter, designer, inventor. A real Renaissance renaissance man, if you get my drift. So it was no surprise then to discover in the toilets at Luton Borough Council a Da Vinci toilet roll dispenser. I'm not sure that there was toilet roll in Leonardo's day but then again there weren't helicopter pads and he still invented a proto-helicopter.

Looking at its clever two roll dispensing system (one for now, another for backup) and its cunning spool threading system, I felt sure that had Leonardo been asked to invent a toilet roll dispenser this would have been it. Da Vinci's own website illustrates the amazing inventiveness of their dispenser which helps with that tricky problem of stub roll waste. How often have you chastised yourself for wasting that all important stub?

'Da Vinci toilet tissue dispensers overcome the drawbacks of traditional jumbo toilet roll dispensing by eliminating stub roll waste. The dispensers control usage by allowing access to only one roll at a time.'

'Only when the first roll is finished can the second be accessed. This allows for efficient replenishment and ensures that product need never run out.'

Indeed perhaps La Gioconda's was smiling as she sat on the loo knowing that she was about to use Leonardo's wonderful toilet roll dispenser with its innovative 'replenishment system.'. Perhaps this is the secret of her enigmatic smile, she's feeling a bit smug as she knows that if one roll runs out there will be a backup. No more asking her mates to pass some bog roll under the cubicle door for our Lisa.