A Right Royal Fuss

Royal baby pictures: Leaves St Mary's hospital

So there is a new royal baby in England and we can’t get enough of those millisecond long micro-video clips of a solemn British public school lad and his cheerfully waving two-year old sister arriving to visit a tiny baby who, at only a few hours old is the sixth most important celeb in the Uk.

And yet dammit I am a raving republican at heart (not the rabid gun-slinging American type, but ,the Liberté,Égalité et Fraternité type, or, more specifically, the African independence-from-colonial-slavery type).Royal baby boy news

Why am I so drawn to dear Cathy and Bill (can you see them as an alternative to the old Cathy and Mark readers – not as hip as ‘Biff and Chip’ though – but the royal nippers are kind of Cathy and Mark-ish – or ‘Janet and John’, in their dress. We could do a new version of readers called ‘Charlie and George and one could be ‘Charlie and George Visit the hospital’ or ‘George and Charlie have a new brother.’ ‘The Windsors and their Bro’? It could have cool sentences like: This is Charlie. See her wave. This is George. He is a boy. Now he is not the only boy. See George sulk. This is the baby. He is wrinkled.  (Perhaps ‘wrinkled is too difficult for new readers.)

But I digress.

What on earth attracts us to wealthy celebrities (because that’s all the royals are now)? Of course these are folk who are paid for by  the poms’ taxes and not by ‘royalties’ (ha ha interesting word that!) from their own success. There is something in us so perverse that in our ordinariness we so desire their status that we put them on a  pedestal. WE  create the celebrities; WE design the hype around these ‘stars. WE give them their power!

Grown men and women devote their whole adult lives to following other  people around in order to catch them with their telephoto lenses in unguarded moments.  Those brief shots of the princess’s wave will make some paparazzo very rich (Interesting how we never use this word which is the singular of ‘paparazzi’ which originated as a character in a Fellini film, and which the director felt reminded him of an annoying buzzing insect). But seriously?! She is a just a little girl! I have way cuter little poppets  bursting out of my classrooms at school and no one is aiming a  long lens at them (of course I wouldn’t let them, but still) The only reason this mite is famous is that the media (and the publicwho are all gagga over a random family descended from long-ago Germans) have made her so.Image result for paparazzi

Define ‘nobility’, ‘royalty:’ Let’s face it in the past monarchs and ‘the nobles’ were generally just more powerful, wealthier, with good spin doctors who convinced the proletariat Image result for kingsthat they were somehow of greater value. Some even considered themselves anointed by God! If you know your Old Testament you will know that even God did not want the Israelites to have a king (probably because He knew what would happen – and He was right – the very first one, straight out of the blocks, gave himself airs and graces).

For an egalitarian like me, this is anathema. My school’s motto is ‘egalite’ and we stress the fact that we all equal. So why oh why am I drawn to a Sloane family in a far-off rainy island?! He’s balding and toothy but I guess she’s a lovely clothes horse and I like the glamour. Is that it? We want to see that someone has what we want so we can believe it’s possible?

Psychologists have studied the celebrity phenomenon and even posited that  it’s a form of terror management in that we are so afraid of death that we will adore celebrities who seem bigger than life and sparkly and so we feel better about ourselves and the fact that we shall one day  meet that guy in the big hoodie with the kick-ass blade. And because, famous people seem to have transcended the mortal realm somehow, the idea that we shall shuffle off this mortal coil either recedes or seems less bothersome.

Psychologists! Gotta love ’em! Mind you, one study at the U of Arizona suggests that people become more positive about celebs after a brush with death so perhaps there is some truth in this.

What’s particularly amusing is the amount of money wasted at the bookies betting first on the gender of the royal baby and then its name/s. Not me!  Prince Biff or the Duke of Chip would be fine with me.  It’s just Cathy and Bill’s kid after all! I wonder if they also had elderly aunts pointing out that ‘Arthur is not a saint’s name, you know’ or ‘You can’t call him Louis: that’s too French?! ‘

“In the past, people were born royal. Nowadays, royalty comes from what you do.”

Gianni Versace

Ah well! when all is said and done, perhaps I am merely jealous. And I’m glad I don’t have to bow to anyone ever.

Now whose house are we watching the Royal Wedding at next month?

Dear Fitting Room Designers:

Image result for fitting rooms in stores cartoon

I made the mistake of trying on a pair of pants for size in Woolworths, yesterday in their brand new shiny change rooms. Too shiny. I didn’t buy the trousers. And it was the place’s fault.

If I were asked to survey fitting rooms in clothing stores, I could really give them some pointers.

Firstly: subdued lighting is a must. Harsh neon lighting just doesn’t do it for my skin. The last thing you want if you’re trying to flog clothes is for me to be so grossed out by my own face that I cannot look in the mirror. I do not know anyone who looks good under fluorescent lights. For me it is certainly not my best look – the freckles stand out, surrounded by pasty, creamish blahness, no matter how many layers of face paint and contouring have been applied. I have dark rings under my eyes too which make me resemble a nagapie at the best of times. I do not need stage lighting to assist. Also if I am tired, the little critters are Gucci-carry-on-luggage- sized bags, so they definitely detract from the garments I am fitting on.

And it’s not just our faces that we have to see in this light: it is our derrieres, which are normally…well…behind us, where we can pretend they are smooth discs of even, beach-ready roundness. Instead we are confronted by massively cratered moons which are nothing like Queen imagined in ‘Fat-bottomed Girls’ – multiplied by three – going all the way to infinity if the looking glasses are angled into Alice’s bizarre world. Personally I believe the dark-side of the moon is a better look.

Mirrors should also be artfully angled so as to make one be longer and slimmer. Even if we know this is a clever illusion, we still want to imagine ourselves looking a bit like the impossibly slim wax mannequin, adorned outside on the shop floor in the garment in question. (Have you noticed that they are always on tippy toe – probably so they can show off outrageously uncomfortable high-heeled shoes too – but that makes them seem even taller.) Every film study student will tell you that a low angle shot makes one look taller and more powerful. I’m happy to go with both those delusions.

Curtains versus doors? Definitely doors (which lock, please). So often, one ends up with a faulty door latch. One that bolts is preferable. While sumptuous curtains look good, draped dramatically across the opening in oh-so-elegant boutiques, I am always terrified that some over-eager stick insect assistant will just pop her head in and reveal me in my big panties so that the creepy chap lounging outside will have an eyeful of the rear end of the Bentley.

The door should fit all the way to the floor, I beg you.

Image result for fitting room mirrors multiple images

For those of us who have had divide clothes into ‘Not-in-this-lifetime,’ Maybe-if-I-lose-10kg’ or ‘Oh-Baby-You’re-So-Hot! hooks (there must be at least three hooks) while dodging a pair of boys playing with a car, and hopping on one foot as you attempt to free the inside-out trouser leg from the shoe you should have removed first, it is no fun then to have said vehicle be sent down the back strait and under the door, out of reach of the soon-to-be screeching boys (even men-children hate shopping).  Then you have to twist around quickly, with your boot still caught in the once neatly ironed pants, to prevent over-helpful big sister from lurching out to fetch it for them, at which point, once again the dodgy oom outside is treated to a gander of your moon broekies.  If it’s not your own children who reach under those awful saloon-style doors, it’s other matrons’ sticky fingered brats whose fingers appear like tentacles of slimy, Nik Naks goo tempting you to injure said digits with a healthy tap dance. So, dear retail outlets, given us full-figured doors I beg you.

While pondering whether objects in the rear view mirror are closer or really just as large as they appear, you realise it is the fault of those disturbingly deceptively sized numbers that are the right size, but too small:  You could swear they will fit you and then you get the bodice on and your arms half in and ‘gasp’, you can’t breathe, and – worse – it’s not on properly and no matter how much you attempt to make like Connie the Contortionist, you can’t get it off. Inevitably it is at that moment that Shannon will have put a Jelly Tot (the bribe to ‘behave’) in Liam’s ear or Caitlin will have swallowed yet another R2 coin. And you are, like ‘Chad’ in Charlie’s Angels – well and truly STUCK. ‘Ripping your clothes off’ takes on a whole new meaning, but the temptation is real.

And you can’t really leave the cubs outside the cubicle because then just as you are realising that  what appeared to be stylishly loose fitting on the rack merely hugs all the unmelted baby fat, you hear Michael’s infectious giggle becoming louder. And you just know something is up out there. Dreading that it is your children’s paws which have invaded another patron’s shopping nightmare and which are about to be pierced by a suburban stiletto heel, you burst out to check/glare/chide so you at least appear to be in control of the five worms lined up against the wall, catching the eye of the petite assistant who frowns at the sight of you balancing a dress on your hips and once again there are those knickers for the old man who is seeing more of your skin than a Russian dancer at Mavericks.

Image result for cartoons of fitting rooms

She shakes her head knowingly as you hand her the unpurchased hangers of clothes as you leave shamefacedly, wondering why you can never find anything to buy. Or else you avoid the body-shaming experience entirely and just buy whatever looks attractive on the hanger, only to end up with a cupboard full of ill-fitting clothes.

Well that’s my excuse anyway.

The Worst Fashion Mistakes I have made

  1. The Perm

That’s me on the left, holding the pork chop at my dad’s wedding.


To be fair, it was the eighties-look. To be honest, I held on too long – okay into the next century. My husband says that if I ever perm my hair again he will take that as a sign that I want him to leave. I so wanted to be Maeve, the Celtic Queen. Clearly it didn’t work.

  1. Stick on Nails

I really loved the length of these, but the problem is they don’t stay stuck on so you tend to leave a trail of body parts behind you. I had some awkward moments when they popped off in meetings. ‘Whoops’ doesn’t quite cover it in those seconds! Also the glue (while it was not foolproof on the nails) stuck to everything else and ruined several trousers of mine where it dropped and even caused a hole in my sheet! The Bentley fashion police declared that they had to go (he was tired of finding lonely pinky nails in his car – although I am surprised he found ANYthing amongst the detritus of MacDonalds splurges, old ties and musical scores languishing amidst sweet wrappers and CD cases.) He threatened  to get a tattoo if I continued and since one should never put a bumper sticker on a Bentley (and I was damaging my nails) I relented.

  1. Golf Shirts and baggy T-shirts

Image result for golf shirt image

I mean look at that:. These were designed for men. And that’s what flat chested women look like in them. Have you ever noticed though that corporate clothing automatically includes such apparel, even in education where the majority of staff members are women. And for those of us who were standing behind the door when the boobs were handed out , but were blessed with fat which gravitates downwards to occupy cuddly rolls around our middles, this is not a good look. That’s why, now that I am a head of a school, we are sourcing corporate blouses in dignified styles. If I am going to wear a logo, it will be on a girl’s top thank you.

  1. Court Shoes

We called them ‘Lady Di’ shoes in the early eighties. Now on the People’s Princess they looked elegant, but on small, fat and flat feet? Not so much. And the ones I bought for my graduation caused me huge embarrassment because I walked out of both of them on my way to the stage for my moment of glory. At least the vice chancellor was smiling in my pics compared to others, but still. And they made my ankles look fat.

  1. Skinny jeans

I’ll just leave this here.

  1. Hotbrushed bangs


You see everyone wanted to be like Farrah Fawcett. Come to think of it, it wasn’t even a good look on her!

  1. Plunging Necklines 

Sometimes less is more and sometimes it’s…well…less. And either way that doesn’t go with the ‘boss’ look. Andrew didn’t mind until we became a couple and then he was advocating full purdah.

  1. Glasses on a Chain

I was told that I look like this:

When really I thought I looked like this:

Anyway the only reason I stopped using the chain was that it broke. I found it most useful and shall probably purchase another one when I find one I like. So take that, Fashion Fascists.

  1. The Baggy Jersey 

When I was 17, my friend’s mother made me a jersey from 4 squares. It was warm and snuggly, but eventually it stretched down to my knees. I wore it everywhere and embarrassed my entire family in the process. I loved it even though it was hideous. Thank goodness no photograph has survived.

  1. Fur 

Just once ok (and it was at home) I tried on the fur stole I inherited from my mother-in-law. I did not, however, have the guts to wear it to the matric dance where I was a role model for young people. What does one do with those long ago fashions that are quite beautiful; yet so incredibly un pc that one simply cannot wear them?

So that is my confession and it is a good one. I promise never to sin again (unless I find a really cool chain for my glasses.) But hey, It could be worse: I never wore Crocs, or twerked around, exposing my lumps bumps and bulges in leggings and a crop top, even when I run (Oh no I don’t run); I never had a mullet or adorned my locks with a fascinator at a wedding. (Those things are simply dreadful: who thinks that attaching half a florist on your head will be fetching?! The only creatures who may be fascinated would be half-drunk bees.)  I do not go to the shop in my pyjamas.

Ramp model I may not be, but I still have the best accessory: a Bentley.