The Charm Offensive

Ah the natural curiosity of children. Isn’t it a beautiful thing?

Ha! Only a fool would make such a claim! It is, in fact, an unpredictable hair trigger waiting to ping mud all over the faces of the parents who were foolhardy enough to parade their children in public.

Children will point. Children will exclaim. Children will stare open mouthed. Children will drop you right in it.

Yesterday my son, Indy, who is old enough to know better, exclaimed sharply “Mum! Look!” and made me turn round and look straight at a little girl with quite extreme birth defects.

All of a sudden I unwittingly turn into one of the legions of people who gape and stare at this little girl and her mum.

Indy realised what he’d done as soon as it happened, especially when I turned sharpish back to him with the face that instantly says:

“Shutuprightnowwemighthavegotawaywithit

butyouareinbigtroublemakenomistake”

You know the one.

Once the coast was clear I realised that Indy was starting to tear up a bit, about what he had just done, so I said, “It’s OK, it’s OK you just can’t do that to me OK? You can’t stare and whisper at people. That poor woman probably has to put up with people staring at her little girl all the time.”

“I know, I’m sorry” he said, cheeks flushed and lip trembling slightly. I could tell he felt pretty bad and I suppose yesterday will have marked the point where he realises you can’t blurt out like a banshee every time you see a dwarf, midget, hunchback, Rastafarian, excessively tall person* or any other remarkable character that the two of my children have routinely shrieked at throughout the years.

Life lessons, eh?

Sadly for Meeester and I, we’ve got years of this still to come in the form of one four year old Junior Misssy, though.

One incident happened quite loudly and recently.

There is a woman who works in a local department store who is no bigger than Junior Misssy. She was stationed at the changing rooms when we went in.

“Mummy, why is that wee girl working here?” she bellowed like Brian Blessed in a high wind.

Understand folks, the “wee girl” is standing right in front of us, giving us our tag for the changing area. The woman smiles and says hello to Junior. She also remarks on how cute Junior is, presumably to dissolve my embarrassment. I suppress the urge to haul the still staring Junior away by the scruff before more damage can be done and Jnr Misssy returns the compliment to her.

In the changing room it goes on, “But Mummy how come that wee girl works here?”

“She’s not a wee girl she’s just a lady who is tiny” I whisper, not sure if I am being any more PC than my daughter.

Loudly (please note all of Junior’s dialogue is LOUD in this scenario) she says, “But why is that tiny lady working here?”

It’s like she’s actually questioning why the woman has a job here, and she doesn’t. I am also instantly regretting using the phrase "tiny lady".

I whisper an explanation of the woman being very tiny as a baby and not growing very big as she got older but still able to work and fine in all other respects. After some further key questions are answered, I am happy that Junior Misssy has understood and will be quiet for the next five minutes until we can escape.

Junior is indeed quiet. So quiet that I when turn round to see what she is up to, I see she has poked her whole head out the curtain and is full on staring at the “tiny lady”.

We have to get out.

Jnr Misssy talks about the tiny lady all the way home. In fact she talks about her still, when we’re in town. “Will we see the tiny lady?” “Why does that tiny lady work there again?”

Jeeez. I can never go back.

And it’s not just tiny ladies that have found Junior Misssy’s radar. On holiday, we were sitting down to breakfast when a 3 year old Junior Misssy shouts, “Mummy, look at that fat lady eating!!” as a poor innocent chubby woman tucks into her buffet breakfast.

Junior’s proclamation is loud and pointy enough for me to have to apologise to the woman, probably making it all worse.

Mind you, I bet she just had a grapefruit the next day.

* All actual occurrences. Apologies to all concerned.

The Devil’s Playlist

Hieronymus Bosch's "Hell":

If this painting had a soundtrack it would be
the Greatest Hits of Jason Donovan

You know that phrase, “The devil has all the best tunes”? Well, it’s rubbish.

Never mind all that Robert Johnson selling his soul at the crossroads for the gift of music stuff, the Devil does not have all the best tunes. The Devil has all the worst tunes, ready and waiting to torture you.

Some time back I mentioned the ideas of the “Devil’s Playlist” being the custom-made special mix tape that Satan has playing in your own special purgatorial waiting room. Songs that would drive you insane, and make you want to rip your own heart out and jump on it.

And he thought of it before those lads at Guantanamo.

Sadly, in my case Lucifer has quite a few to choose from. I am the sort of person who can get a little polemic about music. If I hate a song, then it's a fervent will-have-to-run-across-a-room-to-switch-it-off kind of hatred.

So, I guess what I’m saying is that the Devil’s Playlist may be an on going series of posts. My life's work, perhaps. That, and of course, the "European Rude Sign Compendium"* TM

Here are my first two tracks and I’m ashamed to say that they are from bands from my homeland.

Deacon Blue: Dignity

Dignity, oh how I hate you, let me count the ways.

This song was played to death throughout my time at University years. Every shop, every Uni union disco, every person’s house, there it bloody was, the faux gritty social commentary that was the story of an old man who “was gonna buy a dinghy and call it Dignity”. A lot of people love this song…for the lyrics, for the pathos, for the emotion. Apparently.

Personally, it sends me into a blind rage.

Meeester says he’s going to have it played at my funeral. Now, bless him, this isn’t quite as evil as it might at first seem. He says he’s going to play it at my funeral because if there’s been some terrible mistake and I am not in fact dead and I am in mortal danger of being buried alive, the first two bars of the song will ensure that I will burst out of my coffin, scream, “Switch that bastard song off!!! NOW!!”, jump out and smash the church sound system up with the nearest fire axe.

And if I am, in fact dead, I’ll never know anyway, and so can’t complain. He’s really only thinking of me…

And can I just say, that democratic as I like to think myself, if any of my readers post a comment that says, "Aw but I really like 'Dignity', Misssy! " you will be served up some short shrift.

Wet, Wet, Wet: Love is All Around

Forget about the Troggs version, I’m not a fossil so I don’t even know the original. It’s the Wet Wet Wet version that seemed to be at Number One for the first few years of the nineties that I'm talking about.

I hated the song anyway, but wasn’t quite at the taking a chainsaw to any radio that played it stage, until Meeester’s Mum requested that Meeester sung it at her (second) wedding.

Being a big deal to his Mum and her intended, Meeester practiced and practiced. For what seemed like months. It’s apparently trickier than Marty and the boys make it look, so it echoed around the house quite a bit. And I'm ashamed to say that as the tune came forth from Meeester's mouth, I doubted whether our marriage was strong enough to survive the ordeal.

Truth be told, Meeester’s not a fan of the song either, but well…if it’s your Mum and that’s what the lady wants then that’s what the lady shall get. By the time the service rolled around, and Meeester took to the podium for the live performance, my trigger finger was twitching like a good ‘un.

And the nightmare goes on. Guess what song Meeester’s Mum always requests at family sing song get togethers….

Everybody Now! “I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my too-ooes!”

Satan, take note.

* See my Dutch posts from July last year for details and pics

We Can Be Heroes!

Amy W's heroic little skanky punctured toes...

her parents must be so proud.

I find the concept of heroes completely ridiculous. "Hero" is a word often misused. No more so than today when a media fodder poll came out where under 25's were asked who their heroes were.Clearly those respondents never really thought about what they were being asked.

To me, a hero is someone who carries out actual acts of heroics, not in a- "quick take a photo of me shaking hands with a wet leper, but have a Johnson's anti-bac wipe ready for after" kind-of-a-way, but in the other way that does not involve TV telethons or Hello magazine.

Now, I’ve long since come to the conclusion that the majority of folks are eejits and really, it’s best just to accept the fact and move on, but it seems that most people polled claimed that Amy Winehouse and Pete Docherty were their respective heroine and hero. Maybe they heard the word heroine wrong?

"Excuse me madam, who is your favourite heroine?"

"Right, favourite heroin user, erm...tough one. I always liked that Courtney Love, but she's cleaned herself up now so maybe she doesn't count, and well, Sid Vicious is dead, so erm, I suppose it'd have to be Amy Winehouse, yeah, put me down for Winehouse. She's probably my number one dragon chaser, these days."

You don’t need me to outline why Amy 'n' Pete are not heroes. The results of this poll mainly adds fuel to my misanthropic claim above.

Put the deeds of Amy and Pete onto any non-famous person and we’re looking at primo examples of the dregs of society.

Can you imagine your teenage kid saying, “Mrs W from next door is my hero because even though she’s fucked on heroin all day, and her man’s in chokey for perverting the course of justice, she still manages to get her eyeliner on straight and inject skag into her toes whilst wearing a tight mini-skirt and not spilling any of her brandy and ginger at the same time!”

Or,

“Mr D from down the road is my hero cause even though he’s a total junkie who has done next to bugger all in his career, he’s really keeping his head down in jail, so that he can get back on the streets soon to score some decent junk. What an inspiration!”

I don’t know any real heroes, but since we're playing fast and loose with the term "hero", I know of one man who is today carrying out a minor heroic act.

Today Meeester is appearing in a fashion show for some school charity thing. He's always being asked to do stuff like this. He puts it down to his general gorgeousness.

He picked up his outfit from one of the show’s sponsoring clothes shops yesterday. It is a brown and orange striped long-sleeved polo shirt, and tan, “Dad-wear”, pleated-front slacks. He says they are both made of polyurethane and when he tried them on, his reflection in the mirror made him want to die.

" I looked like a 65 year old man on Christmas morning", he said.

But as the show must go on and he is the mere eye-candy destined only to show off these garments to his best ability, he will wear them with aplomb.

And presumably deal with the skin rash they will inevitably cause in a timely fashion.

Go Zoolander, you’re my nylon clad "hero"! (Watch out for static build-up...)

The Great Meeestero

The invitations are out and I am now committed to hosting Junior Misssy’s Birthday Party despite many reservations.

The whole thing is set to go awry before it has even started and I would warn you to expect a blog post afterwards.

Junior Misssy has asked Meeester to do “a magic show”.

He told me this last week. It has taken me this long to come to terms with it.

“I’m doing a magic show”

“Eh?”

“Junior Misssy asked me to do a magic show for her party”

“But you don’t know any magic”

“They’re five year old kids, they’ll never know”

“You’ll need to learn some magic, Meeester; they’ll know”

“OK, I’ll learn some. How hard can it be?”

I feel like taping the show and posting it up. Some of the Mums are tempted to hang around to see the results. Vultures!

Meeester has asked (in actual seriousness) for me to download 80’s funk-lite classic, “Just an Illusion” by Imagination, for his intro.

He better hope his pre-school audience don’t know about the slow hand clap.

Just an Illusion by Imagination
(I'm praying Meeester doesn't copy their outfits....)

Grey Toon Hero

I am a great defender of Aberdeen. It is my adopted home town, and unlike many of the born and bred residents, I am aware of just how lucky I am to live here.

"The Guardian" has caught onto this fact and this week in their Weekend supplement, the "Let's Move to" feature concentrates on my lovely, if cold, little city.

The article says, "..the city is spick and span with more parks and municipal borders than it knows what to do with". Too true. The city doesn't win "Britain in Bloom" every flipping year for no reason.

I could go on for hours about how great my town is, but I want to pay tribute to someone, who shall remain anonymous who risked all to make Aberdeen a perfect crime free place to live; my friend, the Community Warden Blogger. Unfortunately, you can no longer read their blog as, being critical of the new Council policy of stripping the successful and much respected Community Wardens of their links with Grampian Police, the blog ( A Community Warden's Day) has been taken down. But not before the local papers wrote an excellent article about the blogger and their whistleblowing activities.

Community Wardens help make Aberdeen a safe place to live. As the on-the-street eyes and ears of law enforcement, the wardens worked together with the police, and together they were well on the way to having street crime nigh-on licked.

Now, sent out to face the troublemakers of Aberdeen without police back up and proper radios, these guys and girls are defenceless and under threat of attack, as they simultaneously have to gain the trust of the community whilst at the same time fining folk for dog fouling and parking violations.

Their bosses are no longer the police force, with all their databases, experience and communications systems, but the beleaguered and much criticised City Council, who have no such systems and who seem to think revenue from parking tickets is more important than crime prevention.

Community Warden blogger, I salute you and hope that your bravery in bringing this travesty to wider public attention, will get the ailing and inept City Cooncil to rethink their ridiculous strategy which strikes me as being akin to peeing in your own canoe.

Many at Grampian Police agree with the Community Warden Blogger, I believe. Some of them read this blog, as do a couple of councillors, so they may have comments to make.

But for me, this little quote from one of the teen residents of a choice area of toon, speaks volumes,

"Aye, they are alright. They gie ye intae trouble but they always find yer chory* bikes."

The wardens do the jobs that the Police don't have time to do and in so doing are a real part of the community.

Read the excellent article about the Community Warden's Blog here.

Aaaah.... the power of blogging!

* (Chory = stolen)

Just like Steve McQueen

This is part two of this post, click on the link if you haven’t read it or this will make bugger all sense.

Living with Frau Fuka was bad enough for the first three months but in the last six months the seriousness of her crimes went up a notch or two.

I have mentioned that Fuka liked to keep tabs on me and my flatmate Gerty when we came in and out of the flat we rented from her. It would be too generous to assume she did this because she cared about us.

If her need to follow our every move was, indeed, out of a sense of motherly duty, it would not explain her little white head popping round my bedroom door as me and my boyfriend at the time took advantage of an afternoon off work. Maybe she felt the need to offer me some bedroom tips, but really …couldn't she have waited til afterwards???

The sight of her muppet prototype, craggy, Band-Aided, little face whilst in the throes, has since made me muse upon how remarkable it is that I have gone on to have subsequent relationships and have even managed to procreate. People have been in therapy for less.

Motherly duty would also not explain why Fuka felt the need to examine my pants drawer on a regular basis whilst I was at work. Her supposed concerns about the neatness of my laundry did not expand to letting us using her washing machine or even letting us have a washing machine of our own. So I was stumped as to why my pants were being checked whilst I was out.

One day when I walked in on her rifling through my drawers, she made no attempt to apologise, claiming that it was her responsibility to check the flat was being well looked after. I offered her the chance to check the pants I was wearing since she was being so thorough. She said she felt that would be unnecessary. Germans don’t get sarcasm.

Meanwhile Fraulein Gerty, my flatmate had nothing but sweetness and light directed towards her. Why? Simple reason; Gerty’s boyfriend was a nice young local German boy who drove a nice new BMW. My boyfriend was a foreigner.

From the moment Gerty introduced Frau Fuka to Markus, her life was sweet. Whereas Fuka did not even like Sal, my second generation Italian, being in the building. She made no bones about this.

So it fell to me and Sal to flagrantly flout Fuka’s no foreigner rules on my last ever night at the flat. He stayed over and in the morning I walked him past Fuka’s door on the way out to say goodbye. Looking upwards as I stood on the street, I could see her little white fluffy head poking out the window. We both waved at her.

By the time I returned to my flat Fuka had let herself into my flat and was waiting on me, clutching my cassette radio like it was the Holy Grail.

She wanted money. She wanted me out. She wanted to call the police. She knew people who could stop me from leaving Germany.

She was maybe having a flashback with that last one. As far as I know these days Germany is a democratic society where people can only be held for committing actual crimes- shagging a foreign bloke not being a breach of any known current German law.

She would hold my radio ransom until I paid for her to replace the mattress! The mattress? The mattress! Oh, for pity's sake!

I told her to phone the police. And that it might be a mistake given that she was the one stealing my radio. I reached over and wrestled the radio from her little white-knuckled hands.

I left an hour later asking a frozen faced Fuka if I could expect to meet any problems at the border. Just like Steve McQueen. She ignored me. Then I said, for a laugh, that if ever I were back in Germany that I would pop round for a cup of tea.

“ I will see to it that you can never return to Germany!”, she shouted down the street at me.

The hex was cast.

Queen of the Lizard People

Stalin misreads his invite to the Potsdam Conference:
" I thought it said fancy dress!" laughed the dictator behind the deaths of 60 million

I don’t know whether you’ve noticed but I often mention that I am not allowed to go back to Germany.

I am not making this up.

Truth is I am awaiting news of the death of a 100+ year-old German woman that will make it safe for me to return. For it was this elderly harridan who banned me from returning to the country I spent a year of my University studies in.

Come with me, I’ll explain on the way...

About six weeks into my time in Cologne, my flatmate, Gerty, and I decided that we didn’t like the flat we were in and started to look for a new place. This decision was based in the fact that the last tram to our outskirty location left at 10.15 and we wanted to stay out drinking much later than that. We was students, y’see.

We found city central lodgings with an 83 year old woman who owned a substantial townhouse that I’m sure had belonged to a nice Jewish family at one point. She was letting out the little tartan wallpapered flatlet at the top of her house.

On arriving to view the flat we laughed at the name on the buzzer:

“FUKA”.

And, by God, did this little white haired minion of Satan not live up to her name.

Looking like a nice wee old dear on the outside with a shock of Jim Henson-made white hair, her outward appearance concealed an ugly truth. She was, in fact, a Soul Sucking Evil Lizard from Hell.

There was one clue to this hidden identity. For the entire year I lived there she wore a small flesh-coloured Band-Aid just under her right eye. This Band Aid clearly concealed the zip-fastener that she would unzip at night to regain her natural form, hanging her 4ft-5inch old-lady suit up in the wardrobe 'til morning when she would have to go into hiding once more.

Pleasant at first, she soon began to nurture an intense hatred of me and all I apparently stood for, and it wasn’t long before I made no attempt to stop myself calling the (non-English speaking) woman “Frau Fucker” squarely to her little wizened face.

I swear, and I have my Girl Guide salute aloft as I type this, so you KNOW it is true- I swear she had a photograph of her dead husband in uniform on the side board. No really- yes, THAT uniform. You know- the one Bryan Ferry said he liked.

Not for her the furtive sweeping under the carpet of those dark years. In my lowest points with Fuka, I almost paid for my Gran to fly over and bitch fight her. But given that the talks at the Potsdam Conference between the Allies had called on our nations to strive for the goals of the establishment of post-war order, the issuing of peace treaties, and the countering the effects of war, I felt it prudent to resist. My Gran felt the same, on reflection. So the fight never took place. Sadly.*

Instead, I had to put up with the woman listening for us passing her door EVERY time we came home, day or night. As we passed, she would open her door to check up on what we were doing and crucially who we were with. If we managed to scale the walls and silently sneak past her door like nimble cat burglars, she would spring into action as soon as she heard our key in our front door upstairs. For an 83 year old she had the hearing and reflexes of a young jaguar.

I can feel her shrill voice piercing my every cell even right now, as I remember her shouting up the stairs after me,

“Fraulein Mis-ssy!!!!”

Aside from the sound of “Dignity” by Deacon Blue, this sound will be on a loop in my cell in purgatory if ever I should spend any time in the Underworld.

Fuka would not allow us to get our own telephone installed. We were to receive (never make) calls on her household phone. This meant we couldn't be openly hostile to her. We needed people to be able to contact us through her. And she wanted to spy on us.

She also had her own key to our flat which she would use pretty much every time we went out. I know because I would catch her at it.

My flatmate Gerty and I hated her. And she us. Until Gerty hit on a masterstroke that would make me the sole target for Fuka’s twisted wrath.

And given that I could write a bloody book on my year with Fuka The Fucker, I will leave that until Part Two.

* Because my Gran would have won.

Click here for Part Two

Anyone got an airbrush?

Not a photo of me
(it's Monica Bellucci)
But it's the one that'll go up if I can't find one beautiful enough

I’m toying with the idea of putting my photo on the blog proper.

Reasons:

1. I’m not really particularly anonymous, I mean you can click on the radio bits and hear me speaking, and being called my actual name, so why the shyness?

2. It actually surprises me how many anonymous blogs there are out there. I can see the point in some, but not most. Are we all afraid to stand by what we write? Are we all just a big bunch of Jessies?

3. The Misssives isn’t a diary. I don’t get too personal. There’ll be no Girl With a One Track Mind bottom fixated naughtiness over here, I tell you that! (Cue the sound of readers leaving)

4. I don’t tend to trash anyone who knows me, so anyone would be hard pushed to get angry about anything I’ve said about them. In fact, putting the pic up might act as a protective charm (guess who's just finished all the Harry Potter books) against going all silly and drunkenly blogging about some cow who upset you at work, that I'll have to get up in the middle of the night to delete.

5. I don’t blog about work on the whole. Even when I used to do very bloggable work, I resisted the temptation (as it would have got me the sack and wouldn’t have been fair on my students as a lot of them were fecking eejits but were too young to know so can hardly be blamed. That, and the fact I was very fond of the fecking eejits as they were hilarious and bless).

I don’t blog about work now, because it is too dull and I wouldn’t want anyone to think of the Misssives as being less than a carnival of raciness. But not Belle De Jour raciness, you understand. (Cue sound of some more readers leaving).

6. I think it may make the blog feel more personal. And while the artist’s red impression of me (To your right. Artist: Curly Niece. She does commissions, I get 15%) will stay, I feel it may be time to stick my actual face up here.

7. It will be funny to see if any of you got the impression I was completely different looking than my actual self from what I write. You know when you google someone you’ve only heard on the radio and they look like a horse or a bloated dead body and you are a wee bit disturbed from that point forward? Well that might happen. Or not.

8. The photo will not be a naked one (Cue sound of final reader leaving)


Why is this decision tooo difficult, though? I’ve posted photos before as part of the posts, why not have one in the top corner? Why does this feel like such a big deal?

Are you anonymous or not? And why?

Discuss.

A public service announcement for dogs

Cage: "I did not steal that dog!"

My favourite story of the week concerns the successful litigation by actor Nicolas Cage over allegations in an interview in the Daily Mail with former “When Peggy Sue Got Married” co-star, Kathleen Turner.

Ms Turner’s allegations* were,

"he was arrested twice for drunk-driving and, I think, for stealing a dog. He'd come across a Chihuahua he liked and stuck it in his jacket."

Chihuahua: Can easily fit in a pocket
(but you can just tell from his eyes that he'd poo in it)

There is so much about this story that makes me laugh. But is this the tip of the iceberg, though?

Are we to be treated to stories of Kevin Spacey half inching a Lhasa Apso on his many walks through Clapham Common after the Old Vic closes its doors at night?

Does that rat that Britney Spears insists on carrying actually belong to the bereft residents of a local old folk’s home she woke up in after mistaking it for her house after a night out?

Are the Queen’s Corgis really hers and hers alone? Well, are they? Has anyone actually seen the registration papers???

What basis do I have for an epidemic of celebrity dog snatching behaviour? Well, I’m glad you asked me that.

Yesterday me and Sonny, the Black Menace, were taking a stroll on Aberdeen Beach. We were not on the sand two minutes when the gamboling spaniel was accosted by a loud booming and very jovial Simon Callow.


“He-ellloo there!” bellowed Four Weddings and Funeral star, Callow, wearing a roomy (Ah-Hah!), black coat reaching down to fuss over the fast approaching innocent pup.

He nearly had him away too, the thespian blighter!

“Unhand him, you National Treasure!” I shrieked at the beloved actor , “You may currently be appearing to great acclaim in Equus at His Majesty’s Theatre, Aberdeen, and have delighted audiences with your darling portrayal of Charles Dickens in the second series of Doctor Who, but NONE of that gives you the right to make off with my dog!”

And off he scarpered, eyeing a couple of Yorkshire Terriers across the sands.

Simon eyes up K9, stage right.

True.**

*Can’t anyone tell funny anecdotes anymore? Are we to be to be spared stories of Michael Douglas walking about like a monkey with his undies wedged up his bum crack for the delight and amusement of the “Romancing the Stone” cast and crew, for fear of litigation?? I fear so.


** We did meet Mr Callow. No, we did! Ask my dog! (He did not try to steal Sonny, he just gave him a friendly pat and seemed like a nice bloke who wouldn't dream of nicking anyone's pet.)

Sonny the dog, in an ebullient mood, yesterday

Love in a Cold Climate

Me and some students standing
on the frozen Baltic Sea in Finland in April.
Or Aberdeen Beach yesterday?
You decide.

So here comes the Summer, eh? Everyone seems to think so. Down the beach today I actually saw a gang of lads in swimming trunks swimming in the actual North Sea. And they weren't even Scandinavian!

But my kids and husband seem to think it’s Summer too. The three of them have been gamboling about in t-shirts for the past two days. Outside!

Me? I’m frozen, peering at them through the window with thermals on, shouting about "neer casting" of "clouts" and "May" being "oot" and "Bewaring the Ides of March" and stuff, whilst pointing a wizened finger at the skies like Michael Fish on bad acid.

I am here in this country through some kind of accident. I must be, I am constantly cold and can only relax once on summer holiday somewhere nearer the Equator. I pray for the day when someone finally admits I was dropped at the front door in a basket by a desperate and frightened visiting Greek teenage circus performer, post partum.

Meeester has been driving me daft all week.

Blessed (erm, possibly) with a thick and unending pelt of body hair, Meeester feels no draught. He has even recently grown a beard to complete the furry coverage100%. He could, if he wanted, pleat the beard hair, weave it into his chest hair (and beyond) and have a full body plait down to the, not inconsiderable, hair on his toes. Let’s hope it never happens, but I tell you, I’m really worried about our future Caribbean school trip in July. Will Meeester be able to resist the lure of the cornrows? (And you just know he'd say yes to beads, as well).

That aside, and back in a colder climate, he insists on opening all windows in the house and the four outside doors as soon as the slimmest and weakest rays of sun hit our patch of the Earth.

I have spent the whole week shutting them, creeping Gollum-like (but with a cardigan on), one minute behind him screaming,

“It was snowing last week!!!!”.

Half an hour later, I’ll feel a surprise and unwelcome arctic blast up my nightie, and notice he’s gone back round the house and opened them all again.

We have been in temperature tussles all week of the Easter Holiday.

He blames my icy blood on my mum. Being a January baby, and the first born, my mother would dress me up like a mini Elk herder from the arctic tundra of Lapland (but in nylon- it was the seventies) , with five layers of clothes, fretting if so much as one inch of me met with the outside air.

Me, I blame Meeester’s family’s obvious lineage to a family of gorillas.