Evidence that even when way past puberty, one's face is not guaranteed to be pimple-free

Had a great time tonight performing at 'Cafe Create', an arts cafe in Leamington Spa.  I did this monologue about acne.  I made it a monologue and not a poem because I couldn't find any rhymes for acne.  Apart from Hackney.   But apart from throwing in a random reference to North East London, I couldn't see how to fit that in.  Give a poet a break, peoples.

About spots

Look, I'm sorry, but when I buy a product called ‘spot concealer’ the name gives me certain expectations.  But it seems my understanding of the words 'spot' and 'concealer' are different from those of the manufacturers. Here we are again, where I often find myself, mired in the tricky and dangerous swamps of vocabulary. Let us flounder together in the mulch of meaning and examine these words.

Spot: I watched a play once in which a woman yelled, ‘Out, damned spot’.  I’m not sure why – her skin looked fine to me – but she had a doctor and a nurse in attendance, so I guess her acne must have been pretty serious.  They didn’t have Clearasil in those days, although they may have had Witch-hazel.

I've tried to out spots by damning them, too, but nothing happens. Perhaps what I'm doing wrong is trying to out them when they are already as out as it's possible to be, as in 3 or 4 centimetres out and shouting to the world, 'HEY, I'M AN UBER-SPOT – LOOK AT ME!’

Maybe, instead, I should be shouting 'get back in, get back in, damned spot'. This way, I may end up with craters rather than spots, but at least I could fill those in with some tile grouting or peanut butter or leftover hummus and then put lots of foundation on top.

I think that manufacturers of spot concealer do not aim their products at real life spots which are 3 or 4 centimetres out, but at titchy little baby spots. If what I got were titchy little baby spots, though, I wouldn't even be buying the product - I'd be spending my money on a frothy cappucino and sitting in Costa and feeling smug about people in the queue who have real acne.

The other thing that puzzles me is that 'spot' is such an innocent little word, hinting at a teeny-weeny problem that just a dib-dab of cream will sort out. Forget the name ‘spot-concealer’.  Why don’t they just get real and sell WHOPPING GREAT WANNABE-BOIL concealer, or THROBBING VOLCANO OF A PURPLE ZIT concealer? But they don’t.  So what am I supposed to do? Join a model agency that supplies women to medical journals?

Concealer: There's no other way to say this. It doesn’t.  It is not spot concealer.  It is spot revealer.  The concealer speaks more loudly than the spot itself. The spot just says, 'This is a bit embarrassing, especially at 49, to have what looks like teenage acne, but, hey, no one's perfect.' The concealer says, 'HEY, EVERYONE, LOOK AT THIS OLD BIRD TRYING TO HIDE HER SPOTS!'

Why is concealer like this? I suggest several reasons. 1) It only comes in one colour. How does that work in a multi-cultural society?  2) For spots the size of mine, you don't dab it on, you apply it in careful layers, like Pompeii. 3) Concealer lasts three minutes and forty-two seconds precisely, and I don't know about you, but most of my social events last a little longer than this. What's the point of me being at a party if, every three minutes and forty-three seconds, I have to dash into the ladies with my hand over my chin, so that someone young and beautiful is bound to think 'ah, off to pluck chin hair', and re-apply the Pompeii effect? It's no lava matter.

It would be just as effective to go for the Blue Peter method, and to cover the spot by strapping the whole tube across my chin with double-sided sticky tape (Sellotape is also available).  That would mean the words ‘spot concealer’ would be clearly visible on the tube, and the solution just as effective as the cream itself.   

All I know is, I need an answer.  I don’t want a repeat of what happened recently.  [Cue violins.]  It was a Saturday.  I had a day in, and that evening, we were going out for a meal with friends.  I had slapped a gargantuan blob of toothpaste onto a raging spot which is what I do when I'm indoors.  I read this tip in Jackie magazine in 1973.  It's a natural antiseptic and sometimes it calms the spot down.

You’re welcome to the tip.  But remember: it is only an INDOOR solution.  Before you go out for the evening, wash it off.  It is not a good look, teamed with a sparkly top, black trousers, and high heels.  Then you won’t have to do what I did, which was to stand under a street lamp outside Pizza Express being examined by my husband while I rubbed the toothpaste off with spit and a face wipe from my bag which had been there for three years and was as dry as stage fright. 

This made the spot angrier and bigger and much, much redder, and, that night, everyone spotted that damned spot. 

'I must remember to wash off this toothpaste before I go out ... I must remember to wash this toothpaste
off before I go out ... I must remember to wash this toothpaste off before I go out ... I must remember to ..................

Evidence that the wee small hours can transform a Mommy into a monster - another not-a-Mommy-blogger post

It's a long, long time since I had to get up in the night to feed or change a baby.  These days, I only get up in the night to check that I'm still alive before dropping back off.

But I still remember, even though it was so long ago, that the sweet and loving things one said about Baby in the daytime were often translated into something quite different at three o'clock in the morning ....

Daytime: 'Yes, he's got a healthy pair of lungs on him, that's for sure.  Cute, eh?'

Nighttime: 'Darling, I can't stand Baby's noise any more.  Please bang some nails into the nursery window, otherwise I am afraid I will fling open the sash and cast Baby out into the dark night.'




Daytime: 'Right, that's his lunch done.  I'll just pop up and change his nappy just in case he gets nappy rash.'

Nighttime: 'Yes, I know his nappy's been on for seventeen hours now and weighs as much as a Tesco lorry.  If you DARE wake him up just to change him, I'll personally offer you to next door's rabid Alsatian.'




Daytime: 'Ah, listen to those little snuffly noises he makes when he's asleep.  Bless him!'

Nighttime: 'What do you mean, WHY have I put Baby in the shed for the night?  Dur!'




Daytime: 'Funny, isn't it, the way he keeps coming on and off the breast like that, as though he can't decide.  Silly boy!'

Nighttime: 'Right, that's your lot, sunshine.  Any more faffing about and you can go back and suck on your cot mattress while I put my Ipod headphones in on full blast.'




Daytime: 'I'll leave his babygro off for a while so his toesies can air.  How he LOVES to kick his chubby little legs around when his nappy's off.'

Nighttime: 'Yes, he IS rather drowsy and still, isn't he, darling, and being EVER so good while I change his nappy?  That'll be because he GULPED down his Mogadon and Mashed Banana at teatime.'

Reasons why I should think about other ways of making money than having foreign students to stay again

Been thinking about ways of making money and wondered whether to start taking in students again.  We used to when we had a young family.  For some reason, though, they always went back to Italy/Spain/France after their two weeks with us feeling a little shaky.  The last Italian we hosted summed it up by saying: 'Italian families not like you English families.  Not like you at all,' before edging out of the door and heading back for Rome without looking back.

One day, we'd cooked a large shepherd's pie which we wanted to put in the fridge to save for the next day's tea.  So we put it in our bath to cool down, running some cold water for it to sit in to get it cooler more quickly.   We often did this.  The bathroom was right next to the kitchen, so it seemed like a handy little trick.

However, the Italian student came home from her day at college and said, 'Can I go in the bathroom to have a bath?'  'Yes, yes, of course,' we said, fetching her a towel.  Only, when she'd got in there, there was a pause, and then she reappeared.  'I have the problem,' she said, politely.  'I think the dinner is having the bath first.  Would you lika me wait?'

They obviously don't cool their bolognese like that in Italy.

Then there was the time my husband decided he would take a nap in the middle of the day.  No one else was in the house, and the other beds were all covered with everyone's stuff or not made, so he decided he would lie down on the student's bed.  Only, on the student's wall was a clock, and my husband can't stand ticking clocks.  So he took the clock down, looked around for somewhere to put it to muffle the sound, and decided to slide it into a pile of ironed clothes which I had put on the student's chair.  Then he had a nice little tick-free sleep.

Of course, he forgot to put the clock back and she must have gone to bed that night and put away her clothes, wondering what the hell was going on in this household.  It took quite a lot of explaining the next day to make it clear to the student that not all English families keep their clocks tucked into piles of laundry.

Magdalena's mother just couldn't understand why her daughter  wouldn't go near a pile of ironing
for years after her return from summer school in England

But what I'll remember most about her stay was that our son, who was about five then, was our main translator.  He'd perfected this Italian 'just-like-mamma-used-to-maka' accent and whenever we couldn't get the student to understand what we were saying, he just had to repeat it and she knew exactly.  She swore blind she didn't know what we meant when we said we were having 'tagliatelle' or 'ricotta cheese', no matter how much we said, 'But it's ITALian!  You must eat it all the time!'   She hadn't a clue what we were on about.

But as soon as our son said, 'They mean tagliaTELLe!', waving his arms around like he'd been born in Naples and weaned on pepperoni sausage, she said, 'Oh, I see!  Yes, of course.  TagliaTELLe!'

Once she told us she'd gone to the Megadonna and had really enjoyed it.  We thought it was a nightclub we hadn't heard of and we had a very confusing conversation about dancing.  Only our 5 year old realised she meant MacDonald's.  'Yes, yes!  Megadonna!' she cried, hugging him for being the only one to understand her.  'Where you hava the hamburger and you hava the meelk shake, not the dancing!'

Of course. Silly us.  The meelk shake, not the dancing.

Evidence that one can waste hours of one's life and risk injury because of other people's thoughtless instruction writing

Yay!  250 followers.  That's three since I said I wouldn't be blogging much.  It obviously works.  So, let me say, here and now, that I am NEVER BLOGGING AGAIN.  NO, NEVER.  NOT EVER.  NOT EVER AGAIN.....

But, while I'm here, I have a few thoughts about following instructions.

1.  On the toilet roll holder in a cubicle at work today, I saw that it said, 'If toilet roll has run out, turn clockwise for another roll'.  Well, the roll did run out, and what a rigmarole that is!  Standing up.  Pants round your knees.  Turning round a few times (I got it wrong at first and went anticlockwise - I didn't get my Spatial Awareness O'level).  And all that in a small cubicle only just bigger than me.  What's more, not even a SUGGESTION of a new toilet roll making its way down.  What a con that is.  Next time I'll take my own tissue.  Pff.

2. Last week, I bought this chocolate steamed pudding which came in a tin.  It said on the side, 'Pierce the can lid and then stand in a pan of boiling water for 20 minutes'.  Well, I was thirteen hours in A & E after that and the blisters still haven't gone down.  Not just that, but you try clambering up onto your gas cooker to get two size 7 feet into a pressure cooker full of boiling water.  I had to get the ladder out of the loft and EVERYthing.  Don't these manufacturers THINK?

3. I was trying to get a cup of coffee from a machine recently.  The sign said, 'Select your coffee option and then depress the red button.'  Well!  I'd been there for half an hour, telling that button what a rotten, useless, ugly waster of a red button it was and that it should be ashamed of itself, and STILL no coffee.  Plus, there was a whole CROWD behind me, obviously wanting a coffee too.  I just don't get it.

4. I was travelling on the underground recently and a sign said, 'Baby buggies MUST be carried on the escalator.'  Blimey, it took me ages to get that organised, people being singularly unwilling to let me borrow their buggies so I could get down to the lower level.  In the end, the woman I wrestled the buggy from - not to mention its yelling baby occupant - didn't seem too happy, but, heck, I was in a hurry.  And now a court case!  I mean, how unjust is THAT?

You see, I was trying to take one of my new headache tablets, and it said, 'Press down cap and twist.'
I've been dancing for hours now and I don't feel ANY better.  I'm definitely going to sue.

Evidence that saying you won't blog is a surefire way of thinking of something to blog about

It tickled me that the day after I posted saying, 'I won't be posting much' I get another follower.  Is this because someone, having read my blog, found the thought of me NOT posting really appealing, so they joined up?

Anyway, while I'm here, I want to show you this German who has won a world's best beard competition.  His beard has a moose in it.

I wonder if, somewhere, there is a moose sporting a beard with a German sculpted into it.  I would like to see that picture very much.

Talking about beards, I wrote a blog post once about Goldilocks and The Three Beards to show what harmy can be done just by adding another consonant to a word by mistake.  If you can be bothered, it is right here.

If you can't be bothered, you are perhaps tired and weary, so here is a nice picture of some fish for you to look at instead.  They are kissing.  Isn't that sweet?

Hey, they think we're peaceful to look at.  Hah!  Look at them, peering in through the glass.
Why don't you do your party trick?
Okay, I will.  On the count of three, okay?  One.  Two.  Three.  Turn!

Esmerelda's husband just couldn't understand why he'd come home from the office to find his wife on the sofa
and the fish bowl in the shed.

An apology for absence AKA a list of excuses

Maybe it's time to explain my relative absence from the blogosphere and the likelihood of more absence .....

Some good news:  I have a new job.  Sometimes I like doing it.

The flip side:  I am drowning in work like I've never drowned in work before and can't keep up with reading your blogs, even though I need the laugh like I've never needed laughs before.

Some good news:  I have had a couple of recent opportunities to perform some poetry and more to come.

The flip side:  That means I have to write fresh stuff.

Some good news:  I like writing fresh stuff.  It's well fun.

The flip side:  I don't have time to write blog posts about wrapping babies in foil or in dead cats.

The good news:  You don't have to read my posts about wrapping babies in foil or dead cats.

The flip side:  You may be as sick in the head as I am and therefore wanting to.

Some good news:  I have found out how to use Twitter (in a very basic fashion)

The flip side:  I have found out that Twitter isn't just a 'drop-in-once-a-week' kind of deal, like an acquaintance with whom one has tea politely then goes off again for ages.  Twitter wants a full-on relationship with snogging and everything.

Some good news:  I am getting much better at marking work and planning lessons than I used to be.

The flip side:  It still takes hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and hours.

Some good news:  The days have 24 whole hours in them.

The flip side:  If you don't sleep for at least some of those hours, you look like you DID drown.

Fran was finding marking with one hand and underwater a challenge, but it had to be done by Monday.

Reasons why I want to be a Samoan

Samoa is jumping forward a day and I'm thinking, 'Hey, I want some of that'.  Join my 'Why-Should-Samoa-get-all-the-Luck?' campaign and read my campaign statement here on Poetry 24

'Hey, Dad.  This is fab.  Not many of the other little boy pandas can claim to be going on 28 dates!'

Evidence that Chipping Campden Comedy Club is a place of learning as well as entertainment

I learned some things while performing poetry at the Chipping Campden Comedy Club last night.  (I just realised that could be shortened to CCCC which sounds something a very accommodating Italian would say.)  I thought I would pass on my new-found wisdom in case you find yourself in a similar situation.


Lesson 1. Don't take your sister, if she resembles you closely, to any of your performances.  She will get half of the thanks for your performance afterwards and, also, you will get people looking at you strangely and thinking how much you look like that woman who performed her poetry.

As for differences between the sisters, there were nun at all.

Lesson 2.  Make sure you have planned for the likelihood that a cat will stroll into the performance space while you are mid-poem.  Have a wittier comment ready for the occasion than mine, which was 'Oh! Oh!  I can't believe this!'  (which was ad libbing at its very, very creative best).  And bear in mind that the people at the back won't have seen the cat and will wonder what the HELL you are talking about.

'Interrupt my performance again, sunshine, and you're stew.'

3. Nerves will get to you before the performance, so you may need to visit the loo in the pub you're in while waiting to arrive at the venue.  If you do, accept, the first time it happens, that the reason the loo door won't open is because someone is in there already.  Don't persist in rattling the door like an dork as though you're trying to free it from its hinges.  You will only have to go back into the pub in order to avoid being there when the person you have terrified with your rattling ventures out of the cubicle.

Esmerelda had been in the cubicle for three hours now, too scared to come out
in case the herd of wildebeest was still there.