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Making Up for Lost Time

I wish this was a deep and meaningful blog about regret and missed opportunity. There is plenty of that, believe me, but I’m not one to blab on in a serious manner. You surely know this by now.

No – this week’s Monday Morning Moment of Murderous Intent was caused by a man who had the audacity to TUT at me for putting on my make-up whilst sitting on the train to work this morning.

Let me first explain. When I say make-up, I mean licking a finger to smooth any potential “Dennis Healy” eyebrow movements, spitting on a by-now defunct mascara to coax one more day’s worth of juice to smear on my eyelashes, and possibly some lippy if its not already been stolen from my make-up bag by the cleptomaniacal girl-child. It is not extensive in any way. I can complete said maquillage in under five minutes. Natural beauty is a blessing (OK, I’m kidding but Paris Hilton says if you think you are pretty then you get prettier. She got a book contract with that which is more than I can say for me, so I’m totally going with it.)

Moving on.

So I got out my teensy tiny little make-up bag on a fairly crowded train this morning and had not even commenced the strange open-mouth gape that inexplicably accompanies putting on mascara before Mr-Tutty-Visible-Nose-Hair peered over the top of his newspaper wall and let rip with his teeth-curling show of disapproval. This from a man wearing paisley and not in an ironic fashion, either.

I saw red. Literally. The tut volume itself had caused me to poke myself in the eye. I perfected the one eyebrow raised lip curl and said sweetly: “Is there a problem?” to said Neanderthal.

“Yes. Why can’t you women do that sort of thing at home.” He harrumphed before un-crossing and re-crossing his legs to reveal my pet hate – comedy socks. They were possibly what sent me over the edge. My Inner Cow raised its head, cleared its throat and began to moo as if it had chronic mastitis in every teat of its udder.

“Well, let me explain.” I began. “Before boarding this 7.15 train today, I drove 20 minutes to the station..”

“Yes, but…” He tried to interject, all blustery bravado and macho indignance. I raised a firm hand to silence him.

“Before that I rose at some ungodly hour to bathe, wash my hair etc. I also unloaded the dishwasher from last night, unloaded the tumble dryer, re-loaded it with more washing, laid out two sets of uniform for my kids, packed one PE kit, fed the fish, made tea for my husband, breakfast for my son, sorted out dinner money, debated the merits of hair up versus hair down on a windy day, picked off chewing gum from the sleeve of my son’s new £45 school blazer and killed three spiders.” I paused for breath.

“But…” He whimpered, pathetically now.

“So forgive me if I didn’t get around to putting some make-up on so as not to offend the general populace while I ran around like a blue-arsed fly.”

“Now hang on….” He pleaded, beginning to unpleasantly sweat up now just to add to his manifold attractions.

“I’m getting off the train now.” I rose with my bag in hand.  “But may I suggest that 5 minutes with a hygienic trimmer before YOU leave tomorrow morning wouldn’t go amiss. Caveman!”

And I flounced in absolute hip-sashaying perfection off the train and thankfully didn’t trip over an errant briefcase or wedge my heel in the doorway. Yessss! I wanted to punch the air. Not only did I display balls of steel in the face of extreme provocation, but I didn’t stutter, cry or dry-up mid-speech delivery. I think I may become a motivational speaker if the whole writing thing doesn’t work out. 

The euphoria won’t last, I know. The trials of the working day will crush it in its usual fashion, but by God, for that brief moment I was Queen of the World.

And the moral of the story? Don’t mess with me before I’ve got my make-up on.




Kiss Me Baby…..


I was on a train to London today with the 15 year-old and we somehow got to talking about kissing. This was sparked by the recent re-run of Casino Royale, in which Daniel Craig kisses his co-star in a disturbingly droopy-bottom-lipped fashion.  We have been taking the mickey out of him ever since, and have sent notes of condolence to Rachel Weisz as she now has this to look forward to every day forever or at least until they get sick of sharing LA mansions together.  It’s difficult to describe how droopy his lip is when in the kiss-zone, but if you watch him, you’ll see exactly what we mean. It’s a little bit like a thick wedge of sashimi coming straight at you. Or a huge slice of beef tomato. Ugh.

But to be fair to Daniel, he is not alone. There are other celebrity crap-kissers out there. Colin Firth – not only does he have trouble speaking the King’s English, but he cannot unpurse his lips enough to impart any passion on the pouting popsies of his co-stars. In the Bridget Jones films, he sort of pecks at Renee Zellweger like a parrot. Far more passion-killing than any big pants I’ve ever donned. Russell Crowe is another. He wetly smothers his leading ladies in a Granny-lick lather. Thanks, Russ, but I’ve already had a shower today and if I wanted that much tongue I’d buy a giraffe. Then there’s poor old Liam Neeson. Yes, he has had some personal tragedy. But this does not excuse his inability to snog on screen. Seriously.

So the girl and I decided on a new business idea: School for Kissers. Designed to help all those face-suckers, parrot-peckers, lip-biters, lick-merchants, tongue-chokers and nose-squashed-until-you-can’t-breathers. Because these boys need some serious help. The girl-child can tell this already and she’s only 15.  If memory serves, it is one of the things she should most look forward to when thinking about future potential boyfriends, meantime spending time practicing on a hand or pillow. It will be an unfortunate life lesson for her (like us all) to discover that some boys just have no kissing clue.

There are a myriad of dating websites out there that hook men and women together based on compatibility, attraction etc. But not one that teaches these men how to kiss once they have hooked up that soul-match. THAT’s why their relationships don’t work! It’s not incompatibility, but unabletokissability. A problem that’s been swept under the carpet for too many years, and now we at Piglet World have decided to bring it out into the open, approach Duncan Bannatyne for some dragon funding for classroom space and lip balm (£50,000 for 10% of the business and free lessons because he looks like a prime candidate) so we can help these chaps out.

There are men out there to be admired, of course. Mel Gibson, whether you like his politics or not, can deliver a good smooch. As can Hugh Grant – although I have it on reliable authority that he is in fact a right grumpy sod. Keanu Reeves is a perfect gentleman with a kiss to match. He just needs a quick back, sack and crack and he’d be heaven in a human.

So taking these as our role models, we will be planning our lessons, making YouTube video demonstrations and searching for suitable teachers to impart our wisdom. Bad kissers need not apply. Nor anyone with fag or coffee breath.

Anyone got a particularly bad kisser in their midst? Either leave him, or send him along. Because, Men of the World, it’s neither clever or funny to commit Grevious Bodily Lip.