Praise (Sort of) for Quite

‘A book? Hahahahaha’

Tilda, 14

‘Seriously Mum, who’s going to read this?’

Jake, 17

‘Can I highly recommend a David Walliams instead?’

Arthur, 8

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Claudia Winkleman 2020

Claudia Winkleman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © October 2020 ISBN: 9780008421670

Version 2020-09-22

Note to Readers

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 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008421656

For Jake, Tilda and Bear

Contents

Cover

Praise

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Well, Quite

Well, Here We Are

Quite: Important (To Me)

Napping

You Mustn’t Stay With Him if …

Swagger

A Small Lecture About Art

Here Comes the Summer

A Fringe

Bridge

Holidays

Shoulders

Quite: Big

Strictly

Being Wrong

Friendship

Sports Day

The Tube

Fashion

Charlie Bucket and Elliott

Weddings

Quite: True

Parenthood

Squirrel Etiquette

You Must Stay With Him if

Power

Nurses

T-Shirts

Famous People

Quite: Inconvenient

Their Names

Dear Men,

Picnics

The Good Bad

Teachers

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Don’t Expect Him to Be Your 100 Per Cent

Quite: Bossy

Eyeliner

The Fridge

The Worst Kind of People (Yes, I’m Talking About Parents)

Do It in Black

In Praise of (Almost) Nothing…

Jackie Collins

Quite: Opinionated (I Know)

Shopping

Avoid

Skiing

To Be Honest

Help

They’re Going to Leave, Aren’t They?

And Finally…

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Well,

Well, Here We Are

First things first, thank you so much for picking this up and considering a book from me – a short, orange woman who occasionally reads out loud on the telly. Even if you’re going to chuck it to the other side of the bookshop, can I just say I’m extremely grateful. I am an enormous fan of a book, so am over the moon you are contemplating this one when we both know there are so many great ones on offer.

I want to be frank about what you can expect from me. If you’re looking for a very serious tome, and you don’t like anything flippant or trivial or lighthearted, or if you’re interested in the Chartists or the pandemic or want to learn something practical and useful then this isn’t the book for you.

Don’t get me wrong, I have covered some pressing issues. I think I have been persuasive on the subject of voicemail and fairly brutal about the effect of fitting rooms on my wellbeing. I’m confident I have made a strong case for why you can’t sleep with someone who doesn’t have the vigour to get you both in a cab and I’ve had a good look at the reasons why spray tan and eyeliner are essential to my confidence.

I’ve tried to be as honest as I can, but it should be said that I am prone to exaggeration. At one point I say I’d be happy if the Christmas decorations went up in June but on reflection this probably isn’t quite true. I love Christmas for many reasons but the amount of times I’d have to hoover pine needles from the living room floor over a six-month period doesn’t bear thinking about.

I’ve written a little about art, because when I started to try to identify the things I really care about this came tumbling out, alongside quite a specific treatise about different sorts of boots. Great paintings have an enormous power to capture a moment, to really stop you in your tracks and make you completely forget about anything else, but we should all own boots that give off a certain attitude too. They have the power to make you walk like someone who is on their way to a wild party with a roguish rockstar, even if you are actually just going to Tesco Metro for some eggs.

I’ve also covered fringe maintenance, because my hair has basically given me a career. I talk about my kids a lot (they will never read this) and relationships (I’ve told my husband I’ve been freakishly positive about him – we’re safe) and I fear I may have got a bit preachy when I write about good manners and wearing only black. I’ve also found that I have some quite strong opinions on the people we do – and definitely don’t – need in our lives.

And why is it called Quite? Well, because it’s my favourite word. It’s a raised eyebrow, an aside. ‘Well, quite.’ But at the same time, it’s firm, restrained and it manages your expectations:

‘I think you’d quite like this film.’

‘That egg sandwich was quite good.’

And that’s what we need, I think. Things to be quite good. We’re bombarded with a lot of images of ‘perfect’ these days – Instagram, fashion, general showing off. But perfect is boring. High expectations are a killer. It’s certainly possible to make the perfect omelette (see here) and find the perfect t-shirt (takes work but is achievable, see here), but the perfect relationship? The perfect New Year’s Eve? It’s a solid no.

The thing about ‘quite good’ is that it leaves you somewhere to go. Because, so long as you have great friends, peanut butter and the opportunity for a nap then everything is broadly fine, and there is always the chance that something (or someone) will come along and blow your socks off. We all know that the best dates are the ones you almost didn’t go on and the best nights out are those that were supposed to be just a quick vodka round the corner but ended up with dancing and laughing till the mascara ran down your face.

So I would like to make a case for the underrated and the imperfect. You can buy that very glamorous kaftan and you can spend three days planning the most impeccable dinner party, but you probably won’t feel like Beyoncé on a yacht and the award-winning cheese board is not why the evening was fun. Can I recommend instead that you put on a good pair of jeans, smear (and I really do mean smear) some eyeliner in the vicinity of your eyelids and just go about your day. If the kids have done their homework, if the person you’re with is kind and knows how to laugh at themselves, if you’ve remembered to call your best friend back then that is really quite good. Everything else is just sprinkles.

Quite

Napping

Yes, on first glance this might feel like an odd place to start. Wait, I’ve just started reading, she’s telling me to have a snooze? The answer is going to be an almighty yes. Yes to napping, yes to sleep, yes to being idle. I will explain …

When I was about twelve my mum had lunch with a brain surgeon. I’m not sure why. She was at a big work thing and, by happenstance, found herself sitting next to him. After an excellent and fascinating chat about how the brain works and funding for the NHS he said to her, ‘By the way, always let your children sleep, it’s the greatest life insurance we have. The brain grows and the body fixes itself while at rest. Anyway, have a great day, it was nice to meet you.’ That’s all he said, he didn’t really elaborate and she didn’t ask a gazillion questions but from that day onwards everything changed.

It wasn’t subtle, it wasn’t slow and there wasn’t a big explanation. She came home and simply said, ‘I will never tell you to get up at the weekends again.’ I know, right? He must have been pretty compelling. And that was it. We were allowed, encouraged even, to get into bed. Homework’s a bit tough? Stop looking at your physics and just get back under the covers and close your eyes. Here, I’ll draw the curtains. Before we watch Dynasty why don’t you curl up on the sofa and try and have a catnap? That’s how it went.

It wasn’t like that at my friends’ houses. They were awed when I told them and most came back to mine on a Friday night and stayed till Sunday – four of us top to toe in a single bed. I had the only mother on earth who didn’t come in at 9, 10 and 11am and say ‘You’re wasting the day.’ She didn’t sweep into my bedroom and open the curtains and announce, ‘The weather is wonderful. Up you get, sleepyheads!’ She’d let us sleep for hours. Midday would pass, even 1pm.

Lunch was moved later and later so my brother and I could laze about in our rooms. If either of us were still asleep then everyone had to be extra quiet so as not to wake us up. No radio, no TV, no loud chatting, absolutely no vacuuming or banging about with pots and pans. Shhh, she’s asleep. She’s growing and needs to rest. Why is the football so loud? I’ve told you, I think she might be catching 40 winks.

When people ask me about my childhood I remember all sorts of things. Screaming with laughter with my dad and sister, his pasta sauce, my step-mum’s teriyaki steak on special occasions. I remember my mum getting ready and the clickety clack of high heels on pine floors and the smell of Giorgio Beverly Hills (we were so ’80s) and watching Trading Places on a loop with my brother. But the main thing that comes to mind, my real resounding memory, is of napping.

Sleep was good for me; everyone was delighted when I slept. I woke up after a good ten hours only to pad downstairs, eat all the Sun-Pat I could find (I once had it on raw mushrooms, I don’t advise) and then I’d trail back upstairs again, sometimes with a cup of tea or a Diet Coke and I’d get back into bed and manage maybe another 45 minutes.

I have not grown out of this – I still love napping now. In fact, I’m all for idleness, for doing nothing. I’m hugely in favour of taking a load off. I’m not sure when we equated ‘busy’ with success or doing nothing with wasting time. The implication is: you’re so sluggish, so idle, so slovenly.

Can’t talk now. Rush rush rush. I’m just so, so busy. Seriously, you thought I was hectic two months ago? That was nothing, I’m now so frantic I’m going to lose my head. We’ll have to diarise a catch-up. Does next Thursday at 12.50 work? I’ll have a free ten before lunch.

Most of us feel we’re on hamster wheels – homework, cooking, showering, bedtime story, back downstairs, on our phones, watching the latest boxset (FFS put on Tiger King, we’re days behind, I feel like an arsehole), meetings, weekend plans, calls, conference calls (‘Hi, it’s Phil here. I’m going to introduce six people on this call but then only I am going to talk. That’s just me, cool’) and then it’s lunches and more meetings and racing home and changing and drinks and then out for supper and then home and too exhausted to brush teeth/have sex/laugh about Phil on the conference call and then it happens again. This may feel hard to avoid sometimes but I don’t understand why it’s to be lauded, why anyone thinks it’s a good idea.

The really successful people – I mean the spectacularly smart ones – seem to be gardening and reading books and pottering about (have you seen their Insta stories? They’re literally drinking martinis on a barge). Let’s emulate that. Relax, don’t show off about being busy, boast about being idle, then you’ve done something truly right.

And the best place to start in order to achieve this, I strongly believe, is napping. My bed is my safe place, my happy place and I don’t think it should just be for nights. I’m happy to spring out of it at 7am and make three different breakfasts (you’re right, my kids are totally spoilt, why don’t they all like the same cereal?) and jump on the Central Line to drop the little one off. I whizz home with an enormous smile on my face because I know that, after a coffee and some radio, it’s time to go back to sleep. My friends call it ‘a meeting’. They’ll text, ‘Claud, call after your meeting.’ When we’re filming Strictly, I’ll go in for the morning, rehearse, get two full spray tans (I simply can’t present that show unless I’ve had a double dip) and then I’ll just lie down on the sofa and get a quick 30 minutes.

I think I like napping because it feels slightly illegal, stolen, naughty. I’m not interested in actual rebellion (I used to hand in my homework early for god’s sake) but a nap is about the right level for me. I can’t advise enough that you should do it too. It’s a small but lovely act of defiance of this mad rule that we should appear busy at all times.

To get you started, let me explain the basic nap laws that should be adhered to.

A MORNING NAP

This is for the beginner. You think you’ve slept enough? Don’t be so sure. I am positive we can eke out a little more. This won’t mess with your sleep in the night so it’s a great one to start with. Your room shouldn’t be pitch black but instead curtains half drawn and I recommend you do not submerge yourself under the duvet but instead choose a light covering. Use a blanket if you have one, or I often use the coat I’ve worn on the school run, or, in an emergency, a towel. Don’t set an alarm as you’ll naturally wake up after 30 or 45. A small warning: when you wake up you’ll be ravenous. Please make sure there’s bread and butter in the house.

A LUNCHTIME NAP

You must eat lunch after the nap. This is imperative as you’ll fall into a better slumber if you’re not too full. This can be done with blinds/curtains fully closed and phone on silent as it’s such a special treat. A small note: you’ll love this nap so much you’ll cancel all future lunches. I know she’s your best friend and she wants to meet in Pret for a tuna baguette and a catch-up but I’m afraid you’ll want to chat on the phone at 3 instead.

If you’re at the office sneak off into a cubicle or a pod (these things exist) and put on your headphones and turn away from everyone. They’ll think you’re ‘working’ and instead you’ll shut down. Better than another talk about plans for the weekend and weak tea.

A LATE AFTERNOON NAP

I don’t want to blow my own trumpet but this is only for the advanced napper and should not be attempted without prior experience. The truth is that this is pretty close to bedtime so it’s quite risky. This is the bungee jump of naps, the parachute dive of sleeps.

It’s 6pm and you’re back from work. The kids are arguing, your husband wants to watch the latest Scandi thriller and you want some hula hoops and Dirty Dancing. You’re stressed about dinner and all you have is a butternut squash (never good), some wholemeal pasta (please) and half a bottle of barbeque sauce (which is possibly off). There’s only one thing for it – a nap. For this one you’re going to need an alarm. Thirty minutes should do it but any more and we’re in hazardous territory. Close the blinds and get under the duvet (I know). Shoes off but not pyjamas yet. You’ll fall asleep incredibly fast and the buzz of the alarm will be annoying. Get up, brush teeth and come back into the kitchen a new woman ready to make squash soup and prepared to watch (another) dark murder mystery set in Oslo.

You Mustn’t Stay With Him if …

Do you remember when she got together with him and we said it wouldn’t last but they’re still really happy together and it’s quite weird but also lovely? Yes, exactly. Relationships are strange and what would be an absolute dealbreaker for one person is a sweet quirk to someone else. My husband and I fundamentally disagree about buffets and baby names yet we have made it work. That said, and I don’t wish to be reductive here, but there are some lights-flashing, sirens-blaring, nailed-on warning signs that I strongly believe should never be ignored. Tell me if you disagree …

HE CAN’T GET A CAB

‘Yeah, you’re probably right, it’s time to leave. I have a taxi app but I don’t have much signal – do you know the wi-fi code here? Why don’t we just see if we can find a taxi on the street? It’s only a slight drizzle and your heels aren’t that high. Or we could just wait and see if someone else is leaving this party soon and they could give us a lift if they’re going in the same direction? Yes, let’s just stand in the corridor here near the kitchen and see if anyone looks like they might be getting their coat.’

Um, come again? What? Pardon? Hello? Have you broken into another language? See you, dude. Night night. It’s been fun flirting with you, I had thought you were cute, you made a joke about canoes and I believed this could be a thing. You’re a bit wet though, a bit slow on the uptake. Please don’t call me – in fact, delete me from your contacts. Will I be going back to yours so you can play with my knicker elastic for 30 minutes? I don’t think so.

Look, I don’t like a ‘strong’ man (‘I could easily lift up this table. I’m really good at fighting, did that bloke look at you funny? Because I’ll have him. Let me get that door for you babe – look, I almost took it off its hinges’) but I do want someone to get me home or back to his with some urgency, with some speed, with a certain amount of vigour. It’s raining – you stay here, I’ll grab us a cab. Ring a ding ding. Hot, cool, assured, right there. Back to yours for a tequila on the rocks and an old Carrs cracker covered in Primula? Why not. I might even let you have a go on my boobs, the left one is award winning.

HE DOESN’T HAVE ANY FRIENDS

If you’re fifteen and he hasn’t found his tribe yet then sure, let him be a bit solo, a tiny bit lost. That’s adorable, should be admired; take him under your wing and be his first kiss. Beyond this point, a man who hasn’t collected people (I’m not talking about miniature ceramic collections here – any collectors of anything should generally be avoided) just isn’t worth spending time on.

How has he got through life without knowing that the key is friendship, without having endless nights out laughing with mates? How can you even think about licking his neck if his contacts file is empty? Something’s up, something’s wrong. If he always wants to go out with your friends, to your parties, to sit on the sofa with your sister, this is all lovely, but where are his people? Where are his school friends, his work friends, his ‘we met on a night bus and just clicked’ friends? A man without a gang is not to be entertained. There’s something off. Or he’s married. Next.

HE SPLITS THE BILL

Look, I’m a staunch feminist, I’m all for equal everything and I don’t need a man to keep me in shoes, cashews, under a roof, anything. But if he looks at the check on an early date and says, ‘To be honest, the sparkling water is quite expensive here but I’m not going to make a thing about it – let’s just go halves,’ then you need to pick up the whole bill, leave a big tip and immediately exit from his life.

A generous man is what we’re after. I want him to get the rounds in, to send his mum flowers on a random Thursday to cheer her up, I want him to book tickets to stuff, to buy you personalised Marmite just because he felt like it. I want whatever money he has to pour through his fingers. He might not have a mortgage or savings or a pension and his over-spending might be infuriating but it’s still better than the other kind. (By the way, even if he does have a pension you don’t want to hear about it. If a man ever starts a chat with, ‘The funny thing is, I went with Scottish Widows,’ then you must know he’s going to bore you to tears within the first month. Also mate, define ‘funny’.)

You know the ones – they keep a tally about who paid for what last in their friendship group, they frown every time you say you bought a new lipstick/scented candle/pen. He’ll say, ‘Sure, it’s nice but did you need it?’ I mean … What does need have to do with anything? These men weigh up the pros and cons of life by working out how much it will cost and this just isn’t sexy.

I don’t care if they have money or not, and of course it’s absolutely fine for you to pay for everything, it’s the constant halving I can’t stomach and neither should you. Also, if he’s not generous at the bar – ‘Look at them, they just got engaged, let’s send over a couple of glasses of wine’ – then he’s going to be absolutely useless in the sack. He’ll be selfish, a bit too precise and he’ll insist on a ‘wipe down’ afterwards (there’s officially nothing worse). My girlfriends and I have tried and tested this fact so you don’t have to.

HE BELIEVES IN STAR SIGNS

The second he looks at you (even if he’s twinkly and witty and wearing great old jeans and an oversized fisherman’s sweater) and says, ‘I’m a Gemini so you could say I’ve got two sides,’ you must pretend you left your Corby trouser press on and hurry home to sort it out immediately. Never look back, he’s – I’m sorry but I can’t be gentle about this – a moron. I’m not saying it’s only OK to get naked with people with a PhD (although I’d highly recommend it) but if his knowledge of science has resulted in him believing a twelfth of the population behaves a certain way because they happen to be Capricorns you absolutely can’t spend another moment with him, fisherman’s sweater or not.

HE HAS AN OPINION ABOUT YOUR APPEARANCE

You’re a little bit giddy about him, he has strong hands (you’re right, that is code), he asks lovely questions about your brother and sister and you think he’s funny. You’ve met his flatmate and he’s charming and there’s talk of a weekend away. How magnificent, is this the one? And then suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere, you start getting a little bit tense around him – you are extra conscious of making him happy.

The opinions started small – ‘Wow, I really like it when you wear your hair up’ – and then move onto, ‘You should really wear tighter jeans, seriously, there’s nothing wrong with looking sexy.’ And all of a sudden it’s, ‘Why have you put on so much lipstick? You know I prefer it when you wear just a light gloss, why don’t you nip to the bathroom to wipe it off so we can enjoy our night?’

Please understand that none of this is about what you look like; it’s about making you feel slightly small, slightly nervous, just a bit less than – it’s about control. If he’s nuts about you (and of course he should be) he won’t really care or notice if you’re in a tracksuit, a ball gown or wearing a full squirrel fancy dress costume (OK, he probably will notice that one) but he’ll love you for everything that you are. You can be a goth, in baggy clothes, just back from a run, in the tightest top on the planet. It’s all gravy, it’s all fine. Do not try to please him with your appearance, just like you wouldn’t expect him to change his for you. Unless of course he wears top-to-toe Hackett in which case you have my permission to ‘accidentally’ put all his striped polo tops on a boil wash. That’s just sensible.

HE GIVES YOU ANYTHING WITH A PLUG

I don’t need bouquets and I don’t need jewellery. I’m not turned on by a teddy bear holding a squidgy heart with my name on it. I actually don’t need presents. My husband once bought me a large piece of mature cheddar and a bottle of Lea & Perrins and it was possibly the greatest gift I’ve ever received. Men don’t have to spend cash to be extra special. But I don’t want (definitely in the early days) an appliance. It gives the wrong message, it’s deeply functional and it doesn’t make me want to wrap my legs round him. My friend is still going out with a man who gave her a bread maker and she’s still angry about it. He’s funny and kind and sweet and they got through it but she did have to explain she wasn’t his cook, his mum. We know it’s a great iron, the best hair dryer in the world, a fantastic deep fat fryer. You want one for the flat? Sure, makes sense. Please don’t dress it up in Santa Claus wrapping paper and say you think it’s what I’ve always wanted. It isn’t.

HE OWNS (AND USES) EYE CREAM

Men have to walk a fine line here and I don’t envy them. Do I want to get into bed with him if he’s got dirt under his fingernails and his groin smells like an unwashed camel? Not particularly. But I’d still prefer to spend a weekend with that guy rather than the man who spends fifteen minutes in front of the mirror every morning applying a variety of face creams. Vanity isn’t great for women, it’s actually unattractive in all humans, but it’s utterly appalling for a man you’re considering having a relationship with.

‘Sorry babe, can you step aside a second, I just need to see my reflection. Very happy for you to stay the night, but there are a few house rules, this here is my toner which I bought in duty free. I’d like you to leave it alone if possible as it’s particularly good for my skin type. I’ve noticed a real difference. Here, have a feel.’ Um … Of course you want him to be clean, but at the same time completely uninterested in his appearance. ‘Feel my arms, I worked out for an hour today’ is a bigger passion killer than ‘come back to mine, I’ve got three tarantulas in a glass cage, I let them roam free round the bedroom while I’m sleeping and they like hiding in my hair.’

HE SAYS HE’LL BABYSIT HIS OWN CHILDREN

Well, you can’t just up and leave, I realise it’s a bigger decision than that. You’re together, you decided to procreate with him. But the second he says it, and I do mean the second, you have to put him straight. ‘Don’t worry, you go out with the girls and I’ll babysit the kids.’ Dude, they’re yours. You’re simply not babysitting. I’ve seen this countless times – it’s amusing maybe once, it’s completely infuriating twice.

IF HE TALKS ABOUT HIS CAREER BUT YOUR JOB

This is subtle. It’s small. I’m not saying it’s the death knell but it’s certainly giving you a little clue. You’re only six months in and he’s up for a promotion. I get he might be nervous and it’s cute to make him a lucky packed lunch. But the tiny difference in language here might grow if you don’t gently tread on it. You both either have jobs or you both have careers. End of.

HE’S THE BEST LOOKING MAN IN THE ROOM

This is ridiculous I know. You are no doubt laughing at me now. But hear me out. I’ve met extremely attractive men, I’ve interviewed tons of off-the-scale-knockout males. Should I sit here, Brad? Why did you choose this particular script, George? Of course I can get you a glass of water, Harrison. Lovely little eight-minute moments all of them, but would I want to go out with any of them? Definitely not.

Very handsome men have always had to make – and this is a shame – very little effort. They turn up and smile and that’s it. They can yawn at dinner, they can pick their nose while driving the car. They can only talk about themselves and not ask a question and they can get up and leave early or arrive late. Very good-looking men are nice to have about, great to be friends with, but don’t make them your life partner. Their lack of wit, energy and effort will drive you mad after the lust and ‘check out who I’m shagging’ has gone.

Swagger

Look, this is a chapter about boots.

But I need to say from the off, it’s not actually about footwear.

Boots are not just something you put on your feet. When you shop for them, they’re not a ‘these will do, add to basket’ and when they’re part of your outfit, they’re not a small addition, an afterthought.

They are the whole look. The reason you’re out. The reason he looked at you funny. The reason you feel like a rockstar, walking backstage at the O2.

I know what you’re thinking – ‘She’s gone and lost it now. Maybe it’s the fumes from the fake tan.’ Sure, that’s completely possible. But let me expand.

Boots are, above all, about attitude. They are not simply objects that stop your feet getting dirty. Of course there’s your hair and your heavy armload of bangles that turn your wrists green (correct, totally worth it) and your big sack of a bag (the same one you’ve had since the 90s, something totally cool about that) but your real calling card, your actual, well, assertiveness comes from your feet.

If you can walk into a bar with a look that says ‘I can use ornery in a sentence but I also just might have a trick pelvis’ then that’s coming from your boots. They are the reason you can turn up slightly late for a lecture at university and give the impression you’ve just done it with your boyfriend behind the bins, just got shortlisted for a literary prize, just listened to the latest Rolling Stones track because you’re an old friend of Keith’s. These things won’t be true but you might want it to seem that they are. And this will not be achieved through your choice of pencil case, or because you’re wearing a lip stain or a nose stud. This, my friends, is radiating from your feet.

You are walking to meet a date at the cinema for the first time. You want to waltz up to the kiosk (don’t actually waltz, unless of course you’re seeing La La Land) with all the mustiness of Debbie Harry or Nick Cave. That’s not just in your fingerless gloves (although I do applaud) and it’s not in your hoop earrings. Apart from your sparkly eyes, or slight air of disdain, the thing that will stay with him is your all-round vibe and that is emanating from below your knees.

I knew boots were special when I walked past Shelley’s when I was fourteen and saw some pointy, aggressive, spiky ones in the window. ‘Can we go in Dad, please can we go in?’ I begged.

‘Don’t be mad baby, it’s getting late and we still need to get peppercorns’ (people were obsessed with these in 1986).

They were ankle-high with a livid, thin heel. Even then, staring though the window (in my flat, black, round-toed shoes from Dolcis – please) I knew they could change my life. ‘There you are my babies,’ I thought to myself. ‘You’re going to make me feel wholly different.’ They were so grown up, so rebellious, so unbelievably cool. I had never seen such a thing. They were a passport to a different world.

Here’s the thing, you do not need to buy new jeans unless they become literally unwearable – I wear the same ones I bought fifteen years ago (yes, I can’t do up the button); t-shirts and sweaters generally look better if they’re old, beaten, torn and slightly mothy. Coats keep the cold out and, although they have to be fantastic (nothing collarless please), you’ll take it off when you get to the party/pub/dinner. You can say absolutely all you need to say with a pair of boots. They instil a power, a fuck-off attitude, a certain defiance. If you pick right (I have gone into some detail on here) then they alone will give you all the confidence you need.

Have you seen Desperately Seeking Susan? Well, she trades in her magical and lucky leather jacket for a pair of sparkly stiletto bunched-up boots. Exactly that. That’s what we’re after, that’s what every woman needs.

I had a bad row with my mum over a pair of boots. I was sixteen. We were away on holiday in Spain and it was unbelievably hot. It was boiling, seriously sweltering, and we were going down to the hotel restaurant for dinner. My brother is eight years younger than me so this was unusual; because he was little we’d normally just get chips in our room and he’d be put to bed early and I’d read (often in the bathroom so as not to wake him up) and then I’d turn out the lights when I was tired. But this night was different, it was fancy, an occasion, something to remember. We’d talked about it all day; he’d had a nap in preparation for staying up late and I was excited about trying something called calamari that everyone was talking about.

It was a fisherman’s catch buffet night and I was a little bit in love with a boy who was there with his family. I’d stared at him solidly for six days straight at the pool. I’d laughed too loudly at breakfast so he looked round. We once bumped heads in the entrance hall when I was walking in and he was walking out (in my mind we were getting married) so I laid out my outfit extremely carefully. Over the miniature thimble of grapefruit or tomato juice we were going to lock eyes and that would be it, my first full-on boyfriend (I was, uh, a slow developer).

Did I mention it was hot? Like 100 degrees. I wanted to wear my black sundress and my (wait for it) knee-high, fake suede, platform, studded boots. They were from C&A and they were pure magic. It was my plan, it was part of the story. He’d see me in them, he’d realise that I was fashionable, nonchalant, on trend and practically an adult. I backcombed my hair, I put on some lip-liner (yes, it was chocolate brown, boof) and I was ready to go.

But my mum, who was always pretty casual on clothes and what I wanted to wear (she never needed us to look ‘just so’, she didn’t have the time), said no. She explained it was scorching; I’d look nuts and I should wear flip flops like everyone else. I tried to plead, I begged, I said it was important but she just refused. You’re not going downstairs, in this heat, in those clunky, sweaty boots. Don’t be ridiculous.

I nodded sulkily and we went down for a prawn surprise and other glamorous things but I couldn’t shake it off. I didn’t speak and grew more and more upset. I just sat silently looking down at my hands. Normally I was bouncy, usually I’d make everything nice and generally I always behaved.

After twenty minutes hot steam began to pour from my mother’s ears. ‘What is it? Why are you ruining supper? Why aren’t you talking?’

‘I wanted to wear my boots,’ I said quietly.

‘Fine, go get them and then please come down here with a smile.’

I went to my room and changed my shoes. Sure, I looked weird. Yes, I was melting and truthfully the faux suede never really recovered. But did I have a great night? Absolutely. We ate fresh fish, I stared at the boy I liked, my family ended up playing Uno while eating lemon ice cream that was served in actual lemons and I went to bed happy. Was it about the boots? Was it about the boy? Not really. It was about something much more important – it was about confidence. Even then, as a spotty, heavy fringed, patchy tanned, glasses-wearing teenager, I knew that in those boots I had swagger.

And swagger is what every girl and woman deserves. Everything else is hard enough. We’re on the hamster wheel of life. Yes, she’s got her PE kit, yup, bridge is on for 8pm and what’s that? You’ve both given up meat, dairy and anything raw? No problem, I’ll rustle up some, um, warm nuts. Our boss wants another meeting about when to have another meeting and our parents have said they’d like us to go away with them on a camper van holiday for the bank holiday. The traffic is gridlocked, the papers are full of bad news, the bank has decided that our overdraft has gone on for too long and the kids have seen a mouse in the kitchen. We rush and we negotiate and we hustle to keep everything on track – which is all made just a bit easier if we are doing it whilst wearing a pair of truly great boots.

Perhaps you already own these boots and you have been nodding along in agreement. If you have yet to meet your most empowering, enabling footwear, please use this list to help you identify the boots that are right for you.

THE LEGAL SECRETARY

This is a heavy, blocked heel option with a no-nonsense attitude. Wear with black crepe trousers for work and with an oversized polo neck and jeans at the weekend. An aside: if boots can be worn every single day then that’s better. Don’t save boots ‘for best’ – there is no best.

THE GROUPIE

You want to feel like you might be going back to the drummer’s place for a heavy goblet of vodka and some filth? Where the music will be on really loud and people are getting up to mischief on the pool table? No, of course we’re not actually going to do that (it sounds like a lot of effort and way too messy), but these high-heeled ankle sex boots will make you feel like the option is available.

THE NEW MUM

You can’t shift the baby weight. You’re boring yourself rigid about why she likes broccoli but not carrots and the school run is genuinely killing you – I’ve just dropped her off, how can I be going back again so soon? You haven’t been on a night out in months and while you’re having sex with your husband you’re doing the weekly shop in your head. These are not ballet flats (never fine, unless you’re actually doing ballet) and they’re not slippers (guys …). They are still great boots but they do not involve laces (designers, if we had time to do our laces as well as everyone else’s we’d let you know), you do not have to sit down to put them on and they can be thrown by the front door. Excellent with jeans and a massive shirt (that you might have slept in).

THE INTELLECTUAL

These are akin to a classic brogue but slightly more interesting than a Chelsea boot. They’re best in tobacco or cinnamon (real boot colours) and look much better when worn for years. Buy and then give them to a friend’s dog to gnaw at. Leave them out in the garden so they get a bit soiled and wear them hard. Day in, day out. Wear them if you’re walking in some fields (it might actually be worth a visit to the countryside) and, when they’re broken in, then they will come to the fore. Brilliant when paired with a battered satchel and overly long scarf.

STYLES TO BE AVOIDED

- The fringed moccasin boot (only OK on Kate Moss and Pocahontas, absolutely not fine for anyone else)

- The almond toe (too indecisive: either a square or a point, what is this?)

- The over-the-knee (cheap, even though unbelievably expensive)

- The boot with a logo (we get it, you’ve got money. Pipe down)

- The kitten heel (if you want your calves to look like massive hams then go ahead but otherwise it’s a solid no)

- The sock boot (make it stop)

- The cowboy (fine if you’re in a rodeo and even then …)

- The Ugg (look, I know they’re comfy but so are onesies and adult nappies)

A Small Lecture About Art

We were sixteen, we were deeply pleased with ourselves, extraordinarily annoying and thought we already knew everything. We’d all picked history of art because we thought it would be a doddle. Yes Miss, we know about paintings. Yes Sir, we get that sculpture might be made of marble. Duh. Yes, we can spell Michaelangelo (wait a second, is that right?) and of course we go to galleries (do they serve cider there and are they full of cute boys?).

For context – I went to an all-girls school bang in the centre of London, we flew to school on the tube, had a full burgundy uniform (even tights #speechless). We were a hotchpotch of badly executed home-highlights, Juicy Fruit gum and an unhealthy obsession with whether to go to third base.

Our skirts were rolled up too high, two of us wore fishnets (burgundy ones, yes, they exist), we passed notes to each other and we stared out of the window dreaming that Simon le Bon would waltz in and save us. Can you imagine anything worse than teaching us? Exactly. Me neither.

Our history of art teacher was Mrs Dale. She was pristine, she was calm, she was together. She wore a high bun and at least eight different shades of brown. She hardly raised her voice, she never yelled, she rarely tutted. She was kind, she was quiet, she had pin-sharp focus and she believed in loafers and the Renaissance.

One morning, we were (as usual) not paying attention, almost certainly whispering about lunch – I’ll swap a Marathon bar for a bagel, sure – and she said, ‘Right class, nothing seems to be going in while we’re here. Let’s go and see something, shall we?’ She shot up from behind her desk faster than a whippet on crack and marched out of the classroom at high speed. Confused and still talking about the merits of a Double Decker versus a Flake, we all got up to follow her.

She sprinted to the school’s front door and we practically had to run to keep up. ‘What’s the matter with her?’ we mouthed as our teeth clattered together – it was a freezing January day and there was no time to get our coats. It was windy, we were swearing under our breath, she was striding with purpose. She trooped us to St Paul’s Cathedral. We didn’t understand, we asked if this was a planned trip, we occasionally called out, ‘You alright, Miss?’ but we followed her in and were immediately hushed. The chatting stopped.

‘Now, girls. I know lunch is important, I know boys are irresistible, but you need to understand what we’re studying here. Breathtaking architecture, mesmerising art, wonderful sculpture. That is the greatest privilege of all.’ Her hands were on her hips (this meant business we’d later learn).

She continued. ‘I was young once, I understand you just want to gossip and natter and have fun, but look up. Don’t worry about lipstick and bands and anything else at this moment. I implore you, girls. Just. Look. Up.’

We’d walked past the cathedral a million times, we’d sat on her steps while scoffing Monster Munch ogling boys from the school opposite, we’d taken her for granted. The inside of St Paul’s is (and I really do hate this word but it’s the only one that will do) awesome. It’s enormous, it’s majestic, it’s classical architecture in its purest form and the dome is 365 feet high. The columns feel like they reach space, the nave could house fifteen buses (this is not strictly true but it feels like it) and it took our breath away.

Mrs Dale encouraged us to take it all in while she explained Lord Admiral Nelson and Sir Christopher Wren were buried there. She let us gawp at the detailing while telling us that Martin Luther King chose St Paul’s to give a sermon in 1964. ‘It only just survived the blitz, it’s a masterpiece, don’t forget this. The whole design came from one brain. This is on our doorstep, art is alive and if I need to distract you from tittle tattle to wake you up, then so be it.’

Of course we didn’t want to look like we’d turned, we didn’t want to look too impressed. But something happened that day. There was nothing funny to hide behind. We couldn’t take the mick, we couldn’t whisper and laugh. It was just us, looking at Wren’s masterwork. We stayed too long, we missed lunch and we were in the palm of her hand from that day forward. She talked to us like we were grown-ups, she fed us with information without thinking it wouldn’t go in. She didn’t panic about note-taking and underlining essay titles. She didn’t sweat the small stuff.

Not long after our spontaneous trip to St Paul’s, Mrs Dale casually took us to the National Gallery to stand in front of the Arnolfini Portrait for 90 minutes one day after school. Then, the following year, she successfully fought with the headmistress for money to take us to Italy. ‘They need to see it,’ she was heard yelling just outside the lunch hall. It was 1989 and we were seventeen and we went to Venice. The whole history of art A level group – about twelve of us. It was bats.

Some of us had been away with our families but it was usually beach holidays or camping – we were about to experience something else entirely. When the plane landed and we got into a boat (wow, they weren’t kidding, there really is a lot of water, I thought it was, like, one river) we were blown away. We were there for two nights and three full days. We’d never seen anything like it, a whole city, like, on water (we said ‘like’, like, all the time).

We went to the Accademia and gazed up at the Raphaels. We ate all the gelato we could find and barely slept, staring out of the window gazing at the church spires and little gondolas. We ate pasta in tiny backstreets. ‘Look at that little bridge over the canal, look, they live there, in that apartment, the one that you get to by boat. Can you imagine?’ we squealed. This was a whole other world, this was a living, breathing, artwork that doubled up as an actual city. We wafted round St Mark’s Square feeling romantic and grown up and were just completely wowed. We shared an £8 coffee (so adult) and flirted with any poor unsuspecting boy we could find. Ciao! T’Amo! I mean, Venice should have ejected us.

Mrs Dale must have loved seeing our faces and gaping mouths. ‘Come on girls, here’s the Rialto, keep up, I’m now going to show you a Gorgione that might make you realise the power of storytelling through painting. And wait till I tell you what an x-ray of this painting revealed. Come on, come on.’

On the last day, we were all crowded round a table tearing through pizza and she said, quite indifferently, ‘You have 30 minutes of free time now and then I’d like you to meet me at the back of the Basilica Maria Gloriosa dei Frari. We’ll stay there for a bit and then collect our bags and go to the airport.’ So we spent the next half hour mooching around the tiny shops looking at elaborate masks and small animals made of glass – can anyone lend me some lira? I think I’ll get my brother this tiny penguin – and then we slowly wended our way to the Frari.

It’s not a beautiful church. It’s large and hefty and absolutely fine but compared to some others in Venice (see San Giorgio Maggiore or Santa Maria Formosa) it is, at best, a B. It’s large and red brick and although built in the sixteenth century could also be new. We slunk through the main doors at the end of the nave wondering where our teacher was and talking about if we had enough money to buy chocolate at the airport. The church was dark, it was enormous and a bit cold. Someone remembered she said to meet us at the back. Come on gang, last one. Bagsy have the Walkman on the plane first. God that pizza was good. I wish they had a heater in here. Now, where is Mrs D? We were done, we were sleepy, we were already back to life as normal and we just thought we’d get this out of the way and then get home. And then something happened. To be specific, Titian happened.

The Assumption of the Virgin is huge – it’s 22 feet tall and it towers over you; the figures are larger than life-size, in every way. The Virgin Mary is being propelled up to god in heaven. I am not religious but I would believe in anything looking at her. It’s a whirlwind, a painting that doesn’t stand still. As with all of Titian’s work it’s the colour that winds you, that makes your legs give way. The red, the blue, the golden light – it is not of this world, it is not what we usually see, it is not mortal. We couldn’t imagine this was real.

You see, you can’t believe it’s been created by human hand. The Virgin Mary looks like she’s alive, her clothes hang like velvet, she’s looking up, god is waiting for her. Beneath her, St Peter and the apostles are moving, they’re alive, they’re agitated, they’re angst-ridden, they can’t believe what they’re seeing and this broke with all tradition. It’s also in its rightful home: Titian painted it for this very church and this very spot (so often we see altarpieces in galleries, not in their ‘natural habitat’). There is such emotional power, such energy, such life, such force.

There was a low level hum of wonder around that painting. We stood with other visitors in complete silence, absolutely agog with astonishment. We had never seen anything like it and to this day it remains the most extraordinary ‘art moment’ of my life (I’m lucky, I’ve had a few). We were struck – make that thunderstruck – by what one could arguably say is the greatest painting in the world. We stood there actually unable to speak. I don’t know how many gaggles of seventeen-year-old girls you’ve come across but this is almost a miracle, an impossibility. We were quiet, we were thoughtful and didn’t want to leave that particular painting. We were dumbstruck all the way home – nobody worried about sweets or looking at the other school trip on our plane rammed with boys.

When we got back to school we had to write about Titian’s piece and we all said it was the greatest thing we’d ever seen. You see, every other altarpiece that came before it was polite, was proper, they followed the rules. There was beauty, yes, but that kind of energy? Absolutely not. This was a stand-out piece, something we knew we’d talk about in years to come. We asked Mrs Dale why she hadn’t told us what we were about to see, why she’d just said to meet at the back of the church. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Girls,’ she said, ‘you’ll learn that, in life, high expectations are a killer.’

Of course, she is completely right and I have never forgotten that truth. Don’t expect to have your mind blown, your feet swept up from under you. Don’t think that you’re going to have the best night, the best sex, the best job, the best life. Good to keep your hopes small, excellent to keep them low. Go see a film before you’ve read too many five star reviews, try that local Italian place before everyone on your street tells you the risotto is to die for. Avoid the hype and, equally, try not to oversell everything before people get a chance to see it for themselves.

I love being all knowing – you must watch this, you must read this, this will knock your socks off – but it’s cruel in a way. Let people discover alone, let them have their own eureka moment. Send them the book, drop the name of the film or mention the band – don’t tell them it will change their life as then it might not. Mrs Dale made art relevant, exciting, magical and most of us fell in love with it and continued to study/read about it/talk about it to this day. (I’m writing about it now and this happened 100 years ago.) When I wanted to go to university I couldn’t imagine learning about anything else. I loved literature, I loved classics but it had to be art. I specialised in Rembrandt and I still bore my kids rigid with stories about seventeenth-century Holland. Is it useful for Strictly? No. Is it useful for my soul? Totally.

You see, I don’t know much, but I do know that art is the answer. Of course, there’s eye shadow, great necking and heavy black coats, but looking up at a beautiful painting is about the most enriching thing you can do with your time. People talk about self-care and they’ll talk animatedly over a hummus sandwich about bath salts and meditation and yoga. That’s all well and good but popping into any place where there are paintings or sculptures dotted around is like an internal massage; it’s better than humming on a mat and at it’s very best – and this is big – it’s even better for your soul than mascara.

The next time you feel slightly wobbly, the next time you feel confused, go to a gallery. Go to any. If you’re in London spend half an hour in the National. It’s free, it’s next to a tube and its walls are genuinely the best in the world. You might love Van Eyck, you might be a Titian girl like me or you might just fall in love with Stubb’s horse. Whatever you like, the colours, the sweeping brush strokes, the majesty will carry you up into a different world.

We accept mediocrity all the time. The pasta is edible, the music on the radio is passable, the bus was a bit late but at least there was a seat. We get the kids to bed, we check their spellings, we make sure our friends are fine and we pour ourselves a glass of wine at 8 and then flop into bed after the news. We get by. Of course we’re grateful and we love our lives, but we’re not always aware of extraordinary feats. Just sometimes we need to be reminded of gobsmacking, heart-thumping, stop-you-in-your-tracks beauty.

I realise that, at this point, you might be saying to yourself ‘That short, orange lady off the telly is lecturing me about going to galleries’ and considering throwing this book into the recycling bin. ‘I bought this book for stories about Anton du Beke for god’s sake,’ you’ll mutter into your coffee. ‘I need the info on the Strictly curse, I absolutely refuse to hear about how Turner can change your life.’

But honestly, trust me in this one, and at least consider giving it a go. Don’t worry about a calming app, don’t spend a fortune on a life-enhancing eye cream (it won’t) and don’t worry about missing out on the latest boxset. Surround yourself with stunning works, just stop and look at one piece, give yourself twenty minutes to marvel in splendour and then go about your day. These artists have given us extraordinary gifts and it’s a mistake to ignore them. Go and be amazed.

If you can get to Venice I’d like to meet you there – first Saturday in February at 2pm? Though I realise I’ve built her up now, I realise I’ve done everything Mrs Dale said I shouldn’t. You won’t be wowed so please let’s forget what I said. Let’s say it’s just some oils on some wood, let’s pretend it’s something some bloke painted in 1515, some guy who was particularly good with the colour red. Am sure you’ve seen better, it’s not a big deal. Meet you at the back of the Frari (I’ll bring the tissues).

Here Comes the Summer

I’m going to come straight out with it. I don’t believe in summer. It’s all toes out (not fine) and enormous bottles of water and shoestring strap dresses and finding a tiny bit of earth to lie down on. It’s a heightened, terrifying collective joy and a rushing panic that plans need to be made.

In October, when people ask, ‘What are you doing at the weekend?’ it’s casual, it’s easy breezy. You reply, ‘Pub, maybe a book, that new Netflix show, we might finish the salami,’ and it’s put to bed. There’s some relaxed nodding and everyone moves on.

But when May, June rolls around and there’s a shard of light through the clouds and the weather app promises warmth, suddenly the questions are insistent, pointed and anxious in tone. Are you going to the park? Which one? Having friends round? I’m thinking of giving Jamie’s haloumi wrap a go. What drinks will you make? Got a blender for the daiquiris? Want to borrow mine?

There’s a strange zeal in the air, too much anxiety placed on just an afternoon. Two months ago and the whole weekend could be summed up by ‘a puzzle, some soup, afternoon sex’, but now you have to go into great detail. You pretend you have a garden (I do this) and mention re-potting a plant and doing something with weeds.

When friends come round in November a takeaway is fine; July arrives and suddenly you need to look for wooden bowls and matching salad servers (who has these?) and everyone is keen on ironed table linen and Pimms (any drink that needs cucumber to perk it up should be ashamed of itself).

Summer clothes are appalling – too much skin, too floral, too jaunty, too colourful. They’re all well and good in rural Italy when your skin is olive and your boyfriend has an old, clapped-out convertible Fiat and your grandma has some sort of ancient trestle table that’s always groaning under fresh lemons (with actual leaves attached) and mammoth jugs of wine. Then it makes sense. Sure, get your feet out, wear a sunshine yellow flowery midi dress, play summer music and stick on some body shimmer. But if you live in the UK then summer just won’t do. It should be illegal.

Basically, it should be full-time Winter here. Yes, I used a capital letter on purpose. Winter is twinkly lights and capes and roasted chestnuts and gravy and stews. Winter is skinny black jeans and dishevelled boots and chaotic hair and sex panda eye make-up. It is not shimmery gloss and flip flops. Winter is let’s huddle up at home at 4pm because it’s dark outside and why not, I’ll make mash and pour me a Baileys, babe.

Summer is too much pressure, too much high pitched squeals, too much forced fun. It’s blockbusters that are too loud and too long and music festivals rammed with people off their heads eating candy floss and wearing ‘I’m mad, me’ hats.

In summer mistakes can’t be made because the light is too bright, it’s too honest, nothing can be hidden under wool and denim. The fake tan has to be flawless, the bra needs to not be too tight and the cuticles need to be clean – all that endless sunlight shows up the errors. Parties start with good intentions and aggressively marinated meats at 3pm and drag on forever as it never gets dark. People are hammered and messy at 9, they’re slurring their words and falling off chairs and it’s still basically supermarket lighting outside.

Hideous food is passed round (beetroot and feta tarts; lettuce and fennel wraps) and upbeat music is played (I loathe upbeat music, I like sullen, grumpy tunes). There’s a frittata (can we just call it an omelette please?) and there’s hysteria about the barbecue. We all have to stand round and watch a man with a pair of tongs feeling like Tarzan. Wow, he turned the sausages, you’ve got a good one there! He torches (sorry, cooks) the food and then we all have to nod and agree that the addition of turmeric in chipolatas really is the best thing ever.

Grown-ups feel young in the heat. In the winter we know our place, we behave like old people, we act our age – it’s all crosswords, maybe some crochet or a brainteaser, we go to book clubs and eat toasties and get under our heavy duvets at 10pm. In summer, everyone goes barmy because they feel like teenagers. Adults walk around in baseball caps and 50-year-olds buy Converse hi-tops. Women who are usually happy in cardigans photograph themselves in hot pants, bunches and sucking ice lollies. Men stop wearing socks and organise frisbee in the park and the kids are up till midnight because their parents have got the karaoke out and the neighbours are round for prosecco and plates of parma ham with melon.

Summer then, please wake me when it’s over.

A Fringe

I’m not going to tell you to get a fringe like me. I’m not going to tell you to dye your hair dark brown like mine. And I’m not going to say the answer to life is hair falling in your face 24/7. In fact, if you’re prone to conjunctivitis it could be a terrifically bad idea. You might loathe my fringe (I have a lot of letters to prove it’s not, um, to everyone’s taste) but, and I’m being perfectly serious here, it’s given me a career.

I’m sure I got work because all those times producers were in a room ruminating on the next TV show, handing round digestives and they couldn’t remember names, they said, ‘We could always get the orange one with the fringe.’ Believe me, it’s not because I read out loud better than anybody else, it’s not because I hold a microphone with an extra special grip, it’s not because I can ask someone their name and where they’ve come from with more class. It’s because I have a thing, an epithet, a focus (OK, I don’t always have focus, mainly just a haircut, but you get the idea). Finding a uniform, a look, is simply a good plan.

When we were young, we liked playing around with what we wore. Ooh, it’s sunny today I’m going to be a double-denim girl and maybe I’ll tie that old gingham shirt with a knot so it’s a jaunty crop top. To complete the ensemble, I’m going to need peach blush and I might just draw on some freckles.

Then, a month later, you’d give grunge a good go for its money – I’ve worn this t-shirt to bed for four days and these jeans are covered in crumbs and gin, so I’ll do my eye make-up and then wipe it off with the back of my hand, leaving just a blue/black tinge. I’m so emo. I look like a thinker, actually maybe I’ll carry around that Turgenev I’m never going to read too.

Some weeks later, you’d see a friend at a party in a layered tulle skirt and leather jacket and become convinced that Cyndi Lauper had it right all along – until, that is, your head is turned by an ad featuring a woman walking purposefully on a New York City street. You’d immediately think, hold on, what I actually need to do is embrace trench coats, poker straight hair and an enormous bag.

We all did it and it’s important. We were trying people on, working out which felt the best.

Many of us carry on doing this right through university and even when we start work. Look at Alice, everyone respects Alice; I think it’s because she’s wearing Adidas Gazelles in dark grey. If I get Adidas gazelles I’ll belong and Alice will like me and then I’ll definitely do really well in this job. Oh, look at that, she’s added some stick-on black sequins onto her lanyard – I should do that too. Best to fit in, best to be like Alice.

And then, one day, quite out of nowhere, we’re frankly just too bloody knackered, too worn-out and no longer interested in the dressing up of it all. Am I going to go full siren in a pencil skirt today or should I go for masculine tailoring and a red lip? Am I thinking Sharon Stone here or should I go a bit Mel B? That leopard blazer is good, but too much with the handkerchief hem skirt from ASOS … We yawn, mutter how getting dressed can be hard work and it’s then we realise that it’s time to take it easy, take a load off, put our feet up and just decide.

Of all the people we were trying on, one will feel a bit easier, a little more comfortable, a little bit more like you. Your look might be ‘the girl with all the bangles’ or the ‘woman who only wears bottle green’ (this would actually be excellent) or you might be the human who can’t live without extremely baggy personalised dungarees. Of course, it might be more subtle – it might be that you always have streaky hair, you might always revert to bronzer. Whatever your thing is, embrace it, own it, invest in it and keep it. It’s now your adjective, your moniker, your handle if you will.

Mornings are no longer stressful. All the tulle/gingham/too-ripped jeans/black goth capes need to be chucked in a bag and taken to the charity shop. At this point in your life, seriously consider using a smaller cupboard. Into this compact space go the trousers you like, the tops you like, a pair of boots and maybe a couple of coats. Now you know what ‘you’ looks like, the clothes all match, they can be thrown on in any combination without thinking. That’s it. I know that magazines talk about a hideous-sounding ‘capsule wardrobe’ (we’re not going to the moon, FFS) but in this instance they are actually bang on. Choose a colour, choose a haircut (I also chose a tan shade – on the Dulux chart it’s called ‘terracotta: dark’) and commit.

You will save time, you will feel comfortable shopping knowing that only one thing will do. I went through so many phases (the one that sticks out was the electric blue bow tie worn with a man’s shirt and trousers entirely made of tapestry and no, you can’t see a photo) and it was so relaxing to finally opt for pirate meets French male mature student in November. It was just the easiest look. I like dark, I like messy, I like pointy shoes. Hello, this will be me. Done.

If it’s black or navy then it’s a yes, if it’s narrow jeans then it’s a yes, if it’s a big sweater then boom and if it’s a pea coat and roughed up footwear then we’re winning. Sure, I can admire other looks, but when I am shopping I don’t even look at the other stuff, I can delete it all from my head. Floaty chiffon, huge prints, low-cut tops – nope. Life just got more relaxed.

School mornings are easy with the kids as they wear the same shirt, the same trousers and the same tie. Follow them. Get yours from John Lewis too if you want and stick to it. There’s no heart-quickening in the shower I-have-a-meeting-what-should-I-wear or who-do-I-want-to-be-today drama. Just pick and be done with it.

And, while we’re here, if you do decide a fringe is for you, let me share what I have learnt. Have a long one (a short fringe has only worked for Larry Hagman and that’s a fact) and have it trimmed once every three months (when it’s overgrown it’s good). Comb your hair in the shower after you’ve applied conditioner (I can be unbelievably boring about this) and don’t use a hairdryer but just comb it into your eyes instead. Try to let it dry on its own and don’t worry if the sides curl up. Don’t use any product on it (especially not oil – I will never understand the ‘I’ve just washed my hair and now I want it to look greasy’ thing) and go about your business.

If your fringe is still jumping up and not behaving then go back to your hairdresser and ask for a heavier one. If you have curly hair it will have to be especially weighty. You don’t want anything apologetic here. If it needs to start at the back of the head to gain heft then so be it. If it starts parting randomly in the middle then it’s trim time. If none of the above works and you still want a curtain of hair on your forehead then it’s time to invest in a straightening iron. Wash, let it dry naturally and then yank as much as you can and iron until it’s a bulky field of mane. While it is unlikely that anyone will be able to see you clearly under there and they may describe you as ‘the one who looks like an English Sheepdog’ you now have a look. Good.

Bridge

Let’s chat about reputations.

Let’s start with me. We haven’t met but I’d really like you to think that I’m cool, maybe a little naughty. That all the tatty dark t-shirts and black filthy eye make-up means I might be a right laugh, a fun person to have a night out with. That I probably stay out late, hammering on the piano in a private members’ club at midnight while necking vodka. That’s certainly the vibe I’m trying to give off.

I can tell you now I’m none of those things.

Bridge’s rep, you could say, is also all wrong, a bit of a smokescreen. When I tell people I started playing in my 20s they look at me suspiciously. They think I might have got the right word but the wrong meaning. Do you mean you like to do gymnastics and create a bridge with your back after a couple of glasses of wine with the dancers from Strictly? Are you talking about extraordinary feats of civil engineering? Do you prefer a suspension, a truss or a cantilever?

When bridge the card game is mentioned it seems to conjure up for people images of old people, reading glasses round their neck, blanket on their lap, playing with a thimble of wine and some Ritz crackers. It’s just not true. Bridge is – and this is a massive statement but I’m sticking by it – simply the greatest game in the world. It’s not complicated, you don’t have to be clever, you don’t need to be good at maths (I’m numerically dyslexic, ask me to repeat a four-digit number back to you and I’ll throw up on myself in panic) and you definitely don’t need to be old.

The game consists of two parts – the bidding and the playing. I don’t know if you like spy stories, unpicking clues. I’m not sure if you fancy the idea of being Poirot or Columbo for an evening, if you inhaled Agatha Christie novels, but if this ticks any of your boxes then you’re going to absolutely adore the first round. No, you don’t have to dress up, it’s not a murder mystery party, no one needs to come to the table dressed as Colonel Mustard. Bidding is like being Bond (but less misogynistic and less interested in killing) as you and your bridge partner try to get to the perfect bid.

You go back and forth, you’re talking to each other using only two words – for example, ‘three hearts’ or ‘four clubs’ – you can’t give your hand away but through this coded chat you just might be able to work out if you can win this round. I’m not exaggerating when I say this is tense but terrifically addictive. There is no such thing as a bad hand in bridge. Whatever hand you’re dealt you can handle – either by winning your bid or taking your opponents down. This is slow, it’s stimulating, it’s nail biting and you know that feeling before someone you really fancy kisses you? The butterflies and slight giddiness? It’s like that. But there’s no rejection, plus you’re sitting down with snacks. Immediately better.

You find your bid. Everyone exhales. The next part is the play and this is nerve-wracking and completely exhilarating in equal measure. One of you will play, your partner’s hand will be down on the table and here’s the rub, the nugget, the zinger, you’re a team. It is official bridge practice to say ‘Good luck, partner’ when you lay down your cards and your partner replies with a ‘Thank you, partner.’ Now, I don’t want you to panic, you don’t have to bow, you don’t have to say it loudly but this really is the absolute joy of the game. The key word here is ‘partner’. Without wanting to sound like a Spice Girl, two really do become one. You might be playing, your partner might be playing but you are doing it together. You don’t win by yourself and, rather magically, you don’t lose by yourself in bridge. Of course if you play particularly badly you feel sad about letting them down but you’re not abseiling down a crevice in a torrential downpour, it’s not life or death, it’s just cards and they understand.

Bridge is about communication, it’s about linking in with each other’s head, it’s about using a part of your brain that is often (in my case, always) dormant. It is easily the sexiest thing you can do on a night out. The thrill is seeing your cards, the flirtation is the bidding and then the build-up comes to the fore with the play.

Bridge is not stuffy, it’s not for the over-70s. Find a bridge club and just start. If you don’t love it after the first session I’ll eat my Columbo hat. People talk about endorphins being released during exercise? This is a brain workout and you’ll go to bed higher than a kite. Much better than actually getting high at the Groucho.

Holidays

I feel so strongly about holidays I have used subheadings. I know.

BOOKING

I know it’s not cool, it’s not relaxed, it’s not attractive, but the truth is I like to be in control. When it comes to trips, I like to book. I want to choose where we go, how we get there and when we do it.

I nod while he says he’d like for us all to go to Sweden. I am doing a good job of ears closed listening (all women need this, it’s a skill we have to pick up from men) and I really look like I’m considering it. I even mention getting a guide book. Meatballs in punnets and walking through the city all day? What a lovely plan. Staying in an Airbnb and then a trip to the Abba museum? I’m nodding vigorously now. After 22 years together, he still hasn’t learnt that the more keen I appear, the less likely it is going to happen.

I actually whooped when he suggested going to the Secret Cinema once (dressing up and watching a film in a warehouse with other grown-ups all dressed up? Look, if you want to go to a swingers’ party just say so) and he was surprised when the tickets never showed up. He’s also convinced I seriously considered Ben Nevis in October, a pot-luck discovery car adventure with nothing booked in northern France and flying to South Africa on Christmas Day. He vaguely thinks that these things did not come to pass because something happened with expedia.com or I got some work (that I magically never went to) or there was a problem with getting rooms. (See also: anal sex, a homemade pizza oven – Dominos is up the road – and booking a sleepover for all of us in the bug house at the zoo). Super keen, yay, excellent, back of the net. Sure. Let’s definitely do that.

Look, I know. Of course I could just tell him. But I don’t want to be the naysayer, I don’t want to be the boring one when the rest of the family is up for cinnamon buns and lingonberries in the home of IKEA. Plus, I don’t really like confrontation – I actually often don’t have time for confrontation – and I’d rather not use my energy on explaining why I don’t want to do something. Smiling and nodding is simply the path of least resistance. Yes, of course baby. I would love to go to Tallinn for the weekend, I’ll have a look tomorrow.

PACKING

There are a few things I can’t stand – Ovaltine (a hot drink that smells of old socks but also develops a skin, are they nuts?), flying down a zip wire and people who tell you all about their dreams (save it). But the thing that I can’t actually stomach is packing. I can’t bear the stress, the counting of pants and the unending worry and panic about leaving stuff behind. On top of this, I am chronically, terribly, excoriatingly bad at it.

Here’s an example. I’ve just got engaged. We’ve been together a year and, to be frank, we’ve spent at least 300 of those days in bed. I’m 26 and gaga about him. I’m so in love, I’m so awed by the sex (don’t worry, my kids aren’t reading this, they think everything I do is chronic) that we really have just spent a year under the covers on a futon with the papers and old pizza. I’ve met his parents but it’s been brief. A few suppers, a Christmas Eve, a lot of smiling. I asked the right questions and we ate Danish food (gosh, herring three ways, gesundheit) and then we raced home again, tore our clothes off and got under the covers.

Now we are going to France for three days, which will be the first time I really get to know his mum. You’d have thought that packing for this would be straightforward, wouldn’t you? Please believe me when I tell you I packed seven pairs of trousers (one of them had feathers attached – I can’t talk about it), three roll-neck sweaters (it was July), absolutely no tops and two mismatched shoes. Even if I was packing in the dark, under intense time pressure, I should have done better. If I was on a game show called ‘Packing in a Hurry’ and Paddy McGuinness was standing over me yelling ‘put it in the bag’ and the crowd were going wild (whoever packs the best bag for the fishing expedition/Ice Hotel/Mongolia was going to win the holiday of a lifetime). Even THEN, I’d have done better. ‘Aren’t you warm?’ came the casual question at the first breakfast when my future mother-in-law noticed I was wearing a mohair hoodie, suit trousers with one navy ballet flat and one black. There are no words.

And then of course there was the packing for the honeymoon. The destination was a surprise (have I told you he’s very romantic? Total opposite of me) and he said he’d pack my bag for me. I checked it before we left. Only two swimsuits and a couple of kaftans and some flip flops. This bloke is having a laugh, this is surely a trick, I thought.

The problem was that I was completely sure I had ‘sensed’ where we were going (in the early days of the fringe I felt like Mystic Meg). I was certain he was taking me walking so at the last minute, I totally repacked and swapped the sun cream for walking boots and wind breakers and a flask. Yup, not very useful in Bali. I spent the full two weeks in a cagoule.

Whenever I’ve packed for the kids for a school trip there’s always the call from the teacher on the first night: ‘Good evening, I don’t want to bother you but I was just wondering (I’m in a panic by now), do you happen to know if you packed Tilda’s wellies?’

‘Wellies? I thought you guys were going on a geography trip, I gave her some marshmallows and an atlas.’

‘Well, yes, great but … it’s extremely muddy.’

It’s not like I don’t have the stuff. We have the stuff. The rain macs, the goggles (well, we don’t have these but I like to pretend I have an aquatic drawer also full of flippers) and we certainly have t-shirts and walking stuff and swimwear. So why can’t I quite get the stuff in the bag?

I’ve never once been abroad and remembered to pack a plug convertor (I have three still in their packets) or a charger (so sorry, but can we stop off at Currys?) or the right toiletries (I seem to have glitter face paint, three of the same lipstick but absolutely no toothpaste or contact lenses) and nothing matches anything.

What is the secret to packing? I’m not asking for a friend, I’m asking for me. Do I need to write stuff down? I make lists – shoes, Mini Cheddars for the plane, some books, clothes – but they never, ever make it into the suitcase. Actually, I did once take cards but there were only fifty in the pack. Bingo.

THE AIRPORT

We wake up at 5am (why do I book planes at 8? Also confusing) and by the time we’ve checked in, gone through security there is then a heated debate about eating.

One of us wants sushi (it’s early, you can’t possibly want raw fish) and two others want toasties and I always like a pub at a terminal – can’t explain why. We lose each other and the seventeen-year-old seems to inhale his boarding pass. We have to find a way to print him a new one as it transpires he’s thrown it away in Smith’s because he thought it was a receipt (yes, this is why he must never leave home) and then we either get to the gate with an hour to spare or at the last minute.

I want to be the kind of person who reserves a row of seats long before the flight leaves but this has never happened (I promise I’m organised in other ways – my books are ordered with Tetris-like precision) so we’re all in middle seats and none of us are next to each other. So sorry do you mind moving? Sorry. Sorry. He’s eight. Yes, I am that dickhead.

UNPACKING

This is an absolute disgrace. There are no drawers, there’s a fight about two lone hangars that are attached to the rail and where to sleep.

‘Why do I always get the camp bed? I’m six foot and he’s tiny.’

‘Where’s my favourite teddy?’ (Ah, I seem to remember last seeing Blue Cat in Heathrow).

Thankfully I’ve packed almost nothing or everything I’ve packed is completely unsuitable – ‘Claud, how come you’ve brought knee-high boots and a puffa to Portugal?’ Everything may as well stay in the suitcase and we go and discover the resort.

CREAMING

Can we talk about applying sun cream on small children? I don’t know why it’s more complicated than an obstacle course on the Krypton Factor but it is. First day you’re up for it, you’re ready. You’ve put some on yourself (ish) and now your sleeves are rolled up, bath mat is down and a little body is in front of you. This cannot, will not be the end of me. I can do this. It’s cream, they just have to be covered so we don’t have to stress-buy calamine lotion and put them in an ice bath. I’m really concentrating – arms, torso, back of the neck, nose, face (ah, sorry, yes some got in your eyes) and then the legs. I swear I love them and I’m focused. Always, without fail, at the end of the first day there’s a large, angry red blotch somewhere that didn’t get any. ‘Mummy, it hurts if I get in the bath, ow, don’t touch it.’ Never mind, we’ll just have to spend the next six days in the shade. Shit.

HELP, WHERE’S MY SPOT

Do we want to be by the pool? Should we try and go into town or get the bus to the beach? Where are we having lunch? How can they be hungry, it’s 10.05? Everyone else in my family is relaxed. They’re happy to throw down a towel and get a book and enjoy the day. Ah, here’s an old broken deck chair and if I just get rid of these bottles of half-drunk water it’ll be fine. This is lovely.

Uh, guys, there might be a better area, let’s find it. Shall we walk round again and check we want to be here? They’re all chilled (not my word) so I traipse around alone, battered by the sun, old sunglasses falling off my nose. I drop my book in the kids’ pool and it takes ages to find my way back to them.

Now also starving. One of the kids has found and is tormenting a crab. Husband smiling and enjoying himself ‘Hi babe, where have you been?’ (Is there anything more infuriating?)

HELLO THERE!

I like people. I like making friends. I want to sit next to someone I don’t know at dinner and find out all about them. Is it amazing being a grandpa? I see, you’ve just found out you’re allergic to gluten, what do you eat for breakfast? I can do it, I can win awards at it, I genuinely like getting to know people and discovering a slice of their life. Stick me absolutely anywhere. My husband met someone new at work and we’re going to the movies with him and his boyfriend. Fantastic. This is the way I live, that’s how I roll. But not, I repeat, not, on holiday.

‘Ah, is that book good?’

Excuse me? I’m lying on a lounger and have crisps on my chest. I have 30 minutes of golden time as the other four are walking down the beach. I’m listening to Britney Spears on my headphones, my nose is solidly in this book. Please, please tell me you’re not talking to me. Ah, you are. Jesus, you’ve sat down. Do we all want to eat together tonight? In town? Somewhere that does dinner and a show and starts at 9?

Help. Me.

THE BUFFET

Every marriage is different and is tried and tested in different ways. He doesn’t like her family/she loathes his friends/he likes drinking/she likes MDF (I’m not positive it’s actually called that)/he wants four children/she daydreams about a dalmatian puppy. We’re put through our paces and certain times will try us more than others.

I love a buffet. If it was up to me, this is how we’d always eat if we went out. A table laden with an assortment of things – some different breads, some cold hunks of cheese. Oh look! There’s a curry. Hold on to your hats, is that an omelette station? I get so over-excited I forget to chat, to enjoy each other. I’m bobbing up and down from my seat. I’ve been known to get up again for a single melon ball (how do they do it? I marvelled for about thirty minutes).

My husband cannot cope with this. He thinks dinner or lunch or breakfast out together is about chatting, sometimes flirting, finding out a bit more about each other (I mean, dude, there is nothing else). Not me. For me it’s about looking at all the delicious things and then eating them in turn.

‘That’s nice darling, I never knew that happened when you were seven. Argh! The carvery has started. Back in a bit. Shall I get anyone some more poppyseed crispbread?’ He likes a menu and a sit down, not a constant get up and sit down again. If there’s a buffet, I’ll try everything – wow, look at the lamb, it’s wearing little hats. Soup at breakfast, I’m in. They’re deep-frying risotto balls! He’s appalled and would rather have a bowl of nuts on a bench. You see, there are many ways in which a marriage can be tested.

PACKING. AGAIN.

The sunburn has settled down, we found our perfect location and settled there every morning (massive umbrella to hand plus small stand for cream, headphones, phone – I am an arse), we were friendly to the couple but didn’t have to be with them every second. The kids made friends, we established a buffet rotation so that sometimes we skipped it and chatted with crisps and fruit in our room instead. We found Monopoly at the front desk and all was good. And just as that magical unfurling happens it’s time to pack again.

This time everything is sandy and damp and inside out. We bundle everything in our bags and there is no order. ‘Sweetheart, shall we put all the dirty clothes in one bag and then the clean in the other?’ Sure we can, but then I would think you’re a psychopath. Your choice.

HOME

Our house is much smaller than we remembered. The post clogs the front door and we forgot to throw the milk away plus some old cheese is on the turn. You can now only open the fridge if you’re wearing a snorkel. The bags stay in the hall for a week as nobody can face the sand and the damp. We’re half a stone heavier than when we left, due to the buffets and the ice cream, and it’s now back to real life.

I like holidays but I really, really like staying at home.

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