Jemma Forte's Blog, page 3

New online show.

Here’s a link to the promo for my new online show ‘Superbusy Chicks’. It’s the brainchild of Caroline Mi li Artiss who is an incredible chef and who I met at a shopping channel where I present. She’s the resident kitchen expert at Argos TV.

The show is a short sharp burst of around ten to fifteen minutes, so designed for people who are busy to watch in their lunch breaks.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MtbzNojMofM

Each episode will consist of Caroline doing a fabulous but quick recipe, Claire Stuart doing a segment on fashion or beauty, and I’m in charge of culture and might be recommending a book, film, band, whatever takes my fancy that week. The show will be uploaded to Caroline’s youtube channel every Wednesday and the first one airs this week. I’m really excited about it and can’t wait to hear what people think!

My Starry Starry Night

 My sister, Isabel, is a TV producer and recently landed her biggest gig yet, to produce The Baftas. A few weeks ago she idly mentioned that they would need a hostess to go on stage after every award, to make sure the winners and presenters exited the right way.

‘I thought you’d be perfect,’ she said, referring to the fact that A/ I’ve done lots of presenting and B/ I’m up for anything. (Within reason of course. I point blank refused to go to an audition for a Dulcoease advert once. I mean, you’ve got to draw the line somewhere and I think advertising a product that softens your stools is probably it.)

Anyway, I was just about to scream ‘YES, I’LL DO IT, BOOK ME,’ loudly in her face, when she added ‘But the girl who did it last year has already been asked.’

However, luck was on my side, because for some reason, which I can only be eternally grateful for, the girl decided last minute not to do it, leaving me to leap in enthusiastically, from stage left. Anyone who knows me will know I was also doing jazz hands at the time. Anyone who doesn’t know me but who has read ‘Me and Miss M’, my first novel, will also probably be able to imagine how high (for that read scary) my excitement levels were.

After all, they say a first novel often contains a lot of the author and ‘Me and Miss M’ is about a starry eyed girl called Francesca who has had a love affair with the stars of the silver screen since she was little. Her biggest dream is to go to The Oscars and it’s only by working as a personal assistant to a nightmare Hollywood actress that she comes to realise ‘being famous’ isn’t necessarily all it’s cracked up to be.

So, in a nutshell, this job was right up my showbiz street. The Baftas promised proper, old school, Hollywood glamour, a rarity these days, which is ironic given that more people than ever are labelled ‘celebrities’ by the media, partly due to our own unending appetite for them. In fact I would say that you can now categorise celebs not just as A, B, C and Z list but right through the alphabet spectrum. ‘That bloke Bubble who was in Big Brother years ago’ scoring around an N. And when the latest supposedly celeb filled reality shows are launched, I always like to imagine millions of people on sofas around the country, turning to each other, brows furrowed saying ‘Who’s that?’

At the Baftas however I knew the cream of the film industry would be there, all the talented writers, directors, costume people, cinematographers etc, along with the A list stars who we all recognise from the big screen. I was in.

‘What do I wear?’ I asked my sister, day dreaming about red satin, or maybe an acid yellow, to ensure I’d be spotted. (Shy and retiring wallflower that I am.)

‘Black,’ she said firmly ‘Black, long and glam.’

It didn’t take long to find my dress. One trip to gorgeous, vintage shop Mela Mela in Teddington and I’d found the perfect frock.  It was by Frank Usher, long, with amazing diamante straps; it fitted like a glove and was just the right side of sexy. However, in order to avoid looking like I’d been dug up I booked in for a spray tan the day before, and a blow-dry.

‘Go big,’ I instructed my hairdresser. ‘I’m talking massive because I’ve got to sleep on it and it’s got to last the entire day tomorrow.’

She did as instructed and I walked home looking like a mahogany version of Maurice Gibb from The Bee Gees. (Always a joy I find when you arrive home and one of your children collapses on the floor in hysterical laughter and the other is visibly frightened).

‘Why did you do that Mummy?’ my five year old boy asked, looking genuinely bewildered.

‘Trust me,’ I said, sounding more confident than I probably felt ‘I know what I’m doing. After a shower and twelve hours or so of dropping time, I’ll look perfectly normal.’

Of course he had no idea what I was talking about so I backed out of the room with him staring at me blankly.

The next day, smelling of biscuits, I bounded out of bed, deciding to deal with my orange sheets another time. I had bigger fish to fry. I had to shower, (I mean literally, I HAD to shower in order to take my skin tone down a few notches,) I needed to pack a bag and get myself to Covent Garden.

My call time was 11.30 at The Royal Opera House. Upon arriving I was shown to a dressing room which I shared along with all the many chaperones. Every single person who was presenting an award had an allocated person to make sure they got out of their seat and onto the stage on time and happy. You can imagine what a lottery that must have been in terms of ‘who you got.’ The girls who got Brad Pitt and Jon Hamm felt like the chosen ones.

Rehearsals began at midday. Watching Stephen Fry go through his paces from the wings was fascinating. He was just as professional, witty, and charming as one would hope him to be. He also seemed abnormally unfazed by the enormity of the event he was about to present and rehearsals went like clockwork, with crew members standing in for presenters and pretending to be the winners, the identity of whom was still only known by an elite few at Bafta.

I had a long break between rehearsals ending at three and needing to be ready and standing by at 6.30, so I ventured out of the building for some fresh air and also to see if I could find a few people I knew who were working on the red carpet.

It was a freezing cold day yet the fans were already gathering in their hundreds, standing behind the barriers, eager to catch a glimpse of their favourite stars and prepared to risk getting hyperthermia in order to do so. I soon located my friend, Stroma, a celebrity booker, who was working for E Entertainment, one of the many broadcasters who had pitched up and were transmitting from the red carpet that day. Her job was to grab the celebs so that Dermot O Leary and Fearne Cotton could interview them. Despite having a layer of thermals under her obligatory black dress, she was freezing.

Then I went to find Anna Williamson, who I used to present with at Disney Channel years ago. These days she presents for Daybreak and has also just starred in a panto with Dame Edna Everage. Today however she was doing interviews for Bafta and when I found her she was interviewing Miss Piggy. It’s funny how excited all the surrounding adults were about seeing Miss Piggy in the flesh, myself included. After all, she is essentially just a puppet, a fact even the most intelligent person seems to forget when faced with the hammy icon of the stage and screen. Brilliant.

Once I’d soaked up a bit of the atmosphere I ventured back into the warmth, at which point another sister of mine, Imogen, arrived to do her job of seat filling. For the purposes of the TV show they never want to see an empty seat in shot so the minute anyone leaves theirs, whether it be to go to the loo, or to go on stage, either to receive or give an award, the seat fillers dart in and take up the space. At one point during the show my sister found herself sat next to Christina Ricci.  

This is Imogen, the youngest Forte sis

Imogen and I got changed together (in the toilet. The dressing room was so full. This bit was not at all glamorous)

 and a lot of make up later, I was ready to go and was standing by at the side of the stage.

 

                                                 

 

 

 

At this point the curtain was still down but you could hear the buzz of the by now full auditorium behind it and I felt a frisson of excitement as Tom Jones’ band gathered with their instruments, ready to start the show.

The old Welsh dragon kicked off proceedings with a tribute to James Bond and I honestly felt like I had the best seat in the house. Watching from the wings was thrilling and I felt privileged and lucky to be there.

Stephen Fry got proceedings underway and finally the awards started being given out. The only slightly tricky bit of my job was anticipating when the winners had finished speaking as sometimes it wasn’t totally obvious. One didn’t want to do a false start, sort of shuffling nervously on and off stage like Mrs Overall from Acorn Antiques and I soon figured out it was best to be bold and decisive. That way, even if I got it wrong and they hadn’t finished, I could stand there looking confident until they had, without looking like I’d made a mistake. There was simply no room for hesitancy but as I looked out for the first time into a sea of faces which included Martin Scorcese, Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Meryl Streep and Penelope Cruz it was surreal to say the least.

Going back to my earlier point about the difference between minor celebrities and true stars, what was interesting to observe was quite how otherworldly some of the truly beautiful people looked. We have probably almost grown used to the sight of people like Brad Pitt and Penelope Cruz in magazines but seeing them up close and in the flesh their extraordinary looks really are unbelievable. Gillian Anderson was like the most delicate porcelain doll you’d ever seen, her bone structure exquisite, her skin like milk. Naomie Harris, one of the new Bond girls also has a pretty much perfect face, its symmetry being totally exact.

In reality the show ran for around three hours but was edited down to two and a half for TV purposes. I have to say there was one bit I knew at the time would definitely not be making it to the final broadcast.

Kristen Wiig and Chris O Dowd, two of the stars of Bridesmaids, came on to present an award. They were having a whale of a time, giggling and thoroughly enjoying themselves. Probably as a result of this, they ended up standing on totally the wrong side of the stage during the VT.  Not a problem in itself, except that when it came to ushering off the winner it meant that they ended up taking the lead and going on ahead of me. As they did so, Kristen turned to say something to Chris O Dowd, over her shoulder but failed to see a rather large spotlight. And so it was that with a small shriek of surprise she did a comedy trip worthy of its own scene in Bridesmaids and ended up on all fours on the side of the stage. Fortunately, the only thing that was hurt was her pride and she soon picked herself up and fled into the wings to have a quick ‘dying of mortification’ session. And so it was that I ended up with one of Hollywood’s leading ladies, her face hot with embarrassment, clutching my arms, pleading with me to tell her if anyone had seen.

I was flummoxed.

Had anybody seen? What should I do I wondered? How should I answer?

For clearly there was a massive difference between the truth of the matter and what she wanted to hear. Had anybody seen?

In the end I decided against saying ‘Well, only the entire audience saw. That is to say the majority of the British and American film industries put together.’

Instead I went for a more diplomatic ‘No one will see it, they’ll cut it out and besides, you did far funnier things in Bridesmaids….’

I know……. but it was the best I could come up with at the time.

I have to say though; I now loved this actress even more than I had before. It was as if she was her character in Bridesmaids. She was totally human and had just done the sort of thing I only usually do in nightmares, naked.

After the event we headed to the party which was at The Grosvenor and was sponsored by Di Saronno. I was so proud of my sister as everyone came up to tell her what a brilliant job she’d done and was even more proud to note that it wasn’t just her bosses that loved her but also the runners and other members of the team. Always telling I find.

This is my clever producer sis, weary after a full on day!

Emili Sande performed at the party and Cuba Gooding Jr moon walked into it (Not many parties you can say that about). We flung ourselves about on the dance floor until the early hours and drunk more amaretto than was probably sensible (I’m talking litres). At a certain point hunger pangs kicked in and Imogen and I started craving carbohydrate. We headed for the food table only to find some melon balls, grapes and strawberries. Not a sausage roll in sight. No wonder all the actresses are so bloody thin.

Still, the party was the perfect end to the perfect day, one which if I had to compare it to a movie, would be something cool and glam like The Player yet with the colour and drama of Moulin Rouge.

The day after was a different kettle of fish however. I came to, as opposed to woke up. My head was pounding as if it had an axe wedged in it and as I slowly opened one eye, (which felt like it had been bread-crumbed) after a measly two hours sleep, a terrifying thought occurred to me. It was the first day of half term.

A few hours later as I sat jibbering in the corner of a soft play centre, looking wretched, it didn’t take long to come up with today’s analogy. If yesterday had been ‘The Player’ and ‘Moulin Rouge’ today was most certainly The Hangover. Parts 1 and 2.

 

 

Why holidaying with children can make you need a holiday.

Writer, comedienne and generally funny lady Emma Kennedy wrote a piece for The Guardian this weekend about how happy she is not to have children, particularly when it comes to going on holiday. The article is hilarious, although after reading it part of me wanted to lie on the floor and weep.

You see, what Emma has said out loud is that taking children on holiday is hard work which sort of negates the whole point of having one.

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the results are in. Taking children on holiday is like some sort of ghastly self-inflicted punishment. Why are you doing it to yourselves? You work hard all year round. Don’t you deserve a bit of peace and quiet? Don’t you deserve some fun? Children can’t even help with the driving. What is the point of them? Going on holiday without children is brilliant. There. I’ve said it’

She certainly has and… shit, she might be right.

As far as I can remember, pre children, booking a holiday basically consisted of deciding which country I fancied lying down in. After that I’d consider the best time of year to go. If going to Europe, June and September always seemed like the most beautiful months. If, on the other hand, I was desperate for a bit of winter sun, then the Caribbean in March was an option or South Africa in February. Whatever we decided upon though, we would always avoid the school holidays knowing it would be A/nine thousand pounds cheaper during term time and B/ that we wouldn’t be surrounded by screaming brats and their weary parents. Bliss.

This system inverts the minute you’re a parent and goes something like this…

Right, so let’s pay an exorbitant price so we can be on the beach with the rest of the WORLD in August when it’s so hot we risk our skin actually sticking to the seats of the hire car on a permanent basis, and can’t make it to our lounger without consuming a three litre bottle of water first. Or, we could go away at Christmas when the only other people who can afford it are Simon Cowell and Roman Abramovich, and simply live in poverty for the rest of our lives. Fantastic.

Now, before I continue, I’m going to have to do the pre requisite statement about how much I love my children (maternal guilt means you have no choice other than to make this declaration before you say anything even remotely negative about the experience of parenthood so here it is.) I adore my children, love them to bits and now they’re getting older they are getting easier and easier and don’t require me to watch them every second of every day. Furthermore, for fifty weeks of the year I have precisely no issue with putting them first, looking after them and genuinely relish and enjoy their company. I’m their mum. They’re amazing kids. Looking after them is my job.

However, would I like to be able to cryogenically freeze them for two weeks out of every year so I could recover from the rest of the time when I’m running around after them? Hell yeah. Do I miss being able to sleep for twelve hours straight? Er…yup.

Would it be nice to actually be able to have sex on holiday without having to sneak into the bathroom because you are all sleeping in the same room? I can’t remember.

And, after a day spent mainlining cheap local wine, would I prefer not to have to think about feeding, bathing and entertaining little people? Affirmative.

Sorry to labour the point but also, could I do with a bit of silence/ some spontaneity/ staring into space, without anyone demanding that I blow up their water wings/ get them a drink/ find their missing crocs. Yes, yes and thrice yes.

Still, at least as I said earlier, children get easier as they get older. Thank god because the first holiday we ever had as parents was by far the worst. It still makes me shudder just thinking about it.

So, our daughter, Lily, was three months old. Ergo, I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep for three months. Three months! Childless people (quite rightly) complain of being weary when they’ve had a heavy weekend. Three months of never sleeping for more than three or four hours straight leaves you, not tired, but pretty much dead.

Anyway, at three months we were just about getting a handle on things. Sort of. A vague routine was starting to emerge. We weren’t letting her have the dummy in the night, which meant a bit of grizzling, but also that we weren’t getting up on extra occasions to search wearily in the dark for it every time it came out. And then, my mother in law decided to ‘treat’ the whole family to a week’s holiday in Portugal in March.

Now, I’d heard of some mother’s doing things like taking their babies to India in papooses when they were two days old, so couldn’t understand why the whole idea of going away was making me feel so stressed, which was great because it gave me something else to berate myself about.

Two weeks before we went I started making lists of what we should bring. The list was alarming, endless and I wondered how we were going to physically transport all of this stuff to a foreign land. Once finished, our hallway resembled a scene out of the Eddie Murphy film ‘Coming to America.’ I was spent and the only time I’d cracked a smile in a fortnight was when the baby’s passport had arrived in the post. (Seriously, baby passport pictures are hilarious and definitely one thing a child free holiday is lacking)

In her article, Emma Kennedy asks one of her ‘mum’ friends about her forthcoming holiday

She stares at me, her left eye twitching. “I am taking my children on holiday in four days. We are going away for a week. I have now been planning this holiday for three months. I have been packing for a fortnight. I think when you’ve got to a point where you are planning your packing and then physically packing for longer than you are actually going away, your chore-to-enjoyment ratio might be out of whack. I have 15 suitcases. I can’t even fit them in the car. Two of my children get car sick and I’m not sure I even like the third. I haven’t looked my husband in the eye for five days. I’m going to come clean. This is not my definition of fun times. I don’t even want to go.”

We arrived in Portugal at our villa after a hellish journey during which I vowed never to attempt to change a pooey nappy in a plane toilet ever again. If she did it on the way back, fuck it, she could sit in it.

It was March. The complex we were staying in resembled Brookside and it was cold. Then, my father in law suggested that all the boys should go and play a round of golf.

‘Is that ok honey?’ asked hubby, looking older than he ever had before and very crumpled. For three months nothing had been ironed.

I thought about what I wanted to say, but in a stroke of evil genius he had asked me in front of his parents…..

‘Yes, of course it is,’ I answered between gritted teeth as the baby started wailing. ‘Have a great time and I’ll just start unpacking and try and locate the MASSIVE sterilizer we’ve lugged to another country because my baby won’t latch on, before finding somewhere I can express some milk. Have fun.’

‘Ah,’ said Mother in law, watching him amble off. ‘He needs a rest doesn’t he?’

The ‘holiday’ continued in a similar vein for the rest of the week. After the first night, my brother in law admitted that they could all hear the baby when she woke in the night through the villas’ paper thin walls. So, abandoning all efforts to establish some form of routine I unpicked all my hard work by giving her the dummy on a pretty much permanent basis and took her into our bed, which meant that even when she was asleep, all I could think about was how I was going to cope when we got home.

I can genuinely say that getting home was the best thing about the week and will even admit to shedding a few tears of sheer relief. We didn’t go on holiday again for nearly two years.

The next holiday was reasonably successful, pregnant with my second, I actually came back fairly rested. Then, when Freddie was born, older and wiser we simply didn’t go away during those early months. We had learned!

However, when he was about eighteen months old, the mental scars from Portugal had started to heal a bit and I was willing to give this whole relaxing lark yet another crack of the whip.

‘Let’s go away,’ I ventured one day over breakfast.

My husband’s eye twitched almost imperceptibly ‘With two of them?’

‘Er yes,’ I replied. ‘Unless I’m mistaken I don’t think they do kennels for small children, otherwise believe you me I would have looked into it.’

And so it was that I persuaded him that ten days in Barbados in March, (taking advantage of having children not of school age) was a great idea, and something I needed because if I stayed in the vicinity of my house anymore I was going to lose it. Going to a different supermarket had become a change of scene, something had to give.

It was a nightmare.

The flight to Barbados is about seven and a half hours. Lily was good as gold, happy to stare at the telly, or do colouring in. For seven of those hours however, my toddler son wanted to be ‘not sitting down’. The minute he started being a pain, my husband’s eyebrows rose in an ‘I told you so,’ fashion, meaning I was forced into proving a point.

And so it was that for seven hours I either walked up and down the plane or held him on my knee while trying to prevent him ploughing his chunky legs into the seat in front of him or playing with the table. I read Fireman Sam more times than is probably reasonable and hung on to the thought that once there all would be well. It had to be…

The only thing my boy hadn’t done on the plane was cry. He’d been perfectly happy but also just incredibly active. However, queuing up at passport control, as far as he was concerned it was suddenly approaching bedtime. He was knackered, it was very hot and we weren’t moving. He started to wail but wouldn’t let his dad carry him. It had to be me. He was very heavy. I nearly joined in with the crying.

That night we got the children settled. It was eight o clock Bajan time but obviously we needed to stay in the room so we both tried to read in minimal light before calling it a day. Wired, it took ages to get to sleep but Freddie kindly woke us at 4 am. It was 8 in London you see so, time for Alpen. Even in the dark I could hear hubby’s eyebrows rising.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll go,’ I said, nauseous with tiredness but desperate that Freddie didn’t wake up our daughter who was fast asleep.

Wearing a t shirt, flip flops and a hastily found pair of pants I walked around the dark resort, pushing my wide awake son in the buggy. I passed at least three other parents doing exactly the same thing all of whom I exchanged rueful ‘what the fuck are we doing?’ type looks with.

The rest of the holiday was ok. I’d go so far as to say I enjoyed it. The kids had a brilliant time and happily went to the kids club for a few hours most afternoons. It had been hell getting there and very expensive but I’d read a book so didn’t care.

Others weren’t so lucky. In fact, one afternoon we watched with morbid fascination as a grown man got down on his hands and knees outside the kids club begging his son to go in ‘Please,’ he said, practically crying. ‘Just half an hour? Please.’

The boy simply shook his head. Immoveable.

Unfortunately because of being surrounded by people like this, my other half decided he wasn’t wholly convinced that it was all that fun being there.

And so it was that for the last month or so, hubby and I have been debating where to go on holiday this summer. (Feel free to exchange the word debating for arguing.)

I was determined to book somewhere with a kids club. He was determined not to be somewhere where the restaurant felt like a canteen, that was soulless and where you were privy to hundreds of people dealing with their offspring.

And so it is that we are booked to go to a beautiful Mamma Mia type village in Corfu. There’s an infinity pool, sea views, friends who we love are going to be there. It looks idyllic.

 ‘If we go here, I promise I’ll be quite happy to take the kids off for a couple of afternoons while you chill out. You could even take your laptop, do a bit of writing.’ ’ said hubby, as we sat drooling over the website.

‘Done,’ I said, forced to acknowledge that the place was supremely more enticing than any of the vast concrete blocks I’d been perusing.

‘Besides, if you can’t relax there, you’re a freak,’ he added, going off to look into flights.

I’ll keep you posted but will also tell you this for nothing, if I’m not relaxed, it’ll be my eyebrows doing the raising.

The launch of From London with Love

This Wednesday my friends and family joined me in celebrating the launch of my second book, From London with Love, at the King’s Road branch of Waterstone’s.

Here are a few photos from the event which was BRILLIANT. A real celebration and a reminder that I am blessed with incredible friends and family who are not only supportive and generous but also very good at drinking white wine.

Below, on the left, me trying to work out how to hold a pen after years of using a PC. Then, me standing in front of a huge pile of books, praying it’ll be smaller at the end of the evening….

Below, on the left, Cherie, a good, good friend and an amazingly bendy yoga teacher.  In the middle, Charlotte, Aleeeeeeeesha Beyonce (Alessia) and Juliette. Bloody love them. Then, on the right, me with my lovely mum who came all the way from Italy especially for it (sort of thing you usually only hear at weddings). Then, on the right, my long suffering, deeply wonderful husband, Charlie.

                                                                                   

Below the fabulous Lucy and Jo. Not the best picture ever taken but hey, see earlier wine reference…

Above, Jessica, one of my beautiful sisters. I have three of them. Seriously, we’re like the Brontes minus the bonnets. N.B The heroine in From London with Love is called Jessica.

On the left, my amazing friend Carmel (quite a gal), with Alessia, Charlotte and Juju. In the middle Stroma with the freaks, otherwise known as the Forte family. That’ll be another of my sisters, Imogen, Harry, my bro, my second mum Sal and my legendary father (mickey F). On the right my little girl Lily with Mister Maker (Phil).                                                                                                                                                              

Thank you to everyone who came, bought, then drunk the bar dry next door. It was a happy, happy occasion and also gave me an excuse to buy a new frock and have massive hair. So all good. 

P.S I’m glad there weren’t any photos of the very end of the night when half of East Sheen were standing on the pavement hammered, barely able to even summon a cab. Or am I? Maybe they’d be quite funny. To all the people who aren’t featured, I’m sorry, I didn’t take any photos myself as I was too busy having FUN and revelling in it all. xxx

My Mother in Law…..

There are many brilliant moments in the movie ‘Meet the Parents’ but my favourite happens on the first morning of hapless Gaylord Focker’s stay with his prospective in – laws. Exhausted from his stressful journey the day before, he awakens after a long lie-in only to discover that his girlfriend has already got up and left the bedroom.

When he finally appears downstairs, still groggy, dishevelled and incongruous in a pair of his father in law’s pyjamas (the airline lost his luggage), it’s painfully clear that the entire family have been up for hours. Furthermore, they have washed, dressed and breakfasted. Their day is in full swing.

In the cinema, I roared with laughter. I could completely relate to Gaylord’s mortification, because the EXACT same thing happened to me the first time my husband (then boyfriend), took me to Leicestershire to meet his folks.

It may have been almost fourteen years ago but I can still vividly remember waking up after an unbelievably refreshing, gloriously deep night’s sleep in what is one of the most comfortable beds known to man. For a second I stretched out, drinking in the peace and quiet of the countryside. The only sound the soothing one of a wood pigeon cooing…….

And then I remembered where I was, at which point, calm was replaced by a huge shot of adrenaline. Panicked, I sat bolt upright, desperate to locate a clock so I could work out the extent of my lounging crimes.

There wasn’t one in the room however, so I leapt out of bed and got dressed in about thirty seconds flat. Growing increasingly embarrassed and horrified, I ventured downstairs and though I’d failed to find out the time I just knew it was late. I only had to look out the window to see that the sun wasn’t just up; it was up and had clearly been casually shining for ages.

Downstairs I peered round the kitchen door with trepidation and was greeted by the sight of Nina, my mother in law, calmly going about her business, at which point it took me precisely 0.5 seconds to realise she was preparing LUNCH. The table was clearly laid for it. There were wine glasses out and everything and although I’d already surmised that my boyfriend’s parents liked a tipple they didn’t seem the type to start knocking it back first thing. Worse still, at one end Nina had kept out a solitary breakfast bowl, a selection of cereals, and a spoon. Breakfast things which seemed to scream to me  ‘So not only is this hussy having penetrative sex with my eldest son, she’s also a lazy, slothful layabout. What the hell is she doing? Is she still growing or something?’

Charlie, my boyfriend, chose this moment to appear from the garden. ‘Ah afternoon honey, you’ve had a good sleep even by your standards.’

I gave him the most withering look I could muster and later, just as Gaylord did in the film with his partner, berated him for not having woken me.

It was painful at the time, yet years later Nina and I have laughed heartily about it. In fact, when I recalled my horror over the whole thing, I was amazed to discover she could barely remember anything about it. You see it hadn’t stuck in her mind particularly, because as far as she was concerned it genuinely wasn’t a big deal.

However, the same certainly couldn’t be said for one Carolyn Bourne who I don’t think will be having many fond reminiscing sessions with her future daughter in law anytime soon. In case you missed the story in yesterday’s papers, it goes like this. Freddie took his fiancée Heidi for a visit to his parents, after which Heidi received, via email, a dressing down from her boyfriend’s stepmother. A dressing down so mealy mouthed that she’s done more to give mother in laws a bad name than Bernard Manning did during his entire career.

Not only did Carolyn berate Heidi for her general lack of manners, she also went on to list the various crimes she thought Heidi had committed. One of the accusations levelled at her was this ‘When in another’s house, you do not lie in bed until late morning in households that rise early – you fall in line with house norms.’

Mmm.

Other gems included ‘I understand your parents are unable to contribute very much towards the cost of your wedding. (There is nothing wrong with that except that convention is such that one might presume they would have saved over the years for their daughters’ marriages.)’

Wow……

Now, never having met Heidi, I have no idea whether or not she really is as objectionable, rude, ungracious and uncouth as Carolyn claims she is. What I do know however is that had I received such a horrible, bitchy e mail myself, I probably would have shared it with my friends too (which is how it has come to be circulated all over the internet.)

I hate bad manners with a passion, and yet as far as I can make out, surely the worst offender here is Carolyn herself? For no matter how Heidi may or may not have behaved, she was a guest in her house and is also the woman Freddie has chosen to spend the rest of his life with. So, whatever she thought internally, would it not have been more courteous to have kept her thoughts to herself, or at least to have addressed them in a less aggressive manner? 

She also said ‘When you are a guest in another’s house, you do not declare what you will and will not eat’ and ‘You do not start before everyone else.’

Reading Carolyn’s badly judged diatribe I immediately thought again of my own sweet-natured mother in law who I am very close to and appreciate enormously, for I do have some friends who find the relationship a tricky one to navigate. Nina and I speak regularly on the phone. We enjoy chatting and she loves to be filled in on what the children have been up to. She is an adoring grandmother and has never been anything other than lovely, kind and welcoming to me.

Having said that, maybe when we first met I wasn’t her ideal candidate for her son? Then again, her ideal candidate would have been Princess Diana so she probably realised she was going to have to meet him halfway. However, if she did have any reservations, she never would have shown them because she simply has too much grace. Instead she has allowed us to get to know each other over time, never judging, never telling me how things should be done, and if anything thanking me for making her son happy.

Not only did Carolyn Bourne’s rather snobby attack on Heidi make me appreciate Nina all the more, it made my think of my own son, who also happens to be called Freddie. He’s only four and a long way off from falling in love (at least with things that aren’t Asterix, chocolate or viking related) but I hope that when he does, whomever it is with, that I will learn from the example Nina has set me. I shall welcome them with open arms, try and respect his choice and if she (or he, who knows?) sleeps in for a disproportionate amount of time I shall assume it’s because the stress of meeting me for the first time has taken it out of them.

Also, if they help themselves to food or ask for more, frankly I shall be delighted because, call me old fashioned, but in our house we quite like our guests to feel comfortable, at home and to fill their boots.

How to be a Woman

This week I read Caitlin Moran’s book ‘How to be a Woman’ and experienced what can only be described as an epiphany. Without being overly dramatic, reading it provided me with a monumental feeling of relief, akin to the one you get when you’ve sat in a steam room too long then finally emerge back into oxygen laden air and can BREATHE again. Let me tell you why.

The book is about Caitlin Moran’s life and her views on what it is to be a woman, the main message being that we all need to reclaim the word ‘feminist’. For too long it’s meaning has been muddied with negativity and as a result has become associated with women who are anti men, who don’t laugh much, tackle only serious political issues and wear bad clothes. What Moran is saying is that we have to remember that all being a feminist really means is that women should be equal to men, and that’s it. Interestingly she also makes it very clear that some of the most strident feminists she knows are men; in particular her husband who taught her the very definition of what feminism should be ‘Everyone being polite to each other.’

She then goes on to tackle subjects such as pornography (of which she approves whole heartedly by the way, though wishes some of it involved women who looked like they were enjoying themselves and weren’t just being violently rammed) , pubic hair ‘there is a great deal of pleasure to be had in a proper furry muff – unlike those Hollywood versions, which look like they want only for a quick squirt of Mr Sheen, and a buff with a lint – free cloth,’ periods, sexism, motherhood and abortion in a refreshing, honest, clever and (most importantly) FUNNY way. I love her for it.

In fact, as you can probably already tell, much of what she said struck so many chords I was practically playing a medley.

So why did this book have such a strong effect? Well, in order to answer that fully, I’m going to have to meander off down another path or two, but bear with me.

Firstly, my daughter, Lily, is six. She’s gorgeous. A bright, bubbly, emotional little girl, who’s already developing a brilliant sense of humour. As a result she likes to show off from time to time, in order to amuse us, and this often incorporates some dancing around. So far so childlike. Recently however, when watching her strut her stuff to a bit of Jessie J, I’ve been uncomfortable to note that her hip action is fairly ‘developed’ for her age. Now and again she can appear almost coquettish and her dormant sexuality which is definitely not ready to emerge for years, sometimes rises to the surface without her even realising it. This is not something I ever draw attention to, though her dad and I have been known to exchange slightly baffled looks, but it saddens me, and also leads me to question where she’s learning to gyrate like a Latvian pole dancer from. It’s certainly not from me. If only. Admittedly I do dance round the kitchen a lot, but as much as I like to imagine I’m looking hot to trot and sexually delicious, thanks to video footage I know that in fact I look like my Mum does when she dances. Like a white woman with limited rhythm who’s really enjoying herself but in a slightly clunky way. At home we never watch MTV so Lily hasn’t learned this behaviour from music videos either. So, I can only conclude that knowing how to ‘frot’, must have seeped into my daughter’s consciousness by osmosis due to what she’s seen on the telly.

On a Saturday night she’ll often catch some of ‘Britain’s got Talent’ or ‘X Factor’, Saturday night live entertainment shows that go out pre watershed, so should be perfectly fine. However, I will never forget last winter when Christina Aguilera suddenly came on and basically started having sex with a chair while dressed in suspenders and a basque. It was a difficult one to negotiate. For a while I just sat there startled but quickly ended up crossly ordering Lily out of the room, despairing as to why the ITV bosses hadn’t thought to deem her act TOTALLY inappropriate. Aguilera honestly looked grotesque, skanky and like a woman completely devoid of any imagination whose strings were being pulled by an odious porn baron.

Then, when Nicole Scherzinger joined the judging panel on X Factor, Lily and I agreed that she was probably one of the most beautiful women on the planet. She looked a lot like Pocahontas and came across as the real deal. So imagine my disappointment when she appeared on a different show recently, only this time to perform one of her tracks, wearing a skirt so short you could see what she’d had for breakfast, and thrusting around the stage while touching up her own bosoms in a way that was pretty much only speaking to men. Once again I ushered Lily out of the room feeling angry that I’d been put in this position by another woman. (On a separate note this is why I LOVE Adele. A woman who writes soulful, beautiful songs and then sings them brilliantly while wearing a nice frock. Go Adele!) Anyway, the point I’m taking nine years to make, is that despite knowing that these successful, financially independent women presenting themselves as low grade sex objects is wrong, I think at times I’ve been loath to express this as stridently as I should have in case I’m mistaken for a prude.

You see thanks to the ‘ladettes’ of the early 90’s I think some of us have got confused along the way. At a certain point I think feminism mutated. Suddenly, instead of trying to change how women were treated and perceived, we decided it might be more fun and a lot easier to adopt a sort of ‘if you can’t beat ‘em join them’ sort of attitude. We decided we should be able to drink as much as men, be as sexually aggressive (and active) as them, and that if a woman wanted to get her bits and pieces out, or make money out of being a stripper then good for her. But maybe we were missing the point? Perhaps we should have concentrated on being ‘paid’ as much as men, instead of trying to drink them and our less robust organs under the table. As for the sex bit, well there’s no issue with that, but I can say one hundred percent that I would feel many things if my daughter decided to be a stripper in order to put herself through college, and none of them would be proud. Still, Caitlin Moran has very usefully articulated how to cope if faced with conflicting emotions in the future. From now on, if confused about whether I’m feeling uncomfortable because I’m a prude, or because something is actually seriously awry, I shall simply do what she advises and ask ‘Are the boys doing it?’ In the case of Christina, Nicole et al, the answer is no.

After all, when Michael Buble, Enrique Iglesias or Gary Barlow perform on these shows they do not come on wearing a mankini and then proceed to bend over in order to proffer us a good look at their meat and two veg, wiggling provocatively and throwing their heads around in some sort of semi orgasmic state. It would be great if female pop stars would offer us the same courtesy.

Aaaaaaaaaah…….. god this is all such a…….. RELEASE. I feel better already just for having written that and what I paid for Caitlin Moran’s genius book is far cheaper than therapy.

My next session on the couch came in the form of Moran’s chapter on lap dancing and why it is basically horrid, which leads me to my next story.

Many years ago now, Charlie, my then boyfriend now husband, was going on a stag weekend. It was made known to me that part of the ‘celebrations’ were to involve going to a lap dancing place in Acton (nice). I remember feeling almost engulfed by panic by the idea. Not because I was jealous of how my boyfriend would feel when looking at the strippers but because I simply didn’t want another woman putting her naked fanny and bosoms in his face. It was that simple really. However, when I expressed my concerns to a few of the other girls whose partners were also going, in the main they couldn’t understand what I was so bothered about.

‘It’s just a laugh,’ one girl said ‘Just boys being boys.’

‘You can’t stop him from going in with them all,’ said another ‘He’ll feel like a right dickhead.’

Now, as a girl who’s always earned her own money, who has partied very hard (often in fields), and travelled the world I’ve always considered myself to be ‘modern.’ Now however I was starting to feel like Jane Austen’s Mrs Bennet. All I needed was a bonnet and a parasol and my transformation would have been complete.

As the stag grew closer, Charlie and I found ourselves bickering quite a lot. He was eager not to upset me and told me time and time again that in all honestly he’d rather NOT be going (especially given the earache it was causing him) but also kept saying ‘But if they’re all in there, what am I supposed to do, sit on the coach like some kind of freak?’

‘I don’t know,’ I wailed. ‘I just don’t see why there has to be no choice in the matter and why in order to be seen as a ‘cool’ girlfriend, I have to be really casual and laid back about you getting centimetres away from other women’s vaginas. Women who are probably glassy eyed, world weary and who, let’s not forget, are other people’s DAUGHTERS. And besides, why would you want to be turned on around your friends anyway? Surely feeling lusty about someone you can’t touch should be done in private so you can do something about it. IT’S WEIRD.’

In the end, I realised I was fighting a losing battle. When the day arrived I could see how genuinely miserable Charlie was about it all so I decided to cut him slack. ‘Look, it’s fine, I know you love and respect me. Just do what you need to do,’ I said, grudgingly. He left looking like a man who’d been consigned into the army in 1939 and was heading off to the trenches as opposed to someone who was about to endure a day of go karting followed by a titty bar (though to be fair, in terms of fun to be had, there’s probably not much in it.)

The next day, when a very hung-over Charlie finally emerged from his pit I asked him how it was. ‘It was fine’ he said ‘And by the way, I didn’t go in.’

‘Didn’t you?’ I gasped. ‘Why? What happened?’

‘We drew up in the coach and I just said I’m not going in. Jemma doesn’t want me to, I don’t want to, so I’m not doing it.’

I was blown away by his gesture (a coach, in Acton, oh the romance of it all) and delighted by my man’s ability to ignore peer pressure. Pathetically though my happiness was short-lived, for (and I’m ashamed to admit it) I was suddenly swamped with worry about what his friends would have thought. In seconds I went from being happy about the fact I’d got what I wanted, to imagining all his mates bitching about what a fearsome old harridan I am. Maybe I was a fearsome old harridan? Again I was confused. However, the next time I saw one of his friends, he recounted only with affection and a touch of pride how Charlie had resolutely refused to move off the coach, like a determined squatter and how funny it was, especially given that by this point he’d drunk about 25 pints. (And yes, there’s always a possibility he only didn’t get off the coach because he couldn’t walk.) Anyway, I loved him then (Charlie not his friend) and I love him now for respecting what I’d said and understanding that I’m not demented for feeling the things I do.

Reading ‘How to be a Woman’ has made me realise that while it’s easy to sometimes sweep these undoubtedly feminist feelings we have under the mat, it’s important that we don’t, because they do matter. And besides, if you’re feeling uncomfortable about something it’s pretty likely someone else will be too. (ITV had a record amount of complaints about the Christina Aguilera performance that I mentioned earlier. We’re talking hundreds and hundreds and hundreds.)

Not only do we need to speak up but we also need to actively encourage the cultivation of good female role models for our children. We need women like Adele and Lady Gaga to show them that there is another way. That you don’t have to be cutesy and seductive in order to be a successful female. You can also do it through being original, intelligent, strong and/or funny, which is why I love presenters like Davina Macall, Claudia Winkleman, Sue Perkins and so on. They’re funny ladies. If they happen to look nice too it’s just sort of a bonus.

Sadly, gone are the days when the height of sexiness was Bucks Fizz whipping off their knee length skirts to reveal, shock- horror…. mini- skirts. (And let me remind you that said mini- skirts were topped off with primary coloured sweatshirts.) Or Bananarama jigging about, looking almost bored and like they hadn’t brushed their hair. But we can all do our bit for the feminist cause by simply saying what we really think. For my part I want to continue to write books where the central female character has a multitude of concerns and feelings. ‘Real’ characters girls can relate to, and who (hopefully) will make them laugh. (Funny can be so under-rated for some reason).

In the meantime, please go and buy Caitlin Moran’s book. Hopefully you will devour Moran’s home truths gratefully, like a dog who’s been trapped in a hot stuffy car and has finally been let out and given a bowl of icy water to lap. Then perhaps you’ll tell all your friends about it so that we can all learn from her infinite wisdom.

Spreading the word like a devout Hare Krishna I tweeted the other day ‘Reading @caitlinmoran ‘s How to be a Woman makes me happy in a ‘maybe I’m not deranged kind of way.’

Seconds later my phone beeped. It was the lady herself. ‘You’re not deranged. It’s the world that’s a little bit nuts.’

I couldn’t agree more.

Competition

If you click on the Magnum link (bottom right hand corner), it will take you through to Magnum’s page on Facebook (Magnum as in yummy, chocolate covered ice creams, not the moustached private investigator from the 80′s), then courtesy of Penguin you can enter a competition to win one of ten copies of my new book From London with Love. Good luck!