C.C. MacKenzie's Blog, page 23

AUTHORS GIVE BACK

CC MACKENZIE AND THE DR. SUSAN LOVE FOUNDATION.

Hi Guys,

Rhonda Hopkins invited me on her blog today to participate in her Authors Give Back Tuesday.

The subject we’re talking about today is very close to my heart, The Dr. Susan Love Foundation, breast cancer, and in particular prevention.  The number of women, especially young women under thirty five being diagnosed with the disease is on the increase. So this is a call to arms to all women, no matter how old and to their husbands and partners, to be vigilant.

You never know, what you read today just might save the life of the one you adore and who’s at the centre of your life.

What better gift of love to give her?

Please join Rhonda and I at her blog to help spread the word.

We need all the help we can get! Did I tell you that you guys seriously rock?

http://rhondahopkins.com/2012/08/07/a...

 

LET’S TALK SEX

Knew the title would get you going.

Do you guys remember the fabulous book ‘A Child is Born’ by Lars Hamberger and Lennart Nilssen? It was published over forty years ago. I’ve had a copy for about twenty years and it has the most amazing photos of what happens inside the female body from conception through to delivery.

There is a very good reason I’m telling you this, by the way, and it’s got to do with sex education so please bear with me.

Now, as many of you already know, I am a mother of three, two girls and a boy. The boy came along when my youngest daughter was ten and no he was not a mistake and yes, Hugo is the father of all three. We battled hard to have our boy, but that story’s for another day.

Anyway, the thing about kids is that as a parent you need to keep your eyes and ears open so that when a ‘right’ moment to discuss a tricky issue raises its head, you go for it.  The right moment for my daughters to discuss sex happened when I was lying in bed feeding their brother and they were watching him like hawks. He was about six days old and the novelty of him hadn’t yet worn off. My eldest daughter was lounging in a chair and my youngest was sprawled over the bottom of the bed.

‘Mum?’ said the eldest in a tone that made my intuition twitch so I gave her a sharp look.

‘Hmm?’ I said.

‘Boys at school were filling up condoms with water and throwing them at us,’ she said.

‘That’s disgusting,’ said my youngest. Then she frowned and added, ‘How do condoms work? What do they do with them?’

And there, right there, was my moment.

‘Didn’t they cover condoms in sex education?’

Two sets of big blue eyes stared vacantly into mine and I knew that the British education system had let me down. However, I’ve never been a coward so I smiled and continued, ‘When two people make love and they don’t want to have a child, the man wears a condom to catch his sperm.’

My youngest sat up at this point and looked puzzled. ‘We know that,’ she said as if talking to an imbecile. ‘What we don’t know is how they work. How do they put a condom on?’

Aha! Ever wished you had a handy banana to hand? Then I remembered a slim can of  hair mousse which would be just the very thing!  And I just happened to have right next to me in my bedside table a condom. So I opened the pack and held a slick piece of latex. ‘This!’ I said, ‘Is a condom and I know this is a can of hair mousse, but just go with the flow.’ So I held the tip of the condom and rolled it down the can of hair mousse and explained to my daughters that the sex act is something not to be taken lightly, to wait for the right man, blah blah blah. And at that very moment Hugo strolled into the bedroom from work. His eyes bugged out of his head and he put his hands up in a no way in hell am I going there gesture. ‘I don’t want to know,’ he growled and backed out of the room. Coward.

‘Goodness me,’ said my eldest in an awed voice. ‘Is a man usually that big?’

I have no excuse for what followed but I couldn’t help it. ‘Only if you’re very lucky, darling,’ I purred and heard my husband howl.

‘I cannot believe you just said that,’ Hugo roared on his way down the stairs.

Ah well, the loss of innocence for a father of two daughters is too hard to bear for some men. Bless him.

But back to the book!  As I said I’ve a copy of A Child Is Born and it’s travelled with me all over the world. Years ago we were seconded to that beautiful African country Zimbabwe and my son at the age of six went to the International School in Harare which had about sixty nationalities. Anyway, I was unpacking boxes in the garage and a little voice piped up, ‘This is totally gross.’ The little darling had in his hands A Child Is Born and was staring in utter disgust at a picture of a child being born in glorious, gory Technicolor. Ah well, strike while the iron is hot I always say, but on this occasion I let him lead the way. (That’s him above at six.)

Big blue eyes stared up at me and he said, ‘I thought babies were cut out?’

‘Sometimes mummy’s need to have an operation, but most times this is how a baby is born,’ I said.

His eyes went even bigger. ‘Was that how I was born?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Did it hurt?’

‘A little bit,’ I lied through my teeth since I didn’t want to traumatize him for life. ‘But you were worth it.’

He shook his head in disbelief and placed his little hand on my shoulder and looked me dead in the eye. ‘All I can say is I’m glad I’m a boy.’ Then he stood up and wandered off, probably to watch Power Rangers or Ninja Turtles.

So feeling pretty pleased with myself at getting off the hook so lightly, I thought no more about it.

Until…  My son’s teacher at the International School was a wonderful Irish girl called Mrs Breathnough (pronounced bunok) and I absolutely adored her. It hadn’t taken her long to suss out my son’s tricky ways with maths (he’s got a photographic memory and had fooled many teachers in the past). So a couple of days after the scene in the garage, she grabbed me at the school gates.

‘Christine, a few of the mothers have asked me if I’ve been teaching sex education.’

I knew exactly where this was going and whose mouth had been flapping. ‘Oh God,’ I said and explained how the little sod had found the book. ‘What on earth has he been saying? I bet he put the fear of God into those poor wee things.’

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘He did a much better job of it than me! He got a gold star! One of the boys said it couldn’t possibly be true that babies were born that way because his daddy told him that there was a magic zip in his mummy’s tummy (stupid man). Your wonderful son’s growled response was ‘He lied’  it was priceless.’

You know I adore hearing your comments (can’t wait for these) so come on and share your stories.

How did your parents tell you how condoms work – keep them as clean as possible please – and how did you tell your children about the birds and the bees? Tell me you didn’t use rabbits! I remember being shown a film about rabbits when I was at school and I’m still confused.

DEAR CC

Due to the bulging nature of my inbox I bring you – Tongue in cheek Quips, Tips and Common Sense from CC MacKenzie.

TODAY IS MONDAY 30TH JULY.

Nothing like stating the obvious is there?  However, there is a reason behind this date because today is my very first Dear CC post.

Confused? Not for long.

Life today is too complicated. Between the internet, emailing compromising pics and messages and tweeting undesirable tweets that can get you sacked from the job you love while texting rude jokey messages, we still worry about how to cope with crab claws along with how to boil the perfect egg; friends who break mighty fine wind, limp husbands, monstrous children and raunchy neighbors.

From childcare to dried flowers to glue guns, from diet to how-to-exercise-while-writing-the-next best-seller, I am here for you to help and guide you through the minefield that is the reader/writer’s life today.

So, whether you are deeply concerned with your sudden addiction to liquorice, the lack of a sex life to dealing with an errant husband and how to deal with naughty neighbours, to why you’ve hit a wall, this blog is just for you every Monday.

To give you a taste of what to expect here’s an email I received last week:

Dear CC

I loathe and despise the overuse of the word ‘shagging’ in novels today. Surely writers are capable of using their supposedly impressive imaginings to come up with an alternative? This is a huge issue for me because my husband has picked up the phrase and instead of stroking my arm or giving me a cuddle, his idea of foreplay at bedtime these days is to yawn hugely, scratch his belly and say, ‘Fancy a shag?’ I simply cannot cope with it any longer. Help.

Mrs P from Plymouth

Dear Mrs P

Ah yes, the reason we were put on this earth, procreation is a primal biological urge and something to be encouraged in a partner. However, these days we’re encouraged to be unrepressed, liberated sexually and told that we live in an age of egalitarianism where the power balance has shifted towards the female and that men are no longer the boss in a relationship. Unfortunately, with you this does not appear to be the case. It never ceases to amaze me how much women are prepared to tolerate. There is no hope for this man. Pack your bags and leave the lazy slob immediately.

As for the overuse of the word ‘shagging’ that is purely your opinion. Get over it.

CC.

So what would your advice to Mrs P be?

Is she right to be upset?

Do you use the word ‘shagging’?

You know I love to hear your thoughts and comments.

Share with us your valuable insights and advice.

THANK HEAVEN FOR LITTLE BOYS…?

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So, here’s the thing.

It was my son’s birthday yesterday and all the family including my two daughters were all here celebrating in our very green garden. He doesn’t want me to name him or say how old he is in case some of his friends twig that I am his mother.  Of course they know that I am his mother but they don’t know that, and he said this in a voice of utter mortification, ‘His mother has published two steamy romantic novels with ‘good’ bits in them.’ Or that she’s in the process of writing even more romantic stories. Excuse me?

He won’t be saying that when we’re sunning ourselves in Fiji on a beach of sugar white sand sipping cocktails while Sven’s cleaning our sunglasses and serving us fresh fruit. Anyway, I got my own back by reminding him of the twenty-eight hours of labour I went through to bring him into the world. He was three weeks late (started life as he obviously means to go on) and almost ten pounds. I can actually feel all the women reading this wince in feminine solidarity. Thanks girls.

Now I’m used to him treating me like a taxi service, and a portable cash machine. But he’s fine with what I do when it suits him to treat me like a newsagent ‘Do you have the latest edition of GQ?’ And I’m a library, ‘Do you happen to have that copy of A Game of Thrones?’ And new technology disappears into the jungle of detritus that is his bedroom. And he’s actually building a new computer with his friend, so you’d think he’d be helpful with my new Mac. But not a bit of it, ‘This technology is wasted on you.’ I was told in a voice edged with utter disdain. (I should point out that he made the comment because I was having trouble switching it on.)

Why is it that derision and goading comes as naturally as teething and nappy rash used to. There’s nothing my son likes to do more than tell me what to do. Just recently he had a go because I used the word ‘cool’ on twitter. Apparently I’m no longer permitted to use the word ‘wicked’ either. Then his sisters’ got in on the act reminiscing about the time I used to teach Dance Fit and would start to boogie in Gap when a Madonna song came on and ‘totally mortified them all the time in public.’

Hugo just grinned (traitor) and reminded me of a time I really embarrassed myself on a bus when my eldest was a toddler in the days when I didn’t get out much. I was pregnant with my second daughter, (apparently you lose 30% of your brain capacity when pregnant – that’s my excuse) anyway, the toddler was being babysat by the daughter of a friend and I was alone on a bus going to meet Hugo when he finished work for an early dinner with friends. It was a lovely summer evening and since we lived in the country the fields were alive with cows and sheep and fields ready to be harvested. So I was sort of daydreaming and totally forgot I didn’t have the toddler with me. ‘Oh look!’ I cried in a high chirpy voice. ‘Cows! Tell me, what do cows do?’ And I swear to God I will never, ever live this down, at least twenty people on the bus all cried ‘Moooooo.’ They did, along with roaring with laughter.

So a good time was had by all yesterday as my family basically took the mickey. But I got my own back, I asked my son, ‘What do you want to do when you grow up?’ Hinting that the time was fast approaching when he’d need to start fending for himself. But he just batted the question right back to us. Hugo said he’d wanted to join the army or the police but his eyesight let him down. ‘When I was twelve I decided I wanted to be a nurse or a doctor,’ I said, scooping up a spoonful of birthday cake and thinking nothing of it.

‘Really?’ said my son without an ounce of derision. ‘So what you’re really saying, mother, is that you had more ambition as a child than you did as an adult.’

The sooner he moves into a flea-bitten tiny apartment, living on tins of baked beans and doing his own laundry, the better.

So come on guys and girls. Tell me, have your parents ever embarrassed you? Or have you ever embarrassed them?

Which birthday was THE best one ever?

Share it with us, you know I love to hear from you.

Oh, and the pictures above are of my garden. We’ve actually had three whole days of summer, but clouds are gathering so it might not last. And The Olympic ceremony starts tonight so I’ll put good money on it we get thunderstorms and fat rain over the next few weeks.

I WANNA JOB

 

 

 

 

Hello darlings,

Read this story and simply needed to share. It’s by The Mail’s Jan Moir about a toy shop in London:

***

About six weeks ago, my lovely godson Nye Davies took it upon himself to write to his favorite toy shop.

In a letter to a London branch of Hawkin’s Bazaar, Nye explained he wanted to own a joke shop when he grew up and wondered if the Bazaar had any Saturday jobs going as he needed to get some experience.

Yes, he already has a busy schedule that includes school, rugby and the regular consumption of sausages, but good to know that my Nye is planning ahead.

This week, coincidentally, on his eighth birthday, Nye received a huge box of lovely presents, including a radio-controlled car and a revolving planetarium.

Who were these extravagant gifts from, wondered his parents?

Surely not his daffy fairy godmother Jan, because her presents always arrive about a week late! In fact the parcel was sent from a Tina Campbell of Hawkin’s Bazaar and included a note thanking Nye for his lovely letter and explaining he was a little too young to work in one of their shops, but that they would be delighted to employ him when he was older.

She also hoped Nye enjoyed the gifts and wondered if he would like to tour their factory and play with some of the toys there.

Isn’t that charming? We hear so much about poor service in these straitened times, so how cheering to see such a triumph in customer relations.

A hat tip to you, Hawkin’s Bazaar.

And a big hug to Tina Campbell, who – out of the simple goodness of her heart – nourished a little boy’s dreams, encouraged his ambition and absolutely made his eighth birthday.

***

I LOVED this story because most of the time customer service in shops has me spitting nails.

Like the time I entered a bank in Zimbabwe and found the tellers with their bum perched on a desk discussing a romantic interlude that had gone wrong while the queue was growing to the door and the customers stood there like lemmings and said nothing. Until, I let rip and then I received a ‘hear, hear’ from all the customers and then I let rip into them for just standing there accepting poor service. Lucky for them I just happened to have the Managing Director’s telephone number on me and was happy to share. His wife later asked me if I’d been in the Borrowdale branch and I said yes, and she said, ‘He thought it must have been you. They said a scary Scottish woman told them to phone him to complain.

Or the time in the supermarket when I’d been charged twice for a microwave and when I mentioned it to the girl at the checkout she said it was too late to reimburse me the money because she’d just closed the till and I’d need to go to customer service with the receipt for a refund. Eh? It’s not often I’m speechless, but even my daughter’s eyes went huge at that one! (She’s laid back and easy-going compared to her mother.)

And this week I’ve had another great experience with Kobo customer service who have put up my romance A Stormy Spring on their site – woo hoo!

And since I’ve your undivided attention, here’s an excerpt – please feel free to share around your social networks.

***

‘If I could move the way she does I’d be useless in the kitchen too,’ Moira informed him, totally unrepentant that she’d overheard part of their conversation.

Lucas caught Becca’s shocked wide-eyed stare.

‘Si, my housekeeper has no filter between her brain and her mouth.’

Completely unfazed by the insult, Moira simply shot him a look.

‘Lunch is served in the orangery.’

Becca turned laughing eyes on him. ‘I’ll go and change.’

But he captured her hand in his. ‘No, please, let me have the pleasure of looking at you just as you are. And I have a present for you.’

Moments later Becca caught her hands behind her back and peered up into his face.

‘Are you serious?’

Baffled, he looked at her. ‘It is a laptop.’

She stared at it as if it was an atomic bomb. ‘I know it’s a laptop. But I’m a complete technophobe. It’ll probably burst into flames or self-destruct.’

He blinked. ‘What about social networking?’

‘Nope.’

‘Shopping, email, facebook, twitter, pinterest?’

‘Nope. And I don’t want to know what pinterest is.’

‘It is very creative, you would enjoy it. What about business?’

Becca shook her head still glowering at the laptop. ‘I do my level best never to be left in a room alone with one.’

Bewildered now he stared at her. ‘Alone with one what?’

‘A computer.’ His laugh had her glare at him. ‘Seriously, you never know what it might do.’

‘Querida,’ he said in a silky voice. ‘I will show you.’

‘If an IT wizard couldn’t teach me, what makes you think you’ll crack it?’

He gave his signature shrug. ‘It is very simple and you are clever and creative.’

She simply stared at the slim silver laptop and didn’t bother to hide the bitterness in her voice.

‘Life was so much easier when Apple and Blackberry were fruit.’

***

There’s a reason I’ve used that excerpt and it’s because I’ve a new Mac and the word Demented is now used to describe me in this house. I’ve just sent away for iPages for Dummies and since I can touch type the keyboard’s driving me crazy too so we’re buying a new one and since it needs to be compatible with a Mac it’s costing a bloody fortune. Thus far I am NOT impressed.

You know your comments make my week!

So, tell us, what fabulous customer service have you enjoyed? Let’s give them a BIG round of applause!

What customer service has been bloody awful? Name and shame them here!

BOTTOMS UP!

Since that amazing moment over a year ago when Pippa Middleton’s bottom went planetary, I’ve found myself inspecting the derrieres of everyone from the postman to the guy in Starbucks to the girl at the check out in the supermarket.

What makes a great one? What characterizes Pippa’s bottom – lovely though it is, especially in that dress – from the butts of the average person?

And I’m not being critical here but men appear to be the ones drooling over PM’s posterior more than women. Do they prefer a muscle-butt rather than something more substantial? Is this what they’re looking for in their perfect partner? Don’t they prefer something curvy that could sit on a knee and not leave a crease?

A bottom, like a breast and a narrow waist is a symbol of fertility in a woman, and over millenia men have been attracted to plenteous, competent, well-disposed buttocks; buttocks that can do the job nature intended.

While pondering the meaning of this – in one of those moments when I should be editing and coming up with a brilliant blurb for my new book – it occurred to me that what women want from their own bottom is very different to the expectations placed upon it by a man. Not that I’ve a great deal of experience (she says), but men appear to prefer a handful, something to grope pinch, perhaps something with a jiggle, and a big spoonful of lurve, women, as ever and how pathetic are we, want something skinny.

We want a bum that can wear skinny jeans without trying to burst forth and break loose. A bum that rocks a bikini bottom. A bum that ‘never looks big’ in this. We want peachy and lifted and taut.

If I could choose my bum, I’d want Brooklyn Decker’s bottom which is as close to perfection as you can imagine without belonging to the prestidigitization of the airbrush. It’s pert, high and powerful.

In the interests of understanding my subject, I asked my girlfriends if they liked their bums and NOT ONE said they did. One or two liked their feet, hands, their boobs or their hair, but every single one hated her bottom. And I know three of them said they sobbed in changing rooms with those God awful surround mirrors when they saw their bum. I even know some who wear tops that cover their bum in the sea or in a swimming pool.

I have a flat bum, it used to be toned and pert, but due to the number of hours it’s perched in my chair as I type like a fiend my next best-seller (I can dream) I’m afraid it’s let me down very badly and is an extraterrestrial to me now. If I happen coup d’oeil, usually by accident, I’m always sincerely shocked, certain it must belong to someone else and then I hit the lunges and squats for a week, which means I can’t sit down without whimpering in agony.

So to sum up, women are not happy with what they’ve got and men are more than happy with whatever they can get.

Does this mean that men (for once) are right? They love Pippa’s bum simply because it belongs to a woman?

Hugo’s just yelled, ‘Result!’ Hmm, might need to inflict pain on him later.

You know I adore and need to hear from you guys – Do you love your bum? If you’re a guy do you love your honey’s bum and if so what does it for you?

We need to know!

Due to a book launch, guesting on a blog and being driven insane by the foibles of my new shiny Mac! Desert Orchid is late this week – normal service shall be resumed as soon as possible. (Hugo’s just posted a note above my Mac – THIS MACHINE HAS NO BRAIN – USE YOUR OWN! I feel a D.I.V.O.R.C.E. coming on!)

Oh and on Monday my book, Reckless Nights In Rome is here – one of fifteen chosen, all sales on Amazon on MONDAY 16TH JULY 2012 shall be donated to the ‘Sell Books For Steve Day’ for thriller author Steve Brown’s Bone Marrow Transplant treatment. You might find a new author you like! Please spread the word around the ‘net on Monday – you guys seriously rock!

INTERVIEW ON THE HOT PINK TYPEWRITER TODAY – COME AND WIN A PRIZE!

Hello my lovelies!

Recently the ladies who run The Hot Pink Typewriter blog invited me to talk about indie publishing and my books and Lindsay was so nice about it I said yes.

I’ve never been a guest before so I need all the friendly faces I can get!

Please come by and say hello and see how Lindsay Pryor put me in the hot seat and TORTURED me.

She did, the little minx!

If you comment, you might win a copy of A Stormy Spring! Or Reckless Nights In Rome!

Okay, I know it’s bribery but this is me you’re dealing with!

http://thehotpinktypewriter.blogspot....

LICKING MY MAN INTO SHAPE

Okay now, children, settle down. (I knew the title would get you all going.)

Every now and again it’s shake-down time in this house and the red mist of temper descends. You all know what I mean. It usually follows the unparalleled agony of standing on a tiny Lego figure in your bare feet, the air turns blue and every red blooded male runs for the hills because we women have finally hit our limit (an event that tends to be cyclical) with the chaos that now reigns in our domain, all thanks to the men in our lives.

It happened this week and my son and Hugo still haven’t recovered from the tornado that was Christine as she tore through kitchen, bathrooms and (Oh My God) the biological hazard that was my son’s bedroom. I’ve promised next time I will name and shame him.

The salad drawer in the fridge was shocking with something that might have been a baby carrot in a previous life, tomatoes which had dried out without the aid of the sun – withered chorizo anyone?

The breadbin offered up a ping pong ball, one chocolate button and a burger bun that was evidently taking part in some weird Year 6 science experiment.

The oven needed two full cans of Mr Muscle.

The microwave – well – all I’ll say is I cried, readers, I cried.

I found three socks, not matching, empty chip packets, car keys that went missing three months ago and six one pound coins down the side of the couches in the lounge.

Then just to compound the horror, I decided to clear out my closet. Why, Christine? I hear you ask. Don’t you have enough to do with editing two books at the same time as well as writing a weekly serialised story on your blog and have a new book coming out this week, along with social networking and guest blogging. What are you doing, woman?

In my defence all I’ll say is I was demented by this time, so I set about shovelling through T-shirts/vests/leggings/hoodie. Pointless, thankless task. The wonderful streamlined look will last for all of three days, max. No matter how fabulous and liberated you feel after a mammoth clear out, as you survey the six bursting black bin bags, colour co-ordinated T-shirts, sweaters and neatly folded jeans, within a couple of heart beats your favourite best silky top is trapped under a stool, and two sweaters and a pair of pants are found stillborn on the floor.

It’s the same with shovelling clearing out the cars. I’ve tested this in the past: as soon as the last apple core is cleared out from the glove compartment, the melted candy from between the seats, 48 hours later it morphs back into a dumpster on wheels.

Or is this just me?

Sometimes I worry and promise to do better.

Friends of mine are always smart and very well put together. And I’ve seen their kitchens, they (or their cleaners) must spend hours scrubbing the white grout between their tiles with toothbrushes. And I bet their ovens are sparkling and their microwaves are a thing of beauty.

So here’s my ‘will do better’ list:

Hang up and put away.

Do not leave clothes in a scrunched up ball on the floor.

Wear matching bra and panties and not just for visits to the GP/hospital.

I will do a little and often (cleaning that is).

I will stop terrorising the men in my family and ask them nicely to please clean up after themselves (they asked me to put that in btw.)

Anyway, peace and tranquillity has now returned to the household. It’s all looking sparkly with the surfaces gleaming and glass glistening.

Hugo’s just stepped out of his study (a room I never set foot in because the dust bunnies on the floor are breeding) and he put his arm around me.

‘Don’t worry, honey. Your friends might have cleaner houses. But they can’t tell a story like you can and bring sheer entertainment to the masses.’

And do you know something? He’s absolutely right, no wonder I adore him.

What’s more important, my readers or my oven?

No contest really, is there?

You know I love to hear from you guys, tell me I’m not alone and share your dirty little secrets with us, we won’t tell a soul!

And chapter sixteen of Desert Orchid is up. This story’s nearly at THE END.

AND A STORMY SPRING IS OUT ON MONDAY! YAAAAAY!!!!!

WHY HUSBANDS COME IN TWO VARIETIES

My friend, Jeanette, has a very interesting husband.

I’ve thought so for quite some time. You see, he gives her unsolicited advice on what to wear and when to wear it and has even bought an entire outfit for her when she wasn’t with him.

This made me realise that husbands come in two distinct varieties. The first type roll through life tremendously interested in bikes, iPads and the latest football score, without unduly bothering about what’s living (or hiding) in their wives closets. Fortunately for me, I’m married to this first character, and I must admit, it’s a very good thing. I can surf from new shoes to new purse to cooking spaghetti bolognaise to an evening dress to my ripped jeans and he’ll never notice, unless I leap into his line of vision and SHRIEK about the absolute fabulousness of my NEW DRESS. Otherwise, I could walk into the house carrying twelve shoe boxes, teetering under the weight and he’d say, ‘Hey, babe, have you seen the remote?’ Or, ‘Did you know we’re out of chips?’

Of course, there are one or two disadvantages to being married to type one. He wouldn’t notice if I ran around the garden naked, shouting ‘Hello! Here I am, wearing nothing but a silver bracelet and ready for luuurrvvve.’ But most of the time, it works. If I had a husband like Jeanette’s, I’d be spitting nails and swearing like a trooper.

Her husband watches her like a raptor, always wittering on about what’s appropriate attire for the trip to the supermarket or that the plunging neckline is not suitable for the pub quiz night. He even buys her underwear not kidding, and usually red or black. Jeanette appears thrilled by all the attention and lovely gifts he bestows on her. It would drive me to drink. I don’t know about you, but I feel a man who’s interested in woman’s clothes is well, odd. I’ve never met a straight man for example who can genuinely understand the brilliant cut of Victoria Beckham’s clothing line.

In my humble opinion, a woman’s closet should be a very personal space, a place where she can simply be herself, where she doesn’t have to follow anyone else’s personal agenda.

To be honest, I don’t think my husband even knows what’s in my closet or even where it is. He certainly has no idea I have ‘fat’ clothes and ‘thin’ clothes, ‘winter’ and ‘spring’ clothes.

Which is why I was not at all surprised when Jennifer Lopez divorced the odd Marc Anthony due to his endless enthralment with what she wore and when she wore it. According to those in the know (miles of gossip fodder) he threw all his toys out of the pram because her clothes were too sexy (hello, this is J.Lo!) and not ‘appropriate’ for a 42year old mother of twins. I know exactly why she did it – she was saying ‘Up yours! I’ll wear whatever the hell I like!’ If I had a body like hers I’d be shaking my booty up and down the red carpet. Just try stopping me.

However, all this being over particular about what your wife wears is an insidious form of control in my honest opinion and can only end in tears. Just remember, marriage is about devotion not about ownership.

And J.Lo’s moved on and we’re seeing a great deal more of her amazing body – you go girl!!

So tell us the truth women (and men). Does your nearest and dearest buy your clothes?

Does he know the difference between boot cut and skinny jeans?

Does he know if you’re an Apple or a Pear?

Does he buy your knickers in packs of five from Wal-Mart or pure silk from Victoria’s Secret?

Tell us! We demand to know!

You know I love hearing from you! Don’t be shy, you’re among friends and we won’t tell anyone – so come and share your closet secrets!

Oh, and Episode fifteen of Desert Orchid is out and Khalid in on his knees. Just say’in!

WHY I DESPAIR OF SOME WOMEN TODAY

Hello guys,

You know I’m a vocal proponent for equal opportunities and freedom of choice for females and males actually. But, seriously, sometimes I really do despair of some women today.

A few weeks ago a couple of my writing buddies, August McLachlan and Ginger Calem mentioned a weird and spooky trend among brides to be for ‘the drip diet’.

Called the ‘K-E’ diet it involves 800 calories being dripped into a feeding tube inserted up the nose. The idea being that if food bypasses the mouth and throat you can drop a dress size in ten days.

Apparently a bride, Jessica Schnaider went on the diet for ten days before her big day to lose weight. The flawed thinking behind the idea is that she’d look wonderful for her new husband and look good in her wedding pictures. This in my opinion meant the bride had totally missed the point of getting married in the first place. You’ve got to live with your husband for the rest of your life. And my wedding album has at various times lived quite happily at the bottom of a cupboard or in a box under the bed with all the other ‘important stuff.’

But this story, as a mother of two daughters, really pressed my hot button. I vented on August and Ginger’s blogs and left it at that.

Anyway, I thought that was as low as a poor deluded bride and certain high profile celebrities were prepared to go until I heard of this new tender morsel of lunacy. Have you heard of ‘bridalplasty’? Brides are now spending more on Botox, breast implants (don’t get me started on my mastectomy) and ‘hand-lifts’ for close up wedding pictures of the wedding rings and cutting the wedding cake. It’s made me wonder if their husbands are not expected to be a long term feature in the lives of these women? Perhaps they’re just for photographs? Or will they too end up under the bed with ‘important stuff’?

I don’t know whether to sob or spit nails. What the hell does this say about us as women? What message does it give to our daughters? Just today I saw in the news that schools in the UK are showing girls as young as seven a film of how their favourite actresses and models (males and females) are touched up, their flaws airbrushed out and perfection brushed in, by advertising companies and magazines. Woo Hoo! At last.

But then, have we made a rod for our own backs? I’m not dipping my big toe into politics. I don’t have an opinion. BUT. Remember Secretary Hillary Clinton dared to attend a meeting wearing glasses with her hair in a ponytail and no make-up? I remember thinking, ‘very brave, good for you’ but others savaged her for it. The press were more interested in that than babies being blown to bits.

She tore herself away from dealing with death and despair and said, ‘If I want to wear my hair back I’m pulling my hair back. At some point it’s just not something that deserves a lot of time or attention.’

You go, Hillary, babe.

Come on, girls, gird your loins and tell me right now how can we help those poor deluded brides?

Is a man just for the big day or for life?

What do you believe marriage is all about in 2012?

And give a big cheer right here and now on Fizz & Fangs for H.C.

I know I have been uncharacteristically quiet but I’m writing and editing two books at the same time. Good job the Editor has a sense of humour!

Chapter thirteen of Desert Orchid was put up and pulled down due to a technical glitch by me. But it’s back now. I’m on the home straight with it. Just about to turn the screw on Khalid in the next few chapters. Bless him. Enjoy!