Competent incompetence

Following ten years service I will be leaving my current employer in February next year. It’s been a while coming so I’m actually glad to be going now but this means I have been looking for another job and with this comes the inevitability of the competency based interview.

I remember the interview that got me my original job at said current employer. It was the oddest and yet most enjoyable interview I have ever had, before or since. It probably showed the square-route of bugger all about my technical abilities but likely gave a fair insight into me as a person. There were such questions as ‘If you had £1500 to decorate a room in your house, which would you choose and why?” I chose my kitchen and waxed lyrical about how I would put everything where is was accessible and make sure I was never working in my own light. I remember agonising for days about what I had given away about myself. The kitchen was at least a productive and potentially creative room in the house, I supposed. Would they therefore assume I was both those things? If I’d have chosen my bedroom would that have implied I was lazy and self-indulgent? When I eventually got the job I asked my boss what all the psychometrics were about and he said that they simply wanted to see if a) I had an opinion and b) was able to express it convincingly. No problem there then.

What was great about that interview was just how hard it would have been to prepare for and ultimately blag. It wouldn’t have been possible to do what most people do in interviews and pretend that everything that has been achieved by the more talented people around them was actually their own work. These days interviewers spend about five minutes talking through your CV and 55 asking you to ‘describe a time when... (enter improbable situation here)’. Call me a spoil sport but I find it hard to recall times when ideas ‘haven’t gained approval’ and therefore struggle to waffle about ‘what I did to overcome the problem’ blah, blag, blah! What I do say is often a montage of right answers rather than any genuine insight and therefore only likely to inform of my ability to say the right thing – perhaps something that large corporations are actually looking for, who knows.

There is a lot of talk about what women bring to the work place. Some speak of compassion, people and listening skills. Likewise, that older people bring more experience and perspective to the table. You will not hear me argue that diversity is bad, quite the opposite. But it occurred to me during some interview preparation recently that parenthood itself develops many of the so called competencies required in the work place. At our place these are grouped together under elaborate titles such as ‘Achieving Excellence’ and ‘Collaborating for Success’. I genuinely do not believe that my ability to ‘Persuade and Influence’ has grown more at any other time than when my daughter learnt to walk and speak. Being able to go where she wanted and say what she wanted (or rather not go if she didn’t want to) presented a whole new set of challenges to me as a parent. It became crucial to identify the ‘win-win’ situation for anything to happen.

Me: “Hurry up and get dressed, we need to get to nursery”

Her: “I’m watching Peppa Pig”

Me: “If we get to nursery quickly we can show everyone your new doll.”

Her: “Ok, mummy. But he’s not my doll he’s my brother.”

Similarly, when we discovered how competitive my daughter is (well, the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree) this was put to great use by having ‘who can get dressed the fastest’ competitions in the morning. This was actually my husband’s idea proving that this isn’t a mum thing, it’s a parent thing. Problem solved.

The sad fact is that despite leaps forward in legislation, women who have children or are likely to have children are discriminated against in the job market. I actively avoid talking about my family situation in interviews as I fear mentioning my one daughter will prompt the mental calculation in my interviewer’s head – 1 female in her mid-thirties plus 1, three-year-old child equals pregnancy waiting to happen. I do get it of course, it is a nightmare to recruit good people, not to mention expensive, and I have no doubt that smaller companies must be crippled when even one member of staff goes off for a year. But good, experienced, clever, talented people should be having children so there’s half a chance of some good, experienced, clever, talented people in the world in 20 odd year’s time.

Raising children is hard, rewarding work. Working for money is the same. Done well they can both inform and improve each other. In our two-parent family my daughter already knows that dividing and conquering can be extremely effective in getting her own way. Parenting golden rule number one almost has to be to present a united front at all times and if that’s not ‘Collaborating for Success’ I don’t know what is!

Jec
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One of those end of the year message fings...

I simply cannot believe it is the middle of December already. Twelve months ago almost to the day I was celebrating being offered the best job of my career so far and was on cloud nine. I only wish the joy could have lasted a bit longer but no sooner had the ink dried on the contract and I had put the finishing touches to the plans for my team than we got the news that our department was going to suffer some serious cuts. I knew instantly that I would be affected. I even got into a bit of trouble for saying so (naivety on my part) but had I drawn a picture of our new structure and put it in a sealed envelope it would have looked remarkably like the one that eventually came into existence in July. As foreseen, my role was going. Funny really, I usually like being right! The crap didn’t exactly end there and following a farce of an ‘alternative role’ (which I would add I was grateful to them for trying seeing as it was an effort to keep me) a few weeks ago I had confirmation that once again my job was to be redundant.

It’s hard spending all year not really having a purpose at work. It’s harder when you had such high hopes going in. I feel I’ve lost some confidence and need to get my mojo back (sorry, but I cannot even type that word without hearing Cheryl Cole’s voice – mooojooo). On the flip side I’ve spent more time with my daughter this year than at any time since I was on maternity leave. She starts school in September and my husband and I have the task of selecting our choice of school. I can already see her in her little grey skirt and blue sweatshirt so she better get in down the road! She’s turning into even more of a character and constantly makes us laugh, particularly when we really shouldn’t. Oh, how I laughed when after bellowing at the TV during a Spurs Arsenal game she quietly told her father to ‘calm down’. Priceless.

This year we got a new niece, Abigail. That makes a full house as both of my husband’s brothers now have children. We had our first gathering at the grandparents last weekend and it was wonderful. I can only imagine what Christmases will be like. The kids adore each other and genuinely seem to get a lot out of playing together.

Our world seems to be full of babies at the moment. Several more came along this year courtesy of various friends. Some took their time and some came far too early, scaring the bejesus out of everyone in the process, and one even turned up precisely on schedule but then her mum always was a pretty good project manager.

As is customary, and because I intend to have a much improved 2011, I thought I would have a go at some early New Year’s Resolutions. Given we’re a couple of weeks away from Jan 1 I’ll call them Draft Version 0.1 but they’re pretty much there I think.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to everyone. Let’s hope 2011 is a belter!

Jec
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I will make a curry from scratch (this has been on my list for 4 years)

I will cook at least one new meal each month (this has been on my list for about 10 years)

I will use fewer supermarket carrier bags

I will remember to take with me the ‘bags for life’ and cotton carrier bags I have bought to achieve previous resolution

I will invite friends round to dinner more often

I will remember everyone’s birthdays

I will open my post on the day I get it

I will endeavour to tell the truth in the moment and not wish I’d told it afterwards

I will not resolve to lose weight because that is a waste of time

I will put some money in a tax efficient savings thing and not have it languish in an account where it does bugger all for me

I will weed my flower beds more often

I will buy things for my house that I like and don’t necessarily come from high street shops (Kirstie Allsopp gushes with pride)

I will go to an antiques auction (see above)

I will read at least one whole book (you thought this would be ‘per month’ didn’t you, but I will settle for the whole of 2011)

I will change the towels and bedclothes in my house more regularly

I may get a cleaner

I will colour my hair more often to avoid looking like a grey old hagbag as it doesn’t take that long and isn’t too annoying

I will see more of my side of the family and not just because it’s someone’s birthday

I will smile a bit more and cry and bit less

I will remember what I’ve got and how lucky I am

xxx

I used to adore taking a bath. I loved luxuriating for ages, listening to some tunes and going through a little beauty regime that I’d honed over the years. Bliss. These days I sneak a few baths in where and when I can but it’s usually more of an in/out job than a long, pampering soak. Nine times out of ten my daughter, who is nearly four, comes in to ‘help’ me. This involves using far too much shower gel on the one part of my body nearest to her, my left boob. Not particularly relaxing.

Things have been a bit tough lately and the stress of an uncertain work situation and some personal stuff had got to me, so a good friend and I decided to spend a day and night at our local spa. She’s an old hand at it so was a good person to go with. I’ve driven past the entrance many times but never been, in fact, I’ve never done the spa thing at all so was a total pamper virgin.

Largely because I don’t make a habit of spa visits (and also because my husband offered to treat me)I thought I ought to make the most of the experience with a decent treatment. I seriously considered a luxury pedicure before concluding it was the wrong time of year given my feet will most likely be encased in boots for the next five months. No, this was about stress relief so I reckoned a massage would be the best option and had a good look at their website to see what delights I could select from. Frankly I needn’t have bothered as I didn’t understand a word. What the buggery bollocks is ‘Media Vespers’? And a ‘Mediterranean Float’ sounded more like something unpleasant you’d find on a bad summer holiday. I decided to go on price and duration. An hour’s full body massage would be mine.

We checked in to our room which was very nice and my friend located the obligatory white towelling robes. We changed into our (in my case newly purchased) swimming stuff, slipped on said robes and headed off down to the spa. With the exception of a badly timed fire drill this was the first time I have ever wandered around a hotel in a state of undress and proceeded to giggle like a school girl.

We entered the spa, complete with more fluffy white towels, and were met with a vision of ancient Rome. I wasn’t entirely sure why it had to Rome and why it had to be ruined rather than newly constructed but no matter, it was quite a sight and presumably added to the sense of luxury and escapism. The Jacuzzi, spa pool etc were fab and an excellent way to let off excess wind unnoticed, I would imagine. There were only a few other occupants, mainly women who were all older than us and therefore more lumpy and bumpy (yay!) but annoyingly also a young couple with alarming body confidence who insisted on taking hundreds of photos of each other prior to what I can only assume would be some earth-shattering hotel shagging. Bastards.

We swam a bit and steamed a bit before drying off a bit in readiness for our treatments. We entered a very dimly lit reception type area where other be-robed woman sat waiting to be summoned for pampering, various. We all looked like we were inmates of some institution and I began to wonder what they were all in for much ones does in a doctor’s surgery. Did I mention how dark it was? It really was dark. Absolutely no natural light, a pleasant enough smell and some appalling but oddly appropriate mood music which stopped short of including whale calls but only just. The staff, dressed in black uniforms so hard to see, scurried silently from room to room like Geishas. With each entrance you sat wondering who would be called next. My friend was duly chosen from the line-up for her pedicure and I sat waiting. One of the multiple tall, young, blonde girls appeared and asked for the ‘Guest of Cooley’ which I took to be me and was shown along an even darker corridor (seriously, it’s a wonder the staff don’t turn into moles) to a small room with a flat table and instructed to strip to my knickers. Having come from the spa I still had my swimming costume on so was offered some paper knickers instead. I could choose between a thong or full briefs. I chose the full briefs – the thong looked like it could have induced a pretty heavy duty paper cut.

Some strategically placed towels spared my modesty and repeating the words ‘she’s probably had her hands on far worse’ in my head, I was prodded, poked and generally pummelled. My shoulders were rubbed, my legs were rubbed, each toe and even at one stage my jowells got the full 'drift away' treatment before all too soon she announced in a floaty voice that it was the ‘end of treatment’. She handed me a ‘prescription’ which included details of all the stuff she’d used on me in an effort to extract more money from me no doubt and I checked myself in the mirror. From what I could see (still VERY dark) I resembled an eighties soap star such was the effect of chlorine swimming pool water and massage oil in my hair.

We had a lovely meal, quite a lot of wine and thoroughly nice time. I removed all available product samples from the hotel room and reacquainted myself with daylight over breakfast the next morning (still dressed in my robe – weird!) and then it was home time and back to the one-boob baths of normality.

Oh well. It was nice while it lasted...

Jec
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Proud 'mommy' moment

My daughter has been at nursery since she was about 7 months old. I’m not even sure she was crawling when she started in the ‘Baby Room’ and leaving her there for whole days was harder for me than it ever was for her. She had been passed around to all the family since birth so thankfully was never a clingy child and daily separation was a walk in the park.

In time, as other smaller babies arrived, she became one of the older children in her room and as she began to walk she was more able to show her own will and independence. If she wanted to go from where she was sitting to the other side of the room to get whatever book or toy took her fancy she was bloomin’ well going to, so there!

One evening I arrived at the nursery to collect her and got the usual update from one of the girls. She’d eaten everything ‘well’ as they put it, and produced some artistic masterpiece from paint and glitter that I would have to take home and attach to the last remaining part of the fridge to have escaped adornment with her work. But there was also something else to report. One of the smaller babies had been crying in their bouncy chair so my daughter, who was not yet 18 months old herself, had crossed the room, given the crying child a gentle bounce in its chair, kissed its forehead and popped a dummy in its mouth.

Wow. How wonderful I thought this was! My child, not much more than a baby herself, had shown a part of her personality that we’d never known was there. Yes, she’d always been expressive and kept us entertained. She never really gave us any problems, she had always slept well and managed to produce teeth without any drama, but this was the first time any sense of who she was and might turn out to be had been observable. She seemed to possess a soft, caring side which at this age I am happy enough to state had probably not been taught to her by us or could be possible to teach. Of course children learn in many ways, through play and observing the behaviour of those around them. Our household, whilst not without many flaws, is a happy one and her influences would have been solid and cheerful. But it can also be quite manic, noisy and bustling (especially at family gatherings), so calm, collected caring traits were not something I would have expected her to have seen in abundance.

Before she was born I had naively assumed that I would forever have a sense that I had ‘made’ her and therefore ‘owned’ her so to speak. I foresaw arguments between us that would feature me shouting that she must do as I said because her father and I had created her. Nonsense, of course. From the moment she arrived she was a distinctive person and almost a stranger rather than an entity crafted by me and consequently known wholly by me. I had not enjoyed the phenomenon of an instant bond with her which might have been the result of a slightly difficult labour/c-section and subsequent inability to move or do anything for her for the first few days. It might just have been down to my personality too. I will never know for sure.

As it turns out I’m not unhappy about our start in the mother and daughter relationship world as our bond has grown less out of need and more out of pleasure. I agonised at the time that I wasn’t feeling like I had been led to expect I would when she was tiny, but I don’t love her now because I feel I should, but rather because of the fabulous little person she is; her wit, her brains and of course her compassion.

As she continues to grow up (she’s three and a half now) these insights into her personality continue. She can change the words to familiar songs to be funny, she puts on accents, imitates her friends and gives them clever nick-names. She’s also incredibly crafty and turns on the charm to get something she wants, often prefacing requests with ‘You’re sooooo handsome, Daddy!” Only yesterday she adopted what in sales training would be referred to as an 'alternative close' when I refused her request for any more food.

“Mummy, you have a choice. You can choose what I have to eat, a ham sandwich or some crackers.”

Pretty smart stuff.

We’d like another child at some stage and thoughts naturally turn to what he or she would be like. As my husband put it, you assume that your child represents your ‘recipe’ for making children, but how many people do you know who produce a series of identical siblings?

Whatever the result next time I hope my daughter will show the same compassion to her brother or sister as those babies received when they cried. If she doesn’t then I fear we’ll be looking at a distinctly less convivial household in a few years time.

Jec
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For 'S'

One of my dearest friends is about to have a baby. This extra-special thing is particularly wonderful because there was a time, a long time, where we didn’t know if it would be possible for this amazing mum-in-waiting to have a child.

So I wanted to take a few moments to share what little it is that I have picked up over these last three years or so that I have been lucky enough to have my little, gorgeous baby-girl in my life.

To my darling, S – this is for you. And to my lovely husband who made it possible for me to be able to write this, thank you too!


You will swear, a lot

You will probably say ‘I can’t do this’

You will most likely have some story about how your other half felt useless through the entire birth but that you didn’t care because he was the last person you wanted to leave the room even for a second

You may remember what the medical professionals said to you but you probably won’t

The drugs (if you have them) may make you giggle, throw up and/or fancy just about everyone who walks in the room

You may wonder why you ever made a birthing plan

You WILL forget whatever physical pain you go through to deliver your child

You will never tire of remembering how your baby came into the world

You will forget any of the neutral coloured clothes you bought before the birth the moment your child is born

You will feel an odd mix of excitement and fear when you bring your baby home

You will lose sleep but you won’t care and in a few months’ time you’ll say “It wasn’t that bad, was it?!”

You will hopefully realise that there are more important things in life than ironing

You will KNOW that yours is without question the most amazing child that ever walked the earth

You will wonder at every single thing they do and how much cleverer they are than any other child

You will simply melt the first time they smile

You won’t be able to watch the news or read the papers in the same way ever again

What you lose in spontaneity you will make up for in anticipation

You will wish you were physically closer to your family

You will really start to know what family is

Christmas will take on a new lease of life

You will look at those childlike scribbles and think DaVinci himself could have done no better

You will fight with your other half about which football team they will support and be secretly be delighted when they seem to support the one you like best

You will become encyclopaedic in your knowledge of children’s TV characters

You will read the same bedtime story every night for three weeks

There will be times when you will be required to be a ‘horsey’ and the living room will be your paddock

You will wonder if it’s ok to buy anything that isn’t organic then remember that you used to eat jam sandwiches

You will wonder how you can ever leave your precious cargo alone with someone else, even for a second

You will be glad when you do and even gladder to get them back

You will drive your car more carefully when they are in it with you

You will remember everything your parents ever said to you and for the first time really understand why they said it

You will laugh

You will cry

You will never be the same again

And you will love it!


Jec
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Last weekend I saw a sight that has no doubt graced many a household over the years. It was that of my daughter strutting about in a pair of my shoes. She is three and a (little) size 9, I am older and generally wear a size 8. They were red, suede heels from LK Bennett and my daughter’s gorgeous mini-feet were stuffed deliciously into the ends of my shoes as she dragged them along the floor. Evidently she was enjoying the experience of pretending to be mummy if the pout and bum-wiggle were anything to go by. (She made that last part of the impersonation up. I don’t do that, often.)

There’s something great about being a little girl and trying on your mum’s stuff. My own mum had some particularly fabulous lace up, espadrille style wedge sandals from c. 1978 which along with some black suede platform heels were my dress-up shoes of choice and I was particularly disappointed when my own plates out grew them.

As someone with a genetic fondness for dressing up a recent family wedding was a great opportunity to go to town and the other girls in my family do just that; hats, fab shoes, the works. (As an ex-boyfriend’s mother, of whom I was extremely fond, once said “Well, someone has to be the best, dear”.) In fact I recall that a hat hire shop in nearby Crayford did particularly well out of us during the great wedding rush of 2005/6 and I believe even still has a photo of us on their wall to prove it.

I should say at this point that I like the thought of shopping for any outfit far more than the actual experience and even more so when it’s an outfit for a wedding. This dislike is directly proportional to how heavy I am at the time of the shopping event. Lighter = ok, heavier = a hideous, God-forsaken experience. I try and convince myself that size is just a number but I haven’t quite managed it yet.

Anyhoo, I managed to squeeze a trip to the shops into a lunch break and had one of those rare moments when not only do you see something you like but , Lord be praised, it actually fits and better still it looks pretty good. We’re talking a nice dress and jacket combo from one of those ‘designer’ ranges at Debenhams. (Incidentally I have two questions: Do they really design them and is it ok to claim to be wearing ‘designer’ if you get one? Sadly I doubt it on both counts but you can dream.) I even had some shoes etc that would go with it so, as Anneka Rice used to say, ‘Stop the clock, I’ve found the clue!’Chuffed, I headed back to work safe in the knowledge that I had found an outfit and, unless the miraculous happened and something even better could be stumbled upon, I need search no more.

About two weeks or so before the wedding I was taking my daughter to her babyballet class and asked my mother-in-law if she wanted to come along too to see her granddaughter’s mastery of ‘good toes, naughty toes’. This would work well, she said, as she had to pop to Lakeside to take back the jacket she’d bought because she’d ordered it online and got the wrong size (when will the middle-aged learn not to mess with things they don’t understand?!).

“Where did you get it from”, I said.

“Debenhams.” She said.

Oh, God. Please, no.

“Oh, really? Which range?” I said, tentatively.

“Betty Jackson. Black”. She replied.

Bugger.



I knew before she said it that it was the same suit.

Now, who should feel worse in this scenario? Was she risking ‘mutton’ accusations or was I seriously about to dress way beyond my years? When did this happen? When did the little girl in her mum’s shoes actually become keen to dress like a grandmother. To be fair (and through still gritted teeth) she did look great in it; young yet still stylish and entirely appropriate. Not in the least bit mutton. She got first dibs of course because she’d already bought hers whereas I’d simply flirted with mine. Damn it. It was a lovely suit.

I had thought this might be the preserve of us ladeez but it seems men are not immune. My husband (34) has a nice lilac polo shirt which looks great on him and that I have seen on at least two OAPs. Does this makes us old or them young? Should it matter, even? When do you actually become old nowadays anyway? I have a photo of my brother and I as babies in the arms of our grandmother who, if I’ve worked out the dates correctly, would be the same age as my mother-in-law is now. My nan could quite literally be my m-in-law’s mother in that picture – grey perm and cardie a-go-go.

Eddie Izzard talks about a desire for ‘total clothing rights’ and I have to say I’m with him on that one. Women can wear trousers so men should be allowed to wear skirts. If I like a ‘classic’ outfit I should be able to wear it without fear of ridicule, godammit!

And you know what? I’m proud of my mother-in-law for making good choices, after all I made the same one. Maybe it’ll be her shoes my daughter struts about in next – I suspect that soon there won’t be much to choose between them...

Jec
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The 'Gordon Ramsay Effect'

One of the first, formal performance reviews I had at work was about six years ago. Given I’ve been working for fourteen years this is a pretty poor frequency I grant you but what was one of my seemingly ‘best’ reviews was actually one of my worst. Why? Because, it gave me absolutely nothing and because the person who delivered it was a complete arse.

I think the general gist was “You’re doing brilliantly – carry on.”

Whilst at first glance this is good news (being told you are doing a good job is, after all, much better than being told you’re doing a bad one) but it leaves you completely ill-equipped to get any better. It demonstrates a complete absence of investment into line management too. Had my manager thought for a few moments longer he would have picked up on loads of stuff that a twenty-something me needed to do to get a darn sight better. Good constructive feedback given in a timely way would be preferable next time, if you don’t mind. Lazy, lazy, lazy boy!

Ok, so not everyone is very good and managing people. Some people are not very good at communicating either but that isn’t what this is about.

Some time ago before Marco Pierre White took over, Gordon Ramsay did a TV series where celebs essentially learn to cook. On one particular occasion I think they had to make omelettes or something (I can’t quite remember, forgive me). Each in turn had to place their burnt offering in front of the foul-mouthed master and each in turn was subjected to the predictable ritual humiliation. Then one (details, details...) took their turn and somewhat unexpectedly received something close to genuine praise.

I was struck by how this made me feel. How amazing must it be, I thought, to have such a compliment from Gordon Ramsay himself. What made it so amazing is simple enough. It’s because he is good at what he does. Bloody good in fact. He’s totally credible, no, world class in his field. If GR had complimented someone on their herbaceous border or a particularly exquisite water colour then it wouldn’t have the same bite. In my world if he expressed his awe at a perfectly constructed strategic brief then, nice though it may be, it would not have had the same impact. But getting a gold star for a cracking three-egg omelette from Gordon, well, who wouldn’t give their right arm for that.

I’m a sucker for a compliment, always have been. I crave acknowledgement, endorsement and a bit of puffing up. But it only really means anything when it’s from a source I respect and admire. That early review was as meaningless because of its originator as it was in its content and I resent the time I lost in my career at the expense of a muppet manager.

I’m happy to say that since then it’s been a different story and I’ve worked for some great people who have taught me a bundle. I hope I can do the same for my team now. Much like parenting, you won’t be very good if you never get a good example. And similarly it’s an enormous responsibility albeit unlike your children your team are more of a transient feature of your life.

Go forth and strive for greatness, dear readers. You never know who might right about you in cyberspace one day if you don’t...

Present imperfect?

It seems a long time ago when I won a trip round the kitchen at MacDonalds. We’d had to draw pictures of Ronald MacDonald at a primary school friend’s birthday party (on the party train - wohoo!!!!) and, as someone decided my random scribbles bore the closest likeness to the curly, red-headed one, I got the guided tour. Brilliant!

This you must understand was the pinnacle of the children’s party circle c. 1980. The trip round the kitchens was the single most exciting thing that had ever happened to me and was back in the good old days when Maccy D’s was considered a treat and not just ‘lunch’. I probably only went a few times as a child. It was that special.

My daughter is three now but I strongly suspect that by the time she gets to the age I was when I stood shivering in the big fridge we’ll have to ship her and her class off to Disneyland Paris for the weekend to reach the same excitement levels in our guests – call it kids’ party inflation.

We have about a party to go to at least every other weekend at the moment and we’re still at the nursery age. I love that my daughter has made friends and I hope they will be friends forever (unlikely I know but they are sooo nice) but I thought we’d only really get into this sort of territory from the Primary School years.

So far we’ve had a Tumbletots party (great exercise), a Princess & Pirates Parties (was tempted to send mine as Captain ‘Jacquie’ Sparrow but settled for a fairy princess as we had the outfit), half a dozen Crazy Barn parties (think large indoor playground made of padded scaffolding) but only one, proper house party (arguably the cutest but just think of the tidying up!). We’ve had Piñatas, presents for the guests over and above the party bags (when did you start having to do that?!) and mini-discos complete with dancing competitions and prizes (mine’s to blame for getting the whole of her room addicted to Alexandra Burke).

The cousin of the fabulous party is the fabulous party present. It is customary to take something with you to these parties by way of a gift of course – that much at least hasn’t changed since I was a child. I tend to opt for a few, very low ticket items partly as result of the number of these things we have to go to. Safe to say it’s worth throwing in a few toys next time you’re in Sainsbury’s (alright, 99p Stores) – you don’t know when you’ll need one but how far do you go? A recent conversation with one of the nursery mums suggested my highly thrifty approach might be out of kilter with the norm;

Her: “How much are you spending on presents?”

Me: *shrugs* “Er...”

Her: “About a tenner?”

Me: “Yeah, about a tenner.”


Yeah right! That’s about three parties’ worth.

I’d like to say that this is partly because I hope they wouldn’t spend more than a few quid on mine but is mainly because there are so many of the damn things.




It doesn’t stop at birthdays. It’s Easter and the other day she came home from nursery with three chocolate based Easter items. A Lindt bunny (which I have my eye on), a Smarties egg and the most adorable Thornton’s one – with her name on! It’s lovely and it’s not even from her boyfriend. This seems really rather generous and actually makes me slightly uncomfortable even though it’s totally lost on my daughter who probably couldn’t care less.

Like buying outfits for them we all need to fess up ‘cos it’s really all about us isn’t it. It matters to us that the other parents think we’re fabulous that we can work a full time job and still have the time to pull together a memorable party and Easter treats. And really, when you boil it right down it’s because we want to feel we’re doing the best we can for our kids – which isn’t all bad when you think about it.

Me, I’m thinking of throwing a Babyballet party next year but will probably start a fund now for the Sweet Sixteen because that is going to be expensive...

Jec
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Sign 'o the times

I think I was about 8 the first time I had a go at writing my signature. We’d been learning joined-up writing in ink pens at school (very exciting) and I thought an ‘autograph’ would be useful as an alternative to just writing ‘My name is Jessica Bryant” and “This is my new pen” all the time.

My mum had a pretty good looking signature. It followed an inclining line with a big swirly ‘P’ and matching loopy ‘B’ and ‘y’ in ‘Bryant’. (Incidentally I later discovered a knack of being able to copy it which came in handy several times during school but I won’t tell you about that. My Dad’s signature was better still. A professional draftsman, his writing was and still is something of a work of art. He uses his full name (Michael) and puts a cute little flicky thing underneath the ‘ae’ part which I still don’t fully understand but which looks pretty cool and was something I thought I’d copy.

Not including these first primary school efforts I’ve had three signatures in my life due to my taste for wedding cake. This does not include all the times I’ve put my first name next to that of the boy or footballer I was besotted with at the time, of which there were too many too mention. I love the individuality and self-expression of it all. When you first need to find a signature you are probably entering adulthood (first bank card etc) so it becomes a sort of rite of passage. If you are a girl then it crops up again if and when you get married. If you so choose, you (legitimately this time) get to work out how your name works next to that of the man you love - also very exciting and a big part of who you have become.

Aside from being (or pretending to be) a celebrity and writing cheques (which we don’t really do anymore do we) signing a debit or credit card receipt was the last main opportunity we had to regularly try out our autographs. I was therefore disappointed when in 2004 we all had to start entering PINs instead. PINs are dull and despite the supposed added security of the Chip & PIN process I for one feel decidedly less secure than I used to, convinced half the time that some thug is lurking over my shoulder, memorising my PIN and is about to swoop in, steal my purse and nick all my assets.

What I find to be the single most irritating thing about the whole PIN experience though is this: Standing at the till having slotted my card in the reader and patiently waiting for the instruction to enter my PIN to pop up in the display you have to listen to some @*%! mumble, “Can you enter your PIN, please.”

Er, as opposed to what exactly? Put the kettle on? Do the Can-Can? What the crap do you think I’ve been standing here waiting for? Or do you currently have a special offer on insulting the customer’s intelligence?

I wasn’t even going to write about this today but this happened to me three times this week. Yesterday topped it off when one particular dingbat also asked me ‘if I had a Nectar card’ when said Nectar card was actually being handed to him. I’ve been in the Customer Experience business for a few years now but you don’t need to do what I do to know this ‘state the bleeding obvious because you’ve been trained to say it not because it has anything to do with what’s actually going on in front of you’ service is just crap. Had I been daydreaming/drunk/in any other way incapable and needed a prod to enter my PIN, fine. But I wasn’t/wasn’t/am not so please wait an extra second before spilling out this kind of irritating waste of English.

Maybe I’m just grumpy in shops. My husband says I’m a nightmare to sales assistants and I have to confess I think I am. Some poor lad in Boots got both barrels too this week when trying to foist an extra snack on me because I’d had the audacity to only buy a drink and a salad in Boots. “But with the Meal Deal it’s cheaper if you have one.” He said. “But I don’t WANT one”, I snapped. If I buy a snack, I have to eat the snack and I am trying not to eat more than I need to. I’d rather take a hit on the extra 50p than the calories if it’s all the same to you and more importantly I just want to buy what I came in for!

The point of this particular moan was not so much the calorie thing, that’s a whole ‘nother subject. It was rather that we seem to have sacrificed individuality for the ‘generic’. We get shuffled about like sheep, told where to walk, how to buy our lunch, and when to do the simplest of tasks we were about to do anyway then given the same service and customer experiences shops and service providers want us to have because it’s easier to train staff the same way and set them the same targets to sell the same number of bloody Meal Deals.

I know a lot of this is down to how big companies work. We don’t always have the data to know exactly what everyone really wants and have to go for critical mass. I should know, I’m in the business and I’d love to have the means to really treat all my customers as individuals, as unique as their signatures – or PINs. Sorry.

Don’t listen to me anyway. I got duped in the Co-Op again after innocently chucking a bag of Cadbury’s Mini-Eggs (well, it is nearly Easter) into my basket.

“They’re 2 for £1.90.”

“How much is one?”

“£1.09”

“Oh, go on then.”

If I carry on like this, it’s unlikely my next signature will be Jessica Beckham...


Jec
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Grumpy Old Woman in training

I turned 35 this week. I am completely happy about this. So much so that I hereby, proudly declare myself a ‘Grumpy Old Woman in training’. My inner ‘Grumpy’ has been creeping up on me for ages but this week has sealed it for me - can someone please tell me where I sign?

On a recent trip to the bank I took a short diversion into Miss Selfridge largely to marvel at what the young people are wearing these days. (It’s probably worth pointing out that my days of Miss Selfridge shopping ended c. 1988. I can still hear my school-friend’s mum’s wise words when we, aged 13, trooped off to Kingston with thirty quid in our purses: “Don’t spend it all and don’t get anything that’s ‘dry clean only’"!)

Anyway, inside I quickly realised that if they don’t do your size (16, sadly, since you ask) then they probably don’t want you darkening their door. Everything and everyone was tiny: under 14 (in both senses) and Über trendy. It was like I was on another planet that looked a bit like twenty-odd years ago but with less fabric. It was your basic ‘you’re old you know’ smack in the face. But, my friends, I would happily take out another mortgage, move-in and redirect my post to my local Miss Selfridge than ever again have to set foot inside another Hollister.

If you haven’t been to a Hollister or an Abercrombie & Fitch then you’ve probably heard about them. It’s an amazing experience. Everything is styled to perfection including – sorry – especially the staff who are young, beautiful and stylish – and that’s just the boys. How they get away with it in 2010 with all our equal opportunities legislation is beyond me.

If you happened to be in the Bluewater Hollister today you would have seen me. I was the one with the ‘clearly shopping for someone else’ sign flashing above my head. Thankfully for my husband and daughter there isn’t enough room to manoeuvre a buggy around inside (this speaks volumes on the sort of rich teen clientele they are after) so they waited outside. Had they been with me they would likely have felt much as I did when, as children, my brother and I had to listen to my Nan ask for the ‘knives & forks’ in MacDonalds.

There are two words that come to mind when in Hollister: Dark and Small. The place is sooooo dark and the clothes (and the gaps between the rails) are sooooo small. Partly because I couldn’t entirely see where I was going but mainly because of the lack of material on show I honestly thought I was in the children’s section. But no, some women clearly live on water and polo mints and can actually wear these clothes. Still, at least I now know what a size zero actually looks like. Shame they are available in shops – they should only be available in some kind of Victorian style freak show. It’s enough to make me pick up the phone and order pizza except I already have.

I bought three things (FLASH: Not for me, FLASH: Not for me) and left with the obligatory brown paper bag. Annoyingly this made me feel a bit cool and I will probably keep it and trot it out occasionally in that lame way people do to imply they have just/always bought/buy something fab/expensive like when you keep Gucci and Tiffany bags. I just hope my brother likes his shirts or else I fear a return trip may be required.

If all this makes me sound bitter and twister about my age then I should point out that I am really not. Ok, so I may not legitimately be able to claim to be in my early thirties anymore but I have a theory that people only get really unhappy with their age if they don’t feel they’re quite where they want to be in their lives. Sure, I’d love more cash and another child and few more holidays but I’m pretty happy with my lot. Add the fact that I have never been skinny (and consequently afraid of ‘losing my figure’) and that I had my first grey hairs in my early teens and generally speaking I don’t think middle-age has much to keep me in fear of.

Incidentally, I have started to notice that my skin actually looks better without foundation (too much emphasis on the fine lines) . So hand me the tinted moisturiser and let me get on with my ‘Grumpy’ practice. I intend to be fabulous at forty anyway so, ner.

Jec
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