Stop lecturing and sell me tights, M&S
WE ALL forget things from time to time. I know I do. In no particular order I’ve forgotten:– to put the bins out; where I left my car keys; my second cousin’s birthday; the password for my bank account (many passwords actually); the name of that flowering bush outside the back door; the whereabouts of the recipe for butternut squash that I cut out of a magazine; what day Christmas is this year even though I knew that last week; which episode we are up to intv’s Paris Police 1900; and so many other things I’ve forgotten that I have forgotten.we’re all busy people.
But it’s hard to understand how Duchess Meghan forgot that she had sent lengthy emails to her former communications secretary Jason Knauf telling him what she wanted to see in the treacly book about her and Harry – Finding Freedom – by Omid Scobie and Carolyn Durand. Not only did she forget all of that but she has strenuously denied any connection with the two writers for years. She admitted this oversight to the Court of Appeal last week and apologised.
Still, when you’re busy saving the world and embracing our shared humanity, these little details could slip your mind.
TINA TURNER is suing a singer called Dorothea “Coco” Fletcher who fronts a Tina Turner tribute act called Simply The Best. Turner’s lawyers argue that Fletcher (30 something) looks so like Tina (80 something) on the posters that fans might be confused. Hmm.
So, tricky times ahead for tribute bands then. I love them because they always play the old stuff you like and will never (in a phrase guaranteed to send half the audience to the bar) “play something from our new album”.
ONE OF THE journalists in my sights when I was a schoolgirl was Maureen Cleave (inset), who died last week. Obviously I wanted to be her because she was a friend of the Beatles but also – more than anything – I wanted her hair.that sleek bob with the heavy fringe. Perfection.
The sleek short bob seemed to be the birthright of all girls who were really cool. It still is. I was obsessed with it in the way that fans of Friends wanted Jennifer Aniston’s hair.
The razor-sharp slash around the jaw line makes you look as though you are in control of your own destiny and won’t take any nonsense.
Almost every female celebrity has had a bob at some time and they always look fabulous. It’s true that with a dedicated team of hair professionals packing top-quality ceramic straighteners I can achieve something similar, and go out looking as though I am in control of my own destiny.
But the merest hint of moisture and I go from sleek bob to frizzy blob.
MARKS & Spencer staff can now state their preferred pronouns on their name badges, such as “David... He/him/his”. The badges, said one employee, “have already helped start some very necessary conversations around gender identity and non-binary experiences”.
I don’t know about you, but when I go to Marks & Spencer I normally want something simple such as a pair of tights. I don’t really want to talk to anyone and I certainly don’t want a conversation around “non-binary experiences”. Whatever they are. I just want tights. Or maybe some cheese. That’s the only point of going to a shop – to buy something and then go about your business. Sometimes it’s a pleasure. Sometimes it’s a faff. But what it really shouldn’t be is a “necessary conversation”.
And not meaning to be rude, but I don’t want to know the shop assistant’s name either. It’s of no interest. And why should I use pronouns such as “he, him or his” unless I was talking to someone else about “him”? It makes no sense. So let me say it again: I just want the blooming tights.
And neither (and this goes for shopping in the high street and online) do I want some needy email saying “how did we do?” Suffice to say that if I’m not happy I’ll tell the complaints department.
Everything is a performance these days, a way of projecting yourself or showing support for worthiness. Even crossing a road.
Last week saw the unveiling of another rainbow road crossing in central London celebrating all things LGBT. Never mind the growing evidence that visually impaired people or those with dementia find them hard to navigate, along with guide dogs and police horses.they don’t count, apparently.
The familiar black-and-white zebra crossings are not a style statement. They’re not meant to look pretty. They’re there to stop people getting killed. But instead we’re asked to join in this inane rejoicing over, well, what exactly? I have gay friends who find this sort of posturing as ridiculous as I do.
Everyone’s trying to lecture you all the time. A friend innocently posted a Joan Rivers joke on Twitter and was sternly reproved in an unexpected pile-on for failing to acknowledge Rivers’s position on Israel and the Palestinians. And much as I love so much on Radio 4, there’s an awful lot of humourless finger-wagging and endless attempts to make you feel personally responsible for all the world’s ills.
So forgive me David...he/him/his if I don’t tell you how wonderful you are for wearing a badge. Just sell me the tights. And the cheese.and I’m out of here.