The Courier & Advertiser (Fife Edition)
STRICTLY HAS ME PRANCING ABOUT IN MY PYJAMAS
Da da da da da da daaaaaaaaa, da da da da DA! Strictly is BACK! It is glitter ball season and I have absolutely NO shame in watching it, wearing pyjamas, from the comfort of my couch (no shame in the comfy game).
Of all the lies I tell myself, “It’s OK to look like this” is the one I use most, and watching Strictly just emphasises this tenfold.
These 15 contestants (I refuse to call some celebrities) are primped and preened, tanned, and glossed to within an inch of their shiny lives and, in this context, look fabulous.
I reassure myself with mutterings if I looked that good, I’d rock the weekly shop in my gold lame, fringed, skin-tight catsuit pushing my trolley down the frozen aisle.
The dog walk would be more of a shimmy than a stomp and I’d prance up every staircase, holding the banister only to stop halfway up, look over my shoulder and fire off a sultry gaze.
The mister can barely contain his hysteria at this.
He reminds me that I have been unable to walk in anything higher than Converse since first pregnant.
How rude! Especially when he won’t even consider shaving his chest and oiling up.
In previous years, Saturday evenings from mid-September were purely Strictly nights round ours.
As the kids were at an age where a babysitter was required for us to be “out out” and the mister was working more often than not, my friends and I would gather to discuss hair styles, make-up, favourite dresses.
The wee ones leapt about trying to copy intricate routines without sustaining
an injury. If there was some cheeky fizz flowing, we would sometimes join in, but only after the debate over who led was settled.
Considering I have never been a “girly girl” and have absolutely NO love of getting dolled up, my fondness for the series surprised me the most. 2021’s launch show
didn’t disappoint; you could almost smell the fake tan through the screen.
The only thing missing was biggest kid. Gracing us from her university halls, we managed to FaceTime through it.
Her rage palpable as we ate our delicious Chinese takeaway and she had (yet more) pasta. Honestly 90% of our financial problems would
be resolved if we just ate the food we have at home, but we fancied a treat.
She has now asked me to write her up a recipe book of all her favourites and as
hard as I try, I just can’t. I’ve searched for recipes for what she’s requested for dinner for
years, I’ve yet to find one for those teen favourites “don’t know” or “don’t care”.
The mister commented on us all “yapping through the entire show”. Apparently, women speak 20,000 words a day; me and two of our three kids can manage that (each) before breakfast. Poor lad.
BIG hello to everyone who, growing up, had report cards that said “talks too much”. You are OUR people.
I wonder if our kids might grow old reminiscing about programmes and films we watch together as a family?
I remember watching Noel’s House Party in Crinkly Bottom on a Saturday night.
The mere threat of a secret spy camera turning on inside the house had droves of 1980s housewives cleaning frantically. Not for visitors, just the very thought of the living room showing us up on national Saturday night TV. Pearls were clutched and brows furrowed until the spy-cam household was revealed safely somewhere else.
Fast forward 40 years and the kids are desperate for their modern-day
equivalents, Ant and Dec, to appear like magic and whisk us off somewhere.
I have pointed out, the people receiving such generous gestures have done exceptionally good deeds. The kids have yet to up their game.
Meantime, I’m holding out for Alan Titchmarsh’s knock on the door offering to sort out the garden – which is now on pause due to two downstairs ceilings falling in.
If anyone has Nick Knowles’s number, I’d be
grateful.