Getting The Christmas Party Started

Shirley Bassey is brilliant, it's official. This week she's been everywhere promoting her 'must have' new CD, 'The Performance' and it's going straight to the top of my Christmas list. Alan Yentob's 'Imagine' profiled her and was so absorbing I just wanted it to go on and on but it was her appearance on Graham Norton that stole my heart. She was hilarious and stunning in equal measures with apparently boundless energy for a woman of 27 let alone 72, and an infectious naughty streak. I don't think I've ever seen her interviewed before but it wasn't what I was expecting. In the 'Imagine' we got to see her working on the new songs for the CD, written by an eclectic mix of the good and the great from the Manic Street Preachers to KT Tunstall. Each was given the SB treatment and magically transformed before our very eyes.

Which is all rather marvellous because I shall need something to raise my Christmas spirits. This year the son gets to do the Continental with his Dad and with cash severely strapped there'll be no beach action for me so I'm being the good daughter and going to see my mother. Normally I don't. My brother (divorced and childless) does a very good line in Bah Humbug and so I could imagine us sat in a darkened room, an unlit fire, slurping a bowl of gruel.........actually it's not that bad, well hopefully. I am attempting to embrace the countryside in all it's festive glory, go to the pub and cheer on the Boxing Day charity fun-run and so on. As luck would have it, a good friend of mine is appearing in pantomime at an almost local theatre, starring along side Julian Clarey, he will give us his ugly sister, and we're all going.....oh yes we are!!

Top tip: Mineral powder foundation, easy and quick to apply, defies wrinkles and leaves you with more time to party........

I know it's only rock and roll.....

The thought of going out on a Friday or Saturday night holds less and less appeal in London. When once the weekend was looked forward to with eager anticipation, an endless sea of hedonistic pleasures, now, the streets where I live start to fill up early with packs of eager young ladies, scantily clad (why is it the bigger the girl, the smaller the outfit?), and totally up for it. Burly bouncers stand po-faced rocking on their Doc Martens outside the once humble pub, checking the lads who shuffle about in the cold night air, violently sucking in the smoke, puffing out their Clearasiled cheeks, rummaging in their condom stuffed pockets for their ID. Anything over 35 heads for home, by 9 the streets are deserted of all grown-up life, herded on by the youth police, "Move along there's nothing for you out here." A few brave the dark and scurry off to the theatre or a restaurant, the natural home of the mature, but otherwise Friday and Saturday nights appear to belong to the young.

So it was with some trepidation that last Saturday night I went to see a band. It was cold and wet and very windy but the venue was only round the corner and the friend of the friend was very keen to galvanise the troops, so, fuelled with a couple of vodka tonics, off we went.

Outside the north London cellar, teenagers with cigarettes and mobile phones thronged. My initial instinct was to tell then to put their coats on and although we looked more like parents there to pick up children, with hands stamped, we descended the stairs into a small basement room. Beneath Highbury we discovered a hot, dimly lit bar reminiscent of a Paris club or East village haunt. Boys with full beards (what is that about?) and girls in silky scarves and bits of black lace (reminding me of my own college days) mixed with a number of balding, bespectacled men of a certain age, two with pony tales and one in a navy blazer, all lurking in the gloom.

We found our party and ordered drinks at which point the band came on stage, more a sort of platform really, and to my great joy, they were older than me...... Anyway, they were very.....enthusiastic and quite entertaining in a Lobster Rock sort of way and, after the second vodka and much posturing and posing by the lead singer, we were cheering with the crowd. The man with the mic turned out to be Valentine Guinness, as in the famous pint, and the band was The New Forbidden. We were standing at the bar which, because of the size of the venue, was also the side of the stage, when suddenly Valentine careered towards us and started pointing. At me. I don't know what the lyrics he was singing were but I only hope they were complimentary...........The biggest shock though was when he introduced the band. "On lead guitar....Loyd Grossman"!! Is it only me that didn't know that Loyd 'through the keyhole' Grossman by day is a rock God by night?
I mean, who'd have thought..........

Top Tip: Never leave home without Bach Rescue Remedy

Fa-Fa-Fa-Fashion ...... beep beep!

The phrase, 'at least I've got my health' is becoming less and less of a joke these days. Last year 4 of my friends were diagnosed with cancer, in less than 6 months: 2 breasts, one skin and a throat, and he didn't even smoke. They were all 48 and are now all in various stages of treatment or recovery but their much hoped for clean bill of health seems to be a bit of a lottery, as much to do with luck as science. Looking death straight in the face certainly puts the onset of old age in perspective. While I bemoan the fact that this time next year I'll have reached a half century, my oldest friend, from junior school no less, embraced her 50th last week with as much gusto as her medically-battered body could muster, and is very much looking forward to her 60th, when she is better. She can't wait for her gray hair....to grow back, the spread of middle age to cover her emaciated frame and the crapey chemo-skin to give way to the wrinkles of old age because old age is something that may not be hers to bemoan.

The Sunday lunch celebration was planned, and I wondered what I should wear and then I realised I have nothing to wear.........or at least nothing age appropriate. Can I still wear skinny jeans and converse at 49? Is my Diesel dress too 80s for my own good? If you can remember wearing it the first time, should you be wearing it again? Apparently not, according to my cousin. But surely if you can still fit into it......I don't feel old so do I have to dress old? But what's left? Do I abandon my twisted denim skirt for something more sensible in tweed with a twinset and pearls.....well yes if it's a Vivienne Westwood twinset. Now there is a woman who knows how to fly in the face of convention. She has never even seen the rule book let alone made any concessions to it and yet her designs have revolutionised the way we all dress. So when does trendy become tragic? When you hit 40? Or 50? Or was it 35?

Thus, when asked to entertain my unwell friend's two half term-holiday daughters of 11 and 13, and with a view to over-hauling my wardrobe, I took them shopping. However, the best laid plans and all that...... the 13 year old is the image of her mum at that age and all the clothes on offer in Top Shop appeared to be exactly the same as when we were teenagers, my personality defining fashion era. I gleefully grabbed at a little sequined jacket, shiny leggings and fluffy, off-the-shoulder sweaters, floaty bits of Bibaesque chiffon, sparkly hair bands and flowery smock tops, to the sound of their raucous giggles and chants of 'no-way, you can so not wear that' and well.....they had a point. So it was, with eye-rolling ecstasy, that I was dragged, kicking and screaming, away from a Kate Moss shoulder-padded, diamante studded sweater, and relinquished the opportunity to conduct a requiem for my youth.

However, layers of cashmere in subtle shades of grey aren't really my thing and I've never been able to pull off the groomed look, I'm more of the second-hand rose with a dash of designer label: Doris Day meets Patti Smith by way of the thrift store. There was nothing for it but to get back in the closet and retrieve the skinny jeans and biker boots, a bit of Top Shop chiffon and a Luella Bartley cardie with her bat motif to amuse the children. It may not have been chic but the look went very well with roast chicken and anyway, life really is too short to worry about what other people think.....

Top tip: To keep young and beautiful, start the day with a mug of green tea.

Some Like It Hot

London is not for everyone, granted, but I reckon if you can't handle the heat, stay out of the city. There is nothing worse than a neo-countryite taking a day-trip to town and then complaining about the cost and the crowds and the buses. They're our buses and only we can complain about them, we know they're too hot and too crowded and we hate the bendy-buses but they do, eventually, take us to some of the world's greatest galleries and museums, theatres and restaurants (even if they are prohibitively expensive). Plus, if I want to go kick coloured leaves in the autumn sunshine, I can in Regents Park, or Hyde Park or on the glorious Hampstead Heath. I can row boats on the Serpentine and eat ice cream on the South Bank, all within spitting distance of obscure Oriental underground films, cutting-edge, prize-winning art and every variety of Balsamic vinegar known to man. I live here despite the hardships and expense because, right now, there's nowhere else in England I want to live. And the onset of middle age has done nothing to change that. However, I know a number of people who have made the momentous decision to up sticks and move to .....the sticks. And well done, good for you, hurrah there's more room on the god-awful bendy bus, I applaud your choice. But, I do not need to be told every ten minutes why it was the best thing you ever did, should have done it sooner, and oh what a dark dangerous place London is. Because actually it's not. You know you'd be back in the city in a hot second given half the chance.

I never have to bang on and on about how wonderful the place I live in is because it's very name carries sufficient cache without any embellishments, as in Paris, New York, Rome, we all know what's missing. I think the older I get the more the city has to offer. I may have made room at the bar but there's still plenty to do out there that doesn't involve an illicit deal and a glow stick. Neither do I feel the need to slag off Brighton, or diss Diss, or go on endlessly about the joy of Gloucestershire's Daylesford Organic farm shop. . . . .and anyway, I can buy muddied vegetables every weekend in a school playground only 5 minutes walking distance from my graffiti tagged doorstep. No, I respect anyone's decision to call it a day, cancel the subscription to Time Out, give up their Oyster pass and go native, just please don't feel the need to share it with the rest of us. To misquote Samuel Johnson; when you are too old for London......

Top tip: Check out the website for The Union Chapel for an excellent London night out.

The Art of Drinking

Old age and alcohol can be a tricky mix, hangovers become more painful, the recovery period longer and longer, but the need to celebrate to the sound of corks popping, and the desire to curl up on a cold evening with a glass of red, does not diminish. So now I try to think before I drink. The consumption of vast quantities of water is a must and headache pills are popped before bed, a necessity to ward off certain misery in the morning. But, with the passing of the years, like most things that were once fun inebriation holds less and less appeal. However, I did get drunk twice this week, once by accident and once to celebrate a birthday, one resulted in the loss of my reading glasses, the other in buying a Tracey Emin print.

The pale pink lychee martini seemed such a good idea at the time, sat as we were in the winter sunshine on the roof terrace of a fashionable members club. Indeed, what better way to say 'happy birthday', and they were delicious. Then it was off to the Zoo Art Fair, billed as 'a considered introduction the next generation of art professionals' and the Eastend's answer to the Frieze. Now, it just so happened that only last week I was bemoaning the fact that despite going to art college, and being a keen visitor to galleries and exhibitions, I didn't own a piece of original art. I would turn 50 without owning a piece of original art and that was just wrong, and what I'd really like to own was something by Tracey Emin, whom I love, but that could never happen now because it would just by way too expensive. And then I saw it, on the White Cube stand, a Tracey Emin print nestled between an Anthony Gormley and a Gary Hume, we weren't even going to ask the price, safe in the knowledge that whatever it was it would be too much. But, fuelled with the near neat alcohol, we did. '£300' came the reply, at which point I said, 'Really?' and the chap said yes, so I said it again...... and again, and I think he was about to call security when me and my friend whipped out our credit cards and bought one each. Apparently Tracey, top woman that she is, wanted to do something at a price people like me could afford. So, while Damian, Gary, Gavin etc were all on offer with a few extra naughts, there was our Tracey, up for grabs.

So, becareful what you wish, I bought number 50 of 200, a sort of early birthday present to myself and now I carry a postcard of my new purchase, proudly showing it to family and friends. Now if I could just find my glasses.....



Top Tip: Jo Malone's divine bath oils work really well as 'perfume', last for ages and are much cheaper.