Quite

When we got back to school we had to write about Titian’s piece and we all said it was the greatest thing we’d ever seen. You see, every other altarpiece that came before it was polite, was proper, they followed the rules. There was beauty, yes, but that kind of energy? Absolutely not. This was a stand-out piece, something we knew we’d talk about in years to come. We asked Mrs Dale why she hadn’t told us what we were about to see, why she’d just said to meet at the back of the church. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Girls,’ she said, ‘you’ll learn that, in life, high expectations are a killer.’

Of course, she is completely right and I have never forgotten that truth. Don’t expect to have your mind blown, your feet swept up from under you. Don’t think that you’re going to have the best night, the best sex, the best job, the best life. Good to keep your hopes small, excellent to keep them low. Go see a film before you’ve read too many five star reviews, try that local Italian place before everyone on your street tells you the risotto is to die for. Avoid the hype and, equally, try not to oversell everything before people get a chance to see it for themselves.

I love being all knowing – you must watch this, you must read this, this will knock your socks off – but it’s cruel in a way. Let people discover alone, let them have their own eureka moment. Send them the book, drop the name of the film or mention the band – don’t tell them it will change their life as then it might not. Mrs Dale made art relevant, exciting, magical and most of us fell in love with it and continued to study/read about it/talk about it to this day. (I’m writing about it now and this happened 100 years ago.) When I wanted to go to university I couldn’t imagine learning about anything else. I loved literature, I loved classics but it had to be art. I specialised in Rembrandt and I still bore my kids rigid with stories about seventeenth-century Holland. Is it useful for Strictly? No. Is it useful for my soul? Totally.

You see, I don’t know much, but I do know that art is the answer. Of course, there’s eye shadow, great necking and heavy black coats, but looking up at a beautiful painting is about the most enriching thing you can do with your time. People talk about self-care and they’ll talk animatedly over a hummus sandwich about bath salts and meditation and yoga. That’s all well and good but popping into any place where there are paintings or sculptures dotted around is like an internal massage; it’s better than humming on a mat and at it’s very best – and this is big – it’s even better for your soul than mascara.

The next time you feel slightly wobbly, the next time you feel confused, go to a gallery. Go to any. If you’re in London spend half an hour in the National. It’s free, it’s next to a tube and its walls are genuinely the best in the world. You might love Van Eyck, you might be a Titian girl like me or you might just fall in love with Stubb’s horse. Whatever you like, the colours, the sweeping brush strokes, the majesty will carry you up into a different world.

We accept mediocrity all the time. The pasta is edible, the music on the radio is passable, the bus was a bit late but at least there was a seat. We get the kids to bed, we check their spellings, we make sure our friends are fine and we pour ourselves a glass of wine at 8 and then flop into bed after the news. We get by. Of course we’re grateful and we love our lives, but we’re not always aware of extraordinary feats. Just sometimes we need to be reminded of gobsmacking, heart-thumping, stop-you-in-your-tracks beauty.

I realise that, at this point, you might be saying to yourself ‘That short, orange lady off the telly is lecturing me about going to galleries’ and considering throwing this book into the recycling bin. ‘I bought this book for stories about Anton du Beke for god’s sake,’ you’ll mutter into your coffee. ‘I need the info on the Strictly curse, I absolutely refuse to hear about how Turner can change your life.’

But honestly, trust me in this one, and at least consider giving it a go. Don’t worry about a calming app, don’t spend a fortune on a life-enhancing eye cream (it won’t) and don’t worry about missing out on the latest boxset. Surround yourself with stunning works, just stop and look at one piece, give yourself twenty minutes to marvel in splendour and then go about your day. These artists have given us extraordinary gifts and it’s a mistake to ignore them. Go and be amazed.

If you can get to Venice I’d like to meet you there – first Saturday in February at 2pm? Though I realise I’ve built her up now, I realise I’ve done everything Mrs Dale said I shouldn’t. You won’t be wowed so please let’s forget what I said. Let’s say it’s just some oils on some wood, let’s pretend it’s something some bloke painted in 1515, some guy who was particularly good with the colour red. Am sure you’ve seen better, it’s not a big deal. Meet you at the back of the Frari (I’ll bring the tissues).

Here Comes the Summer

I’m going to come straight out with it. I don’t believe in summer. It’s all toes out (not fine) and enormous bottles of water and shoestring strap dresses and finding a tiny bit of earth to lie down on. It’s a heightened, terrifying collective joy and a rushing panic that plans need to be made.

In October, when people ask, ‘What are you doing at the weekend?’ it’s casual, it’s easy breezy. You reply, ‘Pub, maybe a book, that new Netflix show, we might finish the salami,’ and it’s put to bed. There’s some relaxed nodding and everyone moves on.

But when May, June rolls around and there’s a shard of light through the clouds and the weather app promises warmth, suddenly the questions are insistent, pointed and anxious in tone. Are you going to the park? Which one? Having friends round? I’m thinking of giving Jamie’s haloumi wrap a go. What drinks will you make? Got a blender for the daiquiris? Want to borrow mine?

There’s a strange zeal in the air, too much anxiety placed on just an afternoon. Two months ago and the whole weekend could be summed up by ‘a puzzle, some soup, afternoon sex’, but now you have to go into great detail. You pretend you have a garden (I do this) and mention re-potting a plant and doing something with weeds.

When friends come round in November a takeaway is fine; July arrives and suddenly you need to look for wooden bowls and matching salad servers (who has these?) and everyone is keen on ironed table linen and Pimms (any drink that needs cucumber to perk it up should be ashamed of itself).

Summer clothes are appalling – too much skin, too floral, too jaunty, too colourful. They’re all well and good in rural Italy when your skin is olive and your boyfriend has an old, clapped-out convertible Fiat and your grandma has some sort of ancient trestle table that’s always groaning under fresh lemons (with actual leaves attached) and mammoth jugs of wine. Then it makes sense. Sure, get your feet out, wear a sunshine yellow flowery midi dress, play summer music and stick on some body shimmer. But if you live in the UK then summer just won’t do. It should be illegal.

Basically, it should be full-time Winter here. Yes, I used a capital letter on purpose. Winter is twinkly lights and capes and roasted chestnuts and gravy and stews. Winter is skinny black jeans and dishevelled boots and chaotic hair and sex panda eye make-up. It is not shimmery gloss and flip flops. Winter is let’s huddle up at home at 4pm because it’s dark outside and why not, I’ll make mash and pour me a Baileys, babe.

Summer is too much pressure, too much high pitched squeals, too much forced fun. It’s blockbusters that are too loud and too long and music festivals rammed with people off their heads eating candy floss and wearing ‘I’m mad, me’ hats.

In summer mistakes can’t be made because the light is too bright, it’s too honest, nothing can be hidden under wool and denim. The fake tan has to be flawless, the bra needs to not be too tight and the cuticles need to be clean – all that endless sunlight shows up the errors. Parties start with good intentions and aggressively marinated meats at 3pm and drag on forever as it never gets dark. People are hammered and messy at 9, they’re slurring their words and falling off chairs and it’s still basically supermarket lighting outside.

Hideous food is passed round (beetroot and feta tarts; lettuce and fennel wraps) and upbeat music is played (I loathe upbeat music, I like sullen, grumpy tunes). There’s a frittata (can we just call it an omelette please?) and there’s hysteria about the barbecue. We all have to stand round and watch a man with a pair of tongs feeling like Tarzan. Wow, he turned the sausages, you’ve got a good one there! He torches (sorry, cooks) the food and then we all have to nod and agree that the addition of turmeric in chipolatas really is the best thing ever.

Grown-ups feel young in the heat. In the winter we know our place, we behave like old people, we act our age – it’s all crosswords, maybe some crochet or a brainteaser, we go to book clubs and eat toasties and get under our heavy duvets at 10pm. In summer, everyone goes barmy because they feel like teenagers. Adults walk around in baseball caps and 50-year-olds buy Converse hi-tops. Women who are usually happy in cardigans photograph themselves in hot pants, bunches and sucking ice lollies. Men stop wearing socks and organise frisbee in the park and the kids are up till midnight because their parents have got the karaoke out and the neighbours are round for prosecco and plates of parma ham with melon.

Summer then, please wake me when it’s over.

A Fringe

I’m not going to tell you to get a fringe like me. I’m not going to tell you to dye your hair dark brown like mine. And I’m not going to say the answer to life is hair falling in your face 24/7. In fact, if you’re prone to conjunctivitis it could be a terrifically bad idea. You might loathe my fringe (I have a lot of letters to prove it’s not, um, to everyone’s taste) but, and I’m being perfectly serious here, it’s given me a career.

I’m sure I got work because all those times producers were in a room ruminating on the next TV show, handing round digestives and they couldn’t remember names, they said, ‘We could always get the orange one with the fringe.’ Believe me, it’s not because I read out loud better than anybody else, it’s not because I hold a microphone with an extra special grip, it’s not because I can ask someone their name and where they’ve come from with more class. It’s because I have a thing, an epithet, a focus (OK, I don’t always have focus, mainly just a haircut, but you get the idea). Finding a uniform, a look, is simply a good plan.

When we were young, we liked playing around with what we wore. Ooh, it’s sunny today I’m going to be a double-denim girl and maybe I’ll tie that old gingham shirt with a knot so it’s a jaunty crop top. To complete the ensemble, I’m going to need peach blush and I might just draw on some freckles.

Then, a month later, you’d give grunge a good go for its money – I’ve worn this t-shirt to bed for four days and these jeans are covered in crumbs and gin, so I’ll do my eye make-up and then wipe it off with the back of my hand, leaving just a blue/black tinge. I’m so emo. I look like a thinker, actually maybe I’ll carry around that Turgenev I’m never going to read too.

Some weeks later, you’d see a friend at a party in a layered tulle skirt and leather jacket and become convinced that Cyndi Lauper had it right all along – until, that is, your head is turned by an ad featuring a woman walking purposefully on a New York City street. You’d immediately think, hold on, what I actually need to do is embrace trench coats, poker straight hair and an enormous bag.

We all did it and it’s important. We were trying people on, working out which felt the best.

Many of us carry on doing this right through university and even when we start work. Look at Alice, everyone respects Alice; I think it’s because she’s wearing Adidas Gazelles in dark grey. If I get Adidas gazelles I’ll belong and Alice will like me and then I’ll definitely do really well in this job. Oh, look at that, she’s added some stick-on black sequins onto her lanyard – I should do that too. Best to fit in, best to be like Alice.

And then, one day, quite out of nowhere, we’re frankly just too bloody knackered, too worn-out and no longer interested in the dressing up of it all. Am I going to go full siren in a pencil skirt today or should I go for masculine tailoring and a red lip? Am I thinking Sharon Stone here or should I go a bit Mel B? That leopard blazer is good, but too much with the handkerchief hem skirt from ASOS … We yawn, mutter how getting dressed can be hard work and it’s then we realise that it’s time to take it easy, take a load off, put our feet up and just decide.

Of all the people we were trying on, one will feel a bit easier, a little more comfortable, a little bit more like you. Your look might be ‘the girl with all the bangles’ or the ‘woman who only wears bottle green’ (this would actually be excellent) or you might be the human who can’t live without extremely baggy personalised dungarees. Of course, it might be more subtle – it might be that you always have streaky hair, you might always revert to bronzer. Whatever your thing is, embrace it, own it, invest in it and keep it. It’s now your adjective, your moniker, your handle if you will.

Mornings are no longer stressful. All the tulle/gingham/too-ripped jeans/black goth capes need to be chucked in a bag and taken to the charity shop. At this point in your life, seriously consider using a smaller cupboard. Into this compact space go the trousers you like, the tops you like, a pair of boots and maybe a couple of coats. Now you know what ‘you’ looks like, the clothes all match, they can be thrown on in any combination without thinking. That’s it. I know that magazines talk about a hideous-sounding ‘capsule wardrobe’ (we’re not going to the moon, FFS) but in this instance they are actually bang on. Choose a colour, choose a haircut (I also chose a tan shade – on the Dulux chart it’s called ‘terracotta: dark’) and commit.

You will save time, you will feel comfortable shopping knowing that only one thing will do. I went through so many phases (the one that sticks out was the electric blue bow tie worn with a man’s shirt and trousers entirely made of tapestry and no, you can’t see a photo) and it was so relaxing to finally opt for pirate meets French male mature student in November. It was just the easiest look. I like dark, I like messy, I like pointy shoes. Hello, this will be me. Done.

If it’s black or navy then it’s a yes, if it’s narrow jeans then it’s a yes, if it’s a big sweater then boom and if it’s a pea coat and roughed up footwear then we’re winning. Sure, I can admire other looks, but when I am shopping I don’t even look at the other stuff, I can delete it all from my head. Floaty chiffon, huge prints, low-cut tops – nope. Life just got more relaxed.

School mornings are easy with the kids as they wear the same shirt, the same trousers and the same tie. Follow them. Get yours from John Lewis too if you want and stick to it. There’s no heart-quickening in the shower I-have-a-meeting-what-should-I-wear or who-do-I-want-to-be-today drama. Just pick and be done with it.

And, while we’re here, if you do decide a fringe is for you, let me share what I have learnt. Have a long one (a short fringe has only worked for Larry Hagman and that’s a fact) and have it trimmed once every three months (when it’s overgrown it’s good). Comb your hair in the shower after you’ve applied conditioner (I can be unbelievably boring about this) and don’t use a hairdryer but just comb it into your eyes instead. Try to let it dry on its own and don’t worry if the sides curl up. Don’t use any product on it (especially not oil – I will never understand the ‘I’ve just washed my hair and now I want it to look greasy’ thing) and go about your business.

If your fringe is still jumping up and not behaving then go back to your hairdresser and ask for a heavier one. If you have curly hair it will have to be especially weighty. You don’t want anything apologetic here. If it needs to start at the back of the head to gain heft then so be it. If it starts parting randomly in the middle then it’s trim time. If none of the above works and you still want a curtain of hair on your forehead then it’s time to invest in a straightening iron. Wash, let it dry naturally and then yank as much as you can and iron until it’s a bulky field of mane. While it is unlikely that anyone will be able to see you clearly under there and they may describe you as ‘the one who looks like an English Sheepdog’ you now have a look. Good.

Bridge

Let’s chat about reputations.

Let’s start with me. We haven’t met but I’d really like you to think that I’m cool, maybe a little naughty. That all the tatty dark t-shirts and black filthy eye make-up means I might be a right laugh, a fun person to have a night out with. That I probably stay out late, hammering on the piano in a private members’ club at midnight while necking vodka. That’s certainly the vibe I’m trying to give off.

I can tell you now I’m none of those things.

Bridge’s rep, you could say, is also all wrong, a bit of a smokescreen. When I tell people I started playing in my 20s they look at me suspiciously. They think I might have got the right word but the wrong meaning. Do you mean you like to do gymnastics and create a bridge with your back after a couple of glasses of wine with the dancers from Strictly? Are you talking about extraordinary feats of civil engineering? Do you prefer a suspension, a truss or a cantilever?

When bridge the card game is mentioned it seems to conjure up for people images of old people, reading glasses round their neck, blanket on their lap, playing with a thimble of wine and some Ritz crackers. It’s just not true. Bridge is – and this is a massive statement but I’m sticking by it – simply the greatest game in the world. It’s not complicated, you don’t have to be clever, you don’t need to be good at maths (I’m numerically dyslexic, ask me to repeat a four-digit number back to you and I’ll throw up on myself in panic) and you definitely don’t need to be old.

The game consists of two parts – the bidding and the playing. I don’t know if you like spy stories, unpicking clues. I’m not sure if you fancy the idea of being Poirot or Columbo for an evening, if you inhaled Agatha Christie novels, but if this ticks any of your boxes then you’re going to absolutely adore the first round. No, you don’t have to dress up, it’s not a murder mystery party, no one needs to come to the table dressed as Colonel Mustard. Bidding is like being Bond (but less misogynistic and less interested in killing) as you and your bridge partner try to get to the perfect bid.

You go back and forth, you’re talking to each other using only two words – for example, ‘three hearts’ or ‘four clubs’ – you can’t give your hand away but through this coded chat you just might be able to work out if you can win this round. I’m not exaggerating when I say this is tense but terrifically addictive. There is no such thing as a bad hand in bridge. Whatever hand you’re dealt you can handle – either by winning your bid or taking your opponents down. This is slow, it’s stimulating, it’s nail biting and you know that feeling before someone you really fancy kisses you? The butterflies and slight giddiness? It’s like that. But there’s no rejection, plus you’re sitting down with snacks. Immediately better.

You find your bid. Everyone exhales. The next part is the play and this is nerve-wracking and completely exhilarating in equal measure. One of you will play, your partner’s hand will be down on the table and here’s the rub, the nugget, the zinger, you’re a team. It is official bridge practice to say ‘Good luck, partner’ when you lay down your cards and your partner replies with a ‘Thank you, partner.’ Now, I don’t want you to panic, you don’t have to bow, you don’t have to say it loudly but this really is the absolute joy of the game. The key word here is ‘partner’. Without wanting to sound like a Spice Girl, two really do become one. You might be playing, your partner might be playing but you are doing it together. You don’t win by yourself and, rather magically, you don’t lose by yourself in bridge. Of course if you play particularly badly you feel sad about letting them down but you’re not abseiling down a crevice in a torrential downpour, it’s not life or death, it’s just cards and they understand.

Bridge is about communication, it’s about linking in with each other’s head, it’s about using a part of your brain that is often (in my case, always) dormant. It is easily the sexiest thing you can do on a night out. The thrill is seeing your cards, the flirtation is the bidding and then the build-up comes to the fore with the play.

Bridge is not stuffy, it’s not for the over-70s. Find a bridge club and just start. If you don’t love it after the first session I’ll eat my Columbo hat. People talk about endorphins being released during exercise? This is a brain workout and you’ll go to bed higher than a kite. Much better than actually getting high at the Groucho.

Holidays

I feel so strongly about holidays I have used subheadings. I know.

BOOKING

I know it’s not cool, it’s not relaxed, it’s not attractive, but the truth is I like to be in control. When it comes to trips, I like to book. I want to choose where we go, how we get there and when we do it.

I nod while he says he’d like for us all to go to Sweden. I am doing a good job of ears closed listening (all women need this, it’s a skill we have to pick up from men) and I really look like I’m considering it. I even mention getting a guide book. Meatballs in punnets and walking through the city all day? What a lovely plan. Staying in an Airbnb and then a trip to the Abba museum? I’m nodding vigorously now. After 22 years together, he still hasn’t learnt that the more keen I appear, the less likely it is going to happen.

I actually whooped when he suggested going to the Secret Cinema once (dressing up and watching a film in a warehouse with other grown-ups all dressed up? Look, if you want to go to a swingers’ party just say so) and he was surprised when the tickets never showed up. He’s also convinced I seriously considered Ben Nevis in October, a pot-luck discovery car adventure with nothing booked in northern France and flying to South Africa on Christmas Day. He vaguely thinks that these things did not come to pass because something happened with expedia.com or I got some work (that I magically never went to) or there was a problem with getting rooms. (See also: anal sex, a homemade pizza oven – Dominos is up the road – and booking a sleepover for all of us in the bug house at the zoo). Super keen, yay, excellent, back of the net. Sure. Let’s definitely do that.

Look, I know. Of course I could just tell him. But I don’t want to be the naysayer, I don’t want to be the boring one when the rest of the family is up for cinnamon buns and lingonberries in the home of IKEA. Plus, I don’t really like confrontation – I actually often don’t have time for confrontation – and I’d rather not use my energy on explaining why I don’t want to do something. Smiling and nodding is simply the path of least resistance. Yes, of course baby. I would love to go to Tallinn for the weekend, I’ll have a look tomorrow.

PACKING

There are a few things I can’t stand – Ovaltine (a hot drink that smells of old socks but also develops a skin, are they nuts?), flying down a zip wire and people who tell you all about their dreams (save it). But the thing that I can’t actually stomach is packing. I can’t bear the stress, the counting of pants and the unending worry and panic about leaving stuff behind. On top of this, I am chronically, terribly, excoriatingly bad at it.

Here’s an example. I’ve just got engaged. We’ve been together a year and, to be frank, we’ve spent at least 300 of those days in bed. I’m 26 and gaga about him. I’m so in love, I’m so awed by the sex (don’t worry, my kids aren’t reading this, they think everything I do is chronic) that we really have just spent a year under the covers on a futon with the papers and old pizza. I’ve met his parents but it’s been brief. A few suppers, a Christmas Eve, a lot of smiling. I asked the right questions and we ate Danish food (gosh, herring three ways, gesundheit) and then we raced home again, tore our clothes off and got under the covers.