Designer handbags are for women who are afraid they can't keep their man. Apparently.

This morning I read an article in The Daily Mail (yes, I've caved in and started reading some of that tripe again as it makes me feel intellectually superior ) which reported on an article in The Journal of Consumer Research. Apparently, the report claims that a woman's choice of handbag is a method she uses to tell other women to back off from her man and how much a woman spends on accessories is a sign of how much she feels threatened by the competition.

So my handbag choice, which is usually on the large side, has nothing to do with the fact that I like to carry a lot of stuff? You know - like spare knickers, epipens, shop receipts from 1982, several varieties of painkillers and indigestion tablets (essential for any woman approaching/in the menopause), eye drops, reading glasses, sunglasses, more reading glasses (I like to be sure I can see that tiny writing on food packaging that says 100grammes/1500 calories) and a various assortment of other essential equipment that are necessary for my and my children's existence. At one time this essential equipment used to include a nappy and a dummy but now it's usually a tennis ball and my bank card. Of course, the bank card is really the most important reason I carry a handbag - although I could just carry my purse or perhaps even wear it around my neck on a cord.

Okay, I'm lying. The spare knickers are the main reason I carry a handbag. But I refuse to wear them around my neck. It would just look silly.

Anyhow, if someone could please pass me some cardboard, glue and scissors. Also, some Semtex and brown paper would be appreciated as I'm going to make my own "handbag" and mail it to the report's authors as a reward for writing the biggest load of vacuous tripe I've read for a long, long time. And last week I read the Labour Party Manifesto so we're talking a seriously long time here.

Now, to look at this report in a more serious manner - if it had claimed that women buy bigger handbags so they can club their love rivals to death I might have had given it some some credence. But according to the psychology professor in charge of the research women buy designer handbags as a status sign and that other women infer such accessories means the owners are well provided for and have a "devoted partner."

*chokes on cornflakes*

Yeah, right. So you couldn't just treat yourself to a handbag with money you earnt yourself? Has this professor even heard of the feminist movement? You know, I'm not absolutely sure this professor's qualifications are genuine. Maybe he's trying to hide the fact he's really got a degree in Media studies by making up some crappy stuff about handbags? Because, let's face it, that's got be a helluva lot easier than stem cell research.

I'm going to my Book Club on Friday. I'm going to study my friend's handbags and see who is trying to warn me away from their husbands. However, I'm being honest with you now, Readers - I think most of them would willingly give me their husbands if I wanted them. Free of charge. Probably with a holiday thrown in.

I think I'll get out my best handbag for the Book Club (I'm not actually sure which one that is) and see if any of my lady friends notices. I shall be on my guard just in case I see any of them pull out a little black book and scrub out Mr T's telephone number. 

I shall report back on this vital matter next week. In the meantime, if you're a woman please ignore the stares of any woman looking at your handbag - the truth is they probably just noticed your left the clasp undone and your spare knickers are on show.

As a result of this blog I decided to sort through my old handbags to select one to take to The Book Club. These are my spare knickers found in a handbag from 1991. The spare knickers in my current hand bag are... somewhat larger. And less frilly. Possibly even a little more absorbent.

Yes, I am still alive! (Tales from the Summer Holidays)

Maybe you' re wondering if I'm still alive? Maybe you're not. If not, why not? Come on, folks, I hope at least one person has missed little 'ol Mrs T! Now just to prove I'm alive (even if only to myself) I am going to wriggle my toes.

Okay they're all wriggling. Apart from the one I broke. Yes, I've broken another toe. Thanks to a combination of Master Benedict's strategically placed trainers and a heavy glass pot. It was a painful experience indeed which, as you might expect, resulted in some profuse swearing but also the creation of some new art on the hall wall where the soles of Master Ben's shoes impacted. You see -I have a talent for creativity - even under the most arduous of circumstances.

You know, folks, not one of the males in the household came to my assistance when I screamed out as my toe was brutally pulverised. How shocking is that? The guilty party, Master Benedict, did later remark that he had heard me cry out in pain but hadn't felt the need to check if I was still alive. Comforting. Let's just hope I don't have a heart attack one day. Mr T who had gone to bed early (alcohol induced) slept through it and when I queried Master Jacob he gave me a look of blank incomprehension which is the expression most teenagers give after wearing their Xbox headset for three days. By the way, I also sent Young Sam, who is away at university, a telepathic message of distress but strangely enough I didn't hear from him either - in fact I'm still waiting for him to reply to my text message from New Year 2011.

Still, it's not all bad news regarding Young Sam; I have actually seen him this year. I didn't recognise him - but that's another story. He's just started an MA in philosophy and is sharing a flat with another philosophy MA student and a young German lad studying for a PHD in the philosophy of maths. Whatever the hell that is. I expect it could lead to some really dull and mind-numbing exciting and mentally challenging conversations. You know, a German studying philosophy kinda gets me worried. No reason. Just call me... cautious. Anyway, last Saturday I went to see Young Sam to drop off his Mastermind Chair and as I entered the lounge I found the other MA student polishing the coffee table. A mixture of emotions (surprise followed by a glowing pride that the lad would do such a thing to impress me) overcame me so that I blurted out;

Oh, no need to do that on my account!

At which point the lad looked up and said:

I'm cleaning the table because Colin is coming home later.

Colin is the German PHD student. So in another words, my son and his flatmate have more respect (or possibly fear) of their German flat mate than they do of me.

I am obviously failing in my duties. This is not something I have encountered before. I shall have to raise the stakes.

Anyway, I turned around and stamped down the stairs with Young Sam beside me shouting Schnell, schnell to his flatmate. I then drove off with the cash still in my wallet I had planned to give Master Sam.

Okay, I didn't drive off with the cash. I went to the cash point to get it across the road and it was one of those ones that charge you for the transaction.

That's all the excuse I needed, folks. The cash stayed in the cash point.

Anyway, I'm back. I'm alive and I am looking forward to meeting Herr Colin in the near future. I may have some more stories to tell.

This is very similar to Young Sam's Mastermind chair. I imagine it is where he will sit when he and his philosophy flatmates are discussing world affairs. I just hope Master Sam doesn't go into the civil service.

Hacked Off

Have you ever had a day (or days) when you feel hacked off? Well I am having several. (About two weeks worth actually.) I seem to have a never-ending list of things to do and people and things that annoy me. From broken-down cars, annoying messages and telephone calls, even more annoying schools, frustrating tennis centres, dozy people who reverse into pedestrians, too much washing and ironing, unusual moles, weight gain, injured children, lost tennis matches, sore chicken bottoms....

Shall I go on? It's a pitiful tale. We could all be suicidal by the end of it.

Okay, I won't elaborate further.

Well not much.

Cripes, it's just well I don't live in Africa isn't it? I'd be really fed up then. Hmm...one must try to think positively. There is always someone worse off than yourself.

Think Kim Kardashain's arse, Mrs Turley. It's just huge, isn't it? Yeah, I know people say it's sexy big but they're not fooling me. I have a big arse. I know the truth.

Blimey, I sound like a depressed writer. I am going to self diagnose myself with bi-polar.

Do not email me, text me, phone me or contact me in anyway unless you have good news as this is my current disposition which is made worse by the fact that having bought AVG Tune Up yesterday to speed up my PC  Master Jacob has purchased a game which has been downloading for about 18 hours. My computer is now working so slow I am contemplating taking a hammer to either his PC or mine. Or both. By the way, I started this post at 8 am this morning.

Luckily, writing is very therapeutic for me. I can let out a whole stream of obscenities  thought and I instantaneously feel better. So anyway, accordingly, this morning I thought I'd write some silly stuff and get myself back on track and just as I started writing the phone rings from Master Ben's school to wind me up some more. Gez. Gimme a break! I'd literally only just got over the text message from Master Jacob's school to tell me he was late to school  - which I already knew as I dropped him there. Unbelievably, he did not fly, parachute or teleport himself to school - I dropped him there because we already have a prior arrangement for him being late because of his tennis and we were a couple of minutes later than usual. Really, is it necessary to text me about lateness two days before the end of term when everyone knows that for the last three weeks of term all they do is watch DVDs? Anyway, telling me he is a few minutes late is not going to make any difference to whether or not he will be late again because if I want to go to the loo before I go out I darn well will go to the loo. Personally, I find it difficult to drive my car with my legs crossed and soggy knickers. Maybe teachers don't. Hmm. There's a question to ponder. Anyway, I thought about texting back to say I have a bowel disorder but to be honest I thought it would be lost on them. I just texted back and said "We were watching a DVD."

So now, where was I going with this? Oh yes, depressed writers. That's not me. I'm just an annoyed writer. (Verging on mania.) All will be good when I hear some nice happy news like the Duchess of Cambridge has given birth to triplets.

However, if I hear/read any more new about how many millions J K Rowling is going to make out of  her book published under her leaked pseudonym I am going to listen to a Leonard Cohen album and gorge myself to death.

Now I know what it's like to live in California!

We have a heatwave in the UK. I am so hot I actually have no bra on. Fortunately, I am not planning to go outside.  (I don't want to be mistaken for an elderly aqua aerobics participant.)

I don't think we have a had a proper heatwave since 1976. That was the year we had a heatwave all summer and I sat on an ants nest. I remember it well.

The Question of Second Hand Books and the Continuation of My Writing Journey

After six years writing and blogging I am now, at last, into the final hurdle of completing a novel. My editorial report is back and it is much better than I expected. There are a few suggestions though. Fundamentally, these are adding extra material to flesh out some of the relationships and in one case to develop one of the more humorous story lines just for the pure entertainment factor. I have decided to follow this advice and to do this by inserting two, possibly three, new chapters which should slip easily into place.Writing more silly stuff for me is comparatively easy so I can now move full steam ahead knowing the end is truly in sight.

At last - A dream I understand!

I have mentioned my dreams several times on my blog and how I can't understand them. There was the dream where I was a secret agent and parachuted into France with my horse. There was another where  I auditioned for the role of Santa Claus in a Ricky Gervais movie and there was one when I visited a prop shop where actors bought their props and where I discovered that in the garden they were selling mock decaying bodies for episodes of CSI.

The Dangers of Female Changing Rooms and Aqua-Aerobics

Right, first thing's first. I do not participate in aqua-aerobics. Aqua-aerobics is a sure sign of impending death through one of the following:

a) age
b) obesity
c) an irate swimmer grabbing you by the head and drowning you in the deep end.

The irate swimmer may or may not be called Mrs Jane Turley.