Cunt Cutechicksguide Da 9919drg P 1742 Cute Chicks Guide Bernadtte Strachan - Bernie's Blog

THE WORLD ACCORDING TO MAVIS  It's been a varied week for the hairiest member of the family. One afternoon she was sporting a headscarf, courtesy of Niamh. It rather suited her. Another day she went past my study door in a doll's pushchair, pushed by Niamh's giggling friend, Skye. The look of silent pleading on Mavis' face was moving. And funny. But this morning she asserted herself, growling, jumping and protecting the family from a pizza flyer that came through the letterbox.

THE WRITING PROCESS  I wrote my first book, back in 2003, in longhand, sitting at the kitchen table. It felt pleasantly retro. These days I write straight on to a sleek white Apple MacBook. There are always notebooks around, though. I have favourite pens, just cheap ones I buy in bulk on the internet. I enjoy their familiar narrow shape as I bash down sudden inspiration.  I have a study of my own these days, too. It's a pretty room, sticking out from the back of the house, with a window over the desk and french doors out to the garden. It's tiny, yet manages to boast a Victorian fireplace too. My desk is a chrome 1930's boxy design with a leather top. The blind is pink (as befits a romcom writer), the walls are white, and on the chimney breast there is green geometric wallpaper.  There are books crowding shelves, along with box files of paperwork covered in an Orla Kiely print. My favourite photo of my Dad, who died in 1998 (twelve years ago! All that love gone to waste!) smiles from the mantelpiece. Mavis generally snores from a rug on the floor. Niamh pops in slightly too often during the school holidays. Matthew leans on the door jamb a lot, suggesting tea, coffee, an illicit biscuit. I can see the pear tree out of the french windows. And the banal block of flats beyond.

Can you tell how much I love this room?

ENCOUNTERS WITH THE FAMOUS: ROBBIE WILLIAMS & ME
He's in the news again, getting married to somebody called Ayda and teaming up with Take That again: I prefer his slightly bonkers phases when he sees UFO's and buys wolves for the back garden.

Years ago, when Robbie was enjoying the first flush of his solo success, I had a boyfriend who was chummy with Guy Chambers, the uber-talented bloke who co-wrote Robbie's truly memorable stuff. One evening we found ourselves at Robbie's 'pad' (it was a pad, not a flat, trust me) in Notting Hill, awaiting a barbecue prepared by Terry Wogan's son. (Yes! Terry Wogan's son – this sounds as if I was dreaming, but it's true.) The pad was the top floor of a large white stucco house. Every surface was white. The furniture was space age-y white and chrome, huge leather sofas and pristine white rugs.  Tasteful, classy and luxurious, with a long terrace offering a view of a sunset conjuring up pinks and apricots and mauves just for us.

Guy sat beside me on the sofa and said out of the corner of his mouth “What do you reckon is the only thing Robbie chose in this room?” I looked around at the books on art, the striking paintings on the wall, the tasteful furniture. My eye fell on something in the middle of the  white marble coffee table.
“The movable action figure of Darth Vader?” I suggested. Guy nodded.

(BTW Robbie Williams was delightful, if shy. When we left I thanked him for having me and he snorted and said “Ooh missus”. Just like you'd expect him to.)

WHAT ARE THEY TRYING TO TELL ME?  I suspect my iPod shuffle of sarcasm. I laboured long and hard over a key romantic moment in the current book (it was a three Fondant Fancy scene: the chick lit equivalent of coal mining) and sat back to read my lush, pink-tinged prose. Cue Chopin's Funeral March.

Likewise my Ocado account is being facetious with me. The 'Things We Thought You Might Like' feature suggested hair remover and a marrow.

TELLY  Grandma's House BBC 2 Monday nights, 10pm
I didn't expect great things from this, presuming it to be a TV presenter's vanity project, presumably funded in an attempt to keep Simon Amstell, late of Never Mind the Buzzcoks, at the Beeb. Idly roaming the channels, listless and Victorian Invalid-like, I happened on the first episode, and fell for it. A slice of Jewish life, it had me from the line “I don't have a life any more. I can't eat crisps” uttered by Rebecca Front, as Simon's Mother. Affronted by his decision to resign from his high profile presenting job, she unleashes the maternal thumbscrews to try and force him to carry on, so she can carry on boasting about him.

How much this fictional family reflects Simon Amstell's real one is impossible to know (unless I ask him, I suppose, but that would entail tracking him down and befriending him; I don't have the time). The detail smacks of truth – I'm thinking of the aunty with the moustache here. I've long cherished a theory that Irish and Jewish families are alike and Grandma's House bears it out: Amstell's horrified refusal to reprise his childhood (very poor) impression of Dame Edna Everage for his Grandma ends with him giving in and shrieking an anguished Hello possums! as the only way of escaping from ruthless maternal pressure. Irish Mothers know how to do that too. Possibly there's an academy somewhere teaching the Golda's and the Bridgets the rudiments of child domination. tCunt Cutechicksguide Da 9919drg P 1742 Cute Chicks Guide Bernadtte Strachan - Bernie's Blogp Chicks e e Chicks Cute Cute rCunt Cutechicksguide Da 9919drg P 1742 Cute Chicks Guide Bernadtte Strachan - Bernie's Blogg o o Cute Cute Chicks