What's in a name?

I was named 'Patricia' after Queen Victoria's grandaughter - Princess Patricia of Connaught. My dad must have thought he'd give me a bit of a head start in the 'class' department. Perhaps this is how he hoped I'd turn out.

Unfortunately, along with the elocution lessons, it didn't really work and I turned out more of a...

....only with longer hair! I hated the name 'Patricia' passionately. Names go in cycles and we can often roughly date a person's age by their christian name. (I fear there will be an awful lot of middle-age Kylies and Keanus at some point, all cursing their parents.) 'Patricia' is a 1940s name and I certainly wasn't born in the 1940s! This was also a bone of contention when I berated my poor dad for my christian name. But absolutely worst of all, I was never actually called Patricia! From day one I was known as...I can barely bring myself to write it down...PAT!!! Can you imagine calling a baby 'PAT'??? Even one with an excessive amount of chubby folds. No offense to any Pats reading this, but I hated it. Pat rhymed with fat, mat, rat, tat...school was not pleasant. Then at the age of 10 I had an epiphany! I discovered Pattie Boyd.

If a fairy godmother could have granted me one wish, it would have been that I would look like Pattie Boyd. I thought she was the most beautiful girl on earth and, not only that, she eventually married my favourite Beatle, George Harrison. That was it! I dropped the 'e' and told the world that from now on I was known as 'Patti' Little did I think of how I might feel about that at middle-age. Because, at ten years old, middle-age was a zillion years away, wasn't it? Now, yet again, I find myself hating it with a passion. It didn't help that I married someone with the surname 'Bright' For the last ***** years I've lived with a name that wouldn't look out of place on a doll at ToysRus!

However, I am assured it could be much worse. My O.H great grandmother appeared to have remarried at some point to a Mr Pink! Had my O.H grandfather taken his mother's new married name, I would now be PATTI PINK!!! WELL, NO I WOULDN'T. Even if my O.H had the looks of an Adonis, the voice of Owen Wilson (my favourite) and the money of Bernie ecclestone, I would not have married him with the surname PINK! When I lived in Texas, I became friends with a girl who also hated her name and was dying to change it. We lost touch and a few years later she popped up on the local television channel with an entirely different christian name and an exotic one at that. I always thought it was impossible to change a christian name but since then several people I know have changed theirs. I wish I had done that! My favourite name is my mothers - Kate. I researched my family history and there's a whole bunch of 'Kate's so why in gods name I ended up with Patricia, I'll never know. Is it possible to change? Well, y'know. I'm thinking about it. For a couple of people in the know, I have already assumed this identity in a certain area. So watch this space - there might be a Kate popping up somewhere near you.

Smells like the 1970s!

'Eeerrrwww! What is that?' I shrieked as my O.H wafted through the kitchen door smelling like a used car salesman.

'What?' he replied, sheepishly.

'It's you! Oh no. You haven't...'

'It was very big in the 70s,' he retorted defensively.

'It's 2012!'

'Well, I like it,' he snapped. 'Can't understand why you don't.'

'It reeks!'

'Perhaps my customers will appreciate it,' he said as he flounced out of the house taking a tidal wave of the 1970s with him.

'Where are you going?'

'Fairbourne.' (by the sea, for those of you that don't know)

'Well, go and stand on the beach when you're done and don't come back until that disgusting smell is halfway across the sea to Ireland!'

My O.H was wearing Brut. A 'fragrance' and I use that term loosely, that was unleashed onto an unsuspecting public in the 60s by Faberge. I have to admit, at the time, it was a revelation. Despite being labelled as 'The Essence of Man' I knew several girls that wore it.

When my O.H recently re-discovered it in a store, he was thrilled.

'Oh, this brings back memories,' he sighed as he doused himself in it while I found one of the masks we usually reserve for cleaning particularly stinky houses and glued it to my nose. It was my intention to make his Brut mysteriously disappear but he clearly doesn't trust me and keeps it well hidden.

Brut was supposed to be the smell of 'real men' and the heavy weight boxer Henry Cooper, the original 'face' of Brut told men to 'splash it all over' in an ad campaign -- and splash it over they did! The smell of it floods my mind with memories of sweaty lads, in a smog of Brut, loitering around the dance floor in the Leicester Top Rank Disco.

Philip Glenister reportedly wore Brut to get into the character of DCI Gene Hunt.









It isn't the worst fragrance in the world. In my opinion, that is definitely reserved for Old Spice. When I was a teenager I had a very nice boyfriend who had impeccable manners. He opened doors, walked me to the bus station after we'd been out and wouldn't leave until I was safely on the bus. Unfortunately, one day he appeared to take me to the ABC cinema and was drenched in Old Spice. I knew at that moment, our relationship was doomed.

My father - six feet two with hands the size of dinner plates - thought aftershave/cologne was effeminate. The only thing manly enough for him was Brylcreem, which he pasted on his thick black hair, driving my mother mad as she could never get it out the pillowslips when she washed them.

I remember watching him shave one day and I suggested he get some aftershave.

'Aftershave!!!' he said, horrified. 'Only ********* wear stuff like that.' I won't tell you his actual words as they weren't particularly politically correct, but he firmly believed that any man that splashed 'scent' on himself wasn't a real man. He also felt that way about chocolate. According to my dad, only ***** ate chocolate!'

And it's odd how old attitudes rub off on you as a child, because when I first met my O.H I recall looking at him a bit suspiciously when I discovered he could easily eat a warehouse of Cadbury's!

So folks, I am now about to search for that odious bottle of Brut before my O.H decides it's also cool to undo his shirt buttons to his waist and wear a medallion!

The Cleaning Lady Escapes!

Yes, I escaped. I went to London for a long weekend to see my son, Kristian, and I stayed at a gorgeous flat in Wapping (which belonged to my son's lovely girlfriend, Nadine.)

I remember Wapping in the 70s when I lived in London. It was grimy, seedy and not a place you'd particularly want to be. But now? Cobbled streets and converted warehouses. A lovely place to live. In fact, a lot has changed in London since I was a single career girl living in the big city. The tube trains are smart, clean and efficient. In my day the trains were filthy and people smoked on them. Floors strewn with discarded butt ends. There's nothing quite like being packed into a tube at rush hour and have a sweaty bloke puff his Players No6 in your face all the way home!

So Wapping was fantastic as was the rest of my weekend. We went to Covent Garden, Trafalgar Square to see the Olympic clock, the National Gallery to see Van Gogh's Sunflowers and a few other famous paintings, had dinner at a very nice restaurant and then a massive surprise for me - tickets to see Blood Brothers! Which was fantastic!!!

Next day, up early, bacon sandwiches and a lovely, long walk from Wapping along the Thames, across Tower Bridge, passed Boris's house and onto Borough Market.

London's oldest food market. Atmospheric and....

...mouth-watering. So much gorgeous food.

A roast beef bap and then...

...a saunter over the Millennium Bridge to St Pauls and on to the Museum of London for another surprise - tickets for the Dickins Exhibition.





Sunday was spent in an aromatic heaven.

Columbia road flower market.

Brick Lane Market.

The Boiler House Food Hall - Brick lane.

Sunday lunch in...

...The Mayflower.








What a fabulous weekend and all thanks to Kristian and Nadine!

But my escape didn't end there because just two weeks later I was with another of my sons, Stefan, at the awesome...

Rammstein gig at the LG Arena, Birmingham!







So, after that totally brilliant February, I expect I'd better get back into my Cinderella rags and go and clean someone's house!

Valentine's Day! Is romance dead?

With Valentine's Day approaching, thoughts are turning to romance and a couple of stories in our family histories seem, well...very romantic.

My grandmother once told me that my great, great grandmother was a well-to-do Irish 'lady' who fell in love with her butler and ran away with him from Ireland to Liverpool where they set up a 'love nest' and had two children. Whether or not that is true I don't know. My grandmother was a feisty old bird with many, many stories which she enjoyed regaling to us whilst wearing her mink coat (she was rather well-off) and sucking noisily on what she called 'pep-mints'.

My other half has an ancestor who was a blacksmith who went away to war, fell in love with a dark-eyed Romani woman (who strangely was also a blacksmith) married her, brought her back to Wales where upon they lived happily ever after with their large brood of children.

Now that IS true and I have to admit - very romantic.

Sadly though, I'm not in the least a romantic soul. That was killed stone dead when at thirteen, Michael Sparks (the most fancied boy at school) told me I was the only girl for him and twenty minutes later was snogging Prudence Wright on Glenfield Golf Course. And Prudence, wherever you are in the world - I still haven't forgiven you!!!

That was it! Stuff all that sweet talking malarky. From that day on I wanted love shown in tangible, practical ways that demonstrated true affection and thoughtfulness not a quick kiss and empty, meaningless promises.

I'm unimpressed with chocolates and champagne, soppy poems and cards. Lead me to a bedroom scattered with rose petals and all I'd be thinking is 'who's going to have to clean that lot up? Me, I suppose! Where's the Dyson?'

For our first wedding anniversary I bought my O.H a coal scuttle.

Yes, I know it wasn't very romantic.

But I saw it as being thoughtful because he was forever complaining about the rusted old bucket he dragged to the coal bunker outside our cottage.

I once bought him a carpet stretcher (as you know, he cleans carpets) He didn't seemed particularly thrilled at the time but hey, wasn't he always saying ' if only I had a carpet stretcher.'

And what about the time I bought him some furry inner soles for his shoes?

See, practical and thoughtful! And yes, he was pleased with those as his feet were always freezing in the winter. Isn't that better than a mushy card?

And now you are all feeling really sorry for him, aren't you?

However, seeing as it's nearly Valentine's I decided to do a little internet research into this whole 'romance/Valentine's Day thing' and believe it or someone described Valentine's Day as a:

"A Road Chef (Little Chef) on the highway of love. It's a place where you could stop and buy a tasteless but expensive meal or you could just take this opportunity to park up with the one you love and appreciate the journey you've made together"

Well now, once you've stopped gagging, I will explain the above quote came from a French person -- need I say more?

But it would seem that people don't necessarily want roses and chocolates or a petal strewn bed and champagne. As nice as they may be, research shows that people would prefer little gestures that say 'I care.'

They want a thoughtful little phone call in the middle of the day to ask how they are.

A nice meal prepared for them when they get home from a hard day at work.

A lovely, hot bath run for them when they are tired.



In other words, thoughtful yet practical ways that say I care about you.

So I was right, after all.



On the other hand, I wouldn't say no to this!

The holidays are over - thank goodness!

During December 2011 I longed for the xmas holidays. We were so busy - cleaning carpets in hotels & homes, spring cleaning houses so they were nice for visitors or just because they were going on the property market, rushing home and cleaning offices and then all in between this madness working on our new online business. It was crazy and how we got through it all without having a nervous breakdown I'll never know. I suppose what kept us going was the tantalising thought that come xmas eve we could down tools and R-E-L-A-X.

I had it all planned. I was going to spend the entire day in my pyjamas, eat my own body weight (ahem, that's rather a lot) in Roses chocolates, and drape myself across the sofa whilst watching endless television.

I yearned for this wonderful break from work. I dreamt of these few days when we were going to do -- absolutely nothing.

By eleven o'clock Xmas morning I had decided that being in PJs all day was slightly stupid especially when I had to go out into the garden to pick up after my dogs. (Pyjama wearing woman spotted in garden with a pooper scooper!)

By three o'clock in the afternoon I was sick of the sight of Roses chocolates and by seven o'clock I was sitting, crossly, on the sofa telling anyone that would listen that TV was not like it was in my day when on xmas day we actually had television programmes worth watching!

Morecambe and Wise Christmas Special!

By Boxing day I was at my computer, hoping some other bored souls would be buying from our online shop and by the bank holiday Monday if anyone had asked me to clean out their oven or scrub their bathroom, I'd have jumped at the chance.


I guess what I really need is to get away to somewhere fun and interesting over the holidays because being a couch potato doesn't do it for me.

So next xmas - God willing - I'm going to find somewhere nice to go. Any suggestions?