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Who’d have thought that an off the cuff comment on an Instagram post I made, would prompt so much thought and consume so much of my time for the past few hours; ‘I wish I had your life…’ 

Of course, that’s not really true, no one really wishes for anything other than the life they already have, do they?  They wish for what they perceive.  Social media has so much to answer for doesn’t it.  With the ability for everyone to be proficient in photoshop skills, with a glut of photo manipulation apps available, it’s difficult to determine real from fake, fact from fiction.  Perfectly manicured photos appear, cropped, filtered, blurred…teeth whitened, cellulite smoothed, spots magically zapped.  ‘Perfect’ imagery isn’t just in the media anymore, it’s all around us, and it erodes our sense of ‘normal’ 

Those snapshots of happy smiling faces, loved up couples, perfect families, women and men celebrating their bodies, fat, thin, fit, curvy, wobbly, tattooed, coloured…all scream at us LOOK AT ME…’I’ have found utopia, ‘I’ have the life YOU want, ‘I’ have the life YOU aspire to.  Really?

It is but that, a snapshot of a moment.  A moment of contented bliss.  Allow me a while to wallow in this moment, for it passes and becomes but a memory and the reality of real life slips back into being.  

Pain.  Real pain, physical pain, emotional pain, financial pain…

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“It’s only me…how’re you doing?” Was our standard greeting.  No need for “Hello” “Hi” or introductions, it becomes that way when habitual familiarity takes precedence.  It’s how it is with all of us. Well, sisters anyway.  There are five of us (and two brothers) Wendy, Susan, Jane, Ruth and I.  Listed in order of age (and madness!) Or, I should say, there were five of us until 21st September 2016.

Winifred Jane Sullivan was our wonderful sister and party animal that God had seemingly so cruelly for us decided he needed more than any of us here did.

In her words “it’s shit”

Jane called me on Monday 12th September. She was alone, her son had just popped out to collect something, and the doctor had just left her. “Well, I’ve got between a couple of days and a couple of weeks…it’s shit” She said, very matter of factly.  I was dumbstruck, but the tears that rolled down my cheeks spoke what my tongue wouldn’t allow.  It was the call I’d been dreading.  The reality she had been fearing.

Despite life having dealt her a pretty shit hand of cards, she never failed to make the best of what she had, loving her family, grandchildren, music, a good party, her friends…and food!  One of the great sadnesses for me was that during her last illness, she was so sick, that she had no appetite.  For someone who enjoyed fine food and would’ve killed for lobster or langoustines, this was the ultimate travesty.

We used to call each other every couple of days or so.  Sometimes it could be longer depending where we were, if we’d had a disagreement or just that life got in the way, but usually on a weekend, no matter what, we’d catch up.  Put the world to rights, discuss how terrible the weeks television had been “did you see Gogglebox?” Or bitch about The Real Housewives of …..  But I always knew what subjects to stay clear of!  She had very strong opinions on some things, and her take on life was frequently contentious and hilarious in equal measure!

I’ve attempted to pick the phone up three or four times now.  Then I remember…

 

Winifred Jane Sullivan wasn’t just my sister, she was my best friend, my mentor, someone I looked up to,  someone I respected and my sparring partner on occasion!  She was a mother to me when our mother couldn’t be.  She taught me a lot about life…and now death.

Most of all she taught me to be AMAZING, be yourself, stay positive, fight and NEVER give up.

And always love a bit of ‘bling’ 🙂 

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Alarm Clock

I’ve never really been one for having to buy all of the latest kitchen gadgets or new, hi tech white goods (I daresay a few family members may disagree on this point), however, since the arrival of Bertie, my ‘lap’ dog, just over a year ago, compost corner, as the cupboard under the stairs is affectionately known, is now overflowing with an array of new must have pet related contraptions.

Bertie, a Staffordshire bull terrier, and about as far removed from a small, cute, bundle of fluff dog as I could have envisaged won me over on a visit to a local dog rescue centre.  Oh I intended on looking…that’s how they get you.  They bring you the ones with the biggest brown eyes and the saddest stories and that’s it, you’re hooked. You find yourself saying “oh yes I MUST have him” because my life will never be complete unless I leave here with a 2 1/2 year old Staffie!  So, I ‘rescued’ Bertie.

Or did Bertie rescue me?

He seemed to double in size from the time I got from the office at the rescue centre to my home. Which now morphed into the size of a dolls house with an over excited bull rampaging through.  Over the first few days it became apparent there was going to be a need for a few house rules and Bert would have to learn them pretty quick. He was after all, larger and just a tad more boisterous than the tiny bundle of cotton wool I’d anticipated.

• No getting onto furniture.
• Not allowed upstairs
• Not on/in MY bed
• No begging for food at the table
• No barking in the house
• No rushing at visitors, jumping up etc

My intention was to reinforce these strongly. After all, there’s only me, so it should be a doddle…

To be fair, considering his background of being bought up living with a drug dealer, abused, malnourished and mistreated and then a spell in kennels, he settled in really well and was surprisingly well behaved and calm. The rules were going well. I should’ve realised that this was the calm before the storm, traumatised. Until around day 5. After confining him to the kitchen every night at bedtime, in his own bed, all was fine until 3am, when he discovered he could awaken me with the slightest whimper. It was pathetic. I was pathetic. And a sucker. If I didn’t come down to him he protested with actions.  Let me tell you, there really isn’t anything quite like the feint waft of ‘is that or isn’t that?’ dog poo wafting up the stairs and up your nasal passages to make you jump out of bed…

Compost corner and a can of WD40 (for the cupboard hinges) was just about to come into its own.  The nearly new mop and bucket that’d only been used twice since I moved here 3 years ago, was almost a new permanent feature in the corner of the kitchen. Somedays I felt like Snow White, with the mop perpetually in motion but alas automatic is yet to feature on the Vileda super mop. Room for improvement Vileda…much improvement.  More’s the pity!

Fast forward one year a couple of months.  Bert and I have a mutual understanding.  You know those ‘rules’, yes, what rules?!

As for those gadgets. I’m now the owner of a vast array of cleaning implements for both house and dog; a steam mop, a wet/dry carpet cleaner (ESSENTIAL), a new vacuum cleaner (dog specific of course), Patio jet wash, Dog shampoo, Dog brushes, an array of leads, collars, harness’, Car harness (useless) Carpet shampoo…The list, and cost is endless.

He trained ME really well…Oh how naive I was!

I defy anyone to resist the eyes…

    

 

 

‘I LOVE this bed’

 

Despite the few teething glitches, the permanent sickness he suffers, his insufferable barking at the wind, his shadow and anyone who dares to walk past my house or even utter a word to me, I wouldn’t trade him for the world and would implore anyone to give a rescue dog, and especially a Staffie, a second chance.

In rescuing a dog you might just rescue a little bit of you too…I did.

 

Except for the time he ate the seatbelt in my car… in desperation to sit on MY seat. But I was going to be driving and that was non negotiable!

(I still can’t have passengers in my car as I can’t afford to replace it)

 

 

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Sat Nav

“Honey…I’m home”

Not that I ever actually went anywhere in the many months i’ve not written, although I do feel like I’ve been to outer space, through a few hedges backwards, quagmires, quicksands, hell, tornados and been wrung out to dry via an old fashioned mangle that’s had a go at crushing most of the bones in my body.  At one point taking all but my soul.

But I’m here and still fighting.  Older, experienced, calm.  Relaxed

Growing older

Alas, I can no longer say “I’m now in my fiftieth and a bit years” as I’m rapidly approaching the halfway mark to my sixtieth year. How did that happen?

I’m trying to happily skulk into mid life, having moved to North Wales, which is stunningly beautiful most of the time (even with the rain) but where the most exciting to happen in my days is Bertie (my rescue dog) puking on a visitors foot or occasionally I may get poked in the eye by a random received photograph on some form of social media app, of a courgette, aubergine or something similar…

 

I don’t even like veg…

 

 

You can now follow me on Instagram;  @thepurplediva

 

 

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It’s very rare that I receive something that makes me squeal with delight, especially when it comes in the form of a text photo, because lets face it, these days, when you see a picture message appear, you simply don’t know what could be staring you in the face when it downloads. Oh yes, i’ve had rather too many of ‘those’…unsolicited I might add! However, this particular picture was in the form of flippers. Yep, flippers…

Flippin ‘ell!

Those rubber kind that you wear when snorkelling, except these particular ones were sporting a 5 inch stiletto heel. The ULTIMATE flippers! How on earth you were expected to snorkel is beyond me, but I’m guessing that you’d make a rather lovely looking mermaid, and of course i’m sure that the fish would be extremely appreciative of such beauty gracing their depths. The waddle to get to the boat would be amusing to say the least. I think Naomi Campbells’ infamous Vivienne Westwood fall in 1993 would pale into insignificance should she or any other super model don the super flipper of doom.

Naomi Campbell fall fail…

I for one would certainly like to watch someone try…suitable matched with a snug fitting ‘fishtail’ dress of course, for added effect. Sadistic…moi?

They have a rather apt name of; High Tide, with no doubt a high price to match…If of course they were actually available to be purchased.

Designed by artist/designer Paul Schietekat for an exhibition in 2006 and ideal for the fashionista that wouldn’t be seen dead in a pair of oh so boring (but comfortable and practical) flip flops. In case you are interested I’ve done the research for you, they are available in orange, black, red and a rather luscious aqua blue. Alas no purple. Damn…that’s me scuppered then.

Wot no…purple?!! Pah….

Perhaps someone will have to contact the manufacturer and tell them that there is a diva in Denbighshire on the loose looking for just the item to match her purple fetish and of course wetsuit. Watersports might just be my new new fetish. I have just the thing on the order… 😉

Rather fetching dontcha think?

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Wow, this may come as a surprising admission to you from me…I AM NOT PERFECT!

I have hair.  In places that apparently I am not supposed to…oh gawd, so shoot me now.  Today, I have been offended very deeply by someone so close to me that it’s cut me to the quick, although it’s not the first time I have been publicly offended by this revelation by a male of the species in this quite brutal way.  Indeed someone did once dare say to me (after I had stupidly uttered the phrase “I actually have to wax my moustache now”) “why didn’t you do your beard” to which I threw him the kind of look that could have soured milk but I’m sad to say didn’t actually have the required taser stun gun effect I’d been hoping for as his lips continued to move when I replied “I don’t have a bloody beard”…”oh yes you do” kind of spurted venomously from his lips, and had me turning on the spot in a miss piggy kind of fashion but without the swish of  long hair as I hastily exited from the vile character and ventured to look for a mirror and bright sunlight.

I was more than mortified to discover by the bloody magic that is the f’ing magnifying mirror (that came free a few months ago with mascara that I’d craved) that I did indeed have a little bit of a beard.  Well…wisps.  It’s the bloody Manopause OK!!  I’m ‘that’ age now so it comes with the territory.  But that little comment now has me glued to that magnifying mirror for far more minutes than I need to be every damn morning, searching for elusive shoots of hairs and the follicles about to burst through so that I can catch the buggers before eruption onto my podgy, hairy and less than perfect little face.

Shaving all my love for you…..

From today that mirror (in fact any bloody mirror) WILL make me paranoid.

My beautiful male friend has today succeeded in making me feel like a lardy English blob.

I’ve been here in Tunisia for a couple of weeks now and prior to arrival was well groomed and almost preened to perfection.  Not bad for a fifty year old, AND I do it all myself (economy and necessity).  I’ve managed to keep up the good work whilst here, and had just bought some cold waxing strips locally so that I could tackle the Yeti that I’m turning into.  I thought I’d start with the face, as it’s a place I’m au fait with and have ‘been’ before with this stuff.

I casually told the beautiful ‘M’ that I was going to attempt this and that maybe he’d like to be hands on in the process? He said “are you going to do all of that hair too”

“err…what hair?”

“the hair down your face”

“I don’t have hair ‘down’ my face!!” I replied now looking quite horrified that I’d not ever noticed I was indeed turning into Yeti woman….

“yes you do…” he gestured to the fine, downy hair which for the past 50 years has graced my rapidly disappearing cheek bones.  No man has ever disliked the way I look because I have very fine, almost invisible hair on my face…its natural…WOMAN!!

Not content with offending me in both comment and manner in which it was delivered, he then followed it up with “all women here get rid of that hair.  Oh and the hair on their arms”

I was about to go and put on a little mascara and lip gloss.  It’s all I actually wear daily on my face when I’m away, but I couldn’t bear to look at my face in the mirror at all…ANY mirror.  Then I realised that I had a tiny little one in my handbag.  I could just see my eye and that’s all.  Perfect.  No chance of Yeti woman or Ewok staring back at me today…. Tomorrows another day.

My plan has always been to start a new life here. Life begins at 50 and all that.

Maybe ‘here’ isn’t for me after all then……

I am not perfect.

Yeti or Ewok?

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Snow White…..

Why, why WHY???  ‘Clean and Dry Intimate Wash’ sounds innocuous enough doesn’t it?  Well, you know me…I like to bring you, edgy, risqué, bizarre, off beat items that I think you should know about.  Well…here’s one that’s going to buck the trend.  I DON’T think you need to know about this.  But it’s not going to stop me from telling you, purely for the ‘euugghh’  and ‘why in Gods name would you want to’ factor!

Many of you might have heard of a little known pastime practiced by some women and as far as I’m aware, not by men (BUT as I’m writing this, I’m thinking, possibly there is a sector to whom this may be appealing….).  Recently highlighted in the chick flick film, Bridesmaids, you could hear a lot of wincing and the tangible signs of pinched faces and even more, clenched bottoms, at the line “ Yes…AND I get my ass bleached too” ….Yes ladies (and men)…ANAL bleaching.

No I haven’t had that done, nor have I EVER harboured any remote desire to…oh my mind just boggles as to why you’d want to? BUT…Clean and Dry Intimate Wash takes this one step further….VAGINAL bleaching!

Clean & Dry Intimate Wash

WHY WHY WHY??? I can’t write this is large enough, bold enough letter to express my angst at my discovery!

I understand that the product has apparently been formulated for the Asian market who find that a less than peachy looking vag rather distasteful.  And if that’s not bad enough, they’ve even decided to highlight the issue and make women feel even more inferior by bringing out a commercial where the poor wife doesn’t warrant a morning look from her handsome husband, until she’s washed herself ‘down there’.  Hey presto…quick shower and suddenly she’s his princess and not poor cinders…

Video commercial link…..HERE!

Surely this will also play into the hands of the hierarchal issue of skin colour within Asian communities, where darker skinned people are ‘encouraged’ to stay out of the sun and to purchase skin whitening products

What’s wrong with your vagina being ‘vagina’ coloured…whatever colour that may be for YOU?

Of course there is the argument ‘what’s wrong with skin lightening…it’s no different to anyone wanting to tan their skin’?  Well no…I guess in essence that It’s not, however, skin tanning is a natural occurrence by the melanin in your skin whereas skin lightening has to be undertaken by using chemicals on your skin sometimes with hideously disastrous effects.

Advertising executives have for a long time used the explanation that they are light reflective, and this one Indian article strangly argues that fair features are ‘easier to see’…hmmm

 So apparently it’s to make your vagina reflect more light…oh I get it now.  Or rather I don’t?  Until they make a formula with a glow in the dark, fluorescent additive, (so that someone may one day find mine it finally closes shop completely) mine will be staying as pure and virginal as snow white.

Don’t give a shit!

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me me f'ing MEEE.....

I apologise in advance for my colourful tourettes type outbursts that you will find smattered amongst this blog. Blame Bill*.

To coin a phrase; ‘I am spitting feathers’ but today, not only the feathers but the eggs too. Adding insult to the proverbial injury it’s Friday the fecking 13th and I didn’t actually move my lardy arse from my bed until after 12 noon for fear that some superstitious fateful event would befall me. I wish now that I’d kept it there until 12 noon on the 14th and maybe just maybe wouldn’t have been alerted to the diatribe that I now place under said heading, ‘fateful event’.

The words ‘Samantha Brick’ have been hissed from the lips of at least 65% of the women in the UK alone I’d guess (and I think I’m probably being generous in my estimation). Oh how I loathe giving this woman any of my time, but she’s REALLY got under my skin and offended me to the core with her lasted delusional, insensitive and disrespectful endeavour at journalism. She’s no Jan Moir. Her latest attempt to deflect and defend her, ‘I am beautiful and all other women hate me’ campaign, is to credit her wonderful father, Patrick Brick, for bringing up such an arrogant daughter! Yay…go girly! The full article from The Daily Mail can be read here…yes, click HERE! (sometimes I’m actually really quite clever, oh you doubting Thomas’)

When I’m stressed I eat. When I’m stressed by anger, I eat lots. Whilst reading the article by Ms Brick my recent healthy eating regime, that the oh so fabulous lady would be proud of, slipped somewhat and made me more ashamed with every luxurious and

Food for a Goddess?

piggish mouthful that I stuffed greedily into the void of my open gob as my chin fell further open…aghast at her contentious comments. I ate two-thirds of an M & S clotted cream rice pudding, and I hadn’t even got past page one! (I printed the article). Still, it is food for a goddess, and every woman is a goddess, albeit I’m still in training…at least in some departments!

Ms Beautiful Brick is fortunate enough to have the loving support of both a husband (Pascal) and father (Patrick) Ms Dowdy Diva has neither. I am already doomed to failure. Oh and of course I already have a hatred of Ms Brick for her ‘I’m beautiful’ comments of last week. Actually, NO I DON’T. I think it’s quite appropriate for a woman to be confident and empowered enough to stand up and say, ‘I’m happy with the way I look’. What was poor Samantha’s downfall was her arrogance in suggesting that people’s ideal of beauty was her own! I AM beautiful. In my own way, not to everyone and certainly not today. Catch me tomorrow and I might be…but honestly, not at 8am in the morning before my face has had time to ‘settle’ and I haven’t done the necessary lady bits. By 10.30am there’s a chance I MAY have a public face. A chance… But many would pass me by. I’m beautiful by definition of my grandson & my daughters. Who else matters?

Just a thought…I’m surprised that with all the media furore surrounding this story, that not one of the gentlemen that have partaken in the many acts of random kindness/flirtation referred to in the original article, that led Samantha to her conclusion of being overtly beautiful and an object of desire and hate in equal measure, has yet to come forward? How strange……

I’m ready to sink my teeth into something meaty, and would prefer it were a mars bar, direct from the bottom shelf of my fridge. Alas, there hasn’t been any there for weeks (or squishy colins – marks & spencer colin the caterpillar worm sweets that I love and will kill for), so jump in and take issue with several points raised in her latest offending piece of writing (13/4/12):

By her own admission, ever since she came into this world, her father showered her with love and affection, he was the person she instinctively turned to, and although her darling husband Pascal was behind her, it was her father who knew what to say, to make her feel better and always has. He reassured her that the people ‘lambasting’ (she states it was mostly female critics) her were very sad people with very shallow lives. WOW…what a guy! There are a few other choice comments made by loving Patrick, whom I’m have no doubt, having raised five children is a wonderful father, but can’t help be concerned by the thought process of a man who sends a birthday card to one of those five daughters, addressed to ‘my No.1 girl’! If I were one of said siblings, (and I’m the youngest of 8) I can tell you there would be a lynching! Adding insult to the card fiasco, daughter no.1 who asks us early on in the same article ‘Was I the most deluded woman in the world?’ further adds fuel to fan the flames by saying he was probably referring to the fact I was his eldest daughter and I interpreted it as meaning I was No.1 in his life. Jeez girl…no shit! Self centred and deluded from an early age?

When Ms Brick looks in the mirror, she sees a twinkly eyed temptress who grins confidently – standing tall, proud with masses of va va voom. Oh YESSS! Magic mirror tell me today, have all my friends had fun at play….Oh where can ‘I’ get a mirror

Does this make me look taller?

like that? BUT, She is, in her defence, 10 years younger, 27 stones lighter and about 6 ft taller than I’ll ever be. Occasionally (if I wear my infamous giraffe dress) I catch a glimpse and I think ‘yeah, not bad’ and then the tablets wear off, or I wake up. Oh and of course, she has a loving husband AND father… I am a failure….

The jelly and blancmange had been stuffed, the chairs packed away, and the dozen or so party guests had long departed. I sat on a little wooden chair with a glass of ice-cold milk and a plain chocolate digestive biscuit. It was almost 9pm. A treat for me. The evening of 9th

The 'Firm' (I was a twinkle still!)

October 1972. The day after my 11th birthday and I’d had a bit of a ‘do’ to celebrate at aunt Edna’s house. Edna & Bert were kindly surrogate parents who didn’t have children of their own. My parents were very entrepreneurial, down to earth and hardworking, a legacy that has been bred into all of us without exception. All of my siblings (the closest of which is 8 years older than I) had an Aunt ‘up the road’ that were the unpaid childminders of the day. It was the done thing then. Edna broke the heartbreaking news to me that my father had died that day from a cerebral haemorrhage, aged 56. My mother subsequently, after several failed suicide attempts, had a complete mental breakdown and was taken into a psychiatric hospital for several of my teenage years.

Ms Brick, aided by a US based psychologist Dr Nielsen believes that It is fathers who have the greater influence in shaping their daughters future and that fathers teach women how to successfully communicate with men, speak up for themselves and how to love themselves. If a little girl gets Dads approval, even if she isn’t perfect or beautiful, she’ll go through life believing she’s fine as she is. Dr Nielsen has apparently studied this special bond for 24 years. Well Dr Nielsen & Ms Brick…I have been ALONE for 39 years, and I believe that give me the right to take PERSONAL offence at your generalisation.

I make no apology Ms Brick, for being envious of the relationship that you have with your father on many levels, but does that make me, or any other female (or male) with an absent father, a failure? unequipped to communicate, have self esteem & be confident & empowered? NO…on the contrary…it actually made me more determined to be successful. (At any point, any male friends that know me, please feel free to comment!)

My rage is almost palpable by now, and if my nails weren’t already eaten down to the quick (I know it’s unattractive and I don’t usually do it…It’s HER fault), I’d chew them more at this further stated revelation, girls who grow up without their fathers have sex younger, are more likely to fall pregnant as teenagers and are at higher risk of anorexia. I’m surprised that didn’t include ‘were Jeremy Kyle watching smokers, who research has shown, drinks blue WKD on a Friday evening and reads Heat magazine’ I already tweeted my outrage sometime after I’d had my first couple of vodka shots of the day to loosen up (joke…it was morphine really) and already had a journalist comment ‘As one who manages to live happily and didn’t become a teen mum despite her parents divorce, I’m right behind you!’

I’m sure that statement will fill with joy the hearts of struggling single mothers everywhere. Oh yes. I’ve walked in THOSE shoes too, and am very proud of the achievements of my two very beautiful daughters who also didn’t become sexaholic, anorexic ‘teen’ mums. Some people are capable of inspiring in-spite of adversity.

You have offended many sectors of society with your comments Samantha Brick, but you offend me personally simply as one human being to another. I’m reminded every day that I don’t have a father and very sadly no longer a mother either. I do however, have experience of something more valuable because I don’t have those…compassion for another. I also know the unselfish love of being a mother first and foremost. In MY eyes, that makes me even more of a woman.

Before you commit your words to print. THINK.

PS.Could someone please let me know where to get one of those mirrors?

Something in my eye.....

*Bill… As a child we had a mynah bird called Bill that would randomly swear at daily visitors. It did so because it had picked them up from the fluid use of the words that rolled from my father’s tongue in his colourful daily speech. Mother would hide with embarrassment and Dad would laugh raucously! I blame Bill for my sometimes colourful tourettes type outbursts, but I’m far cleaner…so far!

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A little patience....

‘Once upon a time’… that’s how it’s supposed to begin isn’t it? a book I mean. It’s how they always began as a child. Only I’m not a child, nor am I writing for children but I’ve been ‘writing’ this damn book for almost two years now.  For many of you wonderful people who read my sporadic ramblings (I most heartily apologise) you’ll know that I’ve been attempting what has become something of a Guinness Book of Records type feat for me.  It seems that at every opportunity, some bastard has been out to scupper my plans…but NO…you won’t keep me down, and I will not be silenced. In the best Mastermind tradition “I’ve started, so I’ll finish”

I can’t seem to find the right opening line, but I have the ending!  So, I thought I’d give you a sneaky peek at the last page. (It’s fine…It won’t spoil anything!)

In the meantime, feel free to give me any ideas of what you’d like to see me write about? Anything that you particularly enjoy about my blogs that you’d like more (or less) of? Oh, and if you have an ideal opening line suggestion…send it for my perusal…you never know!

Conclusion

diva |ˈdēvə|

noun

• an admired, glamorous, or distinguished woman : the former director of the association is still a downtown diva.
• a haughty, spoiled woman : she’s such a diva that she won’t enter a restaurant until they change the pictures on the walls to her liking.
• a female singer who has enjoyed great popular success : a chance to create a full-blown pop diva.
• a famous female opera singer : your average opera isn’t over till the diva trills her high notes.

ORIGIN late 19th cent.: via Italian from Latin, literally ‘goddess.’

Today, as I settle into the first half of my 50^th year and reflect on my past and the challenges faced to shed the cloak of invisibility, defy gravity and the sagging, attitudes of society, where we subconsciously put the happiness of others first, often to our own detriment, I am propelled forward to dive into the second layer of the box of chocolates of life. I’m ready to take a bite out of each and every succulent flavour, in the full knowledge that some will be hard to swallow with more challenges to face, mountains to climb, attitudes to change and tears to come. But I relish the diversity and variety as a mature woman who has a renewed spirit of optimism, an inner confidence and a sparkle in my eyes.

And especially look forward to the forbidden ones with a whole new outlook, sassiness and of course… sexiness……

 

Letter to me age 12 From ‘Me’ age 49 and a bit:

Dear Louise,  (Diva, Purple Diva, Daisy May, Rachel, Felicity, The Chocolate Queen, Toots, Mummy, whoever you are glorious girl)

You don’t know it yet, but through your life you will be known by all of those names by the many different people who may grow to love you. No matter what they call you, always be yourself. YOU are unique.  Don’t let anyone tell you anything else.

You really can’t, please all the people all of time, so don’t continually try to (especially your mother).  Some people will like you, some won’t. Sometimes you’ll ‘fit’ and sometimes you don’t.  Move on, but keep smiling.

Your mother lied to you when she said you weren’t a nice person.  She was cruel with her words and never meant them to cut so deep.  Forgiveness is a wonderful thing, don’t ever lose that ability, it will stay with you long after you may lose other attributes through life’s lessons learned.

Your heart will be broken and you will cry more tears than you thought possible.  It’s life lovely girl, it’s not ‘you’ (oh and don’t fall for the line by the guy who say’s “I could listen to you talk all night” Aged 33, you’re in for a BIG shock….he doesn’t want to listen!)

Trust your intuition.  You have great intuition about everything.  Just believe in yourself, but wear a watch. You’re really crap at timekeeping. Time waits for no man, or woman. Not even you.

You have a beautiful heart and a beautiful smile. Use them to your advantage.  God gave you them for a reason.

Do EVERYTHING exciting you ever get the chance to do, before some bastard or your body tells you that you can’t do it. It’s better to regret something you’ve done, than something you’ve not done.  No regrets, just lessons learned.

Try not to be so impetuous. Maturity will teach you patience and temperance…The hare & the tortoise.  Whilst talking of animals, stay away from penguins.  Always.

Listen. To your elders, your relatives and people you love. Small incidentals will become large blanks and those details will long be gone should those people suddenly no longer be around to fill in the voids. We have two ears and one mouth so that we listen twice as much as we speak.  Wise words. Listen to your heart. And your conscience.

Don’t be fooled. The grass really isn’t greener on the other side of the field.  It’s just another shade of green, with a ray of sunshine momentarily highlighting it.

Don’t wear ‘nice comfortable shoes’ your feet and legs will suffer anyway.  Go for the FM boots and 5 inch heeled Louboutins.  Comfortable shoes won’t make you memorable nor will you be able to ‘wiggle’.

Always check yourself from the back before leaving the house or a public toilet, you’re bum will always look big no matter what. When you’re 28 you’ll thank me.

Lower your voice a little, and slow you speech slightly.  Just trust me.

With much love and affection, a much wiser

Louise

p.s  Don’t EVER diet. It will seriously fuck up your body.  Oh, and don’t swear.  It’s not Ladylike and you really are a Lady,  albeit in waiting.

‘Time Tested Beauty Tips’

For attractive lips, speak words of kindness.

For lovely eyes, seek out the good in people.

For a slim figure, share your food with the hungry.

For beautiful hair, let a child run his or her fingers through it once a day.

For poise, walk with the knowledge you’ll never walk alone.

 People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed, and redeemed;

Never throw out anybody.

Remember, If you ever need a helping hand, you’ll find one at the end of your arm.

As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself, the other for helping others.

 The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair. The beauty of a woman must be seen from in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides.

 The beauty of a woman is not in a facial mole, but true beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It is the caring that she lovingly gives, the passion that she shows, and the beauty of a woman with passing years only grows!

 Sam Levenson

(Contrary to what has been written many times, Audrey Hepburn did not write this wonderful poem, Sam Levenson did.  Apparently written for his grandchild, but coincidentally happened to be one of Audrey’s favorite poems.)

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Cooking with Passion...

Living alone as I do, the anticipation of ANYTHING being delivered to me, fills me with excitement.  The postman is always greeted with eagerness and a smile, especially when stood there with something requiring a signature.  Usually a sign that someone has taken the time to think of me.  (Or some bastard is asking for money and is making sure I receive the demand)

Being the twitter aficionado that I like to think I am (@thepurplediva) It started quite naively and cheekily with a flirty little tweet; ‘how would you like to send me some of your wares for me to get my lips around in exchange for a review?’ To be perfectly honest, I didn’t actually expect to get a response, least of all a favorable one…and certainly not offering me goodies!  And for me the bonus was, all the way from wonderful Italy from this delightful fledgling company; italialicious.

After a few ‘tweets’ between the divine Giorgio and myself, whom I had decided in my mind was so damn gorgeous that he had to be totally fictitious and was put there purely for my racing imagination (which was now galloping on overdrive dreaming of Italy, stallions, Ferraris…sunblush tomatoes, pesto, pasta and absolutely anything red and dripping in oil) he had decided to send me a ‘gift box’ suitably wicked for me….wicked with chocolate.  Oh be still my beating heart……

Now all I had to do was to use my feminine, womanly charms to persuade him/them to hand deliver by a hunk in trunks.  Although to be perfectly honest, at this moment in time I’m not too fussed as to what his attire is.  He could be dressed head to toe in a penguin outfit (and yes I mean a full penguin and not a euphemism for a tuxedo) and I’d welcome him at my door!  Especially brandishing a box of beautifully presented Italian goodies.  After all, presentation is EVERYTHING isn’t it…..???

Anticipation mounted as I eagerly awaited the arrival; after all, this was going to be a huge first for me on two counts.  The first time that I was having something delivered in a plain brown box that didn’t actually come with accompanying obligatory batteries.  Somewhat novel in itself…

I wasn’t sure whether I’d heard the doorbell ring above the noise of the rush of water, so hastily wrapped my dripping wet, podgy little body into a towel, typically having just stepped out of the shower at lunchtime.  As always…timing is EVERYTHING.  And if you know me, timing is really NOT my forte, so this once again comes as no surprise….

I’d remained ever hopeful that the consignment was still going to be hand delivered by a swarthy, handsome, latino italian hunk. Raoul Bova esq was running through my head….

Opening the door, my anticipation and excitement soon dissolved as there was no Italian hunk in short trunks as my imagination had led me to believe, but a rather stocky and sheepish looking UPS delivery man, ready to make a very rapid exit…especially when he saw me stood there looking less than 007 Bond  girl like sexy in my towel, more like 008 – one half of the bingo ‘two fat ladies!.

This large drab brown box was oh so thrilling.  Like a little child opening a present sent from a long lost Aunt (No, not from darkest Peru…don’t lets get carried away).  I had no idea of the contents, and I hadn’t ordered it!  My little face beamed (this is a rare occurrence…and yes there WAS a full moon that week too)  But once inside the uninspiring exterior, the most beautiful green and red, unmistakably Italian box, lit up my face even more. 

It was absolutely exquisite.  The quality and attention to detail unsurpassable.  Even down to the thank you note and the miniature butterfly peg holding it in place.  I don’t know how Giorgio ‘knew’ but he had ME and my likes down to a tee.

Delicacy for the mind

And then to the contents…

My ‘Dessert Box’ contained;

• Hazelnut & dark chocolate cream
• Dark chocolate hazelnut balls
• Chocolate & Pear Biscotti

The hazelnut balls I had intended to keep for ‘others’…as a nice little accompaniment to a rather neat little luscious espresso.  However, you know what thought did.  My fat little fingers found themselves diving into the sweet little box every time I opened the cupboard, and with each mouthful I devoured, moaned and groaned my way through sucking & munching as if Meg Ryan acting out the scene from ‘When Harry met Sally’ (and no, not her Silence of the Lamb rendition on Parkinson)  So yes, they met with a 5* approval from me, and sadly no-one else can concur as no one got their little mitts on them.  Mine mine mine…ALL MINE

Delight for the senses

Chocolate & Pear Biscotti do NOT dunk in tea. Why I thought they would I have no idea, however, not to be outwitted, I came up with a very cunning plan for both of the other little beauties, and oh my God….I’m in HEAVEN.

RECIPE ALERT

Top Tip from the kitchen of La Diva (read it and weep Nigella & Delia….)

Warm the biscotti in an oven for about 5 minutes (gas mark 4) (my oven is stroppy & temperamental like me so you really are only warming not toasting…CHECK)

Mix 2 large dollops (this is a diva measurement) of the hazelnut/chocolate fondant  with 1 large dollop of mascarpone.

Sandwich between the biscotti and sprinkle with a cappuccino shaker/cocoa mix & serve with fresh raspberries.

Relax on sofa with feet up, glass of chilled dessert wine of choice – Marsala or Vin Santo of course (or espresso if it’s only 10am!)

Scoff quickly before anyone sees & lick all spoons and implements so that washing up is kept to a minimum.

HUGE thank you to italialicious for providing me with the most amount of pleasure I’ve had in weeks.  I’m pretty damn hard to please (as Waitrose found out this week!) and really do say what I feel.   I do have one gripe about the product;  lack of delivery ‘hunk’ but I’m sure I’ll work around that given time!

ITALIALICIOUS  Think – Click – Enjoy

Top quality Italian food and wines delivered in luxury handcrafted boxes.

Select a box, choose the products, customize it with your message and ship it wherever you want in the World.  All within 72 hours from the moment your order is placed.

Starting from just 29 Euros (paypal accepted too) and with special offers regularly being promoted, they’re a fabulous alternative to a bouquet of flowers that are dead within days, AND shows you’ve thought outside the box buying something IN a box!

www.italialicious.com

Go on….you KNOW you’re dying to try my recipe 😉

Treat yourself to a taste of Italy