One Hundred Colours of Dove

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Ever watch a TV ad an go, ‘Eh, what now?’ Only ALL THE TIME, right? Whilst planning a post on how many completely non-related products can hop on the World Cup bandwagon (Listerine, I’m looking at you) an advert for Dove’s Invisible Dry deodorant made me sit up and frown.

There on the screen was a woman twirling around in red, holding red dresses up in front of her, red hair and red lips glistening under the lights. Guess Scarlet’s* favourite colour.

(*May not be the name they used, but probably)

Scarlet: I love red and now I don’t have to worry about deodorant marks on my favourite clothes.**

Voiceover: Dove Invisible Dry will protect one hundred colours from dry white marks.**

(**Or something like that.)

More like Dove will cause insomnia and deep frown lines as I’m not convinced that there actually are 100 colours.

Dove, I challenge you to name them.

Ok, it’d be freaky if Dove sent a colour expert to my house to list them, but surely via the medium of Google there’ll be a list? Because an advert wouldn’t possibly lie about something like that. Right?

Besides, I’m especially dubious as Scarlet likes red, which seemed to be a fairly broad spectrum in itself. Can Dove really come up with another 99 colours like that? Or does Scarlet actually like crimson and burgundy, magenta and…errr…scarlet? Her favourite colours, plural, not colour, singular, if they’ve truly got 100 colours up their sleeve.

Dove actually remained quite tight-lipped on the specifics of their one hundred colours. ‘From black to white and all colours in between’ was as far as I got. Lots of other waffly guff, but not a lot of actual clarification of their colour range. What if you have a buff blouse that’s not on their colour chart? Would you be risking deodorant disaster?

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It’s not good enough, Dove. It’s not going to let me sleep without waking up at 3am shouting ‘Chartreuse!’

Clearly I’m going to have to compile my own list.

I know. I’m sad like that.

Lets start with Dove’s own colour range:

1. Black
2. White

Well, it’s a start. 98 to go.

The rainbow covers a fairly broad spectrum:

3. Red
4. Orange
5. Yellow
6. Green
7. Blue
8. Indigo
9. Purple

We’ve not even hit 10 and have gone through the spectrum.

But they’re primary and secondary colours, right? I’m sure Blue’s Clue’s had a song about tertiary colours! (Never let it be said I’m not educated. Even if it is by the medium of kids’ TV.)

I had to venture further into Google however to find out what they are. I found out that there are different types of tertiary colour. (I won’t bore you with it – you can look it up yourself if you so desire, or maybe you know all this already and I just went to a failing school.) But, even discounting things like red + orange = red-orange (come on, that’s got to be seen as an early cop-out. It can only lead to things like red-red-orange, which surely are only padding. I want names, damn it) the multiple systems provide a greater yield. Even if I suspect they may just be using different words to explain the same thing.

10. Vermilion
11. Amber
12. Chartreuse
13. Teal
14. Violet
15. Magenta
16. Cyan
17. Azure
18. Rose
19. Spring green

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Hang on a minute. Before we go into realms of Is That a Colour Really or Just a Foodstuff? there are surely some basic toddler-friendly colours that haven’t been included:

20. Pink (How could I forget pink?! Has it not been demonised enough?)
21. Brown
22. Grey

Do metallics count? Best say they do.

23. Gold
24. Silver
25. Bronze

Ok, we’re 1/4 of the way there. Just another 75 to go! Time to call in the quaternary and quinary colours! Thanks, Google!

26. Russet
27. Slate
28. Citron
29. Plum

Or are they more tertiary colours? I’m getting confused!

30. Sage
31. Buff
32. Blue-grey
33. Khaki
34. Grey-brown

Blue-grey? Grey-brown? Don’t these colours get a name if their own? Lazy!

And it’s still not enough by a long shot. Besides, I can do better than grey-brown, although God knows where these fit in on the colour wheel:

35. Scarlet
36. Crimson
37. Burgundy
38. Lilac
39. Mauve
40. Aquamarine
41. Turquoise
42. Beige
43. Peach
44. Lime
45. Lemon
46. Mustard
47. Cream
48. Olive

See, I told you I’d get to a point where it was just food.

49. Lavender
50. Ultramarine
51. Taupe
52. Peuce
53. Fuchsia
54. Maroon
55. Salmon

Is Greige a colour? Or is it the Brangelina of the colour world? I’m desperate though. I’ll take it.

56. Greige

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And…? I’m still 44 colours away and I feel like I’m barrel-scraping, to be honest. Is Barbie Pink a recognisable colour? I feel like we’re either going to be going down paint chart territory (I’ve not seen Elephant’s Breath suggested anywhere outside of a Farrow & Ball paint chart though) or we’re looking at shades rather than actual colours. Surely Slate grey, for example, is still just grey? (Oh no! Now I’m going to start wondering what the other 49 are! I’m never going to sleep again!) What’s the difference between a colour and a shade anyway? I’m sure it’s significant, and Dove definitely said colours.

I start looking at Pantone charts – surely the definitive purveyors of colour. But now my eyes are starting to go funny and my head is starting to spin.

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That’s a lot more than 100 colours! Even if they have unromantic names like Pantone 1935 C.

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‘Scarlet’ would love her options here, surely.

I can only suppose that Dove have decided that 100 is a nice round number after a colour brainstorming session around a table. They don’t seem to be concerned about the specifics of their colour choices (should we be worried that their deodorant remains invisible on 1925 C, but not 1945 C?). And isn’t the fabric as significant a factor as the colour?

Should I just put it down to advertising nonsense? After all, these are companies who label their deodorants as 48hr and body creams as 7-day, but then in the small-print state that this only works if you apply them daily. i.e. It’s all a load of bollocks.

The only thing I’ve come out of this knowing is that I desperately want to buy the kids’ book Pantone Colours.

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How cool is that?

I’ll report back if it turns out the book contains 100 colour suggestions. Then we’ll know where Dove got its inspiration.

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Learning how to do good loser face, with Jennifer and her Hollywood pals

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‘We should be in touch by the weekend,’ they said at my interview on Wednesday. Thursday I felt twitchy. Yesterday I felt sick. My phone didn’t leave my hand. (Actually that’s not unusual – you’ve gotta be on top of your WordPress notifications, right? But I don’t normally check my email every 15 minutes.) I had to put it on charge twice through the day (still keeping it to hand).

But no call came. I checked I’d given them the right phone number. I checked my phone was working. I checked my answerphone. I sat by the door waiting for the post. Nada. Niente. Nothing.

Well, how rude.

Then the various scenarios started taking over.

Obviously I haven’t got the job. The other person obviously must have nailed it. Maybe they’re just waiting for him/her to accept their offer before letting me know. But why is he/she heel-dragging? I would have said ‘yes’ straight away. Really they should have picked me.

Or maybe the other person had to re-schedule their interview. Flaky. Obviously I have already proven greater enthusiasm, availability and reliability. Surely the job should be mine. So what if they’ve got experience and a proven track record? So why haven’t they let me know?

Or maybe the interviews were so close that they’re having trouble deciding.

Or maybe a third person has thrown their hat into the ring, in which case I’m sunk. The chances of two other people applying with absolutely no reason for doing so and them both being horrible, stupid people are beyond Kate Moss slim.

I’m not going to get the job, am I? Which is bad, because in my head I’ve already picked what to wear on my first day and am sat at my new desk. If…when…they tell me ‘no’ I’m going to cry. I always cry.

I’m going to need to work on my stiff upper lip, to learn how to be gracious in defeat. To work on my loser face.

Where better to look than Hollywood? Having to accept defeat (possibly multiple times over) whilst the world AND your peers are watching as that Oscar statuette disappears from your dreams – it takes some doing to pull off grace and dignity under such circumstances. After all who doesn’t hope for an Oscar one day? Imagine how it must be to be within touching point and to be let down! Although I’m sure the vast millions in the bank, diamonds on loan from Harry Winston and proximity to George Clooney help off-set the agony.

Actually, that’s a good starting point. Could someone please send George round ASAP so he could be horrified on my behalf when I don’t get the job. Shouldn’t be too hard – we are engaged, albeit in a parallel universe after all.

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Nice work, George. How could they not hire me, right?

But I’d still have to make it through the phone call before I could dissolve into tears on George’s shoulder.

Now, I need to tighten my resolve before I dissolve, but I don’t want to come across as a sourpuss like Taylor Swift.

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An attempt at an air of indifference only thinly disguising being clearly disappointed and a tad pissed off like Bill Murray doesn’t fool anyone either.

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And swearing under my breath à la Samuel Jackson might not be the most professional approach.

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But overly-gushy, might not cut it either. Cate Blanchett, I’ll leave the over-excitement in the face of disappointment to you.

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On balance, I think Leonardo DiCaprio needs to be my loser muse. I’ll well up slightly, but fight back the tears and graciously offer my warm thanks to the victor.

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‘You bastard. I hate you.’

Actually, if I can pull that off then I should be up for an Oscar for best actress in a supportive role.

Ultimately I think my best bet is to arrange a Skype call and swish around in a fancy frock. That way, Jennifer Lawrence can be my inspiration, be it good news or bad.

If I don’t get the job I can fall gracefully to the floor. The tears may be ugly, but at least my gown will look fabulous.

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And if by some miracle I do get the job, I can be all cool about it. ‘Oh yeah, no worries – I knew I had it in the bag!’

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Thank you, Jen, for being so ace. I’m onto a winner even if I lose.

The Agony of Waiting.

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Thank you to everyone who wished me good luck with my interview today. After cramming into my brain as much knowledge of conveyancing law, stamp duty thresholds and marketing strategies as possible, painting my nails (then re-painting because I smudged them) plucking my eyebrows and applying hand lotion for that all important handshake, it turned out to be less of a grilling, more of a quick chat. My complete lack of experience in the field is no problem, they just want someone whose self-motivated and personable. I can put on those masks easy enough.

But now I must wait. They’re seeing someone else too, so I’m going to have to bide my time until the weekend. Aaaaargh. But the people were lovely and the job sounds great and I really really really really want it. The weekend is forever away. Goodbye, nails.

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I’m guessing I’m really not very patient then.

Meanwhile I also had a text from Boo’s agency about a possible shoot at the end of the month. An immediate reply to confirm her availability…and then nothing. I should be used to that by now – shoots are notorious for being finalised at the last minute, or falling through completely. This year has been a catalogue of cancellations and near misses. Not that it bothers Boo – oh, the joy of being a carefree 6-year-old – but there are only so many times you can check your texts and emails before you feel the prickles of frustration.

A watched pot never boils and all that, but take your eye off and you end up with a burnt pan.

Or a dead fish. Of the three tiddlers we bought at the weekend, two have thrived and one pretty much sat at the bottom of the tank. Today has been spent waiting for it to meet its fishy maker. For three days it looked sorry for itself whilst Fish and Patrick darted about the tank. But typically it didnt go belly up until I’d gone for my interview, just before Boo got home from school, leaving us no time to replace Goldie with Goldie II.

Thankfully Boo doesn’t seem too bothered. In fact, I don’t think she’s noticed, even with Husband fishing it out the tank and for its funeral procession to the small bathroom (although I’m not that happy that he used the sieve to do so).

But for the rest I must continue to wait.

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If the above quote is true, I think my best tactic is to take to my bed with Netflix and WordPress to distract me. It’d be for the best of all those around me I think.

What’s your best strategy for coping with a frustrating wait? What’s the worst wait you’ve had? How patient are you?

Can’t Get You Out of My Head

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I don’t have great taste in music. If I’m having something pumped into my head via my ears I don’t want complexity – just a catchy tune and easy lyric. Something I can pound along to jogging or prance about the kitchen to. Husband shudders at the choices on my iPod and phone, especially when Noodles chooses to play Will.i.am at full volume on a loop (I told you I had poor taste).

But if my conscious mind has bad taste, my sub-conscious mind is hideous. And there the songs are, when I need a tune the least, going over and over and over and over and…ARRRRRGHHHHH!!!

Last night, in the wee small hours of the morning, having settled Noodles back to sleep, my inner replay kicked in. With For the First Time in Forever from Frozen. Thanks, Boo.

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For the first time? It was for the thousandth time before my mind switched off and I got back to sleep. Sodding Disney.

I suppose my only consolation is that at least in my head my inner voice is in tune. If I’d had Boo’s out-of-tune warblings resonating through my brain at night in the same way I have to endure during the day I think I would have been hammering at the door of the psych ward demanding a lobotomy.

Unfortunately the Gluestick family will at no point be giving the Von Trapps a run for their money at any time. Probably for the best as I’m not sure Husband would be willing to don lederhosen and I’d be useless at running up matching clothes from our curtains. But it means it’s particularly unfortunate that, thanks to Noodles and his technological adeptness, we’re all going around singing The Duck Song.

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Trundling around Sainsbury’s sporadically singing ‘Got any grapes?’ is surely enough to get me labelled as one of the more ‘special’ residents of the town. And we do seem to be buying more lemonade than normal.

But the worst aspect is that it spreads through the house like an Australian bush fire, every ‘bah bah bah, bah-buh-de-bah’* setting the next person off in turn, just when you think you’ve got it under control. ‘And he waddled away (waddle waddle) til the very next day.’ The trouble is that the duck in our house only waddles around the corner only to infect the next person.

(*Because it’s not just the original Duck Song that Noodles insists on playing, but versions 2 and 3 too, jumping between them mid-song until we’re all ready to order mass crispy duck from the Chinese in the hope of wiping out the duck population.

I wonder if duck tastes nice with grapes?)

I would condemn the creators of the sodding Duck Song to an eternity of their own creation blasted at them in an inner circle of Hell. Except that their awfulness will only be replaced by something equally grating and infectious. Like KLF’s Justified and Ancient and Spitting Image’s Chicken Song. (What is it with my mind and poultry-based songs?!)

I’d stick my fingers in my ears and sing ‘la-la-la’…except I’d only segue into Kylie Minogue. I really can’t get you out of my head.

A warning: if you haven’t got a clue what I’m banging on about please don’t look it up. Not for any of them. There are some things Google should never be used for, medical diagnoses and infectious songs amongst them. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for the consequences.

Coming Unstuck

I like to think of myself as a reasonably intelligent person. I got through a degree largely grasping the sort of concepts that make your brain ache. (If I look back on an essay now I wonder who on earth I must have been channelling as I cant believe such writing came from my own brain). I can sometimes answer questions on Mastermind and rock the missing vowels round on Only Connect. And generally it’s not wise to pick an argument with me as I will take you down. (Boo got her barrister-like ability to make a water-tight argument from somewhere after all, and it definitely wasn’t Husband.) But, whether it’s a lack of practical abilities or of common sense or a sign of ageing, there’s increasingly a list of things that I JUST CANNOT GET TO GRIPS WITH. This includes, but is not exclusive to, the following:

• Anything car-related.
As the windscreen wipers debacle proved, I cannot deal with anything mechanical. Which is why, when my car broke down when the twins were 2-years-old and passengers in the back, they learnt the word ‘Fuck’, I sat crying in the driver’s seat and had to be rescued by a combination of the man from the corner shop who noticed I was stuck and the mechanic from the classic car garage who sorted me out, even though my car was less of a classic, more of a disaster-on-wheels.

• Punctured tyres.
Unfortunate then that I had TWO flat tyres on the buggy last week, one day after the other. Fortunately I had a spare wheel for the first. Grandy sorted it out for me the second time. That man must never die!

• Adventure Time, or any of a hundred programmes that Boo finds hilarious.
Perhaps it’s actually for the best that Husband cut us off from Sky. Perhaps he was feeling inadequate in the face of kids’ TV too.

• My Now TV box.
Bought to replace Sky, all it’s achieved since January is to sit by the TV in my bedroom because I couldn’t get it to connect to the Wi-fi. The box claims that it’s ‘easy to start watching in minutes.’

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Either the box is lying or I’m a total imbecile, having fallen at stage 2.

Perhaps I should ask Noodles to sort it out for me.

• My Nokia Windows phone.
My maxed-out iPhone will have to keep to its last legs for a while longer as I can’t get its replacement to do anything I need it to do.

• Tech language.
Actually, the problem with the previous two points is that I don’t actually have a clue what the instructions mean when trying to sort out any problems with technology. If the solution to a tech-related problem isn’t ‘turn it off and turn it back on again’ then truly I am stuck.

• Sat-nav instructions.
Sat-nav: In 200 yards bear right.
Me: What do you mean when you say ‘200 yards?’
Sat-nav: When possible, turn around.
Me: Oh, you meant ‘take the turning back there.’

Still, with or without sat-nav I can’t actually go more than half the way around a roundabout without getting lost.

• DIY.
I can put paint on a wall (but can’t cut-in, despite having been shown how by my next-door neighbour several times. Should you ever visit my house, please promise never to take too close a look at my coving). I can’t put up shelves, use a drill, plaster, tile, knock down walls, lay flooring or do a million other things that would make my house a lot nicer.

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How I would like my bedroom to look.

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Needless to say it doesn’t.

• Anything electrical.
Back in high school there was a day when the class learnt how to re-wire a plug. The teacher took one look at my friend, Katie, and I and gave us a different task to do. No way was he going to let us potentially blow up the school. Unfortunately he didn’t alternatively teach us how to avoid cowboy traders, so again, I’m stuffed.

• Sport.
I’m not especially keen on playing sport. By and large I’m even less of a fan of watching it.

Despite the lure of 22 fit men in shorts, I cannot for the life of me get excited at the prospect of football. It’s as though time slows down when it’s on…and then they have the audacity to add on extra time. Pah.

Golf, snooker, athletics, rugby, cricket all just leave me cold. That said, if anyone has a spare ticket for Wimbledon then I’m your girl. But that just highlights how little I care about the others.

• Official paperwork.
Surely I should be able to complete my tax return without guesswork? And yet…

Ditto passport applications, benefit claim forms, insurance policy forms… My life just doesn’t fit neatly into a series of boxes, ok?

• Explaining the world to a child.
‘What makes a rainbow?’ ‘Why do slugs shrivel up when you put salt on them?’ ‘What happens when you die?’…
Nothing makes you realise how little you know about how things work than trying to explain them to a 4-year-old.

• Beauty products.
Why can’t there just be one conditioner that gives me swishy, shiny hair, one pot of cream that makes my skin glow, one lipstick that’s just the right shade? Why instead are there a thousand different products that offer the world, but only if you fit into a very particular box? How am I meant to choose between nutri-gloss shine or anti-frizz or weather-protect or age-defy? Will Boswelox help? To my shame I want to believe the hype, am head over heels when I find something that works. But there’s a lot of hit-and-miss.

But don’t ask me to ask anyone. Those women with the whole make-up range on their faces scare the bejeezers out of me! Unless they then give me free miniatures to try. Then they’re my new best friend. Even if I then feel dubious about why they’ve felt the need to ply me with anti-wrinkle creams. Nowadays it’s always anti-wrinkle. It makes me frown, which then causes wrinkles.

If I could just find the right products I wouldn’t need testers and I wouldn’t frown nearly as much. But then the cosmetic companies wouldn’t sell as much. It’s a conspiracy, but still I fall for it.

•Passwords and phone numbers.
Identity thieves: just to let you know everything is written down somewhere as I swear I’ve lost the function of the part of my brain that’s meant to store such information. However, good luck finding the information you need when you need it, because I sure as hell can’t.

• Food and drink.
I’ve no idea what healthy eating means any more. And I can never remember how many units I’m meant to claim I drink when I go to the GP’s without eliciting raised eyebrows and tutting or someone pointing at me singing ‘liar, liar, pants on fire.’

• Parents’ Evening.
A sure-fire way to feel like an inadequate parent, even when it’s good news. And despite the teachers increasingly being younger than I am.

• Packing.
I must have read a bazillion articles on packing the perfect capsule wardrobe, so why do I end up with a suitcase of stuff that I don’t use?

Mind you, if you saw the ‘essential’ never-used things I carry around with me every day in my handbag my inability to streamline my packing is more understandable.

• Money.
There’s always too much month at the end of the money. I play ATM lottery far too often, closing my eyes as I tap in my PIN and hoping it pays out. (Identity thieves: if you do find my secret passwords and can work out whether they’re still valid I wouldn’t waste your time and effort as there’s really nothing to take.)

I could, should, sit down and work it all out in black and white. But that’s far too scary. I can’t even tip without angst, so working out the big numbers is never going to happen. Instead I’ll stick my head in the sand as the numbers flow from my bank account like water. Even without the help of identity thieves.

Looking at the list I’m amazed I’m not in some sort of home, let alone labelled as a functioning adult!

Still, at least I know how to change a toilet roll, so I’m one up on Husband.

Ripe to be Ripped-Off

I’m not looking forward to tomorrow. MOT day for the car. A day where an inanimate object I’m predominantly responsible for has to undergo a test. A test that I don’t understand on any single level.

For me, cars are roadworthy if they:

a) Are shiny* (on the outside – the interior usually looks more akin to a cross between dumping ground and rubbish bin. I didn’t know banana skins turned to green powder until I cleaned out the driver-side door pocket the other week. Yuk.)

* Actually, by ‘shiny’ I mean you can see out of the windows. Shiny makes a better impression though, and is surely going to dazzle a mechanic into passing the car without any further prodding, right?

b) Start when you put the key in the ignition. Getting A to B (even with the engine warning light on permanently) is sufficient in my world.

c) Aren’t driven by dicks. For some reason this isn’t covered by the MOT. A mechanic should be able to write a car off on sight of the person handing it over that morning. It’s definitely a flaw in the system.

Instead, someone is going to look at my car, find (probably expensive) fault with it and then give me a whopping bill for fixing these, until that point, undetected death-traps-waiting-to-happen…which I can’t quibble with because I don’t understand enough to know if I’m being ripped off and couldn’t fix it myself even if I was.

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So many options for ripping me off.

That last part is vital to my MOT misery. Even the bits I know need fixing before the test, I can’t fix.

For example, I knew the windscreen wipers needed changing. That the driver-side blade was hanging on by the merest of threads when I drove home from Manchester in February was a clue.

How hard can it be, though, to change some wiper blades. I mean, they’re on the outside. I’ve worked out how to add not only petrol, but also oil and windscreen wash and they both need me to pop the bonnet. (I can’t tell you how long it took to work out how to do that the first time I needed to though! The Krypton Factor would have been less challenging…and less messy.) Comparably, the wipers would be a doddle. Right?

Wrong.

Merrily I tripped my way to Halfords on Thursday. Because Noodles isn’t great with shopping and parking back home is a nightmare I decided to walk, with Noodles in his buggy. NOT taking the car was a mistake.

I was confronted with a plethora of wiper blades and a flip chart of options. ‘Shiny silver car’ wasn’t one of them. I was going to have to think about this.

Right, I drive a Ford. That much I know. I’m sure it’s a Focus. I flipped to the right sheet:

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Oh.

Too many options. I started to doubt myself on whether it was a saloon or hatchback (hatchback?) and the year (the 02 in the number plate is for 2002, isn’t it?). I couldn’t get an internet connection on my phone. I couldn’t find any staff to ask. Hell, I couldn’t even find the rear screen wipers.

Eventually I left with what I thought were the right blades. £65 lighter of pocket, Noodles grizzling in the buggy.

Now just to fit them. It didn’t bode well when I took the first blade from the packet. It was decidedly shorter than the previous one. The previous one that I couldn’t figure out how to remove.

I looked for instructions on the packet. They looked like this:

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Now, I was late to smartphone consumerism. I don’t know what to do when confronted with such a square. I looked instead at Bosch’s website. It looked like this:

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Not much help then. Even when I found the English version and a video to help I was still none the wiser.

I was going to have to ask my dad. Grandy, after all, is of the generation of men who can turn their hand to anything.

Anything, apart from fitting windscreen wiper blades. He managed to snap the first one.

‘I don’t think it’s the right size,’ he added in his defence.

And so it was that this morning, after washing and waxing the car (incase my hunch ever turns out to be right) I headed back to Halfords. Where I stood in line and waited. And went to check the flip chart again to see if I’d really messed up in a really divvy, embarrassing way. And waited some more.

Finally a man boy of about 16 asked if could help. Surely he wasn’t even old enough to drive!

Never underestimate the young. Within 30 seconds of seeing my car he’d established that I had bought the WRONG BLADES for the driver and passenger side. The rear wiper I’d got right – HOORAH! – and with a flick of the wrist he had it fitted.

Back inside he didn’t even bother checking the miniature flip chart. He just compared the length of the old blades with the new ones. Why didn’t I think of that? Oh, because I couldn’t get the old ones off either. And because I’m a slave to a list.

Blades exchanged and £5.98 fitting paid for, the car was then sorted within another 30 seconds, my new teen best friend using a sleight of hand last seen used by Dynamo.

‘How do you do that?’ I cried.

‘I get paid for it, so I have to be fast,’ he replied.

I still think he could get into the Magic Circle with such a trick.

And tomorrow will be more of the same, only more acutely and the exchange of a lot more money. Today has been a demonstration in how tomorrow is unavoidable.

Wish me…and my car…luck!

At least the car’s polished and shiny. How can it NOT pass?!

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It looks road-worthy to me.