Question

One for my American friends (because this has bugged me for an eternity):

Why do your dates go by month, then date and finally year? 

Doesn’t it make more sense to go by date, month and year, what with the day being a fraction of the month, which is then a fraction of the year? See, it’s common sense. Your way just jars.

You’ve messed up spellings (whilst we’re on the subject, exactly what issue do you have with the ‘u’ in ‘colour’?) and rejected other words entirely. It’s your country, it’s your prerogative to mess with the language all you want. 

You have a different date for Mother’s Day. To be honest, there I’m just jealous as you get to eat your chocolates without Lent-based guilt and the weather is more optimistic. Seeing a TM is usually dreadful at organising Mother’s Day perhaps I should adopt yours too to give him a chance for a do-over.

But month, date, year? You’ve taken it too far, just to do things your way.

Although…

Why then, do we put the hour before the minutes when writing time? If we’re ranking from smallest portion of time to the biggest for the dates, shouldn’t the time follow the same system?

And we’re not blameless for messing with time in the UK either. Because why – WHY – do we shift forward to British Summer Time in the summer so that Greenwich isn’t then on Greenwich mean Time? 

I’m too lazy to have proper OCD, but things like this literally keep me awake at night. If someone could let me know – and therefore let me sleep at night – I’d be eternally grateful.

And if there is no logical reason for your crazy date randomness then could it please be arranged for you to tidy it up?

Thank you. Xx

PS really I’m just annoyed that our dates aren’t working out as beautifully symmetrically as yours this week. One form of OCD-lite conflicting with another. Gah!

  

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Roy Bear Tells the Truth

‘Oh, yeah, Noodles got given this bag at the end of nursery today,’ Eve informed me as she passed me a large The Hungry Caterpillar bag that had been hanging from the back of Teddy’s buggy and that I’d assumed was a new changing bag for him. Inside was a teddy dressed in a jumper and knitted trousers, a toothbrush, flannel and towel, pair of teddy-sized pyjamas and a journal. Roy Bear had come to stay the night!

‘I’ve come to stay the night,’ it said in the front of the journal. ‘Please could you draw a picture, take a photograph or write in the diary about the things I’ve been doing so that I can share it with my friends in nursery.’

There’s no way on Earth that Noodles would draw a picture and I have no way of printing off hastily-shot pictures, so (like the other parents) I’m left to write an account of the day. Unlike the other parents, mine shall be a work of ‘constructed reality’. (I know that the people mostly interested in it will be the nursey staff and the other parents. It’s already reading like a case of oneupmanship. ‘Got left in the bag and then Noodles showed no interest in me,’ isn’t going to cut it. And he’s already thought to be a square peg so it’s probably best not to add flame to the fire.) 

  

However, if Roy told the truth it would go something like this:

– Monday 11th March –

Jeez! Is there a support line for toy bear cruelty? 0800-TED TALKS maybe? I’ll give it a shot once everyone’s gone to sleep and us toys can wake up. (Toy Story wasn’t joking you know! It was cold hard fact, which is why you must NEVER EVER throw your kids’ old toys out or donate them to the nursery. It’s abuse everywhere, I’m telling ya. You people should be ashamed of yourselves.)

But onto me. Poor me. I couldn’t have gone back to the house ‘so big I nearly got lost’ after riding in the ‘shiny black car’ again could I? Oh no! I got used to that lifestyle far too easily, but today has been a trip from the stars to the gutter. What a comedown!

I mean, how can anyone forget about me?! I’m adorable! But whereas other families have taken me to the park for a go on the swings or  fed me ‘special treats’ of ice cream and chocolate (like these kids don’t eat these things every day? Pull the other one!) today I’ve just be abandoned! Left in my bag for hour after hour after hour. And on the hottest day of the year so far. And there I was – dressed in knitwear for crying out loud! – alone in the dark. I didn’t sign up for that!

It’s cruelty I tell ya! Cruelty!

You can take this as a formal complaint!

At the very least there should be a fine. I can spend the income on more weather-appropriate clothing. Who wants to wear a jumper more fitting of an 80s kids’ TV presenter day in day out? And those red trousers sit up higher than a pair of Simon Cowell slacks! Do you know how hard it is to remove a wedgie when you’ve got paws?! Has no one heard of Build-a-Bear? Man I could get me some sweet sweet threads from there! Sheesh!

  

But no wonder the mum panicked when she found out about me! I’d been abandoned, left to overheat and not even provided with an imaginary cup of tea from the play tea set!!! That in itself contravenes basic soft-bear rights. Disgusting!

But what’s truly shocking is that rather than tending to my stuffed toy needs the only thing she was concerned about was not being judged by the other mums/staff. Everyone knows that the other parents revel in finding out whose had chips for tea or who lets their kid play on the Playstation/watch CBeebies all afternoon. And tonight I didn’t even get anything to eat (not even the standard chicken nugget, when surely everyone knows bears prefer salmon, marmalade sandwiches, honey and picnic baskets!) or to indulge in lazy-parenting techniques. No, after today even the McDonalds-for-dinner-whilst-watching-back-to-back-DVDs parents look like goddamn Mary-frickin’-Poppins!

Except, the piece of fiction she’s come up with is shocking! Pure propaganda! Yeah, sure, I got taken to the supermarket with cutesy pictures of Noodles pointing out the buses down his street or counting the numbers down the aisles.

  
She even posed me in front of the goddamn honey!!! Did I get any? Did I heck! 

  

Never mind bare-faced lies; these are are bear-faced lies! Lies with MY face on them!

Because it’s all a lie all for the sake of looking like an engaged parent, rather than someone whose worked all day and whose childcare arrangements don’t stretch to after-school bear care. It’s a wonder she can sleep at night! Actually, she may not sleep tonight as she tries to print out said photos when it’s going to require transferring them from her phone to her laptop and then fixing the printer. Ha! Obviously without actual photographic evidence of our ‘adventures’ it’s just her word against mine. It’s how you tell the true yummy mummies from the rest. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before one of them sets me up with my own Facebook account for all of my selfies. Now, that’s how you go the extra mile in parental over-striving. They’re amateurs, the lot of them at the moment. Even the shiny car/massive house participant. If you want to be a Tiger Mum you’ve got to think outside the box.

Today though I didn’t even think I was going to experience things outside the bag!

As a result of today’s horrors, I would like to apply for a transfer. An international teddy transfer placement up in Alaska. My woolly pants will actually be appropriate for the winter months and I may finally get some goddamn salmon!!!

Roy x

Reasons For the Nine in Ten, Daily Mail

The Daily Mail is in uproar. To be honest, it’s the Daily Mail – it’s in perpetual uproar. But the reason for today’s chest-beating, get-the-smelling-salts-Doris is because only one mother in ten is a stay-at-home-parent.

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Obviously, as the Daily Mail sees it, this means that the world must be in terminal decline because mothers must never ever EVER have worked before. Apart from during the World Wars…or during Victorian times when the kids would work as well…or in the days of the Feudal system when men women and children would toil the land for greedy overlords…or at any point and space in time so long as there have been families. Apart from maybe the ‘golden age’ of Middle-class 1950s Western society, which, apart from the gorgeous dresses weren’t really all that golden. Or for the very very wealthy/entitled at any time ever…but then the kids would be raised by nanny/boarding school anyway, so that doesn’t really count. Oh, yes, the world must definitely be headed to Hell in a hand cart…and it’s ALL THE FAULT OF THE WORKING MUM!!! It must be.

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Just look at how happy this fake nuclear family is, reckons the Daily Mail. Anything else must be BAD.

Except, here’s the rub, Daily Mail. There are reasons – very valid and justified reasons – why women are untying the apron strings and heading out to work. Here are some:

• We live in a society that requires a dual-income. And, by and large, you get diddly squat for looking after your own kids. Politicians are always looking at initiatives to make childcare more affordable, but looking after your children yourselves is granted voluntary status. Next month launches a childcare voucher scheme granting parents up to £1,200 for someone else to look after their kids. Parents staying at home to look after their own kids can expect no magic grand. No, that’s their choice and as raising a family is seen as having no worth they can suck it up. The trouble is, it limits income potential to care for your own children, but things still cost. After a point, what’s a family to do?

• And whilst we’re on government policy, single-parents are literally dragged back into training and work as soon as their kids hit school, regardless of whether it’s their choice to or not; regardless of how badly some jobs fit around school hours, let alone school holidays when those parents often have a reduced support network of family, what with one parent not being there; regardless of how those kids might be most in need emotionally of having a parent there in the home. But society can’t possibly support those in need (despite that essentially being the whole concept of having a welfare state) so fuck ’em, apparently. But, yeah, you can’t have it both ways, Daily Mail.

• Society also has a tendency to worship the economic like nothing else. You say you’re a stay-at-home mum and people’s eyes glaze over and they ask when you’re going to go back to doing something proper. The Daily Mail reports considers family-raising to be tantamount to ‘female inactivity’. I dare you to go up to a stay-at-home mum and say that to her face. Don’t worry, I’ll have the ice pack ready for your bruises.

• Go out to work, you get adult conversation, possibly even a bit of light-hearted flirting. You get to talk about stuff that’s stimulating, you get to gossip, you get to finish full sentences without someone slamming a football in your face and shrieking at you. Staying at home is isolating like nothing else. Yes, kids are cute, but their opinions when it comes to the latest developments in their area,the plot of EastEnders or topical jokes leaves a lot to be desired.

• And have you ever say through daytime TV?! Whether Jeremy Kyle and Homes Under the Hammer or, possibly worse, kid-friendly options of Baby Jake and Balamory. You can literally feel your brain atrophy along with the career aspirations of those on screen.

• Parents – mums especially – are blamed for EVERYTHING. Implications seem to be that Jihadi John wouldn’t be cutting people’s heads off if only his mum had kept a closer eye on what he was looking at online and who his friends were. Seriously:

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Note towards the end the call for ‘mothers’ – not ‘families’ or ‘parents’, just ‘mothers’ – to join the fight against extremist brainwashing. From the Evening Standard.

At least when you’re out at work you’re largely thanked for doing what you do and get financial remuneration for it. People don’t tend to say thank you for raising kids to adulthood. No, instead you get tut-tutted at when your offspring throw a tantrum in the supermarket aisles.

It should also be noted that there’s no mention throughout the article about how these mums work. Not everyone does the traditional 40-hour weeks, 9am to 5pm, Daily Mail. There’ll be a majority of working mums doing so part-time or working flexibly: job shares, shifts that fit around the family, working from home, working in schools to get hours that (mostly) match those of the kids. There’ll be a reliance on breakfast clubs and after-school activities, on child-minders and other family members. These aren’t abandoned latch-key kids fending for themselves on the harsh streets of suburbia. Working mums don’t stop making parenting decisions for the time when they’re working.

Oh, and finally, Daily Mail, THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH HAVING KIDS AND WORKING. Better a parent whose socially and economically emancipated and feels satisfied in what they’re doing and loving their kids and doing what’s best for themselves and their family than it is to have someone tearing their hair out in isolation and tedium and too cash-strapped to do anything about it. (And, yeah, note the gender neutrality in that last line because dads make a choice about where they work and how much too y’know.) At the same time though, it’s ALSO PERFECTLY ACCEPTABLE TO BE A STAY-AT-HOME-PARENT, to be there for the games and school plays and the PTAs, always there for the highs and lows of daily life with kids. Because, Daily Mail, I bet it’s only a matter of time until they’re your target for the problems of the world.

I have been a stay-at-home mum. I’m now a (part-time) working mum. I may have more balls to juggle, but it doesn’t mean I care about my kids any less. But it was, without a shadow of a doubt harder not working than it is giving 20 hours of my 168-hour week to adding numbers and talking on the phone in exchange for cash and a place in society…and an escape from sodding Balamory. And I can’t see any signs of Noodles bring indoctrinated into extremism yet.

Dare I say it, Daily Mail, but I think society is going to be ok. Now, go and find something positive to write about and stop dishing the guilt. A challenge, I know.

What I Actually Wrote…

Thank you to everyone who offered me sound, rational advice after my post last night. Thank you for making me a) laugh and b) see the light of the situation.

So I texted her back this morning and said:

Hopefully we can catch up over the holidays. I can’t believe how quickly they’ve come around! Plus I’ll see you at the party? Xx

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She’s not replied.

Oh well. Maybe, as jennyrecorder suggested, I need to find myself some friendship secateurs.

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Biting My Tongue

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I think my tongue may have tooth marks in it.

But what else can you do when a friend, or should that be ‘friend’, riles you so much, but you know that to retaliate would be to play into their hands?

This evening I sent a text saying that I hadn’t seen her around at all, so I still had the invitation to Noodles’ party on me, but to confirm its date and time.

I got this back:

Oh GSM, I’ve asked kinda consistently about catching up! You’ve made me so sad of late 😥 I totally get your busy, etc but I thought we were friends. You missed my birthday last month too 😦 I still love noodles’ presents though xx

Errr, what happened to ‘Thanks for letting me know. See you there.’ ??!

So, here’s the text I’d have liked to have sent back.

Hi, T-,

I’m sorry I’ve been such a shit friend of late. I know last year we were best buds. I came to your rescue when Verruca was in quarantine in hospital. I stood by you when you kicked your husband out (even though I didn’t necessarily agree with every action you’ve taken since). You didn’t get too upset when I drunkenly broke one of your best glasses.

But we have grown apart, but I would claim
It was YOU who got too busy first, giving your time to the school and meaning that we could only meet up when you had (Wreck It) Ralph with you – even though he was at nursery most of every day and despite the fact he would bully Noodles and trash his toys. Even though you must have known that you’d spend most of the time bellowing at him rather than being able to concentrate. Although I guess the shouting broke up the monologue about what a shit your husband is/what an absolute genius Verruca is/how hard it is to constantly fight various systems as they neither realise nor react to the fact that your kids are the absolute epicentre of the world and how they should receive unlimited provision (including fully-subsidised private education)/how others bleed said systems dry, what with anyone daring to want support for behavioural/educational/cultural needs.

That my schedule when I went back to work didn’t fit with yours is a shame. (And a teensy bit of a relief.) But I’ve also looked back through my texts and either the ‘consistent’ requests to meet up haven’t been getting through the ether as I don’t seem to have had a single one since August (when I sent a text to say exactly when I was free…which you then just ignored) or you’ve only been consistent in NOT asking.

But then, you’ve also had your new best buddy to hang around with too. The one you WOULD have time for a child-free morning coffee with, even when you’d told me you’d not got time for me. Even though you’d consistently – and yes, it should actually be CONSTANTLY (different word; different meaning!) – bitch about her. Just as I suspect you’ve bitched to her about ME since you’ve buddied up.

I’m sorry I missed your birthday. I thought you were a grown-up though and could handle not getting a vacuous message from me on Facebook. Obviously I made an error of judgement there. If it’s any consolation I don’t add vacuous birthday comments on anyone’s Facebook page. Funnily enough, everyone else seems to get over it. Older AND wiser for most people, it seems.

I’d like to still have you as a friend – to chat to you when I do see you, rather than have you walk past as though I’m not there. But friendship comes with the acceptance off ebb and flow.

It does not come with the expectation that someone is only a friend if they revolve around your life in some sort of lunar orbit. Otherwise that’s not being a friend – that’s just being egocentric and needy! And for someone who claims to be strong and independent, my God are you needy!

So, when I texted to let you know the details of the party – just to clarify because I didn’t want a repeat of Boo’s last birthday when you claimed I hadn’t been specific enough and thus failed to show for either of her parties (the 11th-hour excuse for missing the first being that you’d made a gravy?!…unless you meant a completely different word then too) – all I expected from a friend was an acceptance of said text, NOT to turn it into a you’re-a-shit-friend reply, that was clearly meant to induce guilt, but instead sent me into an apoplectic rage.

The entire purpose of my text was to provide you with information. I wished Verruca a happy birthday for Saturday (even though we were clearly not invited to her party…but then she and Boo don’t really seem to get on and I’m happy to avoid a situation where they have an argument/she makes Boo cry, so I’m fine with that.) At most all I really needed was an acceptance of said information and whether you and the kids will be coming to the party or not. And you didn’t even answer me that!

I hope that you are able to make it. (And not just because it still costs me money when you don’t turn up. I’d also like back the stuff I left at Ralph’s party back in August please.)

Although if, after this slice of the truth, you never wish to speak to me again, I understand.

(What’s the emoticon for a passive-aggressive LOL or insincere kisses? Cos they’re what I feel would be most appropriate here.)

And now you can see why I didn’t send it! (I am a truly shit friend and a horrible person, I know!)

But I also know that by not responding to it she’ll be assessing that as an admission of guilt. And with no oh-we’ve-both-been-equally-shit realisation, but that the whole things entirely my fault.

So – and here’s where you come in – what DO I text back that isn’t sarky and snarky and the rusty nail in the coffin of a friendship-turned-sour? Or might it actually be for the best to let rip and accept that I’ll be avoiding her in the school playground for the next four years (unless her kids do finally get that cost-free private education that she feels they’re so entitled to)?

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All I Want For Christmas

Boo has, sensibly, had her Christmas list in place for weeks. With illustrations, for accuracy purposes. And each item assigned to various people, to avoid duplication and disappointment and to assure accountability in the event of duplication and disappointment.

I, however, have been nowhere near as organised. Teflon Man has been asking what I might like, so I’d better prepare a response. Particularly as, when I asked how much he wanted to spend his answer was ‘as little as possible.’

Still, we can all dream that actually Santa (if not the husband) will realise that I’ve been a mostly good girl this year (ok, there was that drunken night out for my friend’s birthday, but I also managed to bite my tongue and not tell my boss what I thought of him to his face) and I might get something I actually want. In which case any of the following would be appreciated:

Large Olivia Burton watch

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So I can watch time getting away from me in style.

Ticket to V&A’s Wedding Dress Exhibition

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So I can consider what I would have worn if only George Clooney had asked me to marry him rather than Amal.

Pandora Essence charms

Seeing as how I had to buy my own sodding bracelet as he failed to pick up on my hint.

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The gold Sensitivity charm is particularly beautiful. But at £160 it might as well be called Not A Chance!

Jo Malone Fragrance

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And maybe some gorgeous, outrageously priced, candles to dot around the house, so that even when things look nasty they can still at least smell nice.

Pashley Bicycle

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Now, I have recently bought myself a second-hand bike – an old, retro shopper. It’s scratched to bits and massively heavy to ride…but it’s beautiful. Still, even more beautiful would be a brand new Pashley. I’d be out on the street with all the kids who’d also got new bikes for Christmas. Only they’d probably be more competent.

Cath Kidston Backpack

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Since I’m not likely to get the bike of my dreams in a million years, a bag that I can transport without throwing me off balance would be handy whilst I battle to heave my carcass along. Backpacks in general aren’t pretty, but this one is. I want it!

Kitchen Aid Mixer

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I wouldn’t normally advocate the purchase of a domestic appliance as a suitable gift. However, this time last year we were about to have our kitchen replastered and I envisaged by now having a beautiful kitchen, the cherry on the cake being a Kitchen Aid mixer sat in pride of place on the gleaming work surface.

And then Teflon Man’s friend, who was doing the plastering stopped halfway through the job and claimed he couldn’t finish it. And then the roof leaked and 14 different roofers have failed to come and repair it, so the new plasterwork that did get done is mouldy and every time it rains we fear the ceiling is going to cave in. So the kitchen is a mess. But couldn’t I at least have my cherry?

A Day at a Spa

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Because the stress of a potential kitchen ceiling cave-in, on top normal stresses, is causing me wrinkles and muscular knots. Put me in a steam room and have someone knead my aching flesh and I will, at least temporarily, feel much much better.

Laser Eye Surgery

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An unusual gift, but it would be such a joy to wake up and not have to play hunt-the-glasses-when-you-can’t-see or to have to fart around with contacts. To have an extra 10 minutes in bed as a result would be a gift worth more than money could buy!

Although, I would then have 20:20 vision to see the mould in the kitchen…and associated wrinkles. Maybe blurry vision is best after all.

Gym Membership

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Noodles starts nursery school in January meaning I will actually have time to myself each week that doesn’t involve toddler-wrangling/work. So, I intend to join a gym to shift all the extra weight he’s caused me to put on. It’d be nice if someone else was paying for it though. I want to lose lbs, not £££s.

So, there you are – my Christmas list. My betting is I get…none of it! Instead it will be tickets to something that Teflon Man wants to see more than I do. Still, at least it won’t be a fish tank or a green plastic ring, as we’ve already been there, got that. Ah, but it will be interesting to see what’s actually at the bottom of a scraped barrel.

In the meantime, I’ve started to put our decorations up in the living room. #SoExcited.

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Take a Seat, Kim: More Effective Ways to Promote a Celeb Bottom

So, in surprising news, Kim Kardashian has an arse. Who knew?

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Oh, that’s right, ALL OF US! Even those of us who aren’t really sure who Kim Kardashian is. But still, it was very kind of her to so publicly re-iterate that for us. Some of us hadn’t really been thinking about it – and thus about her – for a few minutes, so, y’know, it was thoughtful of her to so kindly remind us.

Although I now can’t help but fear that arse-glazing may be the next big thing. Because having a bottom that resembles two Krispy Kreme donuts is…well, it’s weird, really, but that hasn’t stopped things from becoming a look before. A wax, vajazzle and arse-glaze will surely be the holy trinity of getting your nether regions in a hot mess before Christmas. Hmmm, I think I’ll pass.

But I also thought Kim was trying to be all classy? Maybe she thinks she was, the balance-a-champagne-glass-on-your-arse being the height of artistic pastiche chic after all. (And then, I assume, having got soaked in champagne one just had to happily take one’s clothes off and be photographed whilst doing so…or something?)

Or maybe it’s a compulsive affliction of poor Kim’s and she can’t stop herself from exposing her cheeks to the blaze of the sun/media’s gaze. It must be hard for her, the poor petal, trying so desperately to keep it posh but then – oops! – there it is! Maybe it’s lunar. A full moon for a full moon and she really can’t help herself.

But if it is a desperate self-promotion thing, may I make the following suggestions as they seem to have worked for their respective celebs for whom we can’t hear their name without thinking of their backsides. And without the rest of us having to be visually assaulted with an Instagram feed dedicated to new posterior pictures:

1) Arse of roses a la Cheryl Cole

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OK, it’s not exactly classy. But it is what you tend to think of when you think of Cheryl Cole/Tweedy/Fernandez-Versini. More than ‘oh, she’s got a new surname, fancy that?’ More than ‘wow, she’s made some bad choices,’ as a judge on the X Factor. More than ‘I really must get me some of that Elnett Hairspray.’ No, it’s ‘I wonder if she regrets that damn great arse tattoo yet?’

Still, her new husband is rather cute and she seems happy (apart from when she’s glaring daggers at girls who can sing better than she can). And although we all still think about her backside more than most people’s, she hasn’t had to whip it out since. It’d be nice if Kim would do the same.

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Yep, I’d rather see pictures of her new husband than of her arse. And thanks to her tattoo having burnt out retinas with their image that’s just the way it can be.

2) Gold charity shop hot pants a la Kylie Minogue

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It’s fourteen years – fourteen years! since Kylie writhed on a bar in her 50p gold lamé hot pants and resurrected her career. OK, her pert bottom has been flashed many a time since, but never – and this is the important part – in its entirety. It’s always a peek, a flash of cheek, a hint. When they say ‘less is more’ they’re referring to the exposed flesh not the amount of clothing, which may be where Kim’s gone wrong.

For the record, those hot pants got a starring role in an exhibition at the V&A museum. I can’t imagine Kim’s fallen dress earning the same accolade.

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3) A well-fitting bridesmaid’s dress a la Pippa Middleton

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Kate Middleton’s wedding was, obviously, a big deal. Not since Charles & Diana had we been so enchanted by the creation of a princess (until they told us she’d not actually become a princess but merely a Duchess, which is obviously less every-girl’s-dream because who dresses up as a Duchess when they’re little and covered in tulle and sequins?).

But it didn’t take long for the focus to shift away from the nuptials (because, actually, royal weddings are supremely dull) and onto a) debate as to when exactly Prince Harry became the hot one and b) Pippa Middleton’s arse.

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And to gain all the hysteria and hype she didn’t have to expose even the teeniest tiniest bit of bum crack. She merely wore that dress well. The power of clothing: far more enticing than masses of over-photoshopped flesh.

Moreover, her celebrity remains fixated on that moment, that dress. Ask a random selection what exactly it is she’s done since and…errr…umm…most would be hard-pressed to think of anything. Which may mean that she’s not sold her soul to the media (although she’ll be there on the pages of Hello! and sat on the front row of London Fashion Week/court side at Wimbledon/at the opening of an envelope, so maybe not). But she doesn’t do all that with her arse hanging out because that’s what she’s famous for. She’s too busy sitting on it to be flashing it about.

But maybe that’s what Kim would be best doing: just taking a seat, rather than touting it around, shoving it in everyone’s face like an over-excited baboon.

No, Kim, if you really want to shock us put your bum away, step away from the self-publicity and actually do something that helps someone other than yourself, because, truly, we know what your arse looks like now. We will always now remember what your arse looks like. Next time you think we’ve forgotten, really we haven’t. So sit on it and move on because no one wants to be known for being an arse.