Fifty Shades of Parenting

I had a nasty shock the other day. Three black paperbacks peeked innocuously from between Susan Hill and Rose Tremain. I thought nothing of it, as my wife has a paperback habit that she feeds through regular browsing on Amazon, and I never know what’s going to appear on the shelf next. But then I read about the publishing phenomenon that’s turning middle-class mothers into smut junkies, and something about the title rang a bell…

My wife cringes whenever I mention this. She bought them in all innocence, after Amazon offered them at three-for-two, flagged as ‘Amazon recommends’. Assuming that Amazon must know a thing or two about her reading habits by now — an unusual blend of historical romance and theology — she took the bait. As soon as she realized what was what, she dropped them like a hot brick, and they have remained firmly closed ever since. I suggest the charity shop, but she says she’s too embarrassed to take them.

But apparently there are plenty of women who have no such scruples about being seen with porn in public, and I suppose it’s partly as a backlash (ahem) to them that 365 Mummy has come up with excellent idea of 50 Shades of Parenting. She has invited bloggers to plumb the depths of their parenting fantasies and come up with some escapism that won’t leave welts or chafing.

Now anyone who has followed the tale of Topaz and Cleft in my other blog, Mills & Boon Wannabe, will know that I’m not averse to a bit of escapist fiction, although I admit I have had trouble with the sex scenes. There aren’t any, yet. I thought this little exercise might lubricate my imagination enough to write Topaz ’n’ Cleft’s grand finale at last. It’s a fantasy I expect we all have, especially around six o’clock…

She looked up and her eyes widened as she saw what I held in my hand. No words necessary, we both knew that the time had come at last; the time to abandon ourselves to the desire we had been trying to ignore for too long; the time for utter fulfilment.

Her eyes were hungry as I slowly gripped the end and, with deliberate, circling movements, worked the bulbous tip. Tantalizing her, I held back for a brief moment before, with a grunt, I felt the first seep of liquid run through my fingers.

‘Don’t waste it! I need all you can give me!’ she gasped, luscious lower lip held trembling between her perfect teeth. ‘For God’s sake, fill me up.’

Smiling, I pulled away just as she was ready to take it all, knowing that the final surge of pleasure would be so much more intense for the delay. And then her voice came again, low and urgent:

‘Just give me the blinking champagne; I’ve had a hell of a day.’

Posh nosh tosh

I recently went to a Pizza Hut for the first time in over 20 years. Great value. Super salad bar, if you like cold pasta with white gloop on it. But a strangely worded menu.

Not that strange: pizzas are what you expect in a Pizza Hut, and pizzas are what you get. But I was struck by the proud heading ‘Posh Pizzas’. By posh they meant that these pizzas had toppings that you’d normally expect to find somewhere really exclusive, like Pizza Express or Zizzi. Prosciutto. Chanterelles. Red onion. None of your basic ham and pineapple rubbish; that was relegated to page two. And it occurred me how confused the current use of the word ‘posh’ is.

In the Pizza Hut context I suppose it’s meant to mean ‘sophisticated’, ‘upmarket’, ‘a little bit special’. But while posh is a compliment when it comes to food, it’s more often used as an insult. Even, in the case of politicians, a bona fide reason to disqualify you from public office, if the hysterical inverted snobbery directed at Cameron, Osborne et al is anything to go by. So people described as being posh splutter, strenuously deny it and protest their ‘ordinary’ credentials.

Not me. I once had a very charming evening in a club in Cambridge, huddled outside on a tiny balcony seeking respite from the din with a bunch of young clubbers I’d never met before in my life. ‘Cor, you’re so posh!’ they marvelled. ‘I’ve never spoken to anyone who speaks like you before! I can’t get over the way you talk!’

I suppose I could have countered with ‘And you’re so common! I didn’t know people really spoke like you! I never thought I’d make conversation with anyone so rough!’ I didn’t, of course; they were thoroughly nice people and I enjoyed laying it on thick. By the time I left I sounded like the Queen putting on her best telephone voice.

But it illustrated a puzzling point. Why is it considered offensive to allude to someone’s weight, plainness of face, colour — even BO — yet absolutely fine to discuss and even mock the way they speak to their face, if the way they speak is Received Pronunciation?

It’s all relative, anyway. What counts as posh in Pizza Hut would be seen as slumming it anywhere else. And what about Posh Spice? If she’s posh, I’d hate to see Common Spice.

Would you put the cosh to posh, or…  sorry, I’ve run out of rhymes. But I’d love to hear your views.

Famous Five (minus three)

I’ve been tagged, and I’m thrilled; it’s like being asked to join the party. And when the tagger is SAHDandproud, that’s some party to be asked to join. His tagger was Tom Briggs at Diary of the Dad, so I thank him for throwing this bash in the first place.

It’s not a ‘come as you are’ party, but a ‘come as five well-known people you’ve been told you look like’ party. And that presents a problem: I have only ever been told that I look like two people.

First, a little scene-setting. This is who I’d like to look like:

Strangely, no one has ever commented on the resemblance.

This is what, on a bad day, I think I look like:

It’s the nose. I hate mine.

And this is what I do look like:

Now years ago, when my face was fresh and Neighbours was huge, I was apparently a dead ringer for Jason Donovan. Old ladies used to accost me in the library where I worked and croak ‘You know who you remind me of?’. One of them regularly called me Jason when it was my turn to stamp out her large-print Mills & Boons (this was in the days before barcodes and scanning and self-service).

See if you can spot the likeness.

Fast forward a decade and a half, and the chief executive of the company I worked for said she had finally worked out who I looked like. Andrew Rawnsley. By this time Google had been invented, so I could see whether she was complimenting me or not. I decided not, but reluctantly concurred that she had a point.

Then a month ago I had a nice man from John Lewis in to fix some blinds. On his first visit he said ‘You know who you remind me of?’ I waited nervously. ‘My cousin in Mauritius.’ Since he had no photo on him, I was unable to decide whether was a Good Thing or a Bad Thing.

On his second visit he said again: ‘You know who you remind me of?’

‘Your cousin in Mauritius?’

‘No. Jason Donovan.’

So it would seem to be official. The years may have taken their toll on our fresh faces and our hairlines, but Jason and I have still got something going…

This party is a respectable one. Invitation only. So I invite these utterly brilliant bloggers to join in. Mainly because I'm curious to see what they come up with.

Adventures of a Middle-Aged Matron

Chez Mummy