Miss Underscore's Weekly Digest(ive)

Friday: Knickergate

I was touched to receive Rochester's much promised mix tape (well, CD). It was great, despite starting (bizarrely) with The Carpenters cheesy anthem 'I'm on the Top of the World'. My 3 favourite tracks:

1. The Lemonheads: Rudy with a Flashlight
2. Jarvis Cocker: I Will Kill Again
3. Lucinda Williams: Fruits of my Labor

It was also a great day as I took delivery of my new FLANNEL bed linen. It's in a rather vivid kitsch, 50s floral. It's from the 'Romantic Incontinence' range, designed by Thora Hird. Anyway, I love it. I couldn't wait to go to bed. Oh, darn it. I feel like that every night. But this was going to be special. I had Mad Men to enjoy, Rochester's CD to listen to and the softest, cosiest flannel bedding (complete with Doris Day, bubble-gum pink sheets).

I had a flurry of texts from the swarthy rogue that day. I offered him a bedroom picture (of the new linen, of course). He was certainly up for that. His beer glass of testosterone was running over that night. He'd had an alpha male showdown with his boss you see. He modestly sent me the details

'I felt like Clint Eastwood walking through the silence of a large, packed office to knock on his hamster cage in the corner. I told him, very calmly, that he is a cunt and should not fuck with me. I told him he need not speak as there was no need to embarass himself further. He remained silent. I spoke for about 5 minutes with all of his staff looking through the window. I was superb. You would have liked it I think.'

Consequently, that night, Rochester was like a dog with two dicks. He brazenly began to request a knicker shot to accompany the bedroom shot (that dream he'd enjoyed several weeks earlier of me dancing, nay prancing, through a sun-dappled meadow in white cotton knickers was obviously still very much on the rogue's mind). I obliged. With both a bedroom AND a knicker shot. Hell. I'm a modern girl. I grew up in the Cosmopolitan age. I'm no prude.

Strangely I don't think it was quite what the rogue had in mind. I'm not sure why. I thought it hit all the right notes: explicit, yet tasteful. I had deliberately edited out the mug of Horlicks and packet of Werther's Original on the bedside table, for that would have been just cheap and tawdry. I quite like this picture, you know. I figure it could be a winner of the Turner Prize. I prefer it to Tracy Emin's bed. That was just plain skanky. And I'm sure her sheets were poly-cotton.

The tremulous sight of my flannel bedding and my knickers did seem to send Rochester into fanny rat overdrive. It was only to be expected. He is but a man of the male gender, after all. He is also a MARRIED man of the male gender. In the end I stopped our textual intercourse. I was beginning to feel guilty. The bitter taste of wrongdoing was so intense even the Werther's Original could not remove it.

The next day I sent Rochester an email asking, in essence, what the fuck are we doing? That was 8 days ago. I have had no response.

Candy Stripe Bedding

Do you remember the obligatory candy stripe bedding of the 60s and 70s? It makes me think of hot water bottles and my mum reading me The Adventures of the Little Wooden Horse after bathtime. I have been trying to track some down for quite a while now. Then I discovered Cath Kidston has launched a new candy stripe range. I do love Cath Kidston stuff, but I object to paying extortionate prices for products that essentially look as if they've come out of your granny's attic or from the local church jumble sale. However, I have relented and bought the set (with my EBAY profits). It is fantastic. I confess, it doesn't look quite as elegant as this on my bed. My bedroom is certainly more shabby shite than shabby chic.

More Interweb Dating Desperadoes.

OK. I have been flirting, albeit rather half-heartedly, with interweb dating again. Out of the many illiterate and unwashed suitors only two have seemed remotely interesting. Both are angling for a date.

The first is a very nice sounding architect. He seems erudite and well-read. He wants to take me to the local art-house cinema and then out for a meal. How terribly civilised and middle-class. I just think he seems a little dull. Plus, in his profile he describes himself as 'sensitive' (shudder). I think he is possibly a Lib Dem. I think he may eat granola. I expect he reads The Guardian. He refers to me as a 'lady'. None of that is good. It is not good at all.

The second is a shoe designer. I am not making that up, I swear. His occupation sounds a little gay. He got a little huffy with me when I didn't reply to one of his emails. He is a bit on the short side. Plus, I don't think I'll measure up in the shoe department, my beloved ballet pumps will just not be chic enough for him (I am currently sporting a £7 pair from Tesco). Cyril will inevitably ruin things for us anyway, with his rampant shoe cannibalism. I imagine one day Cyril would surely destroy some prototype design that was just about to set the shoe-world aflame. It could never work.

To be honest, neither of them do much for me. Madam Noir says I should keep an open mind. I think you just know about these things.

Middle Class Injury of the Week

I have had no more M.C.Is Not since I split my lip open on a scented candle in John Lewis. Madam Noir has, however, had two. Firstly, she put her back out whilst recycling red wine bottles. Secondly (and this is my favourite) she over-did it on the L'Occitane foot cream, leapt into the shower and nearly broke her neck.

Lourdes for Lesbians

Rochester Update

Rochester has caused something of a scandal in the South West. Here is some of this week's correspondence with the swarthy rogue.

Rochester: I performed poetry live on BBC Bristol the other day. They were a bit annoyed with me, as I said cunt on air. Afterwards, this red faced woman shouted at me - What does that word actually mean anyway? - I said - What ever it means to you, but my guess is we all view it differently, it is unfortunate that you feel offended but I make no apologies, cunt is an essential part of the poem. I'm too long in the fucking tooth to be having discussions about the rights and wrongs of cunt with uptight, anal Cliftonites. Jesus. I think you would have approved of the whole debacle. Off to sell more pegs now. I think you would also approve of my bryl cream and cuff link look you know. I look a right cunt.

Miss Underscore: I do approve of the cunt debacle! Can you send me the poem. Of course, I know it won't be the same just reading it. T'would be better to hear it recited in your seductive Geordie tones ( the ones only dophins and dogs can hear). I don't suppose it's available on I-Player?

By the way, Brycream and cufflinks? Why are you going to work in fancy dress? It's not twatting Children in Need is it? When are you seeing Nick Cave, try and get your picture taken with him please. I like the idea of having a picture of you and he together; one of my favourite misanthropic sex gods alongside a gone-to-seed middle-aged has been.

Rochester: To be honest, I was bored by the gig. So much so, I spent most of it sitting in the foyer bar. I was very underwhelmed by the whole thing. I had to be in Wales this morning to receive my golden peg award. So had to leave Manchester at 5.30 - It was worth it though as I swept the cunting board - 8 bottles of bubbly and a 4 day 5 star break to Hungary. You should sell pegs too you know.

Miss Underscore: I think you’ve been sold a pup with prize of a 5 Star holiday in Hungary. Isn’t Hungary a bit skanky? Their equivalent of 5 star is the same as a Blackpool Travelodge. Try a bit harder, Rochester. Let me know when you can take me to Paris, Rome or Barcelona. Please send me your cunt poem. I am assuming it was deeply autobiographical? Called King Cunt from the Kingdom of Cuntopia perhaps? Of course, I am aware that a good 95% of all your poems will obviously be about me. I am Sylvia Plath to your Ted Hughes.

BTW, I don't want to sell pegs. I have a vocation.

Rochester: You have access to the poem. Mynah Bird. One of the big guns. It was a request. Infact they all were apart from Lifeboat Appeal, which I always do, because it is the most powerful. These days, I have only myself to answer to. I leave in the morning with a bag of pegs and on a good day I return with an empty sack. (Reader (s): You can check out Rochester's 'cunt' poem here.)

Miss Underscore: I so love the image of you skipping off to market with your pegs wrapped up in a jaunty handkerchief, a little dog snapping at your ankles. It’s very Brothers Grimm (how apt). Of course, then the image of a Bryl-creamed, cufflincked twat in a BMW appears and the whimsical, fairy-tale magic is ruined.

Rochester: (talking about Madam Noir) Why is she fixated on being a lezza anyway? We all know that they don't really exist. They all have a Mars Bar in the fridge.

Miss Underscore: I am astounded at the assertion that lezzas don’t really exist. You make them sound like leprechauns or elves!

Rochester: Well, it is simply a belief that I hold very strongly. I have fixed a number of lezzas in my time.

Miss Underscore: So, you are claiming to provide to lesbians the kind of service that Lourdes provides the lame and crippled? If that is the case, when are you next North, you could try your laying on of hands with Madam Noir?

Rochester: I could fix her, for sure.

You know. Rochester may be a blunderingly offensive oaf, but he does make me smile.

Scone Update

It was a good one today, cherry (again) and so gargantuan that I needed 3 packets of butter. I am pleased to report that Madam Noir is coming to terms with her newly single status. There was no weeping today. Well. There was weeping. From me. So many beautiful things caught my magpie eye in the shops today. I resisted them all. I came home with a packet of sausages. But, these are today's trinkets.

A leather jacket the colour of Werther's Originals. It is as soft as a beagle's ears. Lovely. £150 from M&S.

A divine new Christmas palette from Bobbi Brown. Ten absolutely beautiful and wearable eyeshadows, 4 lovely lip glosses. Utterly gorgeous. £59.

Cath Kidston Macbook cover £20.

Chanel Lumiere Matte foundation. Luminous, whisper-light texture, excellent coverage and the shade 05, Faoence, is a beautiful porcelain ivory. Perfect for aging goths.

Noir perfume from The White Company. When it comes to fragrance I usually opt for the cool, clean and fresh. I'm not one for musky, heady or overtly sensual scents. So, it was a surprise when I fell in love with this perfume, which has a warm, amber base. I'm not sure I have the lifestyle to go with such a sultry perfume though. It would probably seem a little discordant with my hum drum life at the School of Hard Knocks.

Sconeless Sunday

Well. No Sunday scone for me today. Sadly. The twatting Great North Run meant a journey to Newcastle was impossible. When I had my first date with Senor Boldon (Rochester's brother) he attempted to woo me with tales of his unbridled virility - how he'd triumphed at Great North Run the previous year.

'Aye, it's tremendous feeling. Have you ever done it?'

I was rather astonished that question even crossed his mind. I am not exactly the athletic type. My exercise is limited to genteel dog-walking and pilates so sedate and sedentary that I have been known to fall asleep during it. Plus, I don't exactly have a physique that lends itself to running. I told Aunty Margaret of S.B.'s query. Aunty Margaret is known for her straight talking. The very thought of me doing the Great North Run had her cackling hysterically, so much so that she dislodged her false teeth in the process.

'Oh Elizabeth. You, doing the Great North Run!!!! The very thought! He was obviously just being polite.'

Charming. I am sure I could do the GNR, with enough practice, a good bra and the right amount of motivation. I am sure it is not physically impossible. Maybe with a bit of hypnosis and some positive visualisation. If I pictured some swarthy Don Draper look-a-like waiting for me at the finishing line, a buttered cheese scone in his hand.

I noted with interest that Geordie double-act Ant and Dec rang the bell to start the race today. What a great choice. I mean that most sincerely. An inspired choice. One look at Twit and Twat and even I would run like the clappers. Dear God. Let's get ready to stumble.

Rochester Update.

I have indeed heard from the rogue. It was not good news. I don't quite know how to share this with you all, but he is indeed getting a personalised number plate for his BMW fanny wagon. (Sadly, he has not opted for my suggestion of Peg King 69.) Even worse, in emails now he does not even just refer to 'my car' he feels the need to mention ‘my BMW 5 Series M Sport’ How crass. I am not impressed by such things. I never refer to 'my 2005 silver and rust colored Ford Focus Zetec' Soon he will inevitably start dropping into conversations how much the krautmobile cost. To think, the oaf used to work in the voluntary sector, hosting workshops for transgender immigrant lesbian otters. He used to drive a 15 year old turquoise Nissan Almera with a mouse-trap in the footwell. (People always assume I make-up the bit about the mouse-trap, but I swear on my Bobbi Brown lipstick collection, it is totally true). Tragically, Rochester appears to be slowly morphing into a sort of Geordie Alan B’Stard.

Rochester has always had a deep fascination with lesbians. He outed my best friend, Madam Noir, as a lezza long before she ever came out of the closet to me. Rochester is to lesbians what pigs are to truffles. He has a nose for them. He was married to a lesbian once, you see. He appears to be currently obsessed with his next door neighbour's wife and her relationship with a female friend. He has even warned his neighbour that he suspects sapphic shenanigans are going on behind his back.

'I did tell him a couple of months ago and he was having none of it .......'they're just good friends.....it's a kind of sister thing' he said. Bollocks. He's gone to a friend's house in London tonight and her car is still outside. I think I'll take a glass tumbler to the wall.'

See, utterly obsessed!

Other than that I have little to report. I see QVC has been running a beauty day. Oh, it's been L'Occitane, Bobbi Brown and OPI all day. Such temptation. I am still as poor as a church-mouse. In fact, McFireman took pity on me this week and kindly bought me the new Grinderman CD. It's pretty intense and scary stuff. (The CD, I mean, not McFireman showing a kind side).

I did get my payslip yesterday. We teachers move up a salary scale every September. I had calculated this increase would give me an extra £200 per month. Hmmm. I got my sums wrong. A measly £120. Darn it. There is Rochester bragging about watching Match of the Day with a bottle of champagne - when all he does is sell pegs all day, and me, educating the offspring of hoodlum gangsters and drug-addled dolehounds, still unable to afford to have my broken window fixed. Life is unfair.

My weekend.

• Reading the wonderful new Chanel biography by Justine Picardie.
• Brewing a few jars of crab apple and chili jelly. It is powerful stuff, I think I got the ratio of apples to chilies wrong. Still pretty good though, especially on toast with some cream cheese.
• Watching a lot of Miss Marple.
• Lusting over these:

Lola Rose Darcy long necklace (£85)

Bobbi Brown couture eye palette, £175. Yes indeed, you read that correctly, £175.

Blaguards, Miscreants and Womanisers (BMW drivers)

Life truly does deal blow after blow. I've spent the summer bank holiday weekend:

• Window shopping in Newcastle with Madam Noir. A lovely experience (especially as cheese scones were involved), but in order to cheer me up she perkily asked me what I would buy if I was not facing imminent bankruptcy. On hearing her question my mind was instantly filled with the beating wings of beautiful things: Bobbi Brown shimmer bricks, Lola Rose beads, cashmere jumpers, Barbara Pym novels, rose petal meringues, bottles of damson gin, a new car free of dog drool (thanks Cyril) and rust. I was rendered speechless by the enormity of the question. It only served to depress me. All I bought today was an M&S pork pie. And even that was a disappointment.

• Hiding in bed. It is cold here. I cannot afford to switch on the heating. Last winter my utility bills were £200 per month. So, like one of those balaclava wearing pensioners featured on Panorama, perpetually huddled in front of a one-bar electric fire, I am spending my time cocooned in bed, betwixt flannel sheets and my beloved electric blanket. It is where I am now. The only grit in the oyster is . . .

• The ongoing failure of my mission to teach the dogs how to make me a cup of tea and serve it to me in bed. This must be possible. It MUST be possible. I hate having to get up and make my own tea. If brainless bozo Nick Clegg can run the country, if Katie Price can write a bestselling novel, if NASA can send chimpanzees into space, then surely to God a lurcher can be trained to brew a decent cup of Yorkshire.

• Two depressing, utterly depressing disasters this weekend: my dishwasher is broken, so I am facing a future of domestic drudgery. Oh, and someone/something has smashed a pane of glass in my sitting room window. I can only assume it was ANOTHER attempted break-in. Either that or one of Sunderland's obsese and drunken seagulls (they dine on Greggs' pasties and brewn ale) has crashed into my beautiful art deco stained glass. I can't afford to get it fixed. I have had to make my own temporary repairs with cling film and sellotape. I can't bear the thought of another break-in. I want to move. Back to the 1950s preferably.

• I visited my elderly Uncle Stan yesterday. It was torturous. I endured several hours of listening to impassioned tirades about immigrants, gypsies, muslims, single mothers and gays. Oh, and capital punishment, of course. Capital punishment for immigrants, gypsies, muslims, single mothers and gays. During his hate-filled monologues Uncle Stan positively shakes and fizzes with venom, usually with his flies still open. Thank heavens for the calm and sensible influence of Aunty Margaret, who kindly agreed to accompany me.

And now. I have saved the best till last. I had some rather shocking news of Rochester this weekend. I told him that I had seen his brother, Senor Boldon, recently. The elder Brother Grimm pulled out in front of me. (I am referring, of course, to a vehicular rather than a sexual maneuver.) I made some throwaway comment that,

'I was pleased to note that the Lexus Lothario at least indicated first, which is more than many of his sort do (I refer of course to ex BMW drivers).

Rochester's response? 'I have just bought a BMW. What does that make me? Uncle Stan sounds okay to me.x'

DEAR GOD!!! Rochester driving a BMW! Well, dear reader, I had to point out the error of his ways. This was my response.

'Whoa there bonny lad. That was 3 sentences you wrote there. Pace yourself now. I’d hate for you to get repetitive strain injury from all that typing.

Do you really want me to spell out what is wrong with a BMW. Are you serious?

I discussed this very issue on my blog some time ago here

Basically, BMWs are driven by arrogant, sneering, middle-aged Tory business men who are lousy in bed. Or is it lousey in bed? No, lousy ( I meant inept, rather than lice-riddled). BMW drivers are a complete cliché. Have you really got one? Whatever next, a Jeremy Clarkson leather jacket and perm and 22 year old girlfriend?

The equivalent behaviour for a woman to owning a BMW? Well if I started having Botox injections, got a spray tans, wore ‘fuck me’ shoes and hung around in wine bars drinking Chardonnay and feeling the arse of every teenage waiter who passed, then that would the equivalent to a man owning a BMW.

Also, why are BMWs made without indicators? My Ford Focus has indicators, and it was a quarter of the price. Then, there is also that irritating BMW advert about how they manufacture ‘joy’. (vomit) I thought you were a tortured misanthrope at heart? Surely you should have been on the look out for a car manufacturer that bases its campaign around gloom, misery and despair. Possibly a Volvo? They are much beloved of the suicidal Swedes (the accoutrements for gassing yourself come fitted as standard with a Volvo). I can’t take this in, Rochester. This is harder to come to terms with than that picture of you looking clean-shaved in a suit and tie.'

He has not replied to that yet. Maybe I have gone too far. Especially as I added a footnote, wondering whether he would be able to take a BMW dogging. (It surely lacks the requisite seediness).

Ah, I did laugh today in Fenwicks. Whilst browsing in the cosmetics department, trying on Bobbi Brown lipsticks and attempting, surreptitiously, to give myself a free manicure at the OPI counter, I noticed that you can now get your eyebrows 'threaded' there. Why anyone would want to have their body hair attended to publicly, in the middle of a heaving department store is a mystery to me. Especially when the demonic-looking ladies make you sit in a dentist's chair, attack you with a cat's-cradle of dental floss and leave you looking like some sort of red-browed baboon. Well today, there was a man in the hot-seat, getting his brows done.

'Obviously a man of the female gender.' I noted to Madam Noir. 'I wonder if Rochester gets that done now he is a BMW driving, suit-wearing metrosexual.'

We silently gave the matter some thought.

'Blimey. With his monobrow they'd need dental floss as long as the Great Wall of China. The shop floor would resemble the grooming section of Crufts!'

Fanny Ratto

I think that’s it for summer. It depresses me that we teachers get our long break in August. It’s a very ‘bleuuuugh’ month. These are the Miss Haversham days of summer, everything feels tired, faded and dusty. Nights are drawing in and mornings have a Narnia-like chill. There aren’t even any wild flowers left in the hedgerows. And, if you’re prone to mordant introspection and despair, as I am, then you will spend the month either in mourning for the fresher, prettier days of June, or wrestling feelings of inadequacy because you haven’t had a Bardot summer sipping champagne cocktails on the Cote de Azure with Alain Delon. Christ. Even Rochester has been to Italy. I am uncertain as to whether the trip was for work (European peg selling convention) or pleasure (European fanny-ratting convention). I was hoping to see some nice, touristy pictures: Rochester ‘holding up’ the Leaning Tower of Pisa, Rochester grappling with the Venus de Milo’s breasts, Rochester eating a pickled egg in the Sistine Chapel. However, the swarthy rogue has pissed me off. It is bad enough that I have to endure only terse, Pinter-esque, one-line emails from the scoundrel, but his last one was about football. This is what it said. Unedited. In it’s entirety. I kid you not.

I'm in Italy at the moment - just gone online to check out the football scores. Can't believe we are off to such a bad season.

Words fail me. Although, not quite as badly as they obviously failed him. I am beginning to suspect Aunty Margaret was indeed correct: he is still married/involved and just wants to meet up occasionally for a quick, nostalgic shag and a slice of homemade cake. Thank Christ I said no.

Anyway, the advent of autumn does signify two joyful things. Firstly, it heralds freedom from the tyranny of the ‘Bardot summer’ myth. Never mind Bardot. I don't think my summer even warranted a Diana Dors rating (not unless Dors spent her summers sewing cushion covers from charity shop curtains). Secondly, autumn brings a blissful reunion with knitwear and black opaque tights. I love knitwear and black opaque tights. This would be even more blissful if I could afford an autumnal shopping trip: autumnal shopping is the most enjoyable of all: cashmere jumpers, winter coats, scarves, gloves, scented candles, hot water bottles, suede boots, spooky, atmospheric novels for fireside nights in. Sigh. If only.

Now. McFireman. Something of a turn-around. He is being rather nice to me at the moment. Compliments are coming my way. It is true, McFireman, my beauty is indeed a cross to bear. What does it say of me though, that I appear to be more at ease with insults than compliments? McFireman is retiring soon. He has just sent me a list of his plans for retirement. I shall come to that in a moment. My own retirement plans include:

• lots of napping, pottering and loafing
• smoking rose-petal cigarettes from a silver cigarette holder
• keeping only gin, red lipstick and Anais Nin books in the fridge
• dining solely on Mr Kipling French Fancies and curry chip butties
• looking like a cross between Tallulah Bankhead and Bette Davis
• wearing a uniform of Sicilian black lace, fox-fur, red shoes and an eye-patch
• scaring small children by waving an ivory walking stick at them
• swearing like a navvy
• embracing some creative outlet like life-drawing (or modeling), burlesque dancing or erotic haiku poetry

McFireman's retirement plans include:

• Climbing Kilimanjaro
• Trekking to Everest base Camp
• Hiking through the Andes and visiting Machu Picchu
• Skiing to the Geo-magnetic North Pole...followed by North Pole then South Pole
• Cycling across Canada
• Swimming Le Manche

Dear God. I think I'd rather keep working than face a retirement like that! (Although, it could be argued that working at the School of Hard Knocks is more dangerous than all of McFireman's 'Milk Tray man' stunts combined.) If I were McFireman (and had his vast, fat-cat public sector pension) I would buy a gothic castle by a loch, drink whisky, smoke cigars and wear a lot of tweed. Oh, and I'd embrace traditional country pursuits like hunting and shooting. Not grouse. Not pheasant. Not deer. Oh no. I'd shoot fanny rats! Hundreds of them! That truly would be a glorious 12th!

Fantasy shopping and good news for Freya!

Well. First of all the good news. Freya has found a home. And, even better, she has found a home with a lovely retired couple who live just up the road from me. I shall still see the little girl every day on our 7am walk in the park. In fact, that is how she found her home, the couple own a soppy, gentle mastiff dog called Sandy who is walked in the park every morning. They've always wanted a lurcher, and met Freya and fell in love. So, to everyone who said I would keep her - I hope you are eating your words! But, it is lovely to know she'll still be in Hetty and Cyril's gang of doggy friends. A great result. Oh, and did I mention, she'll be living in a 3-storey Victorian mansion! I took her along last night for a visit, the house is so stunning I felt like asking if they would adopt me too.

Freya will be with me for a few more days while the RSPCA do all the paperwork and check out her new home. I shall take her for the traditional foster dog treat later today: a Minchella's ice-cream cornet at the seaside. And maybe even some fish and chips.

I love this picture of the three lurchers together. It looks like a family portrait. Lurchers really are amazingly laid back, gentle and calm dogs (unless they're running). I do think they make the perfect pets.

Freya has been to The Hair of the Dog poodle parlour this week. Here she is looking all clean and fluffy on her return. Oh, I am going to cry buckets when she goes, you know.

Now. My finances are as dire as ever, so I thought I would indulge in a bit of fantasy shopping. Here are a few things I have my eye on at the moment.

Emma Bridgewater Lurcher Mug. £16.95

This is her second lurcher mug, her first is now a collector's item. They sell on EBAY for about £35. I prefer the first mug, as the picture is of a grey, rough-coated lurcher (like Hetty), but this is lovely too. Of course, I already own dozens of mugs. Indeed, part of my kitchen is given over as a sanctuary for retired and chipped mugs. I quite like the idea of having this one as my school mug. I am teaching younger children this year, I think they may be scared by my current mug, which is adorned with a picture of Nick Cave looking particularly wicked and demonic.

Alex Monroe Peacock Feather Jewellery (from £135)

I do already own a silver feather necklace by Alex Monroe, but this one is larger and more dramatic. I'd go for it in silver. There is a beautiful ring too. I have started saving for the necklace already, although my plans were scuppered by an impromptu trip to the vets with Cyril yesterday (another running/paw injury). And, another £35 spent in the blink of an eye.

All of Alex Monroe's pieces are beautiful: delicate, feminine and inspired by the natural world - flowers, leaves, birds and butterflies.

Boden Islington Coat £175

Last winter I really craved a bottle-green winter coat. I couldn't find one anywhere, but it is probably just as well. The winter turned so bitter and arctic that I lived in a terribly cosy but inelegant quilted jacket. It was rather like wearing a duvet. I adore this Boden coat, it has very chic, 60s styling. It also comes in bottle green, although I think I prefer it in grey tweed. Far too expensive though. Also, are three-quarter length sleeves really practical for a North East winter? I expect I'd have to add knitted wrist warmers, and consequently end up looking more scuzzball Artful Dodger than graceful Joan Holloway.

Nigella Lawson: Kitchen £26 (or £13 on Amazon)

The appeal of Nigella Lawson's cookery books is their homely, cosy and chatty style. They are the kind of cookery book that you read in bed on winter's nights, happily planning the next day's supper. I really don't need another cookery book, but confess, I've already ordered this and cannot wait for it to arrive!