Educated, sophisticated woman (me) needs nightwear

I've been looking for some decent nightwear for ages. When I say nightwear, I mean nightdress. Not PJs (can't be doing with all that ironing) but a pretty, warm nightie that's not pink. I don't want to look like Queen Victoria on a bad reign day, or a member of the B team about to go to work down the Reeperbahn, nor do I want a huge kitten or a teddy or a rabbit on my chest. There must be other women out there who have the same problem. I know Marilyn Monroe used to wear just Chanel No 5 in bed; was that because she couldn't get a warm nightie either?

Who are the womag's target market?

I pitched a feature to a well-known monthly this week. I'm also a personal subscriber.

I really struggle with magazines. Not since Working Woman in the 80s has there been one I really like, so I flirt with them all; a year's subscription here, six months there. They are either too celebrity-led (bleeah), too young (how to get your man, keep your man, look attractive for your man) or too old (adverts for zimmer frames, stair lifts etc.)

Anyway, the features ed told me that my story was too old for their readership which is "mainly women in their thirties". Funny how when I subscribed I distinctly remember it being for women of all ages.

Just One Brick in the Wall

Neanderthal borrows the car now and then. It makes sense. He doesn't risk writing off another car (Latest score: 4) and I don't use the car much more than I have to as I'm trying to walk as often as I can.

He returned the car a few weeks ago and as I pushed the front seat forward to toss my shopping bags in the back, I noticed five old bricks in the footwell, complete with ivy.

"What are those bricks doing in my car?" I asked, quite reasonably, I thought.

"Oh, yes, I was going to tell you. I drove into a wall."

"Well, I kind of guessed that, but why did you want to keep the bricks?"

"Well, Mum, it's your wall."

Mother's Day aftermath

Drama Queen bought me some flowers for Mother's Day, after work on Saturday. She also made dinner for me,which was much appreciated as I'd had to fly oop north on business and had been up since 4.30 am.

On Tuesday morning, said flowers had died. They are supposed to last for seven days, not just over two. She took them back after school, with the receipt. Snotty, jumped-up assistant manager refused a refund. He claimed she should have brought the wrapper back. Do you keep the wrapper and the receipt for your flowers on the off-chance that they might die within seven days? Of course you don't.

I went in the next day and sorted it out. As any adult would. But why should she be discriminated against because she's just fifteen?

ps They had a mountain of profiteroles reduced to 50p, so we gobbled most of them down for our tea.

Music, music, everywhere

On a recent disastrous visit to Center Parcs, they had piped music in the toilets as well as blasting out from speakers as you left the buildings. It was like the Butlins I remember from my childhood, only more chavtastic.

I thought piped music was confined to dodgy restaurants and some supermarkets, so imagine my surprise when I went to the bank yesterday for an appointment and realised that HSBC has their own radio station. I can only imagine that Madonna, Soft Cell and The Beatles were being played for the benefit of the staff, as the three customers who came in whilst I were there were even older than me.

Do we really need music whilst withdrawing money from the cash machine?

What is wrong with peace and quiet? And shouldn't the bank be concentrating on banking, instead of providing their own radio station?