LET'S get one thing straight. I've never Beboed. Refuse to Facebook. MSN is a mystery. I'm not Linkedin and tweeting means nothing to me.
OH, HOW we tittered into our plastic cups of warm lemonade as we witnessed Charles and Diana trotting off on the rocky road to marital bliss, a hastily scrawled "Just Married" sign and a couple of old baked beans cans tied to their carriage.
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THE Teenager and I are locked in mortal combat. A battle of wills. You think things are getting a bit frisky in Libya? Try living in our house right now. By way of illustration, I'm the Colonel Gaddafi of the piece (if Gaddafi had better hair, a warmer heart and a killer wardrobe); she's the rebel forces attempting occupation thereof.
FIRST things first. Mother, if you're reading this (which I'm sure you will be - just not today; it'll probably be Tuesday or Wednesday before you pick up the paper from a neighbour, your misplaced frugality dictating it would be pointless to buy it yourself when you can read it three days late for free), happy belated Mother's Day.
DEDICATION, as the late, great Roy Castle once sang, is what I need. I don't want to be the best. I don't even want to beat the rest. And being a record breaker is the last thing on my mind. However, I would quite like to be a bit better than I am at the moment.
LAST weekend it was Marrakech. Cue sun, souks and - um - stomach aches. I blame the dish of brains cunningly disguised as a "mixed salad" we inadvertently ate on the Saturday night.
THE Wizard of Oz is making headlines. Hawaii Five-0 is on the box. Duran Duran have a new album out. And the wedding of the year has promised a soundtrack heavy on the Abba.
I'M all for a spot of unhealthy gender stereotyping. Been there, done that, bought the Hooters T-shirt. I actually like the Snickers "Man Up" adverts, agree that Yorkie really is "not for girls" (those big fat chunks play havoc with your expensive veneers) and would be the first to join in a conversation about the distressing situation concerning men, toilet seats and the continual splashing thereon (I ask you, is it too much trouble to wipe up after you've be
WHAT do you want to be when you grow up?" adults would trill at me as a child. "A pop star," I'd reply obediently (blame Bananarama). Or: "An archaeologist" (blame Indiana Jones).
IT'S OK for Moira Stuart, trilling that "self-assessment needn't be taxing" from the safety of the cupboard under the stairs. She's probably the frugal type anyway. Looks the sort that would squirrel away little nuggets of cash every month.
GWYNETH Paltrow is said to be suffering from a complaint called osteopenia, a precursor to osteoporosis, a result of the extreme dieting and exercising that keeps her in such good shape. She's just 38.
IT'S a story worthy of a Marvel comic strip. A Nasa physicist is working on delicate experiments with rocket fuel when a dramatic explosion leaves him badly disfigured. But the accident unexpectedly leads to his discovery of a substance with mysterious superpowers.
HER BOYFRIEND referred to them playfully as her "go-faster stripes" but for Leanne Briggs, the stretch marks on her hips were, at best, unsightly; at worst, threatening to derail her career.
PROM? What nonsense is this? Some naff Americanisation creeping its evil way into our children's hearts and minds, that's what. All fancy frocks, hairspray and too much make-up.
THE Mild One calls me at work. I know it's him because it's silent for an uncomfortable few seconds before he just growls menacingly.
NEVER mind the toilet seat up or down argument. Or the fact that he drinks coffee and I drink tea. Let's even ignore the potential minefields of he-cycles-but-I-prefer-to-run and he's-an-interminable-commitmentphobe-while-I'm-a-bit-of-an-old-fashioned-gal.
Menswear designer of the year Patrick Grant, pictured below, has dusted down a Savile Row tailor to sell menswear to a whole new generation
SAY the words "warm" and "up" in the same sentence right about now and most people will probably be conjuring up images of hot toddies, bed socks and a double layer of slankets.
I'VE always thought I'd make quite a good spy. Not in that keeping-secrets-under-pressure kind of way. Anyone who knows me knows I'm rubbish at that sort of thing. Can't lie for toffee. And I'd squeal like a pig the minute anyone mentioned torture.
THE phone at Walker Towers isn't working. It's been a week now. The broadband wasn't far behind it. Crisis. The Wild One can't play X Box Live.