TOAST, AND A RANT ABOUT THE MEDIA

I think I know why the Intrepids weren't overly fussed about having no bathroom this weekend. They're off again on holiday tomorrow. I know. They've only been back two days. Cornwall this time, to take in the artistic light, the stunning geography and the surging waves that pound over smugglers' rocks. Meanwhile, I will be preparing for the choir concert on Thursday and trying to catch up with the work I missed last week.

An article just popped up about some famous heiress who doesn't know what toast is. I despise articles like this. They remind me of the snotty kid who tugs away at your sleeve and points across the playground. "Look, look, look!" they implore you, "girl over there can't work out what goes in a bacon sandwich, ha ha ha, isn't she thick? Not like us normal people eh! Oh not like us..."

I'm not giving it the time of day. We all have to learn something the first time. Crumbs, I only found out a few weeks ago that the Oval Office is on the ground floor of the West Wing and not front-and-centre of the White House! Yeah, I'm stupid aren't I? I mean you only know what you know, right? And if you don't know something, the last thing you want is some snivelling journalist poking fun at you because you live the life where you've never had to use a toaster.

While we're on the subject, why is it that journalists think we're all obsessed with how female celebrities get dressed for award shows? It's astonishingly sexist and no-one seems to be tremendously bothered by this rampant predisposition for ogling. They never zoom in on the men's tuxedo buttons, or chart up leading actors in those ghastly hot or not columns according to the neatness of their bow ties. In fact, as gentlemen attending a formal event, we have our choices of eveningwear made frighteningly simple; ladies must go through a personal crisis just to think about leaving the house in a particular colour. The range of complexities they must endure just to get it 'right' must be mind-bogglingly stressful - one slip and you're in the red carpet failure club with the wardrobe malfunctioneers and the drunkards and this week's bad-hair-day crowd - a club which, we'd do well to remind ourselves, leery men with cameras and notepads have invented for the sole purpose of knocking off pariahs from their perches.

Well I've opened the rant about the media door. I didn't mean to crank that one open. I was just thinking about how that article wanted me to join in its chorus of 'not like us' towards the toast girl. What is the point of pointing out that someone is 'not like us'? That never goes well, does it? I mean the truth is that we're all kind of beautiful, kind of rotten and kind of damaged, every one of us, aren't we? Most people are agreed, surely, that if humanity is going to become anything better than its current iteration, it has to start by realising that on some level, we are actually all in this mess together. Surely it follows that we can be beautiful together then too?

Not that you can all come round and sing campfire songs with me while the Intrepids are away. I've got hanging baskets to water.