As with virtually everything that the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge do, you’d think that it had never been done before. Woman Has Baby; Woman Who Has Had Baby Leaves Hospital With A Bit Of A Tummy, and Woman Gives Up Work To Be With Baby. Oops, sorry about that, the woman in question never really had a job so had nothing to give up.
Anyway, to yesterday, and A Baby Was Christened. Godparents and invitation lists – what on Earth would we think about if this event hadn’t been taking place? I could hardly go for groceries at Sainsbury’s for wondering if Jemima Puddleduck-Gaviscon-Miller would be at the font when the Archbishop of Canterbury dunked wee George’s head into the water.
What I have actually thought about, though, is that christening a child in church these days is quite unusual. When I was at primary school there was only one girl who hadn’t been baptised; these days I think my children are in a minority.
I know it seems mad, what with me thinking that religion is generally at the root of all evil – I’m sorry believers, but from the Middle Ages crusades to genocides in Africa via Northern Ireland, it’s down to varying beliefs in one god or another – but I had mine officially named in a church. I used to say it was an insurance policy, but frankly I now feel a bit of a fraud as over the past couple of decades I’ve only ever stepped inside a house of god for a wedding or christening and, rather sadly but more frequently, a funeral.
Prince William had to go through with the rigmarole as he shall, one day, be head of the Church of England. However, quite why Kylie and David on Coronation Street – I’m sorry but I have to bring this discussion down to my level – had to do the same is beyond my understanding. Of course, for those who watch that programme you know that inside a church is where the biggest storylines implode.
So, with that in mind, what I hope happened yesterday, away from the eyes of the world, was a catfight between Carole and Camilla. There would have been lots of hair pulling, with a few bonnets and fascinators thrown around the chapel.
Perhaps a couple of love children appeared and made a claim on the crown because, if truth be told, the royal family is just our greatest soap opera ever.
J-Lo and Fi-Duff share beauty secret
NOW, I don’t think I’ve ever made any claims to glamour but I’ve suddenly discovered that Jennifer Lopez and I have something in common.
No, it’s not that we’ve both been engaged to Ben Affleck (apart from in my dreams) or that we’ve starred in a film with George Clooney (you get the gist), but she and I swear by the same beauty treatment.
There are many things that people say to me, but something that no-one can work out is why, at my age combined with my lifestyle, which is about as far away from that of Gwyneth Paltrow’s notox regime as Neptune is from Uranus, that I have so few wrinkles.
Well, my friends, let me tell you that it’s a simple little treatment called CACI which is like a workout for your phizog. Like any activity, there are practitioners who go through the motions and those who really make it mean business.
Edinburgh gals in the know go to facialist Elizabeth McCarron at The Beauty Room in Stockbridge. Don’t expect a fancy spa – I’m always suspicious of a salon where the wallpaper costs more per roll than my daily income – but when you want someone to tell you what to do with your skin, she’s the girl you want.
It’s Strictly hell in my house
IT’S autumn, and to many of us that means that the countryside turns a beautiful hue of russet and copper. Conkers drop from the trees, and children have hours of enjoyment while health and safety committees come up with more ludicrous reasons to try and stop any sort of fun that might be free and, indeed, actually fun.
However, to my husband it is a time of intense weekend misery. He’s not worried about sweeping up leaves or turning on the central heating – Strictly Come Dancing is back and he’s the antithesis of a sparkly sequin.
I thought that this year he might become a tad interested with the inclusion of not only a Hairy Biker but also Fiona Fullerton, last seen in a hot tub with James Bond, but to no avail. He’s in a grump every Saturday night, but I’m in heaven
. . . and my heart beats so I that can hardly speak.
Heading for the sunny side
Am I the only person who hasn’t seen Sunshine On Leith? I only say that because I have to stay silent, which is not the usual employment state of my gob, whilst all around people talk about their most recent trip to the cinema.
I try to do a bit of oneupmanship by saying I saw the stage version, but it ain’t really working.
Truth is that I’ve been invited to a screening in aid of Marie Curie at the Dominion Cinema in a couple of weeks’ time so thought I’d keep myself for that to get a glimpse of Freya Mavor and Kevin Guthrie, pictured. I have a feeling that most of the audience will be doing a sing-along Proclaimers as few of them will have been able to resist a film which pays homage to our city.