Sarah Standing

Unlike the swine flu hysteria currently gripping the globe, the affluenza pandemic of the Nineties and early Noughties (first identified by the clinical psychologist Oliver James) was a virulent, socially transmitted disease most of us subliminally hankered to catch. ‘ Unlike the swine flu hysteria currently gripping the globe, the affluenza pandemic of the Nineties and early Noughties (first identified by the clinical psychologist Oliver James) was a virulent, socially transmitted disease most of us subliminally hankered to catch. ‘Bring it on’, was the nation’s great battle cry as we loaded the guns of avarice with alacrity; conveniently forgetting that the bullets of greed have a nasty habit of ricocheting back into society.

Twenty years ago I remember driving down Pacific Coast Highway in California with two of my children strapped into their car seats behind me. They were having a humdinger of a row. They were arguing because India had picked her nose and had proudly managed to produce a bogey the size of an ant. While busy admiring her handiwork, her younger brother Archie had snatched the highly prized treasure from her finger and was attempting to eat it. They were fighting so much I eventually had to swerve onto the hard shoulder, clamber into the back seat and sternly lecture them both on the delicate etiquette of nose-picking. ‘Whoever picks it, gets to eat it. Understand?’ I admonished sternly. ‘No stealing one another’s bogies. Ever.

It’s at trying times like these that my latent inner-bimbo gene struggles to reassert itself. It’s at trying times like these that my latent inner-bimbo gene struggles to reassert itself. Sod equal rights, sod women’s lib and to hell with emancipation. When my car mysteriously vanished outside Waitrose last Friday night I was immediately engulfed by a pathetically primal desire to play the role of helpless victim. I’d parked in good faith — albeit in a bay that had not one, but two large suspension notices; I’d carefully read both signs and deduced that the middle spaces were up for grabs.

I live in fear of that peculiar sharp intake of breath I seem to hear whenever I ask service men actually to service anything I own that doesn’t work. I live in fear of that peculiar sharp intake of breath I seem to hear whenever I ask service men actually to service anything I own that doesn’t work. It’s not a promising sound. Dishwashers that stop washing dishes, internet servers that fail to serve, waste disposals that spew sewage wrist-deep back up into the sink, cars that make curious grinding noises — all these are problems I want dealt with speedily and with total confidence. I also want the person in charge of mending them to have a far superior knowledge of the buggered piece of machinery than I do. That is their job; their specialist field. Not mine.

Last week I was invited to join Radio 2 to discuss the European parliament’s most recent time-, energy- and money-wasting wheeze Last week I was invited to join Radio 2 to discuss the European parliament’s most recent time-, energy- and money-wasting wheeze: a pamphlet asking staff to refrain from using titles such as Miss or Mrs. Apparently these titles are considered archaic and a hangover from the past, as they ‘indicate’ a woman’s relationship to a man. According to Strasbourg, Ms is the politically correct prefix all us women should adopt; for despite being impossible to pronounce without sounding as though one is impersonating an angry mosquito, using Ms doesn’t — God forbid — denote a woman’s marital status.

Last Saturday I was sent a stiff, glossy brochure informing me of imminent changes in my local podiatry services. NHS Westminster plans to invest £540,000 in this pressing ‘service redesign’ and being a taxpayer and local resident they wanted my views. I had a questionnaire to fill out and return. Alongside the requisite ‘Are you male or female?’ boxes to tick, I was asked the following: Do you have a physical or mental health condition that has lasted at least 12 months or is likely to last at least 12 months? Yes or no? Although I quite fail to comprehend the correlation between having some rubber-gloved nurse gouge out a verruca and a potential bipolar episode, I paused only momentarily before taking an optimistic standpoint and ticking ‘no’.

‘Mum, have you ever been cock-blocked?’ asked my 19-year-old daughter on a recent visit home from university. ‘Mum, have you ever been cock-blocked?’ asked my 19-year-old daughter on a recent visit home from university. ‘Because it’s driving me crazy and I just don’t know how to deal with it. I thought you might have some good tips.’ I instinctively felt that this was probably one of those defining mother and daughter bonding moments that required a confident yes or no answer. ‘No, I haven’t,’ I replied. ‘Or if I have, I think I probably didn’t enjoy it that much and have forgotten all about it.’ Tilly was looking at me with a mixture of both envy and disbelief.

Munchausen on its own is a psychological disorder in which a person makes him or herself appear ill in order to get attention or nurturing. Munchausen by proxy is when a person fabricates or induces illness in a person under their care. These individuals tend to be highly secretive and use multiple false identities. Now a similar disease has come to my attention: Political Correctness By Proxy (PCBP). PCBP occurs when complete strangers take umbrage and act on behalf of people they think ought to be offended. They assume hurt feelings and hijack them — taking unnecessary offence just because it’s there for the taking. I cite Golligate as a recent example of PCBP.

A family-sized bag of Minstrels. A tube of sour-cream-flavoured Pringles. A drum of popcorn. Cookie-dough-flavoured Häagen-Dazs ice-cream. A litre of Diet Coke. For one brief moment I actually thought Ocado had extended their home delivery service to include Chelsea cinemas. I had to move my handbag off the floor just to make room for the supermarket sweep of junk food a couple beside me brought to consume while ostensibly watching He’s Just Not That Into You. By the time the trailer ended and the film began I found myself unable to concentrate and was furiously overidentifying with the sentiments contained in the title. Believe me, I just wasn’t that into either of them. I felt as though I’d been forced to gatecrash a bulimics’ picnic.

Last week I lost it. I flipped out. Actually if I’m being totally truthful I didn’t just flip: I f***ing flipped. Like Boris Johnson, I had a Vaz-attack of epic, expletive-laden telephone rage. Having recently received the Transport for London form to renew and pre-pay my annual (discounted) congestion charge, I’d managed to get my application in with two weeks to spare before the old one expired. I’d duly ferreted out and enclosed a recent household utility bill. I’d filled in my mobile, work and home contact numbers and given my credit card details. I’d posted it off and as far as I was concerned the job was done, dusted and crossed off my dreary ‘to do’ list. For once I actually felt quite smug and impressed by my own efficiency.

It’s not just politically incorrect toys that need to be hidden in the attic; certain words also need to be junked. It’s not just politically incorrect toys that need to be hidden in the attic; certain words also need to be junked. ‘Sorry’ has lost its mojo for me, it’s gone mainstream. It’s one of those words that began life as a covetable Chanel handbag only to end up as a worthless fake flogged on eBay. Saying sorry has become the must-have ‘get-out-of-jail-free’ card and is being used with all the insouciance of a patient suffering from the Coprolalia strain of Tourette’s. Everyone’s at it, especially the bankers, and therefore sadly there’s precious little redemption left in the act. It’s been devalued.

I’ve recently developed a callous indifference towards the torrent of amateur self-analysis that’s infiltrating our everyday pattern of speech. I’m over ‘issues’. Way too many people have way too many issues for my liking. And too many people I don’t care about feel compelled to ‘share’ their issues with me. Last week people started ‘gathering’, and now I fear gathering is set to become the new big issue. Ever since Kate Winslet dramatically implored herself to ‘gather’ at the Golden Globes (surely ‘get a grip’ would have worked just as well?) I’ve witnessed two perfectly ordinary mates inexplicably ‘gather’ — rather than just admit they’d lost track of what they were saying.

Sarah Standing battles to board a plane bound for Ibiza Needs must and I’ve become extremely skilled at booking cheap, credit-crunching flights on easyJet. The volume of hours, energy, blood, sweat and tears I’ve devoted to acquiring dream e-tickets for my family ought to qualify me for some sort of tenacious travel operator award. This summer I’ve truly gone for gold: four returns to Ibiza, singles to Nice, Corfu and Toulouse and a brace of cancellations to Gibraltar. I’ve come to the conclusion that making holiday arrangements in cyberspace requires real chutzpah. Getting the flights you want is a gamble and not dissimilar to playing the Las Vegas slot machines.

I co-own a rather jolly children’s shop on Ebury Street and my stock has recently expanded to include a Romanian tramp. I discovered him sleeping on my doorstep after returning to collect a laptop charger I’d left behind. As it was physically impossible to get into the shop without first crushing him, I found myself in the frankly ludicrous position of waking him up and asking his permission to enter my own premises. After this initial nocturnal ‘lady and the tramp’ encounter our paths have crossed several times. Some mornings when I arrive at work I discover he’s succumbed to a lie-in. I feel strangely awkward waking him up, so tend to go to Starbucks for a coffee. A double espresso for me and a latte-to-go for him.

Just come home from Theo Fennell's exhibition "Show Off" at The Royal Academy of Arts - one of the glitziest and most impressive parties I've been to this year. Theo has brilliantly elevated and showcased his jewellery designs to a new level. This is an "experience" not to be missed.  By devising a series of extraordinary installations of great beauty, innovation and humour he forces the viewer to look at his jewels as a serious art form. This puts Damien Hirst's diamond-encrusted skull in the shade. This is beauty and the bling. Craft and creativity. Don't miss it.

I don't 'do' sleep very well. Never have. If I do manage it, I don't do it for very long. Or long enough. I am not an insomniac yet according to a recent survey by the Sleep Council I seem to be suffering from the latest teenage disease called "junk sleep". Junk sleep is when the quality of sleep is compromised by spending too much time on computers and watching T.V. and apparently one in three kids survive on as little as four hours sleep a night. I think the experts have attributed this latest health syndrome to the wrong age group. In our household my three offspring do precious little EXCEPT sleep through the night - it's their old mother that restlessly wanders about watching absurd quiz shows at 4am and aimlessly Facebooking in order to pass time before dawn arrives.

Going to Calais from Dover this morning on the Eurotunnel was a master class in the ineptitude and pointlessness of security. As my car approached Passport Control I handed over my passport. My girlfriend was talking on her mobile whilst rummaging in her handbag and my 17 year old daughter was sleeping like a corpse in the back seat. After a cursory glance at my passport we were waved through. I honestly don't think the officer on duty even noticed there was someone in the back-seat. My girlfriend still hadn't found her passport by the time we drove the car onto the train. Every carriage is festooned with posters of missing Madeleine McCann. I could have smuggled anything — or indeed anyone — across the channel and no-one would have noticed. Or indeed cared. Frightening.

Today I joined a cult. In a weak moment this morning my 21 year old son "enabled" me to join Face Book. It was 5am and we "clashed". I was waking up, he was returning from a club. We bonded. I took him out to breakfast at the Wolseley because he was hungry and I was jet-lagged. Result. However neither of my  daughters are talking to me and have effectively blackballed any of their friends from joining my world/network/friends/space. In fact they are barely talking to me. What do I care? I am hooked. After reading Amelia Torode's feature in this weeks Spectator I worry that at 46 I am an Oldie. I have two step-grandchildren and already have been embraced on Facebook by a godchild. The photo's I upload are especially chosen and carefully edited.