That's why the old lady is a tramp

My mum was filling in her census form the other night and her pen ran out. She pronounced this ironic and meaningful, given her relatively advanced years. She's been known to be darkly triumphant about this. When she sees something on telly she doesn't approve of, she remarks stoutly; 'Well, I'm just glad I'm going to die soon and don't have to put up much longer with that woman's suggestive voice in the Marks and Spencer food ad'. As a wind-up, my sisters and I have taken to asking each other if we are having 'sexy chicken' for dinner, in front of her.

She has had great funeral plans in place too for some time now, which we have all talked over, with that gallows humour that naturally accompanies the thought of such an event. We cannot all allow ourselves the Elizabeth Taylor grandeur of making everyone wait 15 minutes for the guest of honour to make a final appearance. Even a show-off like I has only got as far as insisting that my least demonstrative sister sings 'You were the Wind Beneath My Wings' at my own funeral. This should ensure tears and gulping, I am unconcerned as to their true source.

I have, however, long been interested in plans for myself as an old lady. The hair has been a preoccupation for some time now, as you have to have a proper style and it can't be too long -just look at Jerry Hall these days. She is going to look homeless when she hits 70, with that great swathe over one shoulder. I could have a bun but, as I am not Margot Fonteyn, would risk that Anthony-Perkins-in-Psycho effect. I definitely can't pull off a Judi Dench and I don't want to pull off an 'ambassador's wife' blow dry, so it will have to be a bob. Oh god, I will be running about like French and Saunders when they were doing those ancient, posh 'stuff and nonsense' women.

Mind you that might go along nicely with the old lady personality I am working out. I will probably make the transition from intimidatingly outspoken to positively waspish. Difficult though it may be to believe, I do actually restrain myself at times. When I am old, however, I will have the time and the licence to go up and down the high street with a rubber, erasing all the apostrophes on the signs outside the fruit shops: 'orange's', 'leek's and worst; 'peache's'. I will be able to bellow , when confronted by a waitress with a nose-ring; 'Excuse me, am I at a Rodeo?' I will tell my local restaurant why they cannot have 'Chicken Coq au Vin' on their menu and make them explain how they came up with 'Kerr Royale' as a cocktail. Is it champagne with Irish whiskey? I might try that later in life. It would certainly take the edge off when I am at the cinema with people using their mobiles and digging into a skip of popcorn throughout the film. I will demand that the music in shops be turned off and refuse to put back stuff I have tried on. Ok, I did that once already when asked if I would mind leaving the clothes back where I'd got them. I replied equably; 'No. I don't work here.' I've never had the nerve since.

You may be astounded to learn that I have , in fact, rejected the notion of becoming a millie old lady. There's one in my gym I've been observing. She chews gum all through Body Balance and has a fag in the car park after. For one thing, I'm not going to exercise classes when I am old. I plan on seizing up. I'd much rather be pushed about in a wheelchair in a fur coat and diamonds. Maybe a turban. Very Liz Taylor.

It's not easy being green. Or orange.

I made the mistake of being in the centre of Belfast on St. Patrick's day. I thought I had finally stumbled upon a riot, having avoided one throughout The Troubles, but it was a vast number of teenagers celebrating, after a fashion. Now I know why we try to bus as many as possible off to the Schools' Cup Final. I am, of course, used to large quantities of disagreeable adolescents but for normal people, Hitler Youth would have been less intimidating. They were gathered in pockets, breaking bottles, screaming at each other, gesturing obscenely or carrying each other about. It was like Lord Of The Flies.

A couple of policemen could be seen loitering in a shop doorway. They seemed to think I was jesting when I suggested they waste no more time before donning riot shields and getting the giant hoses out. This would have been useful, both in scattering the crowd and washing off the offensively copious fake tan on display. Most of the girls were wearing shorts and their legs were every shade of matt wood varnish from Antique Pine to Deep Walnut. Finished off with those funny little light canvas shoes we used to call 'indoor gutties' in my Primary School. And the hair; parted above one ear like Bobby Charlton's, arranged across foreheads in a great sweep then mussed up like the Hunger Strikers in their,er, heyday. Black seems to be the favoured hair colour and with the tans, the enormous eyelashes and the thick foundation; you felt that you might have come across the aftermath of some sort of transvestites' 'Homage to Pocahontas' carnival.

The boys looked as bemused, uncertain or uninterested as they have ever looked, but with magnificently maintained curly bobs or marvellously brushed forward layers. This creates a peculiar effect-a bit like Margaret Thatcher or Carol Channing on a skateboard, sporting an extremely low-hanging jeans' gusset.

Speaking of which, our local cross-dresser has taken to frequenting my village. He used to favour Marks and Spencers but today he stole my parking space outside Boots. He has very elaborate outfits, think 'village fete circa 1956' but remains a most unconvincing woman. I mean, he makes Les Dawson in drag seem fragrant and ladylike. Must be a very lonely, em, calling; he never has anyone with him. I wonder if he likes cappuccinos as I am thinking of befriending him. He can come with me next St. Patrick's day on a lovely bus tour I have heard about, involving the super smashing history and culture of Downpatrick with scones and Irish Stew. Just the thing for refined ladies of a certain age- and uncertain religious affiliation.

Qualit-I not quantit-I

I hear that the best way to blog success is to 'update' every day. Oh dear. I see I am going to have to buck up my ideas. Or 'idears', as I am always hearing people say, as well as 'Chicargo'. I am baffled by this. I was at a clothes party thing a while back and the woman hosting it kept talking about 'kharki'. I grew up with a girl whose mother had her own version of this foible; she would lean out of the car window on long journeys and shout; 'It's not far nar!' Or having cleaned the bathroom, in heels, I might add, would forbid entry thus: You're not having a shower nar!'

I see I have digressed, as I do. I had a boyfriend who referred to it as 'Ronnie Corbetting'. Do you remember that part of The Two Ronnies no-one liked, when Ronnie C sat in the green stripey chair, tout miniscule, and told a rambling story with many tangents? He was the only person who found it funny, how his tiny shoulders would shake. I used to think it was a good test of character if you hated that part of the show; in the same way, I am not confident about getting on with people who would wear Britney Spears' perfume or appreciate the sound of bagpipes.

So, back to the point, much as one loves the sound of one's own voice, could one blog daily? I'm reminded of early episodes of Friends, when Joey moved out of the apartment with Chandler to be alone with his thoughts and later remarked ;'Turns out, I don't have that many thoughts'. Now, I may have many a feverish scribbling in a floral notebook but, having my generation's respect for the written word, I wouldn't publish them in their undercooked state. Speaking of which, it appears I could update daily re Fifteens; there was more talk of them at the weekend. Seemingly I misunderstood the 'recipe', it all seemed to turn on fifteen cherries and fifteen marshmallows etc. That is, a formula so moronic, it must have been developped as part of an Occupational Therapy programme. I could also complain online every time I go to the gym. Last night's Zumba class featured several individuals clad in headbands, cropped leggings and legwarmers. You needn't bother picturing Olivia in her Let's Get Physical heyday; think Acorn Antiques when it briefly became a leisure centre and the cast wore leotards like sausage casings.

Of course, I shouldn't concern myself, you can put any old thing online these days. Take my trawlings-if you type in a query, you may well be directed to some sort of dubious exchange between the uninitiated, on whatever the subject might be, in semi-evolved literacy skills. These types are fond of a good scrap; 'Your (sic) wrong, Gaga say's (sic) what we wanna(sic) here(sic)' Ok, I made that up, based on what I have seen on less interesting subjects. I would never do any sort of Gaga research, the very sight of her makes me grind my teeth. I had to wear a gumshield to watch the Grammys.

My search on Youtube ,for extracts of the West End musical Wicked ,turned out to be very illuminating, but not in a good way. Some fella had filmed it apparently during a bout of delirium tremens and failed to notice he was focused (when he was in focus) on the back of a girl's head for a large part of the opening. He wasn't shy about having a good clap with device in hand either or perhaps he fell over, either way, motion sickness immediately set in for me. Some entries turned out to be two or three still photographs, with a song simply selected from the soundtrack and played over the top. My favourite, though, purported to be a proper clip but turned out to be a bloke singing 'Defying Gravity' quite tunelessly, to a sort of karaoke version of the accompanying music. He was somewhat under-rehearsed and since he could be seen at the end with a towel turban on his head,giggling, I felt he had made insufficient effort with his costume.

Gwyneth Paltrow is taking over the net too. She has her own profoudly annoying website called Goop, in which she tries to be what Americans call 'relatable' by sharing her experiences trying on Oscar dresses and trying to drop a few pounds by eating locally-produced, organic, macrobiotic, vegan..I don't know..dust? Should really cheer up those of us with freezers full of food purchased after a long lurk at the reduced-for-sale-today cabinet. Next thing, Gwynnie is photographed extensively on holiday, in several bikinis without any kind of what real women call 'support'. Now she is singing. On Glee, at the Grammys and at the Oscars. I cannot wait for her next film, Country Strong, in which I believe she plays a 'washed-up', alcoholic singer, looking for all the world as glowing as the Timotei girl. She can hold a tune alright but actually has an unpleasant nasal voice-I have listened closely on Youtube. I do not see why she cannot stick to what she is good at-acting. But let's face it, she will probably be bringing out a 'fragrance' any minute.

So I am away to record myself, having a crack at a bit of Adele in the bath. She calls her albums after her current age. So I will put it online under the title '46 ' and see how it goes down. I expect many 'hits', electronically or,you know, by cars.