Get It?

What Do You Do in Bed?

Eat? Have sex? Chat? Pick your nose? Surf? Watch TV? Sleep?

Modern beds have become multi-tasking action stations and it's ruining our health. That's if you believe the current thinking of ‘those in the know.' Sleep scientists are on a mission to change our nocturnal habits. The medical profession wants us to start sleeping in separate beds. The miserable killjoys say it is bad for our health. New guidelines state that shared beds should be reserved for sexual congress alone. If we want to sleep, we should make our way to our own bedrooms down the hall. We can still have sex (that's a relief) but afterwards, we should sleep apart. That way we will be far better rested and a lot healthier.

It sounds like being a student.

Are we supposed to be surprised when new research shows that you are 50 per cent more likely to have disturbed sleep if you share a bed? I don't know how much money was spent on this research, but I could have told them that for free.

As a woman who has shared a bed with the same man for quite some time, I feel able to offer some insights on this topic. I am not going to lie for comic effect and tell you that my husband is a snoring, farting, twitching ogre who screams in his sleep - he's not. If he were, we'd be divorced by now.

But I know a little about sleep problems:

Kicking: I once knew a woman whose boyfriend would regularly kick her in his sleep - it got to be quite a problem. He swore he was asleep and didn't mean to do it. She got fed up with it and kicked him out in the end.

Duvet-hogging: This can be really annoying. If you're not careful it can escalate into a full scale war and one or both of you can end up on the floor.

Sleep talking: This is the one that disturbs me the most. Because you just have to listen, don't you? You are on alert for your name being mentioned...or, God forbid, someone else's.

Sleep walking: I‘ve heard the problem is aggravated if you have an attractive live-in nanny.

Nightmares: These can be alarming or amusing - depends if you are the one asleep or awake.

All these irritants conspire to prevent you getting a good night's sleep. The serious guys in the white coats tell us poor sleep can be linked to depression, heart disease, strokes, traffic and industrial accidents and divorce - and yet it is still ignored as an important health issue.

Shared beds are a recent historical development. In the industrial revolution, when towns and cities became overcrowded, bed sharing became the norm. Before the Victorian era, it was usual for couples to sleep separately, meeting in the ‘conjugal chamber' for a bit of hanky panky when the mood took them.

Those well known hedonists the ancient Romans would have laughed at the notion of sleeping together in a bed. A bed was for fornication, orgies, sexual depravity of the highest order....not for a snooze.  

I'm sure that bed-makers, architects, and linen manufacturers, would all welcome the return to separate sleeping arrangements, and the money making bonanza that would follow. But in practical terms, who really has the room for separate sleeping quarters? What are you going to do? Throw all the kids together in one room? Like that's really going to improve your night's sleep.

But I think there's another more subtle but no less fatal flaw in the plan of the Sleep Nazis. Advising us to return to our separate rooms after sex is fine in theory, but in practice, how would it function? It is well known that the male of the species is programmed to fall asleep instantly post ejaculation. He won't be going anywhere in a hurry...and I'm not going to freeze my tits off running back to my room.

Hmmmm, I think the sleeping revolution may be a long time coming.

Driving Miss Crazy

Feeling deflated?

You are driving along an empty road at twilight. You have your main beams on, because out in the countryside, this is when the animals come out to play. The local boars are thick skinned and solid - they can really mash up your paintwork.

You are running late. A quick glimpse at the clock tells you it's nearly eight pm.

Then ‘BANG!' Something collides with the front of the car.

You pull over and sit for a moment, your pulse racing. Outside there's a noise. Something is dragging itself off into the undergrowth. You peer out, but it's too dark to see.

After a minute you step out of the car. There is mud and something else on the front wing...blood. And the tyre is crumpled and flat.

Shit.

This is wilderness country. No mobile phone coverage. No comforting roadside points connecting you directly to assistance. Just nothingness full of eyes. Watching you silently.

What to do?

First of all, don't panic. Crikey, it's only a matter of changing the wheel. Men exploit our ignorance of these issues and pretend it's really difficult.

It isn't.

The feisty readers of Powder Room Graffiti can probably effect a multi-wheel change in their sleep. But in the unlikely event that you are a flat-tyre virgin, it's good to know the basics. And wouldn't you prefer to hear it from me than a patronising, eye-rolling petrolhead? Of course you would.

Step one: Park on level ground. Look at yourself in the rear-view mirror and recite the grease monkey prayer: 'In my hands, all cars are blessed.'

Step two: Apply the handbrake. Put car in first gear/ drive. This gives extra protection from the car rolling away...which, let's face it, would only add to your problems right now.

Step three: Stop looking wistfully up and down the road - this is your problem and you are going to fix it, girlfriend.

Step four: Ignore the grunting sound coming from the undergrowth. In times of stress I find there is comfort to be had singing the Scooby Doo theme tune. But do whatever works for you. Swearing like a navvy is good.

Step five: Locate spare wheel. Now, I almost became unstuck here. I couldn't find it for ages. Eventually, through tears of frustration I glimpsed the fucker hiding in a cavernous well, below the boot. Spare wheels are also located underneath the car, and on the back door (but that is kind of unmissable).

Step six: Locate the wheel brace/cross wrench/lug wrench in tool box, slacken off the wheel nuts. The wheel brace is the long, spanner like tool and the nuts are the big bolts that hold the wheel in place. They'll be very stiff and hard to budge, so stand on the brace putting your whole weight onto it, and jump up and down a bit till you feel them turn. You'll look silly, but only a few owls and a couple of rabbits will see - and they're surprisingly forgiving creatures.

Step seven: Stop worrying about breaking your chuffing nails.

Step eight: Take the jack (lifting device) from tool box and locate the jacking point close to the wheel you are about to remove. There are four jack points on a car (four wheels, you see? Simple). This stuff really isn't rocket science. It's more difficult assembling a fondue set.

Step nine: Jack up the car - turning the lever will slowly lift the wheel so it is no longer touching the ground. This bit is very empowering - look what I just did? I lifted the car off the ground! All by myself! Grrrr.

Step ten: Undo previously loosened wheel nuts - take wheel off. It will be heavy, so be prepared. A slipped disc right now would be a bummer.

Step eleven: Wipe unpleasant brown marks off your hands and clothes and don't dwell on their organic make up.

Step twelve: Put new wheel on - replace wheel nuts. Once wheel is lowered to ground, fully tighten nuts - yes, you can jump on the brace again if you like.

Step thirteen: Dance a little 'I am so brilliant, I am the car crisis queen' jig of congratulation. Set off for home.

Step fourteen: Stop car again. Er, remember to remove jack before driving off in future.

Last step: Return home ready to enjoy the look on his face as you nonchalantly announce...'Sorry I'm late, darling. I clipped a boar and had to change a tyre. What's for supper?'

Waiting on a Woman

You want me to look hot, you're gonna be waiting!

I am the first to admit I get distracted and lose track of time when I need to get ready to go out, but I am really not as bad as my hubby thinks.

So I thought I'd break it down for him, just so that he can see exactly what is involved, and why us girls need longer to get ready.

5:30 pm - T-minus 90 minutes.

I am off and running, and vault into the shower. Now men seem to be able to jump through the shower in a few minutes, but women have way more to do in there before a social ‘event.' There's washing, exfoliating face and body, shaving legs, armpits and possibly unmentionables, then conditioning hair for two minutes - or 30 seconds in my case.

5:55 pm - T minus 65 minutes.

Dried off and a touch flushed, body lotion on to keep my skin soft (for his benefit), deodorant (for everyone else's benefit), select perfume from my own personal department store-sized selection.

Then we come to the hair. In my case this is a salon worthy undertaking - being naturally curly, but sometimes preferring to go straight. Apply the appropriate myriad hair products and set to it.

(By this time the hubby is showered, moisturized, after-shaved, accessorized, dressed and already starting to twitch.)

10 to 30 minutes for hair drying and styling - curly is fast, straight is a major enterprise.

6:20 pm - T minus 40 minutes.

5 minutes to allow for emergency cooling down and removal of sweat from face, after using a 200 degree flat-iron in close range (we must be nuts). 

Apply face cream, brush teeth, study face closely for flaws nobody else can see unless they're thinking of snogging me. Tweeze stray eyebrow or chin hairs and attack my ‘hey, I'm almost menopausal' moustache.

6:35 pm - T minus 25 minutes.

Decide what I am going to wear and then select suitable underwear based on decision. Select from a few bras in different colors or styles. For example, I am not going to wear my 'Hello Boys' cleavage enhancing bra to go bowling or to church, in case of spillage. And the ‘minimize them under the armpits' bra just won't cut it for date night.

Knickers also present similar decisions on color, style and avoiding the dreaded Visible Panty Line, or God forbid, the white knickers under white trousers disaster.

6:40 pm - T minus 20 minutes.

I usually have some idea in advance on clothing, but this will often change as I dress. I'm going with jeans but it appears I'm having a 'fat day' so the top I planned to wear looks god-awful. I try another but my ‘bat wings' are in full flap...and so it goes on until I find the perfect combo.

(Hubby of course can throw on jeans or khaki's, a shirt and be done with none of this stress.)

6:50 pm - T minus 10 minutes.

In full-blown rush now.

Next up is make-up. I'll consider what I'm wearing and where I am going, dig out suitable make-up and apply. I'm very into the minerals sweep-it-all-over-fast stuff, so I really only have my eyes to do and maybe a sweep of highlighting powder - but that's still 10 minutes. If I'm in full tart up mode then 20 is closer!

7:00 pm - T minus 0 minutes (aka LATE!).

Onto the accessories minefield and I have many choices in shoes and handbags. I am a big coordinator so this will usually be the deciding factor, and then I have to transfer contents from the previous handbag into the 'chosen one.'

Jewelry next, and again I could stock a store, so this can take a while.

(By now the hubby is hovering and giving me 'the look.' And God help me at this point if I ask his opinion!)

7:10 pm - T plus 10 minutes.

The final mirror check finishes me (sometimes quite literally) when I catch sight of anything frightful and go back a few steps and start over. This elicits expletive muttering and occasional frustrated outbursts from the other half. But usually just a couple of tugs and shimmies does the trick.

7:15 pm - T plus 15 minutes.

I am ready, but dodging the evil eye. I'm only 15 minutes late, which is entirely acceptable in England but the problem is I'm now in the land of the prompt guest. Well not quite ready actually; use the loo, find cell phone, do a last scan of the house and cats.

7:20 pm - T plus 20 minutes.

Run out the door, shouting ‘c'mon aren't you ready yet' at the poor bewildered man I hang with!

Hollywood Hobos

Anti-grooming statements

Beards. Love 'em or hate 'em, they are definitely the on-trend facial accessory for men this season.

It seems that everywhere you look, fur-faces are peering out from the celebrity undergrowth. Or should that be overgrowth? Whether it be David Beckham, Sting, Brad Pitt, Joaquim Phoenix, George Clooney - you just can't move for hirsute he-men.

And lest you think I'm blowing things out of all proportion, I'm not talking about prissy little goatees or designer stubble. I mean those full Grizzly Adams emulating, bush-faced anti-grooming statements.

I am going to state right from the outset that I am not a fan. Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer a man to have a smooth, clean-shaven face. It's just my personal preference, but as with most things, probably has deeper, psychological resonance.

I will briefly recline on the cyber-couch and give you my 'beard-gate.'

When I was about nine years old I had a teacher with a beard. He was nice and his lessons were interesting. But whenever he came to my desk to explain something or discuss anything, all I could do was focus on the crumbs in his beard. I would agonise about whether I should tell him or not. (I didn't.) Sometimes the same crumbs stayed there for days. I remember a keen sense of fascinated repulsion.

Now, I know we are all different and have our little peccadilloes, but I'm willing to bet not many would request 'fascinatingly repellent' in their Lonely Hearts want ad.

I don't want a man who looks like a polar explorer. I want to be able to read his expression. He could be hiding all sorts of smirks and scowls beneath that facial fringing. A beard is nothing more than a man's accomplice in the frequently practised art of FIA: Female Interrogation Avoidance.

And it's not just how they look. It's how they feel. Beards are scratchy and rough and play havoc with my peaches and cream complexion. I don't want to get a rash every time a man kisses me. Anywhere.

So why all the bristles? Do they want to look older? Perhaps they crave gravitas? In Hollywood, this would seem suicidal. Maybe it's a botox avoidance tactic? Or could it be a reaction against the obsessive, over-grooming of recent years?

The male beautification industry is worth millions. Over the last generation, women have been losing a territorial battle over space in the bathroom cabinet. Gone are the days when a bloke's grooming kit consisted of an ancient bottle of Old Spice and a packet of Polo mints.

Whatever the reason for this hairy-interlude, it looks like the 'I've got a family of sparrows in my beard' look is set to stay for a while. I suppose I will just have to wait it out patiently.

There is one final thing I'd like to make crystal clear. I want it to be put on record that Father Christmas is exempt from this diatribe. His white beard is a silken triumph of bushy wonderment, and a joy to behold...I'd hate to cause offence, Santa... 

Cynicism and Chips

Keep your eyes on the prize and off the chips!

Only a mere seven weeks into 2010 and temptation rears its ugly head. Remember all those resolutions? The unwavering conviction that by March, it would be possible to see your toes without the use of an artfully positioned mirror?

Don't give in. You can do it! Nibble on a carrot stick and do another three hundred sit-ups. Attagirl!

Oh, if only I could walk the walk.

If you are managing to stick to your diet and exercise regime, things should be looking positive right now. Well done!

But even if you have been the model of restraint and successfully dropped those stubborn pounds...beware. Week seven after Christmas is notorious for its ability to crush the strongest of wills. This is the time when gym attendance numbers start to fall and nearly new tracksuits can be picked up for a pittance on eBay.

If your diamond-hard resolve is beginning to soften, if your grip is loosening on your shaved-turkey wrap...Watch out! There are temptations about. If squeezing into a pair of Kylie nano-pants by June is your plan...there's only one thing you have to do: Keep your eyes on the goal. Do not be deflected from your mission. Focus. Focus. Focus.

And if you live in the United Kingdom, don't whatever you do, listen to the radio, read the papers or go on the Internet (apart from PowderRoomGraffiti, of course) between the 15^th and 21^st February.

Why?

Really...you don't want to know. Ignorance is bliss, and a more svelte silhouette.

Oh all right then...but don't say I didn't warn you.

During the 15^th - 21^st February 2010, Britain will be celebrating the chip. 

I cannot believe the scheduling of National Chip Week is an innocent mistake. Those cynical marketing monkeys at the absurdly entitled Potato Council have done their research. This over-starched organisation knows their orgiastic week of chip-related dissemination coincides with the most difficult days on the calendar for dieters. They are clearly hoping to cash in on the collective carb-cravings of a million, miserable, post-Christmas calorie crunchers.

Don't let them win! Step away from the chip butty!

Now, don't get me wrong, I love chips. Chips, frites, fries - whatever you like to call them. On their own, or with mayo, ketchup, or fish or...well, anything really. Chips are delicious. Everybody loves chips, don't they? How could you not like chips?

Equally, everybody knows that anything deep-fried is not going to be that healthy for them, or low in calories. Don't they?

Marketing chips is a bit like marketing chocolate or cakes, or new-born babies (although I couldn't eat a whole one). We don't need to be told they are gorgeous. They just are. But we know we can't keep having more and more and more...without facing dire consequences. I spend much of my time trying to forget the existence of bloody chips. As far as I'm concerned, it's a full-time occupation not eating chips.

So back off, Potato Council, OK? We know about chips. They are well and truly on our radar. If it is your mission to try and encourage chip-eating as part of a balanced diet, I fear you are deluded. Does celery traditionally accompany chips? Are chips regularly shovelled onto a plate piled high with lettuce? What exactly would you suggest eating with a plateful of chips in order to balance the dietary books? A fresh air sandwich?

Deep-fried, battered fish, burgers, kebabs, southern fried chicken...all natural bedfellows of chips. All containing high amounts of saturated fats. If you encourage the consumption of chips, you encourage the consumption of their equally unhealthy co-stars.

That we are familiar with the chip is a given. When it comes to delicious julienne of tuberous vegetal matter, we are an enlightened population. We just don't like what they do to our arses or arteries. And so we try and indulge in a little sensible moderation. Take some wise counsel, oh Potato Council. Bugger off and spend your marketing millions on something more useful. Like renewable potato energy. Or a ‘Potatoes for World Peace' campaign. 

And here endeth my rant. Stick that in your butty and chew on it.