Tattoos used to be the graffiti of sailors. Swallows meant ‘Home’ and skulls ‘Appreciate life while you have it’. But now in every design you can think of, the last decade heralded the Fashion Tattoo.

I wonder what our grandmothers think of tattoos as fashion symbols? Perhaps they didn’t tattoo themselves because they realised that tattoos are forever and isn’t transience the point of fashion? There are already a few tattoo bearers in their thirties regretting their Chinese writing after the circulation of various urban myths. Such as the one about the woman whose sexy back tattoo actually reads “inferior goods”, or the karate student who thought his tattoo meant “strength,” but later found out it means “small domestic animals”.

For some tattoos signify free expression, for others they just read ’cheap’. It seems however mine signified ‘a holiday in Lanzarote with someone my mother considers a bad influence’. So, the latter then. In holiday mode I was veering between the two schools of thought, until on an opportunist whim I followed my friend in the tattooist’s chair. I went for a small flower on the sole of my foot. I’m always doodling little hibiscus and I thought it was a smart way of having my boho tattoo without ruining evening dresses. It wasn’t great. It looked a lot like I’d trodden in something, and the tattooist had shaded in my delicate outline, turning it into a grubby black blob.

Still, I liked it. I had to, it was there forever. Or so I thought. But after a month it looked an awful lot lighter, a month after that it was barely there and just a few weeks later it was gone. Today only the tiny stamen of the flower remains, earning me a funny look everytime I have a pedicure. Apparently the skin on the foot regenerates too quickly to hold a tattoo – something the Spanish tattooist ‘forgot’ to tell me. I knew every tattoo told a story, I just didn’t think this was the one I would be telling. Still, I think I had a lucky escape, I hear squashed-fly foot tattoos are so last year.

But don’t let my pathetic little tale put you off. I just advise you  to put a little more thought into yours than I did. If, like me, you’re undecided, don’t put your foot in it – just dip your toe in gently. First read the fabulous book ‘The Electric Michaelangelo’ by Sarah Hall and buy these gorgeous cufflinks from Simon Carter’s new Tattoo range, encrusted with Swarovski crystal they’re bling enough to be so very now, in the brillant retro shapes of sailor’s tattoos (I love the swallows, they’ve tiny red beaks).

Of course, if you do find yourself sold on having a real tattoo, but aren’t committed to it forever, just have it on the sole of your foot, it’ll be gone in three months.

Er, bit fresh out, what? Ah the magical feeling of bounding around in snow like you’re  in a Mariah Carey video, the bonus days off work, the joyous warmth of human kindness in the bleak midwinter.

Yes, yes that’s all very lovely but what about the pesky fact that this is the season of dieting, detox’s and new exercise regimes. Which is always tough, but is now proving downright impossible. Anyone for salad and a jog? No, thought not. Now we’re under siege with the outside temperature below zero my hibernation fat is pleading with my resolve for lashings of mulled wine and mashed potato. Thank god there’s no winter sun holiday booked to worry about.

My current answer to the cravings is vegetable soup, Ladyhawke on full blast and keeping warm by doing my new yoga DVD.

It beats risking broken limbs from the icy wobble back from the pub … although I’d better hang on to some of my winter cushioning in case my resolve breaks, and it would be a shame to waste that last mince pie.

Anyone else slump into their craftbox with hopelessness after watching Kirstie Allsop’s Homemade Christmas?

We thought home-loving Kirstie who’s usually a star member of the sisterhood might give us a few hints on how to have fun during a recession hit Christmas, perhaps a homemade chocolate recipe or tips on making little tree decorations whilst reminding us not to work too hard, but no. Apparently all we need is ‘some paper, a pen and the name of an expert illustrator/quilter/jeweller/soft toy maker who you can write to ask them to do it all for you, for the bargain price of a few thousand pounds for the materials.’ A more expensive, time-consuming and depressing way of crushing any Christmas spirit we had left I cannot imagine. It makes the most creative of us want to do a trolley dash around M&S on Christmas eve, grabbing the presents, a plastic tree and some ready-mixed buck’s fizz.

I sat down to watch it, pen poised, because I like a bit of homemadeness. I think, combined with good quality materials (that doesn’t have to mean bank-breaking Kirstie) it can all looks rather Daylesford Organics and is actually fun.

Here’s a picture of my tree (next to my gorgeous Colonial lamp) with popcorn strings (easy to make: eat one, string one – don’t forget the Christmas film to go with it), dried oranges (put sliced oranges in oven on low heat, go shopping) and candy canes (99p a box from Superdrug).

It’s rather Victoriana but I like it that way and the universally loved gifts that will nestle underneath are all from please&thankyou’s bargain basement (it’s like having a good wine cellar). Once they’re wrapped in Santa-red ASDA paper and trimmed with Ebay’s best marabou ribbon it will all be as Christmassy as can be. All without ‘experts’, including you Ms Allsop.

Happy Christmas everyone! See you next year.

Been talked into making mince pies for the school’s Christmas fete? Rather pull Santa’s sleigh yourself than spend all morning bashing dough around the kitchen only to watch Arabella Van de Pants’s mother wince in disgust when she tastes one?

For god’s sake cheat. Apparently Waitrose sell the best filling, Sainsbury’s the best ready-made pastry and please&thankyou the best gadget.

This indispensible rolling pin is perfect for those of you with OCD about pastry thickness. Finish off by crimping with a fork and dusting with icing sugar (make sure you get some on the kids too so it looks like you included them).

And Robert’s your mother’s brother, homemade mince pies! What a gorgeously yummy mummy you are.

Ever since she released that killer-of-joy detox book, I’ve hoped Carol Vorderman would be taken down a peg or two. From willing her Countdown letters to spell out something puerile, her white board marker to run out or even just hoping she’d get podgy again so she’d ditch those Miss Selfridge mini-dresses.

So when I saw her on The One Show yesterday explaining how mathematics could be applied to Christmas present wrapping, I started to bang on about how it would be typical of her to take all the fun out of the wholesome tradition of present wrapping. But damn the woman if she didn’t reveal something rather brilliant.

According to Carol, each year we use enough paper to cover Guernsey, (which wouldn’t be a bad idea in my opinion.) and although of course we should strive to be more ‘eco’, it wasn’t the paper and tape saving pedantics that grabbed me, as usual – shallow magpie that I am – I was dazzled by the aesthetics. This may be the eco-friendly way to wrap, but it’s also the most beautiful. With delicate folds and one tiny bit of tape this is the most elegant way to wrap. Just follow the formula …

Measure the diagonal of the longest side and add that to one and ½ times the highest side

A: Longest side, B: Height, C: ½ the height again. Therefore A+B+C= your ideal amount of paper.

Turn the present on the diagonal in the centre of the paper, pulling each point into the centre, folding in the corners as you go. You will only need one tiny bit of  sellotape to secure all four corners in the centre. It even works on rectangles, and when in doubt if the paper is big enough, just turn the present diagonally and hope the corners fold in. Ta da!

Oh dear, poor Britney. It seems that despite her best domestic goddess behaviour (shaving all her hair off, two dud marriages in the last five years and losing her children to the care system), her Aussie lover has resisted Britney’s down-on-one-knee proposal, because he “Takes marriage very seriously”.

Now, I can see The Rules writers swooning into their spritzers at this, as they believe a woman should never propose to a man, and although I think those killjoy, tyrannical Stepford Wives have a lot to answer for, I’m not sure I’d ever propose. Anti-feminist I know, but it comes from a belief that if we don’t know who’s supposed to do what, no-one will know what to do. Women do plenty of passive chasing anyway, with all our preening and painting. And I think men actually like proposing (when not dragged into it like a dog for the snip), I think it gives them a sense of autonomy (and the fair maiden a nice piece of jewellery). Why deny either party?

However, guys, if you have been put off by Britney’s sorry little tale (the one about the proposal!), and are now fearful that your beloved might actually say ‘no’, may I suggest a little toe in the water at Christmas.

Firstly, do it romantically. Presenting it by the Christmas tree is good, lobbing it across the bedroom at her yelling “Go long!” is not. Secondly, present her with a ring box (containing this little trinket – left),  and quickly scan her face for either thrilled anticipation (good sign) or horror (bad sign). Lastly, if you’re still not sure, make some romantic comment like ‘Because I wanted to get you a ring”. Any encouraging, loving reaction to this is a good sign, and you can start planning the real thing.

Alarm bells should ring with reactions such as; “What? Oh sorry, Eastenders is on” and putting  it back in the box (sad, but give the proposal a wide berth), “But I wanted a playstation” (she’s too young to get married anyway), or screaming “It’s not diamonds, I SAID DIAMONDS” (if you marry this one, you’ll wake up one day in a Travelodge having signed over your house, children and golf clubs just to get away from her).

So Clarkson’s controversial right wing article in the Sunday Times yesterday has been pulled from the web. Well, I suppose that’s one more thing he could add to his tirade about pandering, yellow-bellied Britain, the abolition of freedom of speech.

It’s true that his column this week is so far right Clarkson almost bumps into Griffin in his gallop away from the left but, as most forum contributors have commented, he has a point. And although rants such as “(Britain) this stupid, Fairtrade, Brown-stained, Mandelson-skewed, equal-opportunities, multicultural, carbon-neutral, trendily left, regionally assembled, big-government, trilingual, mosque-drenched, all-the-pigs-are-equal, property-is-theft hellhole” may be unacceptably capitalist from other journalists, it is exactly this style of tongue-in-cheek verbosity we have come to expect and love from Clarkson.

Of course, Clarkson is known for usually driving on the right; “I don’t understand bus lanes. Why do poor people have to get to places quicker than I do?” But I would like to tentatively suggest that he doesn’t really want to see Mandelson “tied to the front of a van and driven round the country until he isn’t alive any more” but that he has utilised his signature preposterous metaphors to illustrate just how, (to ape Clarkson), eggshell-walking, lily-livered and self-censoring Britain has become. Yes, so we’re all hoping that Griffin’s injurious tread across the far right wing will have him toppling off the edge but that does not mean that we don’t want a balanced debate for fear of upsetting others. Many British veterans for example, feel that they might as well complain to the moon about their grievances’. Hundreds feel annihilated by the dissolution of their communities in favour of those more cosmopolitan, their war pensions whittled down to pay for the leaflets on state pensions being printed in nine different languages and on funding citizenship tests which are being falsely passed in return for a few hundred of the finest British pounds.

One smart move has been, however intentionally or not, is that the Sunday Times’s removal of the article will generate it far more publicity than if they hadn’t. Is this a new tactic to see wealth fighting with stealth? Perhaps that’s the way on to the straits.  And on that bombshell, goodnight.

I’m back! I missed you guys and had such an incredible time away I could regale you with stories of the trip until next holiday, but I won’t. Stinky November is sitting heavy on all of us and my tactless whittering about sunny climes won’t help anyone, least of all me. Instead I’ll talk about Christmas, comfort food and of course, the only therapy there is, shopping.

Check it all out in our Winter issue of please&thankyou.

For my big birthday next month, my family have bought me a monumentally magical present. A trip around the Indonesian islands on a schooner.

I know, I know, I hate me too. And I certainly don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such a present. Perhaps they just wanted to get rid of me for a while.

Anyway, this means that I won’t be blogging until I’m back in the last week of October.

So, bye bye. I’ll come back with tales of tribes, pirates and komodo dragons … that’s if I come back at all, apparently komodo dragons will wait for weeks for you to fall out of the tree you climbed up to escape from them.

So, now you know. If I don’t come back, that’s what’s happened.

We just acquired a table. A gorgeous little 18^th century table, the perfect complement to the modern flat and leather chair.

But ever since we bought it, my guy’s been recriminating over the price. And although I know money and prices can’t be ignored, (and it was rather on the wallet-clearing side), I do think that the cost isn’t comparable to what it’s worth to you.

For example, we all know that if you paid £10 for an emergency jumper that loiters in the wardrobe, it’s worth a lot less than the £90 one you wear all the time.

And, yes, it’s easy to value clothes per wear, but what about homewares? Perhaps they can be measured in cost per moment of adoration? A little like relationships?
I found this little poem the other day, something my mother had saved for me years ago …

Never judge the sort of husband that any wife possesses
By the jewellery she’s wearing, or the number of her dresses
Or the way he speaks about her, of her driving or her cooking
But the way she looks towards him when she thinks he isn’t looking.

So, we’ve bought this Colonial lamp to go on the table. It looks pretty perfect, and for less than thirty quid, it’s worth every penny. I even caught him looking at it lovingly the other day.