The other day I was scrolling through dreaded Boastagram, as my darling, regretfully departed friend Letty used to call it, when a smooth-looking bearded guy with coiffed hair invaded my space with the most absurd suggestion for an ‘ancient remedy.’

I am well aware ‘he,’ with all his follicle perfection, could be an AI creation…

But then someone is behind that AI messenger feeding the machine with ludicrous ideas.

I challenge any woman not to get her wick fired up by what this man/bot said:

“Put a bay leaf into the little pocket of your panties and you will thank me for the rest of your life. Bay leaves contain natural aromatic oiled mild antibacterial compounds. When you put one in that little pocket, it will help neutralise odour, keep things feeling fresh and bring you good luck all day long.”

Excuse me.

Please note, I rarely comment on strangers’ social media posts (or friends’ for that matter) however listening to this @wellness.wisdom wittering, got my internal well of wisdom boiling like a cauldron. Let’s just say, my personal, self-imposed comment restraining order was malfunctioning so I couldn’t resist saying this:

“Do you see posts of women telling men to put herbs next to their nether regions?”

Admittedly, I could have said a lot worse and unleashed a frenzy of gobsmacked gobsmackery but what’s the point? Having said that, I see my comment has, thus far, had over 200 likes so it’s unexpectedly hitting a spot with some female of the species.

And here I am scratching out a few more words about the whole unsavoury bay leaf incident. Here…and completely on one.

If someone had said 5 years ago, that I’d be scribing a furious piece about putting a dried bay leaf in one’s undergarments, I would have baulked and probably choked on my nougat.

First off, the bay leaf used by immaculately coiffed man-bot, to portray this so-called ‘ancient remedy,’ was dry and possibly crispy. If this is indeed an ancient remedy, my ancestors certainly wouldn’t have been wearing powder blue lacy ‘panties’ with a pocket because they don’t even exist now. Are we to take a pair of scissors to our gussets? Blithering idiot.

Keeping ‘things’ fresh, eh? What ‘things’ exactly?

I have a lot of questions queuing up. Of what odour do you speak of?

I don’t have a very short fuse but when my cage is rattled, I do like to let off a little steam.

As it turns out, a few others on the offending post’s thread, chirped up in the comments.

“And then you can throw it in the spaghetti sauce.”

“What’s cooking down there?”

And the one that said it like it is:

“Maybe you should shove the leaf up your ass….”

Frankly, women should be rightly outraged and righteously outraged. Enough of telling us to enhance or hinder the smells, smooth our lines, wax or plump this and that etc etc. Concentrate on your own body odours and ‘things’ and trust we know what we are doing in the hygiene department.

Thank you.

1. A rambler’s stick. As much as I like to amble and ramble, I will stand by this: no rambler’s stick for me. Any other kind of stick maybe, but not the rambling kind.

2. A head torch. Something I swore I would never don…b…

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Dear Jeremy, aka Pillar of the Community,

I want to alert the village elders and remind them what a throughly good egg you are!

Upheld as the most respected and reliable person in our environs, you stand proud, like a big kahuna on your plinth with your shiny moral compass set to true north.

A fine figure on a pillar.

Who cares what kind of co…

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To the Elephant in the Room:

I’ve been thinking about you and the impact you have on me, on others and the world at large.

What a strange and enigmatic role you play.

When fully parked in the proverbial room, your presence is palpable. You cannot be ignored…but then you are. That’s why you are here/there in the first place.

An unknown entity wi…

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Dear Mr Pratt

Every time I lay an egg I think of you.

You’re the only one I adore

When I hear you singing in the silence of the night I know that you are heralding the dawn

Every time I hatch a chick I think of you

Just for you I’d hatch a dozen more

You’re the early bird with whom I love to share a worm

And if I might presume, an ear of corn

Morni…

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Dear Advertisers

I have a serious gripe….what the heck happened to adverts?

At what point did commercials get so appallingly bad, so insanely inane and dumbed down that they leave me, the viewer, hollering f…

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To my beloved feet,

Here I am paying homage to you both, showing my appreciation for all your dedicated work, carrying me around all day, taking me wherever I want to go.

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Now that the digital world has blighted putting pen to paper, scribing epistles has become a dying art, teetering on the verge of being rendered obsolete.

A handwritten letter i…

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The former suggests there is no end to the satisfaction of what is achievable (or rather impossible). Goals are unattainable therefore there’s a never-ending quest to reach the ideal. Perfectionism cannot last. Something will come along and mess it up.

You could drive…

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The task took longer than I expected however I got to the finishing line, scraping in at the final hour - right on New Year’s Eve - so I am grateful to have made it this far.

I have learned that I have great resistance to my own self-made challenges and committing to posting every single day is a bit of a stretch but I plan to continue showing up in whatever way this unfolds. Write through the doubts and reluctance. Keep on keeping on.

May the coming year 2026 be kind to us all.

Over & out.

Did anyone else notice?

While writ…

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Having reviewed countless hotels for the Hotel Guru over the past decade, from the charming and bijou or rustic and off piste to the gra…

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Did I inhale at the wrong moment or was I not chewing properly?

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There’s no point trying to eavesdrop on my children’s conversations as I mostly have no clue what they are talking about. The glossary of slang, their expressions and acronyms are beyond my GenX understanding - they could be talking gobbledegook for all I know, however because I love words I’m going to endeavour to decode some of their indecipherable language.

The following phrases are my interpretations because while I may think I’ve got the gist, there could well be some eyeball rolling and lolling (snickering, in my lingo) as I probably haven’t quite grasped the true meanings of the sayings.

My bad as they would say. Possibly this was the first expression I had to wrap my head around, defined as ‘my fault’ or ‘my mistake.’

I may pepper this post with my own occasional ism (in italics) purely for artistic licence and for a healthy dose of so-whatery.

I find it fascinating how GenZ all big each other up, pedestalising if you will, lavishing one another with names like legend, babe, slay queen, the GOAT (greatest of all time), the CEO and OG which meant ‘original gangster’ in my day although this lot have dropped the last word.

Back in the Eighties, you’d be lucky to get a tiny, whispered compliment from a peer about…your shoes. This mild admiration would have caused a great kerfuffle of blushing - either from the one offering the footwear approval or the one receiving it.

Is it any wonder my generation are fraught with insecurities? Had someone called us ‘legend’ or somesuch, we’d have felt quite elated and puffed up.

GenZ don’t hold back on flattery.

If you go on a date, the positive encouragement is: Slay!

If I’d used terminology to my counterparts like: ‘Slay, queen,’ when they were heading out on a date, I’d have received a ‘dirty look’ or deathly stare.

To GenXers, the word slay was last popular when George was trying to execute the blazing dragon, back in the dark corners of a juvenile century of olde.

When something hits different, the impact is entirely new.

Pop off as I understand it, means you’re looking good and when someone scrubs up well, they are not too shabby. If someone has a glow-down, in short, they have lost their looks. Obviously we would all rather a glow-up and look snatched.

Boujee or bougie is their version of what’s chichi to me.

Basic is applied in reference to people who aren’t cool or edgy in their tastes.

Flex - from subtle flex to weird flex but ok - is used when someone is showing off therefore probably deemed a walking red flag. No explanation needed there. However whomever is flexing won’t get away with bragging for long as this lot can be savage with the truth. And never mind if someone is being salty (ie angry or upset); they could get a tongue-lashing anyway. GenZ don’t slide easily into people-pleasing because they (mostly) have more awareness around their behaviour. Except the one who’s being ‘such a beg’ (or beggy) ie desperate for attention. These terms seem quite tame to my older ears.

For GenX, there was no end to the insults and everyday childish name-calling: dweeb, moron, bore, dork, twat, twit, buffoon, cretin, nincompoop, ignoramus, dimwit, nitwit, diddums, numbskull, jerk, wally, wimp, muppet, git, goon, twerp, schmuck, dumbhead, pillock, peabrain, dipstick, prat, silly fool, halfwit, idiot, chump, dullard, dumbo, ninny, sissy, wetty, rascal, simpleton, dummy, numpty, dunderhead, airhead, clumsy oaf, berk, clot, klutz, blighter, toad, rotter, stinker, pill, so-and-so, pest, mug, yob, herbert, scallywag, little shit, meanie, ligger, creep, scum, scoundrel, perve, sleazebag, sleazeball or slimeball.

And that’s just a few of the jibes used or dished out by parents or those that “should know better.”

A drip to us was a wet, spineless rag of a character.

To GenZ, drip means cool looking; the person is impressively fashionable.

Dupe is a decent fake, a cheaper version of a more premium/expensive product. When it comes to marketing brands, I find the influencer - or influenza - hysteria obsurdia.

Curve is when you’re gently dodging someone’s romantic advances. A simp is not going to get sympathy. On the contrary this suggests the person is trailing around after someone they are interested in but the feelings are not reciprocated.

As we segue into autumn, apparently we are in the throes of cuffing season.

This GenZ-ism translates as wanting a relationship or to find someone to cuddle up to for extra warmth. The opposite of this is hot girl summer = a semi-clad/naked girl who is unapologetically consumed by self-love.

Go figure. (No pun intended)

This brings us to a pick-me - an attention-seeker screaming for validation. For example I’m told: ‘A person takes a selfie from a hospital bed but doesn’t give the context.’ Thus, this is a pick-me moment (as I understand it) and therefore hospital fishing. This could also be seen as a pity party. Or time to get the violins out.

Drama or intensity to the GenX twentysomething was ‘radical’ or a ‘heavy scene’ whereas GenZ might dismiss a meltdown as: ‘It’s not that deep.’

Pressed describes feeling pressure.

A nervy b or menty b is a lighthearted term for a mini breakdown. If someone is getting hysterical, you might tell them to take a seat.

‘Are you good?’ This lighthearted expression suggests someone has lost the plot or is momentarily not sound of mind.

A DMC is a heartfelt, deep and meaningful conversation however if someone is capping, they are telling ‘porkies.’ No cap is honesty.

‘What’s the tea?’ This is GenZ speak for ‘what’s the gossip?’ Spilling the tea is sharing the inside news.

A dead chat is, in my book, a cul de sac conversation. GenX might say: ‘The company was like a damp weekend.’

Speaking of damp, dank is used in a completely different way, meaning delicious or fresh. Who knew?

Dead is hilarious or crazy. If GenZ say: ‘I’m dead’ this can be interpreted as the situation was so funny and entertaining, you laughed so much you might pass out.

It’s all a bit ‘cray cray’ (an expression I very rarely use only because I loathe it) so let’s move on…

Instead of saying, ‘You’re toast’; they say: ‘You’re cooked.’

To be catfished, in my language means you have been misled or duped. For example, if you buy a hoodie on eBay and the garment arrives looking nothing like the picture advertised, you’ve been catfished.

When it comes to partying, there’s highkey and lowkey. If someone says, ‘I lowkey want to go out tonight,’ this means the opposite of what any GenX person might think. In short: you want to hit the town and press play.

A bop or a banger is a good tune.

Drinks before a party are pres and post-party shenanigans are coined afters. When things are popping off, you could say there’s a lively atmosphere.

As for a pinger, GenZ are referring to a pill or ‘E’ as we knew it. Probably TMI but let’s not be delulu or unrealistic.

If someone gets you into a gig, event, festival or party, they are the plug as they have the right connections to get access. The receiver’s response might be to say, ‘that’s lit’ or they’re gassed (to go).

A gatecrasher or arriving uninvited to a party is a scrape. This is also used if tagging along with a couple - what I GenX might have called ‘a gooseberry’ or ‘ligger.’

If someone gets paralytically drunk or wasted, in GenZ terms, they are steamed, binned, battered, crunk or non-verbal so it’s time to dip. This is the signal to leave.

When someone is overthinking, thoughts are living rent-free in their head. It can also mean you’re obsessing over an image, scene, person or song.

You might want to take a vibe check and see how your mood is being affected. Or take a time out which refers to needing space from whatever’s going on - good or bad. I wonder if this is left over from being put on the naughty step as a child?

Bed rot is the result of sitting around all day in pyjamas, something I would call lounging around or relaxing. Absolute bed joy for moi.

Slang-a-dang-a-ding-dong.

Here endeth the lesson.

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Close to where I live in London is a hairy house.

Partially hidden by foliage, the donkey brown pebble dash is cloaked in a shaggy autumnal coat hiding its ugly, nubbly exterior.

As a child I used to pass a terraced house off the King’s Road that was covered in greenery with a black net over the top, from the roof to the pavement. A menagerie of birds chirruped and flew around inside the veil. We told ourselves there was a witch living there as very occasionally a batty old lady was seen brushing her doorstep.

Where she parked her broomstick was a mystery.

It was only a few years ago that the house appeared to have changed hands and the facade cleaned up and painted Green Smoke or somesuch Farrow & Ball shade. The old lady must have flown on many years ago but perhaps the council took a while to track down the ownership or reclaim such a desirable location for marketing. Houses in those parts would have cost a few thousand in the Seventies but now go for millions. Aside from the trapped birds, I preferred the building the way it was. Now it looks like any other bland, banker’s Chelsea residence.

My mother lived opposite a postbox in West Brompton half-devoured by a plane tree. It’s as if the trunk took a shine (or perhaps a dislike?) to the scarlet-collared pillar box and tried to gobble it up. Maybe it wanted to read all the letters…

There’s something magical about nature engulfing a building or manmade object. I spotted a phone box near Salisbury in Wiltshire in the process of being consumed by a rampant trailing creeper.

In a popular Somerset town, a dwelling has been entirely obscured by a canopy of leaves. Only the front door is visible under the tendrils of vegetation and looking through the only unconcealed window, it’s clear there’s an occupant residing there. A blinking Mrs Pepperpot, perhaps.

Do they have the lights on during the day or are they living under the illumination of candlelight?

Having spent nine years in a house that was overtaken by a voracious wisteria twice a year, I know how quickly a building can get shrouded in horticultural hoodlums. I had to use a ladder and loppers to keep the rambler under control, sometimes leaning precariously out of the upstairs windows to reach an unruly spur or deadened woody stem. Dangerous gardening.

Once I came across a hidden house in a Dorset valley while out on a magical walk with my partner. First we found white horses, then a valley with a disused rowing boat before discovering a threadbare thatched cottage almost entirely disguised by ivy and brambles.

Peering through the grubby windows of the near-derelict building, we soon realised someone was actually living there and sensed a strong possibility this person might be looking out at us. This spiked intrigue segued into uneasiness and put an abrupt end to the prying. We then noticed a bicycle leaning against the porch, confirming our suspicions. I imagined a wild bearded man living there, stuffing ceiling leaks with old newspaper. A misanthrope.

Like Grey Gardens, the dilapidated mansion Jackie Onassis’s aunt and cousin inhabited, this forgotten place, camouflaged by undergrowth was still a home to someone. If you haven’t seen the 1975 documentary Grey Gardens, check it out - if not for the pair’s kooky commentary and inventive styling tips which Little Edie describes as “revolutionary costume.”

A turban fashioned out of a towel, anyone? A skirt used as a cape…

Edith Bouvier Beale and her ex-model/socialite/actress daughter, Little Edie lived in squalor as funds diminished and Suffolk County, New York Health Commission tried to get them evicted in 1972. After rescue donations from Jackie O and her sister Lee Radziwill, the mother and daughter continued to share the house with several cats and raccoons. Wild living.

I’d long wanted to visit St Dunstan-in-the-East, a ruined church circa 1100 between London Bridge and the Tower of London, so went this summer. It was severely damaged in the Great Fire of London in 1666, and further ruined in the Blitz of 1941, yet is all the more magnificent for the nature festooning its ecclesiastical architecture.

A reminder that one day I’d like to explore the abandoned mining town of Talysarn at Dorothea Quarry in Gwynwdd, Wales which looks quite the fairytale - in pictures.

Once a thriving slate mining valley, all that’s left has been reclaimed by wilderness.

But perhaps the reality is a more eerie, isolated landscape.

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Another upside, was never having to wear a uniform again.

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“Have you - like me - also got siege mentality?” I asked him, instantly recognisi…

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There’s no shortage of worthy words beginning with R and all the while, since Q dropped, I’ve been making a mental roster - ranging from radish and ravishing to rannygazoo and razzmatazz and everything beyond the rude and romantic reservoir in between.

Somewhat riveted by the random words popping into my internal reference library, I’ve been waiting to have a remarkable rapport with just one R. But rather than revel further in the ridiculous rumpus I’ve created for myself - that I need an R-inspired story or recital - why not roll with the words that have revealed themselves and wRite for R’s sake.

No reason required. No rigid rules. R is not for rubbish. Give R a reprieve. Don’t let regret live rent-free in the clown chakra. Find a resolution.

This was my realisation.

Meanwhile a friend who followed in my flurry and started her own A-Z mission a week or so after me, yesterday pipped me to the post, sharing her R with her readership. This spurred me on to come out of retreat mode and while there is no race, her offering helped me pick up pace.

I’m not retiring yet.

On some level I’ve been revolting, railing against the regularity of this A-Z ride, but someone has to start the revolution…and it certainly isn’t me. My recalcitrance will only take me so far before a rendezvous with a slice of Welsh rarebit beckons. Incidentally Welsh rarebit is said to cause vivid reveries so it’s possibly best consumed during the day unless you want overnight adventures in mystical realms.

Somewhere deep in the recesses of my being there is resilience and I tell myself the rhetoric will come. Eventually.

I considered recounting my escapades reviewing riads in the Marrakech Medina as perhaps an unlikely and somewhat restless hotel inspector.

I thought about R-names such as Rudolph, Roberta, Raphael, Ruth and Robin but had nothing much to say about these remote characters. My parents almost called me Rebecca and I’m glad they didn’t as I wouldn’t have resonated with Becky or Becks.

Funny how long names are often shortened and when you possess a short name like Laura, people like to tack on an extension such as Laura-loo, Lauralie, Lauriss and Laura-lee.

I could reminisce about my raving days and routinely record shopping, such has been my reverence for music, but that might require a revisit at a later date.

Then there’s radical - a word I keep hearing bandied about in the media when painting various groups as extreme or fundamental. And also used in relation to self improvement - radical inspiration, radical acceptance, radical forgiveness.

When I was a spring chicken, between my teen and twenties, ‘radical’ was often used among my peers to describe something ‘far out’ or ‘unreal.’ These days radical, like many words, seems to have many different connotations.

I recently listened to a podcast of a ‘spiritual influencer’ with 672,000 subscribers discussing his ‘radical monogamy’ along with his wife, male guru and newly installed girlfriend (young enough to be his daughter). The podcast host and his two female lovers took a risk, relating how their polyamorous throupledom was a ‘sacred, post-conventional’ relationship and they had the ‘full radical blessing’ of each party involved. Never mind that Romeo received ‘a message from Spirit’ to look on Raya, the dating app, to ‘meet someone important’ where he reportedly met his mistress.

The video blew up with almost 200,000 views and a response reiterating that polyamory is not reframed as radical or ‘expanded’ monogamy. The row of resplendent red flags were flapping a radiant rouge. The rascal host lost the respect of his following.

Reality bites - and sometimes in a ruthless way.

So returning to my A-Z routine, I like to think the Rs have recharged me so I can restart my quest and reflect, having rescued my goal from disappearing deep into a rejected rabbit hole.

Here endeth this radical ramble.

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At 8 years old, I had no clue who was who - or whom for that matter - and didn’t care. I still don’t.

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The truth is, I got overwhelmed by the endless possibilities of P.

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