Sisters, it would appear, are doing it for themselves. Or at least, taking a leaf out of the men’s somewhat naughty book and getting all lascivious (or las-vicious, as I once heard it described) about the physical attributes of attractive young men (ie ogling the shirt off Poldark’s Aidan Turner who has once more got his pecs out for the ladies).
Porridge, as a friend of mine once memorably remarked, is a very personal thing. It’s like stovies, in ways that surpass either of them being simply Scottish-based foods with a reputation for stodginess and much cheapness. They also possess the ability to evoke in otherwise sensible people opinions on style of presentation and combination of ingredients as diverse and venomous as those currently expressed chiefly by EU referendum campaigners and Euro 2016 football “fans”.
Since everyone’s going all Shakespearean on us at the moment, you can hardly move for quotable quotes, punning headlines and bad jokes.
In my hot youth, when I was at school studying history, there used to be a lot of store set on the significance of what were considered the great days of British worldwide supremacy.
It’s hard to get to my time of life and discover that for the last four decades or so you’ve been living in an aberration.
Here we go again with the “feminisation of society” schtick from those who ought to know better, just because somebody suggested that Gillian Anderson and some young person from Game of Thrones of whom I have never heard (bet she’s crying into her dragon broth over that) have put themselves forward as the next James Bond.
Sports people as role models are becoming few and far these days.
My mother was born in 1927 and therefore has a pretty clear recollection of the late 1930s and 40s and obviously, of the war years.