The Archive 2001

Return to the current edition of "Anne's View" Click here. Who is Anne Debondt? - "Suddenly" Anne's New Book..! Previous Anne's View 2004 - 2003 - 2002 - 2001 - 2000 - 1999 To contact Anne, please e-mail : DEBONDT@aol.com

Anne's View With Anne deBondt I hope for the sake of Christmas shoppers everywhere that a recent advertisement on the Internet is accurate because if it is, there are going to be a lot of satisfied customers this Yule season. We can now purchase an acre of land on the moon - in fact, we've been able to do so since 1980. And, if the ad is reliable, the definitive quandary, " What do you give someone who has everything?" will finally have been solved! No I haven't started drinking the Christmas cheer early. Nor, despite popular opinion, have I lost my mind. It seems that we can own lunar land, complete with title-holder documentation and all, for the modest price of £19.99. The add reads: "Now you too can own your very own acre of land on the light side of the moon, join the likes of Clint Eastwood, Tom Cruise, the original cast of Star Trek and two US ex-presidents". We'll just ignore the fact that the list contains performers who already behave as though they belong to another world and two leaders who've probably made such a hatchet job of running their country that they've had to seek refuge in space, shall we. Anyway, for your money you get, Lunar Deed, which confirms your registration of the one-acre of the moon and gives the co-ordinates of your plot. The Lunar Map so you can see where, on the light side of the moon, your property is located. The Lunar Constitution and Bill of Rights which details the Lunar laws, your rights, and of course, the all important laws of THE BIG CHEESE. A transcript of the Declaration of Ownership. This is the document filed with the USA and Russia along with the United Nations General Assembly in 1980 in which Dennis M. Hope - The BIG CHEESE - first laid claim to the Moon.Documents confirming you have Mineral Rights to your land. All this comes in a slick Moon Estates gift pack, which makes this a wonderful and unique gift. Note: The Lunar deed comes blank; the recipient then fills in their name and sends off a pre-paid registration card, which completes the legal process. Once you have got your acre of land on the moon you can get a picture of it from the Clementine Lunar Image Browser Just visit www.alt-gifts.com/?location=ctree and begin the process. Isn't it great..? Isn't this the perfect alternative to trawling the shops when looking to buy something for a troublesome relative you haven't seen in months - and would rather it have been even longer? Anticipating that the information is valid, I'm making plans to purchase my own plot! And in the meantime, I'm also investigating if there are future plans to actually send someone there! I'll hide that particular bit of good news from the other half. I'm likely to get that 'gift' myself! So, a town crier for Ely, huh? Don't get me wrong, I appreciate tradition, I'm all for the idea in theory... But isn't there something a tad ironic about employing a woman to shout the odds over the din of construction workers, cable layers, zooming cars and scurrying pedestrians trying to return to their cars before the two hour parking limit has expired - not to mention failing shops and disgruntled shop keepers? Still, perhaps there's something to be gained from Avril Hayter's new position after all. If I slip her a fiver I wonder if she'd take a request. I'd like her to shout something for me… STOP CAUSING HAVOC IN ELY..!

Anne's View With Anne deBondt Does the name William Jones mean anything to you? What about Sofia Dora? Ring any bells? No, me either. But according to a long-winded letter, I am the chosen one to receive the "Special Grand Celestial File" that will grant me all my wishes and a whopping £3550.00 to boot. Ms. Dora - a clairvoyant-medium - has been spiritually selected to deliver my good fortune. Evidently, and unbeknownst to me, the man has been in contact with the mystic for ages concerning my worthiness. I can just imagine … Lights turned down low ...spooky music in the background … Sof and Bill chin wagging about how amiable and good - not to mention, kind hearted - I am …Obviously neither of them reads the Ely Standard then. You see, regrettably it was this old geezers wish that he pop his clogs before I was allowed to take possession of my legacy so I'll never get a chance to ask him why I was so special or, in fact, ask who the hell he is and why he has never so much as sent me a birthday card prior to this contact. The letter prattles on for another three pages front and back about how my aura shone out more brightly from all the rest. And that a strange vision (you know, white cloud, good spirit floating on it, kind of thing) appeared indicating my suitability. And that I should keep such a gift completely protected in my household, "as gaming professionals would snatch it from me" since this talisman is "capable of breaking the bank at any gaming casino. I'm also informed that I will be winning the lottery, overcoming all sorts of burdensome difficulties or buying a new house or car any day now due to my miraculous windfall. But I particularly liked the section that reads how I'll feel the presence of a great, protective force (presumably this is old man Jones himself) for the rest of my life. And how I will effortlessly conquer all the dangers that I may be faced with from now on. I always knew I was special. I wonder if it's too late to teach the family to bow and curtsey in my presence! Now, aside from the fact that Messer's Jones and Dora misspelled both my first and last name, therefore obviously don't know me as well as they are pretending to, or that it took four pages of highlighted, underlined bold print for them to call me a stooge (who else would fall for their hooey?) but the letter informs me no less than 10 times that my gift is absolutely free, no charge, non-gratis, complimentary! So what's the bill for £39.00 at the bottom of the last page for? Why the need for my credit card information if my old mate Bill is giving me his treasured bit of rock on his deathbed? I suspect that I'm not the only chosen one and that there are other bright auras out there who should do as I did and drop this insulting bumph into the nearest bin where it belongs. But should you find yourself hesitating, believing that £39.00 is not all that much to risk when you could gain a life of luxury and wealth beyond your wildest dreams in return, do yourself a favour and donate the money to Children In Need instead and support a legitimate act of fulfilling someone's dreams.

Anne's View With Anne deBondt Old fogey? Elderly? I beg to differ. But according to Mrs. R. Martin, only metres are taught in schools and consequently used nationwide, therefore we old-fashioned folk should be packed off to weights and measures yesteryear for our backward way of thinking. Furthermore she goes on to accuse us miles, inches and yarders of undermining education in this country and making fools of the British public. Oh contraire! If I'm making a fool of anyone it's myself when I try to calculate something from imperial to metric. The last time I ordered an amount of curtain material for my front room, I ended up with enough fabric to cover the windows of Buckingham Palace, twice! And I've given up trying to gauge distances. If someone asks me for directions I plead tourism to avoid sending the already lost soul another twenty miles, kilometres, hectares… whatever, out of their way. I've even lost the ability to calculate what weight of grapes I want at the market each week. Just to be on the safe side I find a bunch, tug off the surplus and hand it to the vendor instead of asking for the amount in new money, lest I find myself buying out the entire stock with my miscalculation. But more importantly than my constant humiliation with the metric system, what Mrs. R. Martin doesn't realise is that we elderly old fogeys aren't dragging our feet. We Imperialists aren't reluctant to move with the times… just as she defends the school children of today, we just want to exercise the education we were given! Far from feeling more patriotic, after yet another visit to the great US of A, I have become even less certain of my belonging. Because my two trips were so close together I wasn't able to fully recover from my previous misunderstandings before committing a few new ones. You see, the problem is that I have spent so much time here that I have forgotten certain words over there. Combined with the fact that I have a strong American accent, therefore shouldn't have any trouble communicating with my own people. Yet I fail to remember what a trolley is called until some patronizing youth informs me that the word I am frantically searching for is cart! Or I unthinkingly ask for the toilets and only realise my unforgivable faux pas when I see the look of horror on the face of the lass who disdainfully asks, "Do you mean the ladies restrooms?" Well of course I meant that! Really! But what's even worse than using a word most Americans wouldn't say in front of their children let alone in public to a stranger, is that I don't know what size I am, in anything! Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to be my age and not know what shoe size you are or what dress size you take? I contemplated faking a 20 year coma to excuse such a lapse when trying on clothes but then gave up and just let the assistant think I had been drinking my lunch when I didn't know if I was a 16 or 2. It would be so much easier if I could affect an Irish brogue or a Scottish lilt. Americans sympathize when foreigners get something wrong. Hell, they even raise the volume of their voices and use hand gestures trying to oblige. But when a native appears ignorant they become positively hostile. I've vowed that before I pay another visit to the homeland, I'm going to do the patriotic thing and perfect my French!

Anne's View With Anne deBondt I instantly scrapped my primary topic this week when I read the shameful article concerning the war veterans who have been banned from marching down a country road in Burghfield, Berkshire on November 11th, Remembrance Sunday, to commemorate the war dead. A march, I might add, they've been performing for nigh on 80 years without disapproval. Supposedly the problem is that the old soldiers would be contravening a human rights ordinance by endangering the public with their two-minute obstruction. You know, the very public they fought, defended and died for? The European Union responsible for the termination of the foot parade says the men would be causing a dangerous hindrance to traffic. Bull! Since when is vehicular movement a human right? And what motorist is expected to come up the lane in that two minutes that warrants such pretentious consideration? Hell, we've had every obstruction known to man occur on the streets of Ely in the past year, anyone witness the council being censured for their apparently unlawful impediment? Isn't it interesting how this rule has such flexibility? These men have fought for the freedom to march their pride up and down any street in this country, and then some. We, the public, owe it to them to honour their dignity. We're not doing them a favour, we owe them recognition. But what's more worrying is what this says about our complacency that we tolerate such an event being cancelled - not investigate, not evaluated, bloody cancelled - due to some suit in an office somewhere, most probably not a veteran, more concerned for the automobile than he is our war heroes. I implore anyone with a shred of decency to voice his or her sense of outrage at such an insulting decision. At a time when our country is involved in another freedom threatening conflict we should be mindful of what message this sends out to the present members of our armed forces. Because, mothers, wives, fathers and sons beware, it may take a while but this is how your fighting relations will be treated in generations to come when the government has finished with their usefulness. I feel obliged to give this subject a mention since we are soon to be in the throes of shopping mania… I came upon an expensive display of Christmas decorations and miniature luxury gifts in a swanky shop just recently. Clearly the items were intended for folk who have more money than sense because amongst the had-to-haves was a solid gold lighter, a diamond encrusted money clip, and my favourite, a solid gold pair of dice! Don't get me wrong; I never plan to purchase these things. But looking at them is always good for a laugh! Anyway, rightfully so there was a sign perched on the glass shelf that read: Please do not touch the items displayed. Now, it's not that I don't understand the need for such instruction. After all, there are a lot of us bulls in china shops out there. Or that I was offended at being treated as though I wasn't good enough to handle what the proprietor was obviously trying to sell me. But what really irked me was that if the floggers are so all fired fussy about us touching their precious valuables, then why on earth did they fix the darned price tag to the bottom of them? As well as a sign reading "Don't touch". How about another one giving us the cost of the thing so that we don't have to do juggling acts just to find out?

Anne's View With Anne deBondt Just once I would like to peruse a newspaper without coming across another article informing us that something else is to be done to the city of Ely. Just once I would like to open a local publication and not read how our fair city is being earmarked for yet more development, repairs, improvement (and I use that word loosely) or obstruction due to some out-of-town council deciding that we haven't been inconvenienced enough! I don't even bother to find out if it's a good or bad thing anymore. I just shake my head in despair at the thought of more intrusions, diversions and detours. And I'm not alone. The fact that the council can't get enough city traders to help support the Ely Christmas lights fund is a good indication of the antipathy most folk are feeling. Why should the retailers cheerfully volunteer their time and money to illuminate what is quickly becoming a ghost town? And dare I ask why, since we have such a glut of charity shops taking full advantage of special privileges and dispensations cluttering our high street, they haven't taken it upon themselves to show their compassion and kindness by stumping up the dough as a way of gratitude? Because if ever there was a cause for sympathetic concern, it's Ely! I should know better than to indulge in a little R&R. Idle time and me is just a bad combination. You see, the problem is that with nothing constructive to spend my thought processes on I begin to over analyse things. I allow my mind to wander into areas that just don't merit attention. For instance, I was reading an article in a glossy magazine the other day when I had to make myself stop before I burst into flames. It wasn't so much that the models look more like bug-eyed stick figures these days, or that they feel justified in giving beauty tips when they don't even brush their own hair, but because I was overwhelmed by the litany of names, credentials and authorisations after each person being interviewed or written about. For example, I couldn't catch the point for having to wade through the list of endorsements after the celebrity stylist's comment on what was the new black this year - I always hate it when the fashion gurus say such nonsensical bumf… "So and so is this year's such and such from last year"! How can white be the new black? How can this year's flannel be last years silk? Can't they just produce something new without dragging last year's craze into it? Anyway, why I was bothering to read the item in the first place is still a mystery but after the five word observation there was a string of the interviewee's qualifications followed by her title followed by her star sign. Then we were treated to who dressed her, who styled her hair and what she ate for breakfast. I'm all for people displaying their hard earned titles. And if you deserve a designation, then by all means, use it. But when it takes longer to read through what the person is worth on the open market, than what they are saying, their opinion kinda loses its impact. My husband is feeling quite satisfied with himself these days. He has taken upon himself to solve my coffee dilemma. Just as I signalled the waiter back to the table for a proper fill, my other half quickly poured his coffee into my cup and asked to be brought a cup of tea. That may have won the battle but there's still the war!

Anne's View With Anne deBondt I call this time of year the tweener season because it's not hot enough to be summer or cool enough to be autumn or freezing enough to be winter. And folk reflect this befuddledness by not being able to decide whether they should wear full-on snow gear and keep the beach kit handy, just in case a south wind blows or slap on the factor 25 and wear a parka. You often see lasses dressed in a winter jacket and then opened toed shoes. Or woollen, high-necked jumpers and a mini skirt so short the poor gal's naked legs are blue from exposure - oh yes, and opened toed shoes! And men are just as bad. I spied one mixed up male looking as if he were wearing everything he owned. He proudly sported a dapper pair of welly-boots, a pair of Hawaiian patterned shorts and a hooded anorak, with the hood pulled up, as he sauntered through the market square! It was the worst case of displaced seasonal dressing I've ever seen. I blame global warming entirely. But then I blame global warming for just about everything. If the fridge breaks down I find a way to cast aspersions on the fact that we all use too many aerosol sprays. And, is it me, or does anyone else feel as though we have to mow the lawns year round now? But back to my point, there has to be a manufacturer ready to take advantage of this gap in seasonal apparel. Someone has to know how to clothe people who just aren't ready to let go of the warm weather, despite the sub-zero forecast. Or the individuals who have thermostats registering autumn in June! It might interest you to know that I have continued with my 'full cup of coffee' campaign, even during my time away from the Ely Standard - even while I was in California. And again just recently while out to dinner with my other half, celebrating the fact that he and I are once again reunited and able to resume the hectic and chaotic life we have come to know and occasionally derive a little pleasure from. It seems that to be served a full cup of coffee without having to resort to stalking the waitress has become my mission in life. Well, that and the promotion of self-baking dinners, but I'll make a long story short and just cut to the chase… It might not have been so bad had the waitress explained the situation prior to plopping our cups down in front of us. But being served a fishbowl size mug with less than a trace of fluid at the bottom was more than I could tolerate, campaign or no campaign. When I drew attention to the fact that she still had more coffee to pour, the waitress explained that the kitchen had run out of small cups therefore they were putting small servings into the larger cups. Now, forget for a moment that this would be like serving my side salad on the sweet trolley because they ran out of small plates, or that, at the very least, they are obliged to pour a large coffee for the price of a small as a way of recompense, but what were they going to do when they ran out of small cups? Serve it in the palm of the customer's hand? A little bird tells me that Mr. Ken Gandy of Ely has managed to find a haven of full-cupped service; I demand him to divulge the whereabouts now and put me out of my misery!

Doing a good job Why can't we get good, courteous service in England? What is it about being a waitress or sales attendant that makes people completely forgo all semblance of common courtesy the minute you request attention? Why does a typically well-mannered young lady who chats amiably about the weather or other such simplicities without a trace of exasperation suddenly become an ill-tempered, uninterested harridan once she's pierced her frock with a nametag? Before you rush to pen your defence in light of my obvious misrepresentation, let me recount my experiences as they've actually happened… I recently spent a few days in Scotland where not once did I encounter anything but the kindest of salespeople or restaurant staff. Nothing I asked for or inquired after was too much trouble. No frosty receptions when I dared to ask a waitress to take my order. Or even the slightest air of resentment when I needed further information from a receptionist. In short, I never once felt as though I had "bothered" someone by expecting him or her to do their job. With every request I was treated to a sunny disposition - even though the temperature outside was well below zero for most of my stay. However, less than five miles over the border and back into England my party and I encountered a young man who couldn't have cared less that we hoped for a cup of coffee at the café of his employ. He couldn't even muster up a civil greeting and grunted his welcome without bothering to make eye contact. I suppose we should have been grateful he was at the door. Although, even I could have managed to seat myself at one of the many unoccupied tables without taxing my brain too much. Even designating between smoking and non-smoking wasn't necessary. I could have smoked the entire no-smoking section; such was the emptiness of the place. In just those few fleeting seconds we were given the distinct impression that something far more important occupied his mind - like what to pierce, tattoo or mutilate on his body next. He'd already poked enough holes in his face with an assortment of posts, studs and chains to make drinking fluids an impossibility! And I tried not to stare but the tattoos creeping out from behind collar and cuffs were intriguing, to say the least. All I could think of was that his parents must make him wear a body suit and a balaclava for the family photos. Why the stark contrast between England and the rest of the t world? Why have I had to practically bully a salesgirl into investigating whether or not they have more stock in the back room when surely that's her job? Why has an attendant actually gotten stroppy with me only because I politely asked for a receipt after the transaction? How difficult can it be to detach the already perforated paper from the till? What was he going to do with it, make a paper-mache car? And the time I unforgivably submitted a deposit slip at the bank without filling in the amount properly still gives me chills. I mean, the form looked fine to me. My account number was printed legibly, my name was spelt correctly and the amount I wished to line their vaults with was already written in twice. So what more information could they need? But when upon examination of my innocently handed over counterfoil the teller's face turned a funny shade of granite, I knew I had committed a finance faux pas. It seems, and I'm embarrassed to admit this, that I had inadvertently omitted to enter the amount of my deposit for a fifth time! Imagine my shame. But why does the amount need to be duplicated so many times on such a small form anyway? It's not as if there are pages and pages of data and therefore you could forget from start to finish. Anyway, much to my relief, the Hun behind the glass entered the correct information without reporting me to the counter-foil patrol. And then pounded down her official stamp so hard that I bet you can still see the indentation it left on her counter to this day…Honestly, you'd have thought I showed up at the window and asked her to comb my hair! What's up with everybody? Don't the public serving concerns of England know that in order to do good business you need to provide good service? Is it so difficult to figure out that if people wanted to be treated badly, ignored or ridiculed they'd have stayed at home? Entertaining With Food Can there be anything more humiliating than having to order food or drink in a public place that has been given a silly or sexually suggestive name? I have this notion that the managers and staff are hiding somewhere in the background, splitting their sides at the stupidity of a grown woman being forced to ask her cocktail waiter, "Can I have a Long Tall Screw? Or do I want the Titty Kitty? Oh, I didn't see that you had Orgasms here, what's in that?" Honestly, the immaturity of some people. And ordering food is no better. You'd think you were at a kiddie's party instead of a respectable restaurant with some of the fare. I mean, I'm sure there's someone, somewhere who's entertained by a well-dressed adult ordering a Bonzo beefsteak. "What would you like with that sir?" "I'll have the flippy chippies instead of the spud buster baked potato and a big-gulp soda!" But I'm most definitely not. It's downright degrading. And it doesn't stop with the drinks, entrées or main courses either. There's the dessert menu to get through, just to top things off. Most of these items have also been re-titled so that some poor fat lady becomes the staff's Christmas party show-stopper when she's on film asking, "May I have the double deluxe chock-full choco mountain with whipped cream… oh yes, and sprinkles, please?" I fight back, if I see something on the menu that I want but the common term has been changed to humiliate the customer when they order it, I simply ask the waiter or waitress to pronounce it for me as if I don't get it. Then I choose something else. Two can play at their game!

An odd name Warning: Anyone sensitive about the spelling of his or her name should not read this week's article. The following correspondence will definitely cause you offence. What's with women deliberately miss-spelling their names trying to sound exotic? I'm talking about the Sharrons and Kandees or Cathees and Leesas. Not to mention the Brandees, Shrees and Aamees of the world. The vogue for dubbing an offspring with a soap opera personality's name just because "Dynasty" happened to be more popular than God was bad enough - I can no longer count the Brooks, Fallon's, Alexis or Crystals I have come upon in the last decade. But why on earth would anyone want to intentionally complicate their lives with extra, unneeded vowels in their name? I recently took part in a television program, and while at the studios I met a Loree and a female Sydnee all in one afternoon. I had an overwhelming urge to ask Sydnee if she had a sister named Brucee, but she was the make-up assistant, I didn't want her making me look like Quasi Motto. Now, either their mothers had an uncanny ability to see into the future and choose a name that ensured their little wonder stood out in a crowd or they're stuttering morons! I'm being slightly unfair because men are at it too. Although, there are not as many Rocks, Ridges or Storms (I actually know a man who goes by the name of Storm!) as there are female absurdities. And what's up with men choosing names that sound like mountainsides, anyway? It's gotta be "size" related. I suspect the trend comes from a decline in values. People no longer want to make a name for themselves based on their conduct, principles or decency. Now it seems they'd rather invent one to get attention. But when was that last time you consulted a Lawyer called Brick or a Doctor called Tiffany? I think far from giving yourself a head start, being saddled with a quirky moniker guarantees a future as a lap dancer or male strip-o-gram. You're more likely to see a ShawnaLee shimmying up and down a pole to the beat of rock music, clad in less material than a hair ribbon, than you are a Ruth or a Clare. I mean, doesn't the name Brandee just scream boob job? Similarly, you just couldn't have faith in a priest called Father Mustang. (Actually, my lack of faith in priests has nothing to do with their names ... When I was twelve I asked one to bless my dead hamster so that it could rot off to rodent heaven. Can you just imagine my horror when I was told that I should have had the stupid thing baptised first then blessed before it died? I crammed it in a shoe box and threw it out with the garbage… Well, if it had no soul… I know I've digressed again.) Anyway, as for parents about to give birth, if you're even considering giving your young'un a name that looks as though you tossed alphabet cards into the air and chose from how they landed on the floor, think again…let me share a story with you… One poor girl in my son's class was practically suicidal each time a new teacher read the roll call. Unfortunately her intoxicated parents thought it would be unique to choose the spelling K'Leigh (pronounced Kay-lee) as a way of accentuating the amazement that was their little girl. Far from making her an icon of the twentieth century, the little lass was often called Klay! You know, as in putty, play dough, Gumby, for Christ sake! In the end she legally changed her name to Doris- as in, Day, as in, TRY TO SCREW WITH THAT! I refuse to be part of such non-sense. My one encounter with a woman and her concocted name ended in tears…for her. I pretended not to understand…five times! . By the sixth attempt to explain it to me she realised I was making fun of her. Ya think?! What a Moron. Or should that be M'oronn?

Anne's View With Anne deBondt Surely I heard wrong! Clearly there has been some mistake. Because it just can't be true that a certain resident has been ordered to remove deterring barbed wire from her house front as it is a danger to would-be thieves. If it were a threat to birds, squirrels, window cleaners or low flying aircraft I could understand the thought process. But thieves? And as if that wasn't bad enough, another householder was commanded to remove burglarproof paint from an exterior drainpipe lest a baddy might slip and suffer a boo-boo whilst attempting to steal from her. This is all hot on the heels of another incident where a fleeing criminal was only narrowly unsuccessful at his attempt to sue the police chasing him because they knew him to jump from windows while running away, therefore shouldn't have pursued him, fully aware he might endanger his delicate frame with a hard landing. Whatever next, help-lines for villains? Dare I even joke…a support group for criminals to help them cope with negative public opinion. Or, for a real kick in the teeth to victims, how about a holiday outing somewhere sunny and warm to help deal with the occupational hazard of nervous tension caused by all that subterfuge. It makes you want to pull the duvet up over your head and cry. There's something a tad hypocritical about the British woman selling her babies to a more "user friendly" couple than the originally approved American pair… If she's so all-fired concerned for the welfare of her unborn sprogs, why's she selling them in the first place? All the slagging off accorded to the economical first pair of baby-buyers is two-faced. In my book it's just as bad to sell babies as though they were kittens as it is to want the cat to trim down the litter! In between watching my morning programmes I caught a television commercial advertising a website for men having trouble finding a prezzy for the missus. It's called either, gethersomething.com, or buyhersoemthing.com; I don't recall the exact address. But the gist of it was that they (men) don't have to struggle with what to get her indoors. All they have to do is tap in the particulars (I presume this means body measurements - that ought to be interesting. The last time I confessed my true size to the hubby I was pre-children and he was post-interest) and choose from the pretty pictures on the monitor screen. And please, no mention about touch screen choices, we don't want to go there! Wasn't it bad enough when they got another female member of the family to pick something out for you? Just how many pair of slipper socks should a woman have to fake gratitude for in one lifetime? And wasn't it only just bearable that you knew the bunch of posies was purchased because some cutie in a mini skirt was the saleslady, not because your groom wanted to say it with flowers? And haven't you already forgiven him enough for buying a box of chocolates, knowing full well that you are on your umpteenth diet since bearing his children, and he still presents you with a box large enough to feed the five thousand - and curiously didn't mind telling you that Woolworth's had them on sale? But now we long suffering wives will be forced to put up with the indignities of having a Lara Croft screen image choosing our smalls! Oh the despair of it all…

Anne's View With Anne deBondt Call me sensitive, but I'm starting to think that we consumers don't matter anymore. It's beginning to feel as though large food manufacturing corporations are a little more concerned about making a profit than they are supplying a good quality, wholesome product. Because In the last week it has been difficult to avoid reading articles and watching news reports about how our previously believed safe foodstuff is full of more stuff than food! I'm finding it even more difficult to believe meat manufacturers don't know better than to include the yucky bits when preparing our meat joints? Isn't it as plain as the nose on your face that "unsuitable for human consumption" stamped on carcasses means don't feed this pigswill to humans? Or pigs, for that matter! And yet, there it is, our Sunday best all wrapped in cling film doing a fine imitation of nutritious family fare. We haven't even fully recovered from the foot and mouth fiasco and here we are being treated to yet more horror stories about BSE and its re emergence in our food chains... from as long ago as twenty years, no less. I'm not sure who is to blame for feeding us ill-making grub - and obviously neither is the government - or whether our food has ever been safe. But similar to our PM and his attitude towards holiday destinations… praise the British countryside and then high tail it elsewhere for a little R&R…. I'd bet dollars to doughnuts that the makers of these contaminated, unacceptable, substandard bits and pieces sell their wares and eat elsewhere! According to the latest poll, 70% of today's females are dissatisfied with some aspect of their appearance and would surgically alter things if they could. So, women don't like the shape their in, huh… In fact, some even go so far as to consider their lives ruined by such deep dissatisfaction. This bombshell was announced as though it were a medical breakthrough. As though the discovery will be greeted with sighs of relief nationwide now that we know what was causing all the trouble. But conflictingly, I'm proud to say, the finding doesn't to apply to East Anglia women. An equally reputable study found that lasses in this area are more inclined to wish for the brains of Einstein than the body of Geri Halliwell. To be fair, I'd rather have the appearance of Rupert the Bear than Ms. Halliwell, she looks like a blonde Q-tip, but that's beside the point. So what does all this analysis mumbo-jumbo reveal? What can we glean from a survey that answers the incessant question? That some women are too fussy? Most gals have a complex at some time in their lives? Fake body parts make you a more genuine individual? Or is it as I suspect, not all women have the time to gaze incessantly at their reflection in the mirror. Some of us actually have a life. They're still at it...! In spite of everything I've written before, it's still happening. From top-notch eateries in Cambridge to small tearooms in Ely, I am still only getting served a half-cup of coffee, no matter how hard I crusade for the correct amount. Except that is, the one place in the entire world that actually gets it right 100% of the time. Each visit I make I am rewarded with a full to the brim cup of coffee - without even having to ask. And that's at the Waterside Tearooms in Ely. Not half. Not almost. But FULL! Little pleasures can make all the difference.

Is it me or has the world gone mad? No less than three national newspapers carried the story about the Big Brother pair who has occupied the house for the past year (or does it just seem that long) claims they haven't slept together! One paper even boasted an "exclusive" denial stating for the record that the couple haven't "taken their relationship to that level." Well, all I can say is, it's a load off my mind. I was quite worried that the two might just go and do something silly! But since it's official… Really! Who the hell cares if these two nonentities have partaken of carnal knowledge? What possible national interest is there in knowing whether or not they've done something even more unimportant and insignificant than appear on some voyeuristic television show? Surely there has to be something of more newsworthy concern to occupy the press than this twaddle. Even reading about Mrs. Smith's cat getting stuck in the tumble dryer -hereafter known as fluffy - would make more compelling reading. Mothers everywhere are about to be put through an ordeal even crueler than the 'candy at the counter battle'! Brace yourselves, batten down the hatches and reinforce the teatime artillery mums, because coming soon to a store near you is the purple ketchup campaign. Yes, you will shortly be forced to glob purple gloop on your child's meal or be prepared to suffer the consequences when a certain ketchup company add the hopefully enticing colour to the kiddies favourite! Perhaps I missed the last garish offering released by the same firm a few years back because I don't ever recall seeing green ketchup on the shelves - thank goodness! I'm pretty sure I would have had grave concerns about pouring slow running green paste onto anything my children were eating. Goodness only knows what else they would have shoved into their mouths had I opened up such a can of worms. We should have known that blue M&M's were only the beginning. I'm convinced that in generations to come future studies will be pointing their accusing fingers at this interference as the downfall of social mortality. It's always the way. My parents still haven't recovered from the finding that there was actually a link between sugary cereals and hyperactivity. What they wouldn't give to go back and undo the damage. Not to us, to their sanity. Can you imagine five young children bouncing off the walls 20 minutes after breakfast? This is probably the only time I'll say this, but… Gee, I'm glad I'm forty something, married and soon to be mid-life! I just read that if you're a young first-time bride with a shred of dignity, you need to get your hands on two wedding dresses for the special occasion! Yikes! Finding one that looked all dreamy and meringue-like - not to mention, didn't cost more than the loft extension - was bad enough. But it now seems that a gal must be prepared to change her get-up for the evening event and waft about the dance floor in an equally out-of-this-world second frock. Or she's demoted to a rank worse than commoner. She's young, but if I start now, I think I can talk my daughter into a bohemian, barefoot on the beach affair. Two sarongs shouldn't break the bank. I'll even throw in a tulip for her hair if she's up for it!

Women are increasingly more in debt than ever before. In particular,credit card debt. The situation is so dire that it has even been given thelabel the Madame Bovery Syndrome (because the character verspent andultimately met her downfall as a result). Well at least it’s a pretty name forsuch a dismal state of affairs, beforehand folk were just referred to asinsolvent! Evidently it’s all come about because women of today have greater aspirations than our ancestors. And are no longer satisfied with just a sturdy rolling pin or a fine feather duster. We feel entitled, nay, compelled, to fulfil our forward-looking desires, not just tend the brood and surviveanother day with dishpan hands and housemaids knee to show for our troubles. Inshort, we want things and we’re gonna have em’! Far from being discouraged by the newsflash, I’m rejoicing. I’m even seriously considering introducing the letters MBS after my name each time I sign it just to acknowledge my hard earned accreditations. I’ve waited my entire adult life to find my niche. I’m not hanging my head in shame now –especially since I’m no longer alone! One thing struck me when reading about the new infrared height detectorsoon to be installed on our oft-struck Ely Railway Bridge… Since numerous drivers have failed to notice the yellow andblack warning stripes plastered all over the approach, several signs –beginning practically at the previous junction, constant media coverage of all the other distracted motorists who’ve taken a chunk out of the structure andlast but not least, the vast span itself, what makes the Cambridge CountyCouncil think a blinking red light’s going to make all that much difference? Surely the smartest proposal was the one from a Fraser Gilbert of Little Downham when he suggested a goal-post type structure with chains hanging from it should be placed so many yards from the bridge. That way if a vehicle should exceed the height restriction an almighty racket would becreated when the chains came into contact with the roof, thus stopping the driver from continuing on until he or she (and let’s be honest, it’s almos always he) became wedged under the bridge. And more importantly, the cost of such damage would belimited to the owner of the vehicle! But according to Mr. David Brace of Cambridgeshire CountyCouncil, this solution would be too dangerous for pedestrians and passing motorist should the beams break. Yeah, and a concrete railway bridge falling on one’s head wouldn’t? I wondered what my other half would do for entertainment when Mr. Ken Gandy of Ely retired. And I was pleased when he found another hangout in the way of Amberlea Country Kennels of Sutton. I mean, the poor guy’s got to go somewhere to chat about the annoying things his dog does – God knows I don’t want to know. The last time Iwas asked to pick up flea powder for the mutt, we argued for a week. Next he’ll be asking me to walk the thing. But it seems that during one of the visits the owners of theabove-mentioned kennels (who frequent this article) mentioned that they thoughtit might be amusing for my husband to write an column about me for a change, you know, have his say for once. So as delighted as I am for him to have found another haunt, I’ve had to establish some ground rules. He and I now have an understanding; he can write my article when I shampoo his dog!