And then I had a Big Birthday, and did some running myself. Specifically, I ran smack into the wall of Middle Aged Spread. Not headfirst, obviously, because I was cushioned by a protruding layer of abdominal fat that enabled me comfortably to avoid a broken nose. But still. I couldn’t walk up the two flights of steep Victorian stairs to work any more without needing a lie down and a punkawallah when I got to the top. I told myself I would definitely need to get around to addressing my woeful lack of fitness, just as soon as I finished this birthday cake.

At the same time, Mr SB, being of a similarly indolent disposition and with the same fondness for carbohydrates, was becoming increasingly troubled by aching joints and a spreading waistline. We had a lot of conversations that went like this:

“We really should do some exercise.”
“Yep.”
“And go on a diet.”
“Yep.”
“We’d feel a lot better for it.”
“U-huh.”
“Yes. We should do that, then.”
“Do you want some more wine?”

And then we carried on watching the TV.

But one day a couple of months ago, Mr SB took the plunge, and went swimming. Swimming, let’s be honest, was the absolute last thing on my mental list of ‘Things I Could Do To Be Fitter And Smaller’. I come from a family of non-swimmers. When I was a kid, my family’s liking for swimming as a leisure activity was on a par with its liking for do-it-yourself appendectomies and getting arrested. Which is to say, for clarity’s sake, that we never did it. Granted, I had some lessons, but only to the point where I could just about manage a doggy-paddle without armbands. From the age of seven to the age of never-you-mind, I developed a phobia of any body of water deeper than I am tall. My deficiencies in the vertical growth department meant that this effectively excluded me from anything deeper than a medium-sized puddle.

However.

When Mr SB returned, triumphant, from his first visit to the pool, he announced that it Did Not Have A Deep End. Furthermore, it had Two Jacuzzis. I was forced to look up, startled, from my bag of doughnuts, and to consider the possibility that maybe I should give it a try after all. So, the next time, I went with him. And I put a swimsuit on. And I got in the water.

And I instantly became one of those women. You know the ones. The ones who only get wet from their shoulders down, and swim around in pairs at the speed of evolution, holding their heads up like periscopes and getting in everyone’s way. And I hated it. Not because I was scared – after all, I could put my feet on the bottom wherever I was! – but because it caused me actual, physical pain. My neck felt like someone was tenderising it.

Now, you may not know this about me, but some people say I’m stubborn, and this, I have to concede, was a case in point. I decided that, rather than give up the swimming, I would have to get better at it. (If there’s one thing I absolutely hate, it’s that feeling of not being able to do something as well as somebody else can*.) So I bought some goggles, and persevered. It may not seem like much of an achievement, but I am now swimming with my face properly under the water, and not feeling like quite such a hindrance to everyone else. The last time I went, I swam a quarter of a mile. Esther Williams I ain’t, but it’s genuinely nice to feel that I’ve conquered a fear.

Now, about these spiders…

*I gave up writing this blog for a year. You may draw your own conclusions.

This morning, it published an article in which it appeared genuinely appalled that talented, beautiful, Oscar-winning actor Kate Winslet had been seen at a premiere with ‘unsightly peach fuzz’ on her face.

Now, at this point, I was going to insert some quotes from the article, the general tone of which suggested that Ms. Winslet had turned up with, at the very least, a full Dick Strawbridge moustache with matching sideburns. However, when I came to insert a link to the unutterable vileness, I discovered that the article was completely different from the one I’d read with such annoyance at 6 this morning. Gone were the half-remembered references to ‘letting herself down’ and ‘perhaps if she’d put her makeup on more carefully’, to be replaced with a much more flattering piece about how lovely her dress was. I began to wonder if I’d imagined the whole thing.

Thankfully for the sake of my sanity, though, a helpful blogger has posted the original here - every last horrid, grubby word of it. And by way of comparison, for those of you who don’t mind giving the Mail the satisfaction of a click, here’s the updated article.

So the Mail has clearly thought better of its snide little bitching session, but the fact remains that, at some point, someone on its staff thought that the presence of a little bit of downy skin on an actress made for a good news story. It may have escaped the Mail’s attention, but we have just effectively declared war on one of the most dangerous men on the planet, there has been a devastating natural disaster in the world’s third largest economy, and there is a Budget tomorrow. How, then, is the slightest of slight cosmetic faux pas on the part of a celebrity a good use of column inches in any way?

And who cares, anyway? Personally, I find it quite comforting that impossibly glamorous A-listers really aren’t as perfect as they appear; that Julia Roberts sometimes forgets to shave her armpits (which, for the information of any boys reading, is The Most Pointless And Annoying Girly Ablution In The World – have you ever stopped to consider how difficult it is to see properly under your own armpit, or who first decided it was necessary anyway?), that Kate Moss has cellulite, and that La Winslet has better things to do than to wax her face every day lest anyone spot that she is a Real Person With Real Skin. So if newspapers insist on publishing this kind of story, I’d rather they did it with a reassuring, ‘see – famous people are just like you and me, and we still love them because they’re talented and human’ than with a sneering, smirking unpleasantness and a pointing, inky finger.

But the reporters are probably all too busy waxing their own faces and scrubbing their elbows with a pan scourer to think about it as deeply as that. Because I’m sure that every tabloid journalist always makes a very special effort to look perfect in public… aren’t you?

It’s worse than any of that. Because, you see, what we have done is this:

We have bought tickets for A Festival.

I don’t know whether it was the Big Birthday last year that did it – probably not, because that would make it an Impending Midlife Crisis, which this definitely isn’t, obviously - or what, but I decided a while ago that I really, really want to go to a festival properly before I actually do turn into my mother. At the moment, I can just about still cling to the belief that I, too, can be one of those girls who manage to look glamorous in the mud even though they haven’t had a wash for three days and they’re wearing wellies; but if I leave it much longer, then I will officially be middle-aged and that, I fear, will be that. I will have to invest in tartan slippers and Damart, and you can’t get away with wearing those at a festival unless you’re Kate Moss.

So I persuaded Mr SB that we should go to Latitude (on the grounds that it didn’t seem quite so intimidating or as far away as Glastonbury, and that half of Twitter went last year and seemed to enjoy it). From what I had read, it seemed like it would be a suitably gentle introduction. There would even be ballet, for heaven’s sake.

And then, last night, they announced the line-up, and I suddenly felt quite old. I have heard of hardly any of the bands (do the young people still call them ’bands’, or have I already made a dreadful error that instantly picks me out as an Unbeliever?), and, with a couple of exceptions, the ones I have heard of are throwbacks to my youth*. So I had to spend the evening typing improbable phrases like ‘Esben And The Witch’ into Amazon, and trying to judge how many of the bands I might be able to listen to without saying, “What’s that appalling racket?” and complaining that I couldn’t hear the words properly.  

And actually, most of them were a pleasant surprise, and I think that, with a few judicious album purchases, I could be rescued from the brink of terminal Radio 4 listenership, and could come to feel that I have as much right to be at Latitude as all those young people at the front who know all the words. Of course, the reality is that I am emphatically not going to be one of those glamorous girls you see on the telly; I am going to be the fat, greasy-headed, middle-aged woman standing at the back moaning that she can’t see, and that the wellies are pinching her calves and making her feet hurt. But at least I might enjoy the music, and even if I don’t, there’s always the ballet.

*I spent a good five minutes bellowing ‘Enola Gay’ across the living room in an attempt to explain OMD to Mr SB, who is just too young to remember them. I’m pleased to say that my rendition, whilst not extraordinary, was sufficiently torturous to make him confess that he had, in fact, heard of them, after all.

Back in 2005, it was still a bit embarrassing to admit that we’d found each other at the online equivalent of a livestock auction; but six years later, internet dating seems to attract far fewer raised eyebrows. Regular TV adverts promise a money-back guarantee to idealistic singletons who fail to find Mr or Miss Perfection in six months*, which seems ludicrous; but if the matches are based on compatibility questionnaires and photographs considered rationally in the cold light of day, rather than irrationally in the hot, sweaty light of a nightclub after eight Flaming Sambuccas, then why shouldn’t it work?

I’ll tell you why not: because questionnaires don’t ask the right questions. A typical dating profile will include information about your prospective partner’s taste in music, their occupation, their hobbies, their religious beliefs, their political opinions. None of that matters. Not many couples split up because one of them likes Stravinsky and the other likes ZZ Top, or because one goes flower arranging on a Tuesday night while the other prefers snowboarding at the local dry ski slope. In fact, differences like these can be a good thing.  Who wants to live with someone who brings them no new horizons to explore?

He might look lovely, but do you really want a man who makes you sit on the floor?

What actually matters is not similarities between arbitrary hobbies and interests, but similarities between non-arbitrary, immutable aspects of each other’s behaviour. And so what the compatibility questionnaires should really be asking is:

1. You see a pair of dirty socks on the living room floor. Do you: a) sigh, curse under your breath, pick them up and put them in the laundry basket; b) roll them into a ball, spend ten minutes playing basketball with them, then accidentally leave them in the yucca pot when the phone rings; or c) what socks?

2. You are preparing for a romantic night out with your partner. Would you prefer to: a) go to a smart restaurant with creative, adventurous food and an extensive wine list; b) see something challenging, yet ultimately uplifiting, at the theatre, then have a few drinks at the champagne bar next door; or c) spend an hour and a half rummaging through your wardrobe for an outfit that doesn’t make you look like a premenstrual hippo, then burst into tears, put your dressing gown on, and demand that your partner orders a Chinese?

3. You are booking a holiday.  Is it most likely to be: a) a relaxing all-inclusive break on a tropical island; b) backpacking in the Himalayas; or c) a three week caravanning tour of The Historic Churches Of Northamptonshire?

4. You need to find your driving licence. Which of the following is most likely to describe the search: a) no problem - it’s in the fireproof safe under the stairs, the key’s at the left hand side of the third drawer down in the sideboard, under the Travel Scrabble; b) it might take a few minutes - I had it the other week when I collected that parcel, so it’s probably still in my handbag, or I might have put it back in the box on top of the wardrobe; or c) fuuuckitmustbeheresomewhere?

5. You are grocery shopping with your partner. Are you most likely to: a) take a list printed off from your computer – after all, you buy pretty much the same stuff every week, so it’s easier just to tick the things you need than writing it down every time; b) buy food for the week according to what’s on special offer when you arrive, with a few little treats for the weekend; or c) take the trolley and wander off to look at the electrical items while your partner carries armfuls of toilet rolls and economy carrots round the freezer section like a bewildered, irritable Sherpa?

6. Is your perfect partner: a) a true soulmate - someone who shares my dreams, ideals, and love of nineteenth-century Ukranian poetry; b) someone with the face of George Clooney, the body of Rafael Nadal and the mind of Stephen Fry; or c) someone who doesn’t smell like too much a dead badger and who might be willing to put the bins out sometimes?

See, all you really need is a little honesty.

(*for the record, it took me three years, and Mr SB one week. It’s just possible that one of us is much pickier than the other.)

In fact, I’m pretty much a slob on the surface too.

In fact, let’s just say that if you cut me into slices, there’s a good chance you’d find the word ‘slob’ written in greasy letters all the way through, possibly in Comic Sans.

I used to think that one day I’d become a proper grownup, with an appropriate respect for housework, tidiness and the importance of a Regular Routine. In fact, at the start of my – eep – fifth decade, I’m beginning to accept that this isn’t going to happen. My bathroom is almost permanently filthy (why don’t they make more grey bathroom suites?). My bedroom floor is usually covered in a layer of clothes and shoes that would keep Time Team happy for months. The kitchen… well, let’s not go there. No, I mean, let’s actually not go there. Let’s get a takeaway.

I am more Bridget than Indiana

Recently, I have taken to blaming the internet in general, and social networking sites in particular, for this; not only because they provide a distraction limited only by the need to sleep sometimes, but also because they quite often say, “Look, we’re all still in our pyjamas too!” – by definition, the people who actually achieve stuff at the weekend probably aren’t spending hours on end arsing about on Twitter thinking of song titles with biscuits in them. So we all provide validation for each other. For instance, one of my favourite tweeters said this the other day and, as a true word spoken in jest, it proved pretty popular. There are clearly many of us out there who feel the same.

But it’s not just that. I’m not sure when it happened, but wearing pyjamas actually seems to have become a Lifestyle Choice. Google ‘loungewear’ and you’ll get over 11 million hits, most of them for sites hoping to sell you pyjamas, not to sleep in, but to Wear During The Day Instead Of Proper Clothes. It has become socially acceptable to go to the shops in them, although the shops themselves might disagree. Seriously – whose life is so busy and stressful that they haven’t got time to put actual clothes on before they hit the supermarket?

What I’d like is if, just occasionally, someone on Twitter would organise an Hour Of Productivity: where we all stop saying how great it is that we’re still in bed at lunchtime, and say instead, “Right. We’re all going to put Twitter down and do something useful until 2 o’clock. Then we’ll meet back here for coffee, biscuits and #animalfilms”. We could call it ‘social houseworking’. And we definitely wouldn’t do it in our pyjamas.

£133,000. Assuming that a woman lives for 80 years, and probably buys very few haircuts or beauty products before the age of ten or after the age of 70 (unless she’s Jane Fonda, which she probably isn’t), that’s an average of over £2200 per year. Every year.

The UK beauty industry is worth £4bn per year. It has a vested interest in making us believe that ten percent of our average income is an appropriate amount of money to spend in pursuit of plump, youthful skin, glossy tossy hair, and immaculate shiny fingernails that shriek, “Look at me! I’ve never had to clean a toilet or sew a button on in my life!”

And so it is that the beauty industry uses ever-more-ridiculous claims to drag us into Boots by our gullible, shiny heads to part with more of our hard-earned cash.

My current favourite is L’Oreal’s Youth Code skincare range, which it says is backed by something called ‘Gene Science’. Just so we’re clear, that’s like calling geology ‘stone science’. Patronising, much? Anyway, a press release claims that smearing this stuff on your skin has been shown to ‘energise the repair gene expression’, a phrase which no molecular geneticist would recognise as English. Youth Code also contains ‘Adenosine, a molecule that is naturally found in skin cells’ DNA, [and] acts as an anti-wrinkle ingredient’ – and which, in terms of reversing the ageing process, is probably about as effective as repointing a brick wall by throwing sand at it.

Hot on the heels of L’Oreal’s ludicrous pseudo-molecular biology comes Olay with AquaPhysics which, it assures us, is ‘Inspired By The Power Of The Ocean’. That’s, presumably, the same powerful ocean that sank the Titanic and busted the Deepwater Horizon, although I imagine we’re intended to think not of oil slicks and icebergs, but of waves crashing majestically on deserted beaches and the fresh salt spray on our face. Quite what any of that has to do with face cream isn’t clear, unless it actually is meant to be the oil slick reference.

What’s most depressing of all, of course, is the fact that women everywhere fall for this crap, because we want to believe in it. Call it ‘snake oil’ and nobody will buy it. Call it ‘rehydrating Plumpitex biospheres with added hexapeptidols’ and we’ll pay fifty quid for a thimbleful. Even my own bathroom cabinet is not completely empty of expensive elixirs. But, girls, we all need to be clear about this: the only actual science being used in any of these products is psychology. That’s ‘brain science’ to you and me.

Over the past few days, we’ve been subjected to regular news stories about bankers earning huge, fat bonuses, despite the fact that hardly any of us can see what they might have done to earn such enormous sums, and despite the fact that, in the last couple of years, our taxes have kept them in business. Most public sector workers wouldn’t know a bonus if it was brought to us in a spangly pink wheelie bin with a mariachi band and ticker tape accompaniment.

To take our minds off the bankers’ fat paycheques, some of us have been watching a Channel Four series which invites us to poke fun at the lives of the British traveller community. Every week, you and I, the middle classes, have gathered on Twitter to mock the gypsies with their awful LED-infested puffball wedding dresses, curious moral code, and – most of all – their ability to spend seemingly endless amounts of money whilst apparently doing very little to earn it.

Bankers and gypsies, then. Not so very different, really, and this brings me to my theory:

If most of us are honest with ourselves, the main reason we object to the bankers and the gypsies is that we are, fundamentally, jealous of them.

For many of us, the ultimate ideal is to be able to live a lifestyle which has us beholden to no-one, yet able to afford to travel the world, live in our dream home, drive a fancy car, keep racehorses, or whatever else floats our superyacht. For all but a very few of us, this dream will never be achievable. Any of us lucky enough to win, say, the couple of million on the lottery that would mean we could tell the boss where to shove it, would have done nothing to earn the money. We would be, essentially, no different than the bankers and the gypsies. And yet, with one or two notable exceptions, nobody begrudges a lottery winner his or her good fortune. Most people cling to the hope that, one day, it will be their turn, and that when it comes, it will simply be a stroke of good luck. It remains, theoretically at least, within their grasp for as long as they keep buying tickets.

So, when we complain about the bankers’ champagne lifestyles or the gypsies’ expensive cars, is it just possible that we are jealous – not of their wealth, but of the fact that we feel obliged to earn, to justify, to deserve what we have, while they are able simply to accept it as their entitlement?

I told you you wouldn’t like it.

Ah, yes… parking. To tell you the truth, I never was terribly good at it. It’s only recently that I’ve mastered the art of reversing into a space, and as for parallel parking, forget it. I like to blame my lack of height for restricting my view out of the car, but really it’s just incompetence.

I proved this point a couple of days ago when, arriving at work, I aimed at my usual parking space, missed, and slammed the offside front tyre into the corner of a kerb. It occurred to me fleetingly that I might have damaged the tyre, but I’ve always got away with crashing into kerbs before, so assumed that this time would be no different and wandered off to work.

Ten hours later, when I returned to the car, the tyre was, of course, as flat as a pancake that’s been unexpectedly lying on the wicket at Lord’s when the heavy roller was being applied. Ardent feminists may wish to look away now for, despite all that Modern Woman guff at the beginning, I have Absolutely No Idea How To Change A Tyre.

Our heroine looks in vain for the spare wheel

After the initial internal dialogue in which I persuaded myself that no, it was not going to be ok to drive the ten miles home even if I took it really slowly, my first thought was to send a panicky, uninformative text message to Mr SB. Quite how he was supposed to react to “I’VE GOT A FLAT TYRE” from fifteen miles away without even knowing where I was, I’m not sure, but I sent it anyway. My next instinct, to my shame and the despair of bra-burners everywhere, was to Find A Man.  A quick tour of my department revealed that all the men had gone into hiding, possibly alerted by the strange swirling draught from my fluttering eyelashes as I walked up the stairs.

Fortunately, my department also contains at least two women who are less feeble than I when it comes to cars, and one of them agreed to give it a go. With the help of a passing clergyman and a spectacularly kind taxi driver, we (I use ‘we’ here even though my sole contribution was to flick through the car’s manual while offering no actual help whatsoever) managed to change the wheel and I finally set off home, feeling like a Complete Girl.

As a postscript, just to destroy the last remaining shreds of my feminist credentials, I then sent Mr SB to get the tyre replaced. He informed me that the mechanic’s reaction had been, “Hmph. Typical woman.” And, in this case, I have to confess that he was right.

VB: Hello, and welcome to this very special edition of Money Box Live. We’ll be taking your questions on a wide range of financial matters, so whether it’s Capital Gains Tax, overseas investments, or saving for your kids’ school fees, please give us a call. Here to help me is Tarquin Farquhar-Urquhart of City investment firm Swindells, Cheetham, Steel and Osborne.

TF-U: Hello, Vincent. It’s a pleasure to be here, I must say the North is much bigger than I’d imagined.

VB: Yes, and it’s lovely to see all the children wearing shoes. Anyway, without further ado, let’s go to the phones. Our first caller is Frank, and he wants to ask a question about investments. Hello, Frank.

Frank: Yes, hello. I want ter ask a question about investments.

VB: Yes, Frank, and what’s the question?

Frank: Yes. Erm. Well, it’s a bit complicated really. I were cleaning up after Arthur, that’s our lass’s dog, the other day, and I found an old-fashioned ten pound note down back of t’sofa. So I were wondering, like, is it still legal?

TF-U: Well, Frank, the bad news is that you won’t be able to spend it in a shop, but the rather better news is that the Bank of England, that’s down in London, will exchange it for a legal note for you if you take it to them. It should only cost you seventy or eighty pounds on the train. Did you want to ask something else?

Frank: Yes, well, see, thing is, I were wondering where to invest it to get best return?

TF-U: Well, there is a wide range of very good investment products on the market, but I’d recommend that you talk to a good financial adviser who can point you towards the best solution for your specific circumstances. There’d be a fee, of course, but it shouldn’t be more than about three hundred poun…

Frank: No, no, what I meant were: which is best? Horses or greyhounds?

TF-U: Well, to be honest with you, Frank, I don’t think the sort of sums you’re talking about would really be able to buy you any decent breeding stock…

VB: Actually, Tarquin, I think if it’s ok with Frank, we’ll leave that call there and move on to our next question. This one comes from Claire, and she’d like to know about student loans, isn’t that right Claire?

Claire: Yes, hi, I’m doing A levels this year? And I’ve heard all this stuff about student loans, and having to pay thousands of pounds, and I’m not sure I can get that kind of money, I mean I’ve got a part-time job in Starbucks, and my friend Melissa works in TK Maxx when she isn’t looking after her little brother, but…

VB: Sorry to interrupt you, Claire, but time’s pressing, so what is it that you want to ask?

Claire: Well, I’m just wondering, where’s the best place to get the loan from? Should I try to get a credit card or would it be better to go for one of those places that advertise on the telly?

TF-U: Hahaha, no, Claire. I don’t think you quite understand. You see, what happens is, the Government will pay your fees and then you’ll have to pay them back once you start working and earning a salary. In actual fact, you’re in quite a lucky position because you live in the North. That means that you’re likely to be earning, on average, 18% less than your less fortunate contemporaries in London, and so of course you won’t have to pay the loan back so quickly.

VB: Doesn’t that mean, though, that she’ll be paying more back in interest?

TF-U: Well, theoretically, yes, but I think what’s important to remember is that here in the North, it’s much less likely that she’ll actually get a job and so she won’t have to pay anything back at all, hahaha.

VB: Claire, I hope that answers your question. Next on the line, we’ve got Minnie. Are you there, Minnie?

Minnie: Hello?

VB: Hello, Minnie, can you hear me? You’re through to Money Box Live. What’s your question?

Minnie: Who’s that? Is that you, Vera? Why’s your voice all deep? Have you forgotten your tablets again?

VB: Oh dear, we seem to have a slight technical hitch there, so let’s move on to our next caller, who is… Jim. What’s your question for Tarquin, Jim?

Jim: Well, I’d just like to ask about benefits, really. I’ve been off work with a bad back for a couple of years, and I’ve spent most of it just sitting in the house. I always used to be quite an outdoorsy type, if you know what I mean, I’ve only got a little dinghy (Note: at this point there is a sound not unlike sniggering on the tape, but the transcriber has been unable to ascertain the source of it), but I used to love going out on the reservoir in it at the weekend, but since I’ve been housebound I’ve put a fair bit of weight on, and I can’t get in it any more. I was just wondering if I’m entitled to any kind of benefits to help me get a bigger one?

TF-U: Well, Jim, I’m quite glad you asked that question, as it’s a nice straightforward one to answer. All you need to do is to write to the Treasury, tell them – and it’s important you use these words – that you’re ‘too big to sail’, and I’m sure they’ll be happy to help you out. You’ll be buoyant again in no time, and let’s hope there’ll be no need for any more bailing out, hahahahahaha.

VB: Let’s not get carried away, Tarquin.

- transcript ends -

Redditch council has just approved a proposal to use the local crematorium as a source of heat for the swimming pool at its leisure centre. As far as I’m concerned, this is an utterly brilliant idea. The gas escaping from cremations currently has to be cooled from 800 degrees to 160 degrees as part of a process to remove mercury vapour. The surplus heat is lost into the atmosphere. That’s a whole lot of warm doing nobody any good, and presumably doing the planet some bad. (And possibly, in my fevered imagination at least, roasting any pigeons unfortunate enough to be flying past at the time, but that’s by the by unless you’re a pigeon. I’m going to assume that you’re not, but if you are: well done for getting this far. The corn’s behind the right hand flap.)

Anyway, you won’t be at all surprised to learn that the good old Daily Mail is up in arms about the whole thing. It naturally finds the proposal ‘sick’ and quotes a member of the public as saying, “it’s disgusting, using burning bodies to heat a pool” – as though the plan involved dousing Aunty Jean in petrol before casting her into the shallow end to keep the aqua aerobics class warm.

I also heard a radio interview with a local clergyman who expressed concern that the process would detract from the ‘spiritual aspect’ of cremation. Both he and the Mail seem to be overlooking the fact that, if you want ‘sick’, then chucking the body of your loved one into an industrial incinerator is quite a good start. However much we might want to believe differently, there are no harp-wielding angels on fluffy clouds behind those curtains, and Saint Peter isn’t the one operating the conveyor belt.

So I’d just like to say: well done, Redditch. And I hope it’s not just me.