They say Cleopatra used to bathe in milk and honey to stay beautiful. One assumes she stank of decomposing cheese after a couple of days and was constantly followed by a swarm of bees.

Terri Hatcher apparently bathes in wine. Clearly a woman of alcoholic tendencies who doesn't need to pull the plug afterwards but lies there, hiccoughing and laughing at the décor, whilst sucking the bath empty through a straw. So booze is obviously the answer - stay pissed and incapable of focusing on the wrinkles and grey hair is the way to go.

Anna Friel uses frozen spoons to 'pop on her eyes after a night out to reduce puffiness'. It may well reduce post-club swelling, but surely icy metal is apt to stick to the skin? Poor woman will lose her eyelids if she's not careful, instantly achieving the Marti Feldman look.

Shania Twain favours a cream that farmer's use on cows to keep their udders supple. Uh huh. Who says superstars don't have a firm grip on reality, eh?

Then there's inner beauty, as dictated by the waspish, stringy, witch-woman known as Gillian McKeith. If ever there was a deterrent to eating healthily, she's it. Sure, devouring truckloads of beans can make you thinner, but your friends will desert you in droves when you disappear inside a smog of noxious gasses.

Real beauty comes from the inside, they say, which is comforting to those of us who don't look like Kate Moss. But I find being delusional works best - body dysmorphia is a wunnerful thang. Whenever I look in the mirror I see Catherine Zeta Jones staring back at me. No, really. And I can easily convince myself that the clashing rags I threw on this morning, in the dark, whilst still unconscious, are very 'hip and trendy' - psychedelic bag lady is sure to become fashionable at some point, I tell myself.

Decrepit eyesight is also a bonus. I whip off my spectacles, take three steps back from the mirror and, hey presto, I can be any glamorous film star I like (squinting might be required, although if I've taken my glasses off I'm usually squinting anyway, and squinting causes wrinkles, so closing curtains and turning off lights is probably a better option, but then I tend to trip over things in the dark and I don't fall well any more, what with the worry about hip replacements and everything).

It's what's on the inside that counts, they tell you, and you breathe a sigh of relief because the outside's taken a few batterings over the years, but thankfully clothes cover a multitude of sins.

Gok Wan believes in wearing a Big Belt. If it's big enough you can enclose most of your body within it and walk around like one of those tubular liquorice allsorts topped with a face.

Trinny and Suzanna seem to think clothes will transform your life, because they're clearly delusional. The act of shopping for said clothes will make you feel suicidal, and unless you particularly like the shrink-wrapped-sausage look you're not going to find much above a size 12. The most common dress size is 16 (as sashayed by Marilyn Monroe), but shops don't like to stock it, preferring to sell all their miniature clothes in sales. Odd

My personal beauty regime? I just make sure I take off all my makeup every night, because I hate seeing my own face on the pillow in the morning.

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
Brummie Blogs: There rest of time

In the current financial crisis, the producers of the Bond films have sensitively announced that they'll be making a less opulent movie next time. Gone is the flashy car, Bond will now drive an eco-friendly Smart car. Bond and his girls will no longer wear designer clothes but shop at Primark (jewellery courtesy of Argos). Million pound yachts are a definite no-no, so Bond will now have to chase after baddies in a pedal boat, his little legs going ten to the dozen.

Vodka martinis? Gone. Instead, Asda's own brand and a bottle of cheap coke.

Private planes? Gone. Bond will now travel economy class like the rest of us and leave the plane twisted and agonised from lack of seat space.

Techno gizmos? They will all come from the Gadget Shop.

Health and safety have also got involved. No more jumping down lift shafts for Mr Bond, oh no. Sets a bad example. In the new film you'll see him being fitted out with a safety harness before each stunt and the words Do Not Try This At Home will appear on screen. Any underwater action will be done by inflatable dolls. Explosions will be simulated by cardboard cutouts. Dangerous scenes will be carried out by stunt doubles (Ken and Barbie have auditioned).

Guns from Toys R Us. Advent are supplying on-screen computers, so expect to see Bond pressing buttons that do nothing, keys flying off and The Blue Screen of Death appearing at regular intervals [Advent, complaint letters to my solicitors please].

The only scene that won't change, say the producers, is Bond coming out of the sea wearing speedos. This will be filmed at Weston Super Mare. Any scenes involving posh hotels or penthouses will be set in semi-detached council houses on an estate in Bradford.

And finally, the producers have announced that they can no longer afford Daniel Craig (cue hysterical sobbing from women the world over). An extra from Eastenders is tipped for the part (although John Prescott has shown interest). Bond girls will include Jo Brand and Kate Price (obviously).

The title of the next film has not yet being decided, but those being considered include:

Dr.Gupta
From Britain With Love
Tinfinger
On The Government's Secret Service
Benefits Are Forever
The Man With The Plastic Gun
A View to Unemployment
Licence to Tax

Television programmes are also making cut-backs. Keifer Sutherland's 24 will now be called 12, and the producers of House MD are moving the set to a British NHS hospital and calling it Maisonette GP, Kevin Maisonette. Hugh Laurie will be replaced by Johnny Vegas, and he won't have a limp, he'll have an artificial leg because they won't have had the medicine to put him into a pain-reducing coma (too expensive) so they just hacked it off.

In the newly revised series, Maisonette will too tired to be funny because he works 145 hours a week, so he'll be a bit scruffy and rumpled and unwashed with huge bags under his bloodshot eyes. The hospital wards will be filthy, with just one woman idly shuffling around with a damp cloth.

His colleagues will be dishevelled and demoralised and knackered. They'll say things like, "Do you think its Lupus?" and Maisonette will say, "Yes, its Lupus, but we can't treat it because there isn't enough NHS funding and our local PCT are in deficit to the tune of £7.7million, so everyone's going to die and there's nothing we can do to save them."

There are currently no plans to make cut-backs on Prison Break, but Lost will in the future be filmed on the Isle of Man.

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
Brummie Blogs: There rest of time

or Things That Make You Run Screaming Into Therapy

There are some things in life I don't get, will never get, ever. Like how to change a toilet roll (man's work since the holder is so complicated). How to empty the vacuum cleaner (also man's work because of its unfathomable structure). And how to order a takeaway (yep, man stuff again, hunter gatherer and all that sort of thing).

The list goes on. Take Facebook for instance (or Faecesbook as someone referred to it recently). I'm on it, but I'm not quite sure why. I feel I'm missing out on some pertinent piece of information that will make me go Oh yes, of course! I mean, exactly how excited should I be about having an apparent glut of Hatching Pets?

Social networking they call it. Back in my day (cue Hovis music... what do you mean, you don't have it, what kind of background music department are you? Any violin music at all? Just the William Tell Overture? Tsk). Anyway, in my day social networking was getting your mate to tell the boy you fancied him and did he want to go out with you. Social networking meant meeting up with your mates outside the corner shop to have a crafty fag whilst comparing badly applied makeup. Social networking actually meant meeting actual people. Call me old fashioned.

Slang is something else I don't get because its clearly not meant for my generation (the one just below decrepit), more like a code the youngsters use to stop us 'sussing' what they're on about (or maybe to deliberately confuse us so they can have us committed and make off with the inheritance - won't they be surprised to find there isn't one).

My youngest son said, "That's so fat," the other day. When pressed for an explanation, he said, "Fat means good." "I thought bad meant good?" I said, confused. He just tutted and rolled his eyes, clearly thinking Tsk, mothers!

Another son, when I mentioned I didn't understand a word I'd heard on a TV show, asked what it was. When I said, 'rimming', he got all apoplectic and said I shouldn't know about such things. I Googled it of course, but I'm still none the wiser.

And text speak, a completely different language altogether. I had a message from a friend the other day that read thus: "alryt slut! hows tings? my nu job goin wicked m8:) work is bit gash tho. Wot u duin?"

I didn't reply because, frankly, after struggling to decipher any meaning, I didn't have the strength.

I'm hoping they'll bring out a DVD or a 'large-print' book soon called How Not To Appear Stupid All The Time. But I fear it may already be too late, I've been pushed, kicking and screaming, into the generation that Knows Nothing... or is it just me? Oh great, just me again.

Meanwhile I'll just stumble on, clueless and ignorant, doing the best I can in this harsh, cruel world.

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday (unless life takes over and locks me in a cupboard)
Brummie Blogs: There rest of time.

I see John Lydon (ex-rebel who used to front the Sex Pistols) is now advertising butter on television - because when you hear the words 'punk' and 'anarchy' you immediately think Ah, butter don't you. Piers Morgan (egotistical ex-editor of the Daily Mirror) has also jumped on the bandwagon by advertising M&S food - though why anyone would trust anything Mr Morgan recommends is beyond me.

In the quest for easy money, and in exchange for my soul and any semblance of pride, I would like to offer my services to marketing agencies as their Front Line Woman - the 'woman on the street' so to speak:

* Woman in kitchen full of smoke, cremating food. Cries as she pulls a black object from the oven and tosses it into pan-filled sink. In the distance, cheerful husband cries, "Hi, honey, I'm home." Husband comes into kitchen, views the chaos, hugs sobbing wife, and smiles. "Don't worry, love," he says, holding up a leaflet, "That's what takeaways are for."

Tagline: Wah Hung Chinese Takeaway, for those who can't (and shouldn't) cook.

* Woman sitting on sofa, wailing hysterically. "I've got so much work to do and so many bills to pay, I can't cope, really I can't. I just can't. I can't - ". "Here," says a manly voice, as a hand holding a tumbler comes into view, "Have some of this."

Tagline: Jack Daniels, softens the edges of a harsh life.

* Woman striding cheerfully in front of camera wearing a full-length padded coat. "See this," she smiles, pulling the huge collar up around her face, "Waterproof. Thermal lined. Can withstand gale force winds, hailstorms and blizzards. Perfect outdoor wear for..." Woman joins large group of people standing outside a pub and takes something from one of them, "...smoking outside."

Tagline: Thermal Mountain Wear, to stop you freezing your nuts off.

* Man and woman arguing in a grey room, throwing things, shouting. Close up shots of angry faces. Woman suddenly cries, "I've had enough!" and picks up a phone. "Hello?" she says, as the man paces angrily behind her, "Is this Hit Men Anonymous? Yes, I'd like to place an order please."

Tagline: Hit Men Anonymous, when divorce lawyers just won't do.

* Trinny and Suzanna rush up to unsuspecting woman in the street. "Now if we could just raise the hemline," says Trinny, lifting up the woman's skirt. "And move these boobs around a bit," says Suzanna, reaching down the woman's cleavage. Woman calls a policeman over and says, "Yes, officer, they're doing it again, the perverts. Take them away."

Tagline: The New Trinny and Susanna Show - When Victims Fight Back

Last shot of Trinny crying. "S'up?" asks Susanna. Trinny wails, "They've put me in a Primark dress!"

Tagline: Primark - Sponsors of the victims.

* Woman rushes into chemist, violently pushing all other customers aside. Slams fists down on counter and shrieks, "Give me hormone replacement patches! Give them to me now! I swear to God if I don't get those patches in the next 10 seconds I'm going to cause some serious damage around here, do you hear me? Do you have any concept whatsoever of what I'm going through right now? DO YOU?"

Tagline (weary male voice): Hormone replacement patches. Use them, 'cos we're tired of your shit.

Advertisers: Get in touch, we'll talk

.

Giving up the city - the well paid job, the designer suits (Primark is designer isn't it?), the girlie lunches and the general fisticuffs of normal office life - wasn't a conscious decision. I didn't sit down over a period of weeks/months/years and work out my finances or embark on a specific plan of action or anything like that.

I'm a spontaneous type of person, a free-flyer, a 'go with the flow' sort - which is another way of saying I couldn't organised a piss up in a brewery if my life depended on it.

No, leaving the city was more a case of screaming 'I can't stand this any more!' and legging it, literally sprinting across Victoria Square vowing never to return. I think I flipped the bird at some point, possibly hissed 'Bar stewards!' a few times, quite loudly I think.

It was a combination of things that brought about this hasty and impromptu departure. If you were drowning, you'd reach a point where you'd think Hmm, suspect I'm about to die. If you were running towards a cliff edge at full pelt, there would be a moment when you'd realise you weren't going to be able to stop in time. It was that sort of thing.

And my age too. I never admit to my age because women don't do they, so when I say 37 you can go ahead and laugh your socks off and I won't care, I've said 37 and I'm sticking to it. Having got through a couple of husbands, a few motorbikes and three offspring of the male variety, I was a bit worn out. Knackered in fact. I had no incentive to gossip relentlessly around the photocopying machine, indulge in office politics (yawn) or fight with/off colleagues and bosses. It all got... well it got a bit tedious to be honest. Office life isn't real life is it, it's more like Big Brother without the cameras (and Louise is in the mail room throttling Karen from accounts).

It was the daily commute into the city that finally swung it. I live 3 miles from the city centre, but traffic jams and gridlocks meant I'd be sitting on the top deck of a bus for the best part of an hour or more twice a day. I'd walk to work if the bus broke down, and walk home if the snow got too deep.

It was a form of torture. You can only listen to someone else's pounding ipod for so long before the urge to shove it up their posterior becomes almost irresistible. I'm only surprised there's not more Bus Rage, with passengers 'losing it' big time on the top deck of the number nine.

I told my boss I was going into meltdown and it seriously wasn't worth it, waved at my less psychotic colleagues, and left. Permanently. Just like that. Epiphany had arrived.

Of course, Epiphany wasn't much use when I got home (it rushed off with some lame excuse about a doctor's appointment). Euphoria quickly turned into Abject Panic, and then the screaming started.

"Whatcha gonna do now then?" chanted Common Sense as it sat filing its nails with a smug look on its face. (Yeah, where was it when I walked out of my job, eh? Nowhere to be seen then was it!)

In the end I started up my own business because (a) I couldn't stand the thought of getting on another bus; (b) I couldn't stand to watch any more amateur dramatics over the filing cabinets; (c) it seemed simple enough (naïve beyond belief in retrospect); and (b) I'd always wanted to work at home because I am, at heart, idle.

I've been self-employed a while now, and there's nothing like the adrenalin rush of finding enough work every day to keep a roof over my head. Jack Osborne, Adrenaline Junkie? Pah! Bungee jumping off a mountain is nothing compared to the horror of opening up a final demand for national insurance (which I forgot to pay... again). Give him a keyboard and a list of bills to pay and see how tough he thinks he is then.

In my quest for an 'easy life' (cue hysterical laughter) I've learned a few things:

• If you don't take regular exercise you start to look like the Michelin Man rather quickly. Found a dog that didn't look like it would chew my leg off given half a chance, and started walking every day. Fighting off other dogs who seem intent on killing my dog is great exercise for both upper and lower body toning.

• Once word gets out that you're 'at home all day', friends and relatives will happily pop in for coffee and a chat at any time, and be quite put out when you push them out the door muttering wildly about deadlines.

• Doorstep and telephone salesmen only respond to expletives and strong threats of violence.

• Filling in any tax form is worse than having teeth pulled with rusty pliers whilst having pins inserted into your eyeballs and your intestines removed without the aid of anaesthetic all at the same time. Paying someone else to do it is worth Every Single Penny.

• Even with an accountant, the thieving Inland Revenue will strip you of all your clothes and leave you cold and naked while they help themselves to the contents of your bank account.

• Regardless of what your inner Slob Monster tells you, it is not alright to watch Jeremy Kyle all afternoon, play Mahjong for a couple of hours, or sit twiddling your hair and munching through a box of chocolates whilst talking to mates on the phone all day. I've always found the prospect of Crippling Poverty to be a great motivator.

• Maintain links with the outside world - snarling at doorstop salesman doesn't count as social interaction. Do lunch, do dinner, do the Girls Night Out that ends with you falling through the door at 3am covered in melted makeup and dog poo.

Being a self-employed home worker is fine if you don't mind reclusive isolation or skipping around the edges of insanity once in a while - but then, who says insanity is a bad thing?

Off now to chat to the Keyboard People and the talking cacti.

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
Brummie Blogs: There rest of time.

Shoes don't do it for me. I have one pair of shoes (yep, one), some trainers, and boots which are falling to pieces.

Clothes don't do it for me either. Nor does jewellery, makeup, hairstyles or Heat magazine.

What does it for me in the Biggest Way is books. If my home insurance company saw how much bound paper I have stashed in the house, they'd cancel my policy on the grounds of it being a fire hazard.

As a chronic and incurable bibliophile, I often grab people fiercely by the arm and holler, "You must read this! It's brilliant!" Terrifies the life out of them, but I can't stop myself. I think people who read a book and then throw it away are heathens and philistines who should be given a damn good thrashing. The scariest film I've ever seen is Farenheit 451.

Rubbish books are usually tossed across the room with a frustrated cry of anguish (half an hour of my life wasted on drivel), but the good ones are cherished and stroked and reverently taken care of.

I'm reading a good one at the moment, and in true bibliophile manner I feel obliged to grab you by the arm and rave about it in a really hysterical and slightly demented way. I bought it at the airport thinking it was a bit of holiday fluff. It's had me howling with laughter.

"I returned from the local nightclub at 3am to find a fracas erupting in the snooker room. A group of German bankers had several of my executives up against a wall and were threatening to punch their lights out. I regret to say that when one of the bankers shouted, 'You started zis!' I shouted back, "No ve didn't - you invaded Poland!"

Can you guess what it is yet? How about this, which had me rolling around on the carpet wiping the tears from my eyes and gasping for air:

"Martin Dunn, former No.2 on The Sun, once ran a story about Boy George buying a new house. Unfortunately they pictured the wrong property and the owner rang Kelvin in a fury, demanding to know what he was going to do about the fact that 2,000 screaming transvestites were outside his home. 'Dunn!' he screamed.

Martin sloped into Kelvin's office, his shoulders slunk back in anticipation of the impending thrashing. He saw Kelvin's bulging neck veins, mad staring eyes and half-clenched fist, and decided there was no course of action left to him other than to pretend to faint. So he collapsed face down on to the floor, falling convincingly flat and hard. Kelvin ran over, picked Martin up by his left ear, and said calmly, 'You'd better be dead, Dunn, because if you're not you f***ing soon will be."

The Insider - Private Diaries of a Scandalous Decade by Piers Morgan. If you work in the city centre, go out at lunchtime and Buy This Book. If you're at home, order it off t'internet. Just get it and read it, it's good.

[No bribery was taken in the writing of this post, but bribes willingly accepted if someone's willing to offer me one. Next week, why I love Toshiba laptops so much - Toshiba, get in touch.]

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
Brummie Blogs: There rest of time

After a bumpy flight from the USA (where I gripped onto the seat in front of me for dear life, whilst the other passengers clung valiantly onto their glasses of dinner wine), along with a touch of food poisoning from the in-flight 'meals', we finally set foot on British soil again.

Damp. Grey. Miserable. And, of course, raining. Post-holiday blues hit us like a sledgehammer attached to a speeding truck. I would have cried, but I didn't have the strength.

We waited an hour for our 'courtesy' bus back to the hotel where we'd left our car. It started straight away, and Hubs drove on the right side of the road almost immediately.

We set off. It was a terrible journey. The roads around London were busy and frantic. Then there was a downpour and everything came to a virtual standstill. More traffic. Nothing like the long, empty roads of Arizona (sigh).

A mere hour from home, Hubs had to pull into a service station because of chronic jet-lag. He could barely see straight he was so tired. We both fell asleep in the car for a long time. When we woke up, the car wouldn't start. Hubs had left the lights on.

He yelled, "Get out and push!" in a semi-conscious but quite forceful way. I was a bit taken aback because (a) Hubs never yells, and (b) I don't do car pushing.

Despite (b), I found myself at the back of the car pushing against it with everything I had, which admittedly wasn't a lot, not with jet-lag and food poisoning. I was heaving and gasping and thrusting and... er, straining. The car suddenly stopped. Hubs had put on the brakes.

"Why have you slammed on the brakes?" I cried.

And Hubs replied (and get this), "Did you not see that car coming?"

"No!" I hollered back, "Because I'm facing the ground shoving a ton of berluddy metal across the sodding tarmac! I didn't realise I had to watch for traffic at the same berluddy time!"

It was then that I stomped off into the service station for some Coke or Red Bull or Speed tablets, anything to keep us awake. Behind me I heard Hubs marching over to some rugby players and bawling, "Bloody fell asleep with the lights on, can you give us a push?"

They did, quite impressively in fact, and off we set again. Only because the battery was flat, it affected our sat nav system, which was programmed to take us to the boarding kennels to pick our dog up.

"Pretty sure we shouldn't be heading towards Coventry," Hubs kept saying, but on we carried.

Eventually realising that Coventry is nowhere near the kennels, Hubs turned around and went back down the same motorway for 80 odd miles.

I rang the kennels: "We're going to be late!" I cried.

"Pick him up tomorrow," they insisted.

We wouldn't get our dog back until tomorrow!

We eventually made it home at 5.30pm, seven hours after we'd landed.

Nice to be back (not!)

I'm sure normality will return at some point, just as soon as I figured out what 'normal' is (there was certainly no sign of it before we went on holiday) and when I've dug myself out of the pile of washing.

Meantime, this song pretty much says it all...

(A Naïve Brit's Guide to an American Road Trip)

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
Brummie Blogs: There the rest of the time.

...because its too flippin' hot to think!

Every single day in Arizona I keep saying "That was the best day ever!" But Thursday really was the best day.

Thursday we hit the road, man, headin' off t'Monument Valley (I think I'm mixing my accents there, American meets Yorkshire and has a fight over vowels... Yorkshire wins hands down for sheer volume).

We set off just after 7am local time wearing t-shirt and shorts with the car top down. Nearly froze to death. Made Hubs stop by moaning a lot about hyperthermia and how difficult it would be to ship my body home, and he put the lid on the car and tossed me a jacket... and a tourist fatality was narrowly averted.

Monument Valley, wow. I mean, wow. I mean, WOW! We drove into a town called Mexican Hat where, to Hubs immense relief, they sold beer (Kayenta, where we were staying, is within a Navajo Indian reservation so no alcohol is sold there - Hubs almost burst into tears when he found out).

We were going to drive a hundred miles or so through the valley, then stop and come back to view it all from a different angle, but we ended up carrying on to a town called Blanding.

Blanding was lovely, just how you'd imagine a typical American town. We popped into a deli to grab some goodies, then set off to find a scenic place to eat lunch, which ain't that hard in Monument Valley. Met up with a couple from Ireland at the side of the road and 'shot the breeze' with them awhile... you meet people wherever you go and share travel tips and anecdotes, I luuurve road trips.

I was trigger happy with the camera and just kept taking photos left, right and centre - everything was just so photogenic. I was feverishly snapping staggering rock formations on the left side of the road when Hubs drawled, "I'd quite like to see where I'm going if it's all the same to you." I was holding the camera and my arm right in front of his face. "Sometimes," he added, tutting, "You're just such a woman."

He still has the bruise.

On the way back we stopped at an 'historic monument' in Bluff, which was rather interesting; how Mormons first arrived and struggled to settle in the middle of nowhere. There were black and white photographs of some rather miserable people, but then if you've travelled for weeks across arid and bumpy desert I guess you'd look like that.

We turned into the Navajo Reservation in MV, primarily to get an ice cream because I was sweating my socks off and screaming for one like a stroppy toddler. There was a road leading down from the visitors area and you could see cars driving down the dusty track towards more towering formations. Hubs hummed and huffed a bit, muttering about low car clearance and rental insurance, but I forced him to go have a look - it would be an adventure I cried.

Had I been driving, I'd have given up at the first hairpin bend, got out the car and sulked until some man came to save me. Fortunately, Hubs was driving, and he did an excellent job.

"Its just like rally driving isn't it," I cried, weak with relief that I wasn't behind the wheel as we bounced along the rugged track.

"Rally driving is faster," said Hubs, navigating over a rut big enough to hide an elephant or two.

"Slow motion rally driving then."

I'm so glad we made the effort. It was the best view, the best place, exactly how we'd imagined Monument Valley to be. You could drive right next to the rock formations and marvel at the sheer immensity of it all. It was amazing, I was awestruck. I gaped up at this solid, sheer wall of towering rock and was rendered speechless. It was an incredible moment.

There were some dodgy moments across a dried up river bed and some deep ruts, but our convertible did us proud. We drove behind huge 4 x 4 monsters that were pottering along like fairy cakes. I mean, isn't that what they were built for, off road driving like this? Tsk.

It was a hell of a day. Monument Valley was astonishing with knobs on.

It was a sensory overload.

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday (unless I'm on holiday, in which case it'll probably be late).

Brummie Blogs: There rest of time (unless I'm in the Arizona mountains and can't find WiFi, telephone or radio reception).

So we were in this bar, Harrah's on the Las Vegas Strip, partaking of dollar bottles of beer, when in walks this bloke. Six foot four, huge, handsome and wearing a Stetson. There was a moment when my entire body went limp and my brain started screaming A cowboy! A cowboy! in a really hysterical way.

He came and stood next to us at the bar and Hubs, being a yakky Yorkshireman, started talking to him. His opening line was, "My wife told all her friends she was going to kiss the first real cowboy she saw." The cowboy looked a little startled, as well he might, and said we'd have to ask his wife.

His wife was lovely (she liked AbFab, ya can't go far wrong with anyone who likes AbFab). We shared a few drinks as The Cowboy and Hubs discovered they both liked country music and western films, and even Elvis came over to say hello. No, really, Elvis. I touched Elvis (and he didn't mind... well I think he was drunk, but even so).

We went for chicken wings in Hooters with the cowboy and his wife, and then to Dixies, a country and western bar with a live band.

I don't dance. I never dance. I just sit in a corner somewhere tapping my foot in a really meaningful way, or sometimes there's shoulder shaking involved if the music's of the shoulder shaking variety, but there's never any actual dancing involved. But there I danced, it was that kind of place. I was also, of course, a bit bladdered and a lot jet-lagged.

A word here about jet lag. It's crap. C-R-A-P. You're either awake or crashing into a coma, there's no in-between bit, no warning, you just flop and hope you don't kill yourself. My face looks like it's been squeezed out like a dishcloth and thrown from a great distance back onto my cheekbones. It's a terrible, terrible thang.

What isn't terrible over here in Big Country is the weather. Sun, heat and blue skies. Oh bliss. It did throw a thunderstorm as we passed through a place called Chloride - 'the ghost town that refuses to die' - which just increased my paranoia that the sky wants to kill us (having been struck by the sparky stuff a couple of months ago), but other than that it's glorious.

We're out of Vegas now and on our 10 day road trip. The scenery is breathtaking, the people incredibly friendly, and everything is just so big. We're loving it. We've even Gone Native (or 'Gone Country' for all you Alan Jackson fans out there), driving around in our convertible with the top down, wearing Stetsons and listening to country music.

"Where y'from?" people ask us.

"Birmingham," we say.

"Alabama?"

"No, England."

"Uh huh."

We are giving serious consideration to not coming home.

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
Brummie Blogs: Rest of week

...not sure if I'll come back again.

As you read this I will (hopefully) be quite high up in the sky on my way to some fabulous location where its warm and sunny and not raining.

After the monsoons that defined our Great British Summer, the criteria for this year's holiday was: Where is it dry? A desert was the obvious choice, and whilst Hubs quite fancied the idea of doing Lawrence of Arabia on a camel across the Sahara or the Gobi, I preferred some place that wasn't likely to kill us. I wanted more Thelma and Louise than Ice Cold in Alex.

So... Arizona. Las Vegas. Grand Canyon. Monument Valley. The works.

I booked everything online months ago - flights, hotels, car hire. It took a whole day of deep research and frantic surfing as I obsessively hunted down the best bargains. No stone was left unturned in the quest for the Perfect Holiday.

We packed on Sunday for our escape on Monday. Hubs and I can't pack together because we bicker a bit and then a lot, and then strops are thrown, swiftly followed by objects. He likes to gather everything together and pack neatly, I tend to throw stuff in an overarm way from the wardrobe to the suitcase. He likes to think carefully about what he's taking, I just take everything.

He takes one book, I like a choice of at least five. We had to pay for overweight suitcases on our last holiday - when Hubs discovered I'd stashed seven hardbacks he was not best pleased.

"Yer just tekin one this time," he said firmly (because he talks like that, being a Yorkshireman and all).

"Yeah, sure." I said, "No problem." The Complete Works of Jackie Collins comes with wheels and a handle.

Suitcase packed - well not so much packed at held shut with bungee straps - I checked we had all the relevant emails and e-tickets. Flight, car, hotels, travel insurance. Travel insurance?

Pretty sure I'd arranged some, I distinctly remember having a sleepless night about whether or not I should pay extra to have 'Hijack' insurance. I mean, if you're on a plane that's been hijacked, would your first thought be 'Not to worry, we're insured'?

I went through 1,549 emails looking for holiday insurance, to no avail. I'd forgotten to get it.

Bugger.

Haven't booked any hotels for our 10 day road trip either, we're winging it, which is either a brilliant plan or a mistake of epic proportions. I'll let you know next week (they'll have WiFi in Death Valley won't they?)

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
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