The two Ronnies

What is the word for people who have the same name but are totally different beings, preferably with as diverse jobs as possible? There must be one, lurking within the etymological family that gives us synonym and its siblings. 

I have reflected before on the many skills of the David Battys – one a midfield terrier and the other a BBC antiques expert. And this weekend I was skim-reading some broadsheet earnestness about the film Steve McQueen has just made. The Turner Prize-winning one, not the dead one.

But a few days ago, as I was reading some round-up of moving and shaking in the magazine industry, I was reminded of my favourite matching pair.

Ronnie Whelan, ex-editor of Hello magazine and…

Ronnie Whelan, mainstay of Liverpool and the Republic of Ireland's midfield during the 80s. Perhaps this goes some way to explain the particular fondness shown to WAGs by celebrity magazines. Anything for the missus, like.

Changing man

Never let it be said that Joneses are not in the business of giving second chances. After dismissing SCD's Vincent Simone as a dwarfish cartoon lothario, over the last few days I have started to see him with… what…? could that be affection? 

This curious turn of events began on Friday, when Claudia Winkelman was interviewing Vincenzo and Rachel on set at rehearsals. Vincent managed to participate in a whole interview without once being taken over by the Compulsive Sleaze Syndrome, and its accompanying gropey tics, that have previously seemed to overwhelm him, but was instead sweet and reassuring and vulnerable. Then, with six little words on Saturday night, he won me over good and proper. He was talking about Rachel's crippling nerves before their first dance two weeks ago, and said,  'She was shaking like a leaflet.' Is that a malaprop? No. I'm not sure what it is – at the very least, it's English not being your first language – apart from really cute. And anyway, on a windy day, leaflets do, sort of, almost certainly shake. Or at the least, flap about a bit. 

Also, if he was the one who chose to quickstep to Little Green Bag, then props, as they probably say on Dancing With The Stars.

If you ask me – which you didn't, but that's what blogging's all about, right? – the fact that Rachel is pretty much off limits (what being engaged and all, and also completely out of Vincent's league), yet quite insecure and fragile, is bringing out a tender side to a man I might previously have imagined at home waxing his own chest to the strains of Shaggy singing 'Mr Lover Lover'. Perhaps we – or rather I - have completely misjudged him, and rather than being an oily little manslut, he is painfully starved of affection and trying to reassert some kind of masculinity after having his balls cut off (metaphorically speaking, of course) by Matt D'Angelo last series. D'Angelo, for Strictly-come-latelies, seduced Vincent's professional and romantic partner Flavia with his own hands-on, hands-all-over approach to steam-rollering a woman into submission.

Perhaps the 'journey' of this year's Strictly – for there is one every year, as sure as Arlene will alliterate – will not come from Mark Foster learning to move his hips or his facial features, or Christine Bleakley discovering her inner sex goddess (as opposed to bleating on about how much hotter the other girls are – zzzzzz), but the transformation of Vincent Simone from perv to prince.

Another Oxfam crusade…

Friday lunchtime. Oxfam, Drury Lane, London WC2.  Thanks to some eccentric shelving whim of the staff, I was very pleased to see a compendium of work by the popular young (and, if you absolutely must, chicklit) author Lisa Jewell resting on the shelf marked 'Literary Criticism' , just a few volumes away from Chaucer and the rest of the lads from the A-level canon. While Jewell's first novel, the marvellous Ralph's Party,  was unexpectedly feted by Tom Paulin on Late Review, her subsequent work has failed to win her the same kind of critical plaudits as, say, Ian McEwan. Thank goodness, then, that someone at Oxfam is On Her Side, and doing their bit to insinuate her work into the academic literary jungle.

However, that the same staff member has chosen to place the work of Jane Green on this shelf too is nothing less than total lunacy. I have only read Mr Maybe but Christ, let me tell you. It wasn't fit to clean up after Ralph's Party.

Exceedingly seasonal novelties

I'm applauding Mr Kipling for casting aside his fusty, husky, tweed-and-tombolas image and embracing both seasonal gimmicks and alliteration, with these Fiendish Fancies. 

Were I MD of Kipling Inc (a position I would like to formally declare myself available for, in the event that it should become vacant), I would have encouraged someone in a hairnet to tip a bit of orange essence into the vat of synthetic buttercream fancy-filler. As well as providing a flavoursome match for the tiger-striped visual, I think a tangy orange Fiendish Fancy would be just the ticket for people who don't find a Jaffacake quite enamel-corrodingly sweet enough. I'll be using this idea in my job application, when the Kipling board ask me what improvements I would make to the range. If you'll excuse me, I must go off and brainstorm recipe ideas around extra-bitter Lemon Slices for National Divorce Day.

Madeley makeover

Richard Madeley, it's sad to hear about the difficult relationship you had with your father but let's look at the positives here – I think everyone's really digging your Jack Bauer makeover.

It's not Terry's, it's MRINE

Despite a late night, I had to be up revoltingly early (to me anyway – it probably constitutes a lie-in to anyone who has children or a purpose) to have an MRI on my finger. 

One of the true and amazing facts I have learnt today about the world of MRI is that the smaller the area they are taking magic pictures of, the longer you have to be under the MRI hairdryer for.

Since they were zooming in on the top my finger, I had to lie on my front and extend my arm out in front of me ('like Superman', the scanner operative told me) for 40 bloody minutes. This is neither as effortless or as comfortable as it sounds, which is just another of the many reasons why Superman was a hell of a guy.

One boon of lying on your front for people who are slightly anxious (tick) and claustrophobic (tick) is that you feel you are just lying in a white room having a bit of a nap, rather than being able to see that the ceiling of your space-chamber is only eight inches or so above you, and you are trapped in what essentially looks like a cross between a pod in a Tokyo capsule hotel and some kind of state-of-the-art coffin. Or, if you prefer, that you are part of some giant techno experiment, like Mike Teevee at the climax of his story arc in Charlie & The Chocolate Factory. And because the scanner is really noisy - I mean, it really is like being inside an enormous scanner - you have giant headphones to wear and they let you bring a CD with you to play. To try and distract myself, I chose a goofy compilation I had made for a party, the contents of which I found myself trying to justify, and then apologise for, to the radiographer – who obviously couldn't care less and was only thinking, 'Jesus, we've got ourselves a talker.' OK, there may be something quite seriously wrong with my hand, but the excruciating pain of that would be as nothing next to a medical professional mocking my love of the theme to St Elmo's Fire. 

Halfway through the scan, they took me out and injected something or other into my hand. It took three attempts, and after the first one the nurse said quite casually, 'Oh dear, that vein's burst,' which is not a brilliant thing to say to someone of a nervous disposition like myself. But fortunately all I have to show for that particular micro-ordeal is three plasters and the most slimline bruise I've ever had.

I thought, as bruises go, it might look slightly more impressive. In fact, it looks a bit like a varicose vein in my hand which, having done some work for pregnancy and baby magazines, I can tell you is far from the least unusual place to have varicose veins.

I got to King's College Hospital early, so I walked into Camberwell for a mooch round Woolworths. There aren't many local shops where  they sell saucepans and fancy dress under the same roof – while simultaneously keeping the tradition of pick'n'mix alive – so I like to give them my business whenever I can. And thank Christ I did, as otherwise I would never have known of the existence of this:

One of the Chuckle Brothers – and I believe it to be Paul – must get through more eyeliner than Russell Brand. (In researching which Chuckle Brother is which, I've discovered that Chuckle is not their real surname. Sorry to be the one to let you know.)

While I was in Woolworths, I bought myself a Terry's Chocolate Orange as they were only £1.25 and I figured I deserved it. Even though I am now 34 and responsible for earning and disposing of my own income, a Chocolate Orange somehow retains the childhood air of Extremely Special Treat. And although full-price they probably cost less than a pint of beer or a shop-bought sandwich, it still seemed gloriously decadent. However, after the scan, I went to do my weekly shop at Sainbury's and found they were selling two Chocolate Oranges for only £1.93.

I felt like a fool.

Give me just a little more time

I'm having a busy time of it at the moment which – and let's be perfectly honest about this – is not like me at all. It's only temporary, but this week, too much work and a modest amount of play have turned me into a sloppy blogger. 

If you are a budding writer, you are encouraged to start a blog and 'blog' every day – something, anything – just to ensure your puny writing muscles are being put through their paces on a regular basis. [Can I parenthese at this point and reiterate my loathing for 'blog' as a verb. It is way up there with 'golf' and 'holiday' in the Doing Words Chamber Of Horrors. Also 'parenthese', which I, Miss Jones, have just verbed right up without a care. Look at me, I'm a grammar maverick. Consistency? Tell it to someone who has the time. And who believes that semi-colons are still worth it.]

I am someone who likes writing, but who finds it hard to communicate more than one thing from my head to the parts of my body that carry out stuff at one time. And this week, my brain is heaving with full-time work, freelance work and the thought of having 50 fairy cakes to bake and ice as part of my ongoing plans for world domination. When is a feeble-minded fool like me meant to get any blogging done? How does anyone find the time? (Marbury, of course, is some kind of freakish, time-expanding blog-bot.)

Also, I like to work out my puny writing muscles on the parallel bars of the blog when there is something I want to say on it. There is little, at the moment, on account of the other stuff hogging all the seats in my head. As I've said before, I would like to spare you from the likes of 'On the way home from work today I bought some cheese. Isn't cheese expensive?' Even though it really is, and somebody with more time on their hands than me should look into that.

Likewise, as I've mentioned before, YouTube clips seem to be a quick-fix solution for time-pressed bloggers everywhere. Another solution, however, would appear to be the MeMe. In the blogging world, this is essentially some manner of questionnaire which you fill in, publish on your blog and, as you do so, pass some kind of cyber-baton onto another blogger, and thus a bastard, blogging chain-letter is born. The boon of the MeMe is that you need precisely zero content ideas to fill it in. You just follow the prompts. One of the popular MeMes seems to be a very long list of exotic and adventurous food items, which you annotate in various weights of font, depending on whether you've tried it, liked it, would never, etc. Since I am in no way famous, especially not as a gourmand, I imagine you, the reader, care very little about whether I've ever tried alligator or not. I once ate a pigeon spring roll at a book launch but only as a last resort. I was so hungry, it was honestly a matter a survival. Ultimately, I can encapsulate my answers to this particular MeMe for you in a few lines when I say I am essentially a wary 74-year-old trapped in the lithe body of a 34-year-old. I fear change. I respect the classics. I have not travelled widely. 

Aren't you glad I saved you the bother of reading the rest?

Really, when I don't blog, it is only because I am thinking of you.