It’s a knockout

At last, eviction day is almost upon me. The job is to be done tomorrow at sparrowfart, and I am currently packing a bag with trashy magazines and my most decent pyjamas. I’m supposed to be fasting from midnight, so even though I’m stuffed after a delicious Last Supper I am of course dying to run over the road to Spar and stuff my face with an entire yellow Ritter Sport (the cornflakey one) in front of the meek assistant and then ask for another.

Having never had a tooth pulled nor a general anaesthetic applied, I’m picturing all kinds of ridiculous scenarios. For example, I’ve pretty much convinced myself that something like this will be going on while I’m knocked out, and that I’ll resemble a ginger watermelon once the bruises come up.

I’m also wondering if I’ll go a bit like this guy after the event. Needless to say, I’ll be giving the internets a very wide berth until the drugs wear off as I suspect my version would be neither as funny nor as cute. Sayonara, sthuckerth.

 

On gravy browning

Being a gingre, I’m a naturally pale and freckled sort. I have had a natural tan precisely once, after a six-week heatwave in Amsterdam, during which most of my time was spent outdoors drinking rosé. The odds of this recurring back here on home turf are somewhat more remote, although the less clement weather keeps me covered up most of the time anyway.

But then come the rare and glorious days like today, where it’s twenty degrees at nine o’clock in the morning and jeans just won’t do. So, on goes a skirt and out come the milkbottles and the stopwatch, for, invariably, it won’t be long before someone mentions how pale I am, and would I not think about slapping on a little bit of fake tan to “take the edge off”*.

The short, non-rude answer to that is no, not any more.

See, I’ve tried the fake bake. I’ve even paid someone to spray the stuff on me so I can’t blame my own clumsiness when it turns out badly, as it always does. It looks great on some people, sure – my little sister always manages to look like she’s just spent a week in Lanzarote, not an hour standing like John Wayne. Me, I always end up with streaks, no matter what I do, and the colour is always too dark for my natural pallor, which in turn makes my hair look like straw. And don’t get me started on days two and three, when it starts to wear off, and I begin to resemble a washed-out Tony the Tiger.

So, pale and freckled it is, with added factor 30 lest I burn, which looks way worse than any shade of fake tan.

*yes, I have been asked this question

 

Poker face

I will never excel at poker, nor any other game requiring stoneyfacedness or a flawless ability to bluff. I can’t help myself. I start off with the best of intentions, chipping away quietly with so-so hands, but then I get dealt pocket kings and there’s a full house for the taking on the table and I come over all Monica Geller and bellow YESSSSSSSSS as I take the hand and knock out two of my opponents.

It’s only by pure fluke I manage to go on and win the game, but payback comes quickly and I’m first out of the second game in a spectacular crash-and-burn. I’m left sucking on my bottle of beer, silently cursing my big mouth.

 

Vice trade

I appear to have developed an internet clothes shopping habit where my blogging habit used to be. It’s going really well. My haul so far includes:

- a dress that promised funky, but delivered frumpy
- a tunic top obviously made for girls with giant boobs and a tiny waist (I have neither)
- a t-shirt in the fugliest shade of mustard going (not goldy yellow like the website promised)
- a shirt which mysteriously developed a large bleach stain on the back on its first outing

Perhaps I’m better off blogging – at least it’s free and I can try things on first.

 

OH HAI, internet

It’s ridiculous really, how attached I’ve become to this little white piece of plastic. I didn’t have much time for it last week, but when I did manage to sit down for a little light blog readin’ and such it threw a mickey fit (abandonment issues much?) and melted its power cable. Proper melted, like, I could smell burning and everything. Lawks.

So offline I stayed. No new music, no feed reader, no food/house porn, no trashy gossip sites. And it didn’t kill me. In fact, I got loads done – crochet, reading, an actual honest-to-god run in the park.

It’s good to be back and all, but I’m starting to think I could definitely manage this.

 

It’s my birthday and I’ll meme if I want to

Elf memetagged me, a while back now, to share six inconsequential things about myself. I figure this extends to birthday parties of yore; birthdays are generally uninteresting unless you are famous and can afford to have other famous people hide in a giant cake before bursting out and serenading you with Happy Birthday and neatly segueing it into their latest Top 40 hit.

That’s what I’d do, at least. And so.

One. I have no memory of it, but the photos tell me I was the only child there (the privilege of the first-born), propped up and grinning in front of a giant strawberry cake and surrounded by doting relatives.

Three. Involved sweetie jewellery, which resulted in a sticky powdery mess everywhere. I wasn’t to know then that I would rediscover sweetie jewellery some twenty years later in a club in Amsterdam, and that it would be just as messy.

Twelve. My last primary school birthday; a dignified affair on my parents’ lawn with the other swotty scholarship girls in attendance. I’ve only kept in touch with one of them.

Fifteen. A sleepover in the sitting room, featuring a VHS double bill of Legends Of The Fall and Don Juan Di Marco. We all preferred Brad to Johnny.

Eighteen. My first legal drink – tequila at five past midnight in the Red Box. Memories of that evening are otherwise hazy.

Twenty-six. Two months before I left Amsterdam, on a rainy Monday night. The people in the room that night haven’t all been together since, and probably never will be again.

Twenty-eight today. I doubt I’d manage so much as a sip of tequila.

 

Five minutes on snooze

Seven forty. Beep. Beep. Beep.

I silence the alarm clock, roll out of bed and go to the bathroom. He’s awake when I come out again. He’s pulled the laptop into bed and is smiling at something on the screen. I grin and roll my eyes and shuffle into the kitchen for a glass of water. I lean back against the sink and swirl the cool liquid round my mouth.

When I get back to the bedroom he’s out of bed, pulling on shirt and slippers. I’m going to make cheesecake, he says, I’ve checked and we have all the ingredients. I tell him to use the Maryland biscuits in the press for the base, and wonder what cake tin will suit. He kisses me quiet and says Hurry up and get ready, it’s a lovely day outside.

Seven forty-five. Beep. Beep. Beep.

I silence the alarm clock, roll out of bed and go to the bathroom. He’s still asleep when I come out again. Curled up in the duvet as usual. I grin and roll my eyes and shuffle into the kitchen for a glass of water. I check the fridge for cheesecake, just in case.

 

Fairweather wheeler

It doesn’t take much for me to talk myself out of cycling to work. It’s raining. It looks like it might rain. It’s been raining and the roads are wet. It’s windy. I have a new album I want to listen to. I’ve too much stuff to fit in my basket. I’ve a slow puncture.

(That last one has been true for oh, seven months now. I carry a bike pump with me whenever I do venture out. The fella refuses to fix the puncture for me on principle – fair play, I say – and I’m not bothered learning how to do it properly, or paying a tenner to have someone else do it. Yes, I’m a total idiot.)

And it’s silly really, because even on murky blustery evenings like this one, when I’m stuck in work late, I wish I had it with me. I might arrive home in a puddled sweaty breathless mess, but I’d be home faster. My laziness, my enemy.

(ps. Comment moderation is switched on for the time being.)

 

Back on the wagon

Mary mother of wheezes I’m unfit. And I don’t mean unfit in the “omg I can only manage one yoga class and two 5k runs a week” unfit. We’re talking full-on sloth mode here. I cycled to work today for the first time in about six months and it damn near killed me – by the time I’d reached the top of Constitution Hill I could feel my heart hammering in my throat.

I don’t know how it got to this point.

That’s a lie. ‘Course I do. A long dark lazy winter coupled with a permanent fridgeful of the Unholy Food Trinity (beer, cheese and chocolate) was always bound to result in blimphood. Plus, I lost faith in the Wii Fit when it insisted on making my avatar as chubby as it reckoned I was (it’s far crueller than a weighing scales).

Anyway, I’m back on the bike, and, rather surprisingly, back in the pool. I’m a rubbish swimmer, but I can space out and mentally write blog posts as I plod along, which suits me just fine. I’ve knocked out sixty lengths in total this week, already thirty more lengths than I managed in 2008, which has to count for something, right?

Must stay focussed. Less blimp, more vamp.

 

I’ll play the washboard in your bluegrass band

Well, it’s not the weirdest promise I’ve ever made.