Another glorious day in Cairns and we set off on our Great Barrier Reef Cruise. The boat was reputedly the fastest to the reef, which I was pleased about given my terrible habit of throwing up when I'm on one. Another bonus was the fact that it catered for snorkeling and scuba diving which meant Shin and I didn't have to book separate cruises to get what we wanted.
I sensibly took some of the anti-sea sickness tablets that were on offer and they seemed to serve me well. We got out to the reef and Sinead suited up in her anti-jellyfish outfit and headed out for a spot of snorkeling. I got tanked up for some scuba and set off. The Scuba guy had been running through a list of things we might see in the water - "turtles, clown fish, wasse and lots of Japanese" - surprise, surprise.
Annoyingly, the Scuba guys insisted on linking arms with everyone in the group. There were only five of us, but it still freaked me out. The old Japanese guy on my right kept doing breast-stroke arms and was getting dangerously close to my regulator. Then he'd let go of my arm to take some pictures and flap about frantically trying to get hold of my again. I was deliberately making my arm as inaccessible as possible and it turned into some kind of underwater Benny Hill sketch as he tried to catch up to me and link arms again.
Back on the boat we had a barbecue lunch and set off for our second reef spot. I decided to do a second dive for the bargain basement price of 17 quid. Knowing that I always feel less sick on deck than I do inside, I headed up to the sunbathers' area and set out my towel next to some girls wearing the tiniest thongs I've ever seen. They were all really brown and oiling themselves up. Still, with all my scuba and diving off the back of the boat I felt like Princess Di so I didn't mind lying next to the professional tan team too much.
Sinead joined me for a bit and said: "This is the life Lis. I feel like we're celebrities." "I know. I was just thinking I feel like Princess Di." "Ha ha. I feel like the paps should be taking pictures of me so readers back home can discuss my beach body."
My second dive was much better. The water was clearer, the colours more vibrant and I didn't have to hold anyone's arm. I saw some more clams but they weren't as big as the giant one in the Cook Islands, and I found Nemo. There were millions of them. I went up and did some snorkeling. Shin and I tried to take some pictures of each other under water, so we'll see how those turn out.
I headed back onto the boat so I could take up my position on the sun deck for the journey back home. The thong brigade hadn't moved - I think they must have been real celebrities. Anyway, it was roasting so I kept topping up my sun cream and I was glad when the boat started off for home and I got a bit of a cooling breeze. It was great. I was lying on a speedboat on the other side of the world, getting some sun, not feeling sick and being pleased with myself cause scuba counts as exercise. Total celebrity!
A Japanese woman wearing a leopard and zebra print kaftan (make your mind up hen) sat down beside me and started munching on a sandwich. It was really windy so every time she went to take a bit, some of it would fly out and hit me in the face. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she said picking her tuna off my face. At first I didn't say anything and her apology was enough, but it happened another 2 times so I lost it and felt compelled to say: "Will you please get your sandwich under control!" Gross.
She eventually went back inside and left me food free, which I was pleased about. As the boat came back into the harbour, I got my stuff together and noticed the tops of my thighs were looking suspiciously pink. "Arggh! This is not a good sign." Needless to say, I spent that night with my legs covered in Solarcaine and wet towels. To make matters worse, every second advert on TV was about skin cancer. "Quick. Turn it over Shin. I can't bear to watch." Admittedly, I was feeling distinctly less like a celebrity after that.
Showing posts with label skin care. Show all posts
Showing posts with label skin care. Show all posts
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Saturday, May 20, 2006
(Herpes) Simplex in the city
Upsettingly, the coldsore continued to plague me all last week. On Monday it grew bigger. On Tuesday it grew scabbier. On Wednesday it turned greener and on Thursday I laughed and it got stuck to my top lip and was yanked off. Then it started to bleed. My discomfort was made worse due to the fact that I was in a meeting when this happened. Still it was better than the scab falling into somebody else's tea or - even worse - my own, which had been my primary concern all week.
By the time I landed at Newark on Saturday afternoon, my shameful pox was a rapidly dimming memory. This was partly due to my excitement at being in NYC again and partly due to the amazing powers of Tiger Balm. My Grandma always kept a little jar of Tiger Balm handy. It was administered to my chest when I was suffering with the Cold as a child. It was melted into a bowl of boiling water when my nose was blocked. It was applied to burns and scrapes and scratches, and, by my own hand, it was rubbed liberally around my eyes and nose when I wanted to skip school. Unfortunately, as anyone who has ever come within three feet of the stuff will know, it smells about as medicinal as anything can so my efforts to avoid school never actually succeeded.
Anyway because I'm nostalgic and because the stuff really works, I've always kept a little jar handy too. So, when a colleague at work recommended I use Tiger Balm on my coldsore I saw no reason not to give it a go. I swear this is true, during the course of a seven hour flight my coldsore shrunk to at least a quarter of its original size. Oh miracle balm!
I love New York. Within 10 minutes of walking slowly down the streets and staring up at every building I could, I was fighting the urge to be absorbed into its thronging masses and leave everything else behind. To be honest, this feeling pops up in almost every city I've ever visited, but it's always stronger in the Big Apple. I know I could live there; maybe not forever, but soon and for six months at least.
On Sunday something highly cool happened. First of all, I went to High Mass at St Patrick's (not so cool) where his eminence - el Cardinale - stopped to shake my hand and ask where I was from. I told him, we had a little chat and then he blessed me (This was highly cool - for my gran). Anyway, after Mass I hoofed it up to Times Square because I wanted to buy discount tickets for a show. I really wanted to see Wicked and was disappointed not to see it listed on the tickets board. On asking one of the representatives, they laughed and said they never got Wicked tickets. I decided to walk to the Gershwin where Wicked is playing to see if I could get tickets for the Sunday matinee. There was a queue of people so I got in line. I then overheard the man in front of me explaining to someone that this was the line for the 'lottery'. I asked him what he meant by the 'lottery' and he told me that every show is completely sold out for months and the best hope anyone had of getting a ticket was to enter this lottery. I went up to the desk, wrote my name on a slip of paper and handed it over. The names of the lucky 12 would be called at 1pm. As it was a quarter to, I decided to hang around.
On the hour, the guy spun the barrel and pulled out 12 tickets. There were about 200 people waiting in the hope that they'd hear their name. My name was the eleventh to be called out (Ok, that was the highly cool bit). There was a lot of cheering and congratulating. I showed my ID and collected two front row tickets at a cost of $25 each. Even the cheapest seats are usually $60 so this was a pretty good deal. To top all this, my mum stood in the cancellation line and got the last cancellation ticket - also with a fantastic seat. As I was waiting in the foyer, people kept coming up and saying "congratulations" to me and asking me how I felt. A few people who witnessed this then asked if I was in the show. I felt pretty good and was excited about seeing the show, but felt my response would have been more adequate had I managed to lay my hands on some 'completely-over-the-top-happy pills'.
One of the things I love most about being in America is that I can ham it up and be 'super-happy' and 'super-nice' and no one thinks I'm weird. I sometimes do this here, but people often think I'm taking the piss - which, admittedly, I often am.
The show was a big fat glorious pantomime and I loved every minute of it. It's the story of the Wicked Witch and Glinda the Good before Dorothy showed up in Oz. There weren't too many references or jokes about the film which was good, and when there were they were subtle and clever. Example:
Nessarose: (At party) "What's in this punch?"
Bok: "Apples and lemons and pears."
Nessarose: "Oh my!"
A perfect day was finished off with dinner in a revolving restaurant. I had one frozen raspberry and strawberry margarita and a blueberry and raspberry bellini before dinner, so it was a very, very good meal.
My other highlight was a trip to Serendipity for a Frrrrozen Hot Chocolate. Apparently, they are Oprah's fave and if you saw one you'd understand about the whole yo-yo weight thing. I swear all my efforts at the gym have been completely overwritten by just one these babies. It was so worth it though.
I got a fair amount of shopping in, and with an exchange rate that's just shy of $2 for £1 who wouldn't? I got a gorgeous pair of Cole Haan black thong sandals with $200 off and fabulous bag which I'm totally in love with. On a less pleasing note, I got railroaded by a beauty counter assistant in Bloomingdales who sat me in her chair and told me she knew I used face moisturiser on my delicate eye area (totally true, but who has time to switch moisturisers half way through?). She sold me (I know, I know) some clinical eye gel which she repeatedly assured me would combat the signs of aging. I had made no inquiry as to its anti-aging qualities. Then, while I was still in her chair, she tilted her head to the right and said: "and how are you doing with the rest of your skin care?"
I'm sat there with a smaller but still noticeable coldsore, a number of spots visible to someone in extreme close proximity and some dry patches I attribute to running myself slightly ragged before I left for NY. Still, I didn't want to be sold any more stuff so I mumbled "fine, thanks."
She tilted her head to the left, looked at me sadly and said very sweetly: "Really? You sure honey?"
I resisted and left with my eye gel and credit card intact. My self-esteem did not fare quite so well. However, one wolf-whistle, compliment and harassment for my room number later and I felt a good deal better.
And when I woke up this morning, my coldsore was gone.Unfortunately,the slight rash I discovered around my delicate eye area leads me to suspect that I may be allergic to the eye gel.
By the time I landed at Newark on Saturday afternoon, my shameful pox was a rapidly dimming memory. This was partly due to my excitement at being in NYC again and partly due to the amazing powers of Tiger Balm. My Grandma always kept a little jar of Tiger Balm handy. It was administered to my chest when I was suffering with the Cold as a child. It was melted into a bowl of boiling water when my nose was blocked. It was applied to burns and scrapes and scratches, and, by my own hand, it was rubbed liberally around my eyes and nose when I wanted to skip school. Unfortunately, as anyone who has ever come within three feet of the stuff will know, it smells about as medicinal as anything can so my efforts to avoid school never actually succeeded.
Anyway because I'm nostalgic and because the stuff really works, I've always kept a little jar handy too. So, when a colleague at work recommended I use Tiger Balm on my coldsore I saw no reason not to give it a go. I swear this is true, during the course of a seven hour flight my coldsore shrunk to at least a quarter of its original size. Oh miracle balm!
I love New York. Within 10 minutes of walking slowly down the streets and staring up at every building I could, I was fighting the urge to be absorbed into its thronging masses and leave everything else behind. To be honest, this feeling pops up in almost every city I've ever visited, but it's always stronger in the Big Apple. I know I could live there; maybe not forever, but soon and for six months at least.
On Sunday something highly cool happened. First of all, I went to High Mass at St Patrick's (not so cool) where his eminence - el Cardinale - stopped to shake my hand and ask where I was from. I told him, we had a little chat and then he blessed me (This was highly cool - for my gran). Anyway, after Mass I hoofed it up to Times Square because I wanted to buy discount tickets for a show. I really wanted to see Wicked and was disappointed not to see it listed on the tickets board. On asking one of the representatives, they laughed and said they never got Wicked tickets. I decided to walk to the Gershwin where Wicked is playing to see if I could get tickets for the Sunday matinee. There was a queue of people so I got in line. I then overheard the man in front of me explaining to someone that this was the line for the 'lottery'. I asked him what he meant by the 'lottery' and he told me that every show is completely sold out for months and the best hope anyone had of getting a ticket was to enter this lottery. I went up to the desk, wrote my name on a slip of paper and handed it over. The names of the lucky 12 would be called at 1pm. As it was a quarter to, I decided to hang around.
On the hour, the guy spun the barrel and pulled out 12 tickets. There were about 200 people waiting in the hope that they'd hear their name. My name was the eleventh to be called out (Ok, that was the highly cool bit). There was a lot of cheering and congratulating. I showed my ID and collected two front row tickets at a cost of $25 each. Even the cheapest seats are usually $60 so this was a pretty good deal. To top all this, my mum stood in the cancellation line and got the last cancellation ticket - also with a fantastic seat. As I was waiting in the foyer, people kept coming up and saying "congratulations" to me and asking me how I felt. A few people who witnessed this then asked if I was in the show. I felt pretty good and was excited about seeing the show, but felt my response would have been more adequate had I managed to lay my hands on some 'completely-over-the-top-happy pills'.
One of the things I love most about being in America is that I can ham it up and be 'super-happy' and 'super-nice' and no one thinks I'm weird. I sometimes do this here, but people often think I'm taking the piss - which, admittedly, I often am.
The show was a big fat glorious pantomime and I loved every minute of it. It's the story of the Wicked Witch and Glinda the Good before Dorothy showed up in Oz. There weren't too many references or jokes about the film which was good, and when there were they were subtle and clever. Example:
Nessarose: (At party) "What's in this punch?"
Bok: "Apples and lemons and pears."
Nessarose: "Oh my!"
A perfect day was finished off with dinner in a revolving restaurant. I had one frozen raspberry and strawberry margarita and a blueberry and raspberry bellini before dinner, so it was a very, very good meal.
My other highlight was a trip to Serendipity for a Frrrrozen Hot Chocolate. Apparently, they are Oprah's fave and if you saw one you'd understand about the whole yo-yo weight thing. I swear all my efforts at the gym have been completely overwritten by just one these babies. It was so worth it though.
I got a fair amount of shopping in, and with an exchange rate that's just shy of $2 for £1 who wouldn't? I got a gorgeous pair of Cole Haan black thong sandals with $200 off and fabulous bag which I'm totally in love with. On a less pleasing note, I got railroaded by a beauty counter assistant in Bloomingdales who sat me in her chair and told me she knew I used face moisturiser on my delicate eye area (totally true, but who has time to switch moisturisers half way through?). She sold me (I know, I know) some clinical eye gel which she repeatedly assured me would combat the signs of aging. I had made no inquiry as to its anti-aging qualities. Then, while I was still in her chair, she tilted her head to the right and said: "and how are you doing with the rest of your skin care?"
I'm sat there with a smaller but still noticeable coldsore, a number of spots visible to someone in extreme close proximity and some dry patches I attribute to running myself slightly ragged before I left for NY. Still, I didn't want to be sold any more stuff so I mumbled "fine, thanks."
She tilted her head to the left, looked at me sadly and said very sweetly: "Really? You sure honey?"
I resisted and left with my eye gel and credit card intact. My self-esteem did not fare quite so well. However, one wolf-whistle, compliment and harassment for my room number later and I felt a good deal better.
And when I woke up this morning, my coldsore was gone.Unfortunately,the slight rash I discovered around my delicate eye area leads me to suspect that I may be allergic to the eye gel.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
The art of ...pleasing oneself
This is perhaps the hardest art of all to conquer - especially if you'd like to remain on speaking terms with people. It's taken me many years, but I now consider myself a master.
It feels wonderful to skillfully avoid ever again being caught in the 'I so don't want to be here but can't ever say' trap that has dogged me most of my life.
On Friday night I was doing some work for my "uncle".
OK, so actually he is really my uncle. I just added inverted commas to make it sound more exciting. Hey, I said it was the "hardest art", not the most exciting one.
Anyway, I was looking over and editing his biography for his CV. You might think this doesn't sound much like someone who is pleasing herself, but the fact that I told him I could either invoice him for £60 (family discount rate) or he and my aunt could take me out to dinner is a big step forward for me.
By Saturday I'd really gotten into the swing of things. I took myself off the gym at 10am, enjoyed (no, seriously) a vigorous workout (pulse rate of 80%. Burn that chunk baby) and was getting changed when Mog called me. I fumbled about in my bag and finally answered my phone.
Me: "Hey. Hi. ... Hello?"
Mog: "Hello?"
Me: "Yeah. ... Hello?"
Mog: "Oh, hi, sorry did I wake you?"
Me: "Did you what me? Wake me? No! I'm at the gym. I've just finished my work out!
Mog: "Oh!"
Me: "Oh yes!"
After a somewhat stilted and mildly offensive start, Mog explained the arrangements for her birthday night out. For a change, she wanted to keep things informal and low-key (must be her age kicking in). She'd decided to go to the 7 o'clock showing ofThe Squid and the Whale at the Cameo, which pleased me greatly as it was a film I've been eagerly anticipating, followed by food at Coconut Grove (I've never had a bad night in there yet). So, with Saturday evening taken care of, I took myself first to Waterstones for a good old browse and then to Celeste for a luxury manicure.
Celeste is aptly named. Every single appointment is a heavenly experience. As the nice lady was massaging my hands in such a way that I was on the cusp of doubting my sexuality, I was reading their brochure to see what else was on offer. And they do Decleor. Oh yes. Decleor facials, Decleor massages and, best of all, Decleor tanning. Bring on the summer.
Looking over the waxing options on offer, I got a fit of the giggles. (Technically, it's not a good thing when someone is painting your nails and your shoulders start going like a road-digger.) There were those old tried and tested chestnuts, as follows:
REGULAR BIKINI WAX (£14)
The area around and under the pant line is waxed. A basic wax if you wear regular knickers.
BRAZILIAN BIKINI WAX (£26)
By far the most popular. A landing strip is left neat. A must for all who wear thongs.
BOLLYWOOD (£30)
In between Brazilian and Hollywood. Not all off but nearly.
HOLLYWOOD BIKINI WAX (£36)
The whole area is waxed. We guarantee it will be the best and most thorough wax you've ever had. Our most popular and requested treatment ever.
Plus one ridiculous addition:
TIFFANY BIKINI WAX (from £40)
This is a whole Hollywood wax with diamontes artistically placed for that special date!
Yes, that special date when you want to scare him half to death. Can you imagine?
Him: "Jesus Karaoke Star Christ! There's spiky things all over your ...you know ... thing."
Her: "That's right darling."
Him: "They spell out something. Yeah, it looks like your ... you know ... thing is trying to tell me something. I'll need to get closer to make out the words."
Her:"Go right ahead darling."
Him: "I... told you ... not ... to put your ... wet towel on ... the bed. You bastard."
Her: "That's right darling. And remember, these babies cut through glass. Any wrong moves and you could be in big trouble."
Yet again, Diamonds prove they really are a girl's best friend.
After my indulgent experience, I went to the Cameo to buy tickets for the film we were going to see that evening. I did so and noticed that a French film called Hidden (Cache) was about to start. I decided just to go ahead and buy a ticket as my day was open to go exactly as I desired.
The film was very French in that it had lots of scenes that added nothing to the plot. French films are funny like that. If an American film showed someone getting undressed for bed, closing the curtains and lying down you'd probably expect them to be murdered, or at least to die peacefully in their sleep or something. Not so with the French film. It also ended abruptly with almost no resolution, which I enjoy because I get to spend the rest of the day pondering over what happened, why it happened and what the future looked like for the characters involved. It was very, very good. Afterwards, I took myself off to a little deli called 'Made in France' where I did my pondering over a goat's cheese and saucisson baguette. It was sheer bliss.
Annoyingly I arrived at the Cameo that evening at 10 past seven. I had all the tickets and everyone was waiting. I'd had a nightmare with taxis and ended up having to drive. I got grid-locked at the bottom of Lothian Road and then had to park almost on Strathern Road because there were no spaces nearer to the cinema. I hate, hate, hate being late for films so I was really pissed off with myself. I had to hot-foot it across the links, going back for my shoe twice. Anyway, we took our seats in time for the last trailer, which was pretty good timing considering it was actually so woefully bad.
The Squid and the Whale was excellent and I highly recommend it. Jeff Daniels' pompous assertions on literature, people and more are worth the ticket price alone. I now want to describe everything as "the fillet (pronounced 'fill-ay') of the neighbourhood" or "the fillet of Dickens' work".
The Coconut Grove was also fantastic with plenty of atmosphere and even better food. It was a most fitting start to Mog's 28th year.
It feels wonderful to skillfully avoid ever again being caught in the 'I so don't want to be here but can't ever say' trap that has dogged me most of my life.
On Friday night I was doing some work for my "uncle".
OK, so actually he is really my uncle. I just added inverted commas to make it sound more exciting. Hey, I said it was the "hardest art", not the most exciting one.
Anyway, I was looking over and editing his biography for his CV. You might think this doesn't sound much like someone who is pleasing herself, but the fact that I told him I could either invoice him for £60 (family discount rate) or he and my aunt could take me out to dinner is a big step forward for me.
By Saturday I'd really gotten into the swing of things. I took myself off the gym at 10am, enjoyed (no, seriously) a vigorous workout (pulse rate of 80%. Burn that chunk baby) and was getting changed when Mog called me. I fumbled about in my bag and finally answered my phone.
Me: "Hey. Hi. ... Hello?"
Mog: "Hello?"
Me: "Yeah. ... Hello?"
Mog: "Oh, hi, sorry did I wake you?"
Me: "Did you what me? Wake me? No! I'm at the gym. I've just finished my work out!
Mog: "Oh!"
Me: "Oh yes!"
After a somewhat stilted and mildly offensive start, Mog explained the arrangements for her birthday night out. For a change, she wanted to keep things informal and low-key (must be her age kicking in). She'd decided to go to the 7 o'clock showing ofThe Squid and the Whale at the Cameo, which pleased me greatly as it was a film I've been eagerly anticipating, followed by food at Coconut Grove (I've never had a bad night in there yet). So, with Saturday evening taken care of, I took myself first to Waterstones for a good old browse and then to Celeste for a luxury manicure.
Celeste is aptly named. Every single appointment is a heavenly experience. As the nice lady was massaging my hands in such a way that I was on the cusp of doubting my sexuality, I was reading their brochure to see what else was on offer. And they do Decleor. Oh yes. Decleor facials, Decleor massages and, best of all, Decleor tanning. Bring on the summer.
Looking over the waxing options on offer, I got a fit of the giggles. (Technically, it's not a good thing when someone is painting your nails and your shoulders start going like a road-digger.) There were those old tried and tested chestnuts, as follows:
REGULAR BIKINI WAX (£14)
The area around and under the pant line is waxed. A basic wax if you wear regular knickers.
BRAZILIAN BIKINI WAX (£26)
By far the most popular. A landing strip is left neat. A must for all who wear thongs.
BOLLYWOOD (£30)
In between Brazilian and Hollywood. Not all off but nearly.
HOLLYWOOD BIKINI WAX (£36)
The whole area is waxed. We guarantee it will be the best and most thorough wax you've ever had. Our most popular and requested treatment ever.
Plus one ridiculous addition:
TIFFANY BIKINI WAX (from £40)
This is a whole Hollywood wax with diamontes artistically placed for that special date!
Yes, that special date when you want to scare him half to death. Can you imagine?
Him: "Jesus Karaoke Star Christ! There's spiky things all over your ...you know ... thing."
Her: "That's right darling."
Him: "They spell out something. Yeah, it looks like your ... you know ... thing is trying to tell me something. I'll need to get closer to make out the words."
Her:"Go right ahead darling."
Him: "I... told you ... not ... to put your ... wet towel on ... the bed. You bastard."
Her: "That's right darling. And remember, these babies cut through glass. Any wrong moves and you could be in big trouble."
Yet again, Diamonds prove they really are a girl's best friend.
After my indulgent experience, I went to the Cameo to buy tickets for the film we were going to see that evening. I did so and noticed that a French film called Hidden (Cache) was about to start. I decided just to go ahead and buy a ticket as my day was open to go exactly as I desired.
The film was very French in that it had lots of scenes that added nothing to the plot. French films are funny like that. If an American film showed someone getting undressed for bed, closing the curtains and lying down you'd probably expect them to be murdered, or at least to die peacefully in their sleep or something. Not so with the French film. It also ended abruptly with almost no resolution, which I enjoy because I get to spend the rest of the day pondering over what happened, why it happened and what the future looked like for the characters involved. It was very, very good. Afterwards, I took myself off to a little deli called 'Made in France' where I did my pondering over a goat's cheese and saucisson baguette. It was sheer bliss.
Annoyingly I arrived at the Cameo that evening at 10 past seven. I had all the tickets and everyone was waiting. I'd had a nightmare with taxis and ended up having to drive. I got grid-locked at the bottom of Lothian Road and then had to park almost on Strathern Road because there were no spaces nearer to the cinema. I hate, hate, hate being late for films so I was really pissed off with myself. I had to hot-foot it across the links, going back for my shoe twice. Anyway, we took our seats in time for the last trailer, which was pretty good timing considering it was actually so woefully bad.
The Squid and the Whale was excellent and I highly recommend it. Jeff Daniels' pompous assertions on literature, people and more are worth the ticket price alone. I now want to describe everything as "the fillet (pronounced 'fill-ay') of the neighbourhood" or "the fillet of Dickens' work".
The Coconut Grove was also fantastic with plenty of atmosphere and even better food. It was a most fitting start to Mog's 28th year.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Ice, ice, maybe
Emerging from my Decleor facial around 10 blackheads lighter, I feel my efforts on the ice should have been more aerodynamic. Alas, I was in fact pish.
Mog and I went along to Murrayfield to hook up with Katie/Cate and her friend Helen for a spot of ice skating. I hadn't been skating since I was 13 and a horrible boy called Scott followed me into the girls' toilets to try to persuade me to take my jeans off. Just in case you're thinking he might have actually been a nice boy who was really trying to aid me with any basic toilet skills I may have been lacking, his motives really weren't that altruistic. Anyway, it soooo didn't happen for him.
Miss Mog and I checked in our shoes and were duly given the familiar Commie-issue boots avec blade. While the murky blue colour was no surprise, I had forgotten just how heavy those things were. It was akin to having a couple of 1970's Volvos wrapped round your feet, in that they were that shade of blue, ridiculously heavy, inexcusably ugly and there wasn't a snowball's chance in Hades that you could make anything resembling a turn sans power steering.
Mog had informed me that she was the 'best in class' and was rather shocked upon discovering that she was actually a bit crap at it now. Mog moved stiffly and tentatively; like someone regaining the use of their legs after many years in traction. "Fuck!" she exclaimed, "I can't believe how pish I am at this."
I skated around for a couple of laps; far too fast, I might add, given my obvious lack of skill. I knocked over two men (neither good-looking enough to warrant further discussion here), three couples-in-love (they deserved it!) and kept getting stuck behind very small children and having to touch them so they'd move out of the way. The previous two confessions rendered me the most annoying person on the ice, while the latter just made me look like some sad, would-be kiddy-snatcher.
My feet started to ache after 25 minutes and two minutes after that I realised I had a whopping blister on each foot. I limped off to sit in the stand with the sick and the housebound and was somewhat pleased when Mog joined me moments later. I say 'somewhat' because it was actually very amusing watching the look of concentration and dismay on her face as she jerked her way round the rink.
We decided we would be as well subjecting ourselves to the full experience and opted next for slush-puppies in the cafe. It was one of those eateries which serves food and drink in primary colours only. For anyone who has not had a slush-puppy in years, I'd like to point out that they still lose their flavour a quarter of the way in and, our parents were right, they are a COMPLETE WASTE OF MONEY!
We queued to get our shoes back and my socks got wet in the changeover. Afterwards, Mog and I decided to go to the travel agents and look into booking our luxury spa holiday in the Far East. Somehow, I think that's more our style.
Mog and I went along to Murrayfield to hook up with Katie/Cate and her friend Helen for a spot of ice skating. I hadn't been skating since I was 13 and a horrible boy called Scott followed me into the girls' toilets to try to persuade me to take my jeans off. Just in case you're thinking he might have actually been a nice boy who was really trying to aid me with any basic toilet skills I may have been lacking, his motives really weren't that altruistic. Anyway, it soooo didn't happen for him.
Miss Mog and I checked in our shoes and were duly given the familiar Commie-issue boots avec blade. While the murky blue colour was no surprise, I had forgotten just how heavy those things were. It was akin to having a couple of 1970's Volvos wrapped round your feet, in that they were that shade of blue, ridiculously heavy, inexcusably ugly and there wasn't a snowball's chance in Hades that you could make anything resembling a turn sans power steering.
Mog had informed me that she was the 'best in class' and was rather shocked upon discovering that she was actually a bit crap at it now. Mog moved stiffly and tentatively; like someone regaining the use of their legs after many years in traction. "Fuck!" she exclaimed, "I can't believe how pish I am at this."
I skated around for a couple of laps; far too fast, I might add, given my obvious lack of skill. I knocked over two men (neither good-looking enough to warrant further discussion here), three couples-in-love (they deserved it!) and kept getting stuck behind very small children and having to touch them so they'd move out of the way. The previous two confessions rendered me the most annoying person on the ice, while the latter just made me look like some sad, would-be kiddy-snatcher.
My feet started to ache after 25 minutes and two minutes after that I realised I had a whopping blister on each foot. I limped off to sit in the stand with the sick and the housebound and was somewhat pleased when Mog joined me moments later. I say 'somewhat' because it was actually very amusing watching the look of concentration and dismay on her face as she jerked her way round the rink.
We decided we would be as well subjecting ourselves to the full experience and opted next for slush-puppies in the cafe. It was one of those eateries which serves food and drink in primary colours only. For anyone who has not had a slush-puppy in years, I'd like to point out that they still lose their flavour a quarter of the way in and, our parents were right, they are a COMPLETE WASTE OF MONEY!
We queued to get our shoes back and my socks got wet in the changeover. Afterwards, Mog and I decided to go to the travel agents and look into booking our luxury spa holiday in the Far East. Somehow, I think that's more our style.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Lights, camera, exfoliation
The job continues to go well and I've been tasked with a couple of meaty and interesting projects. After scripting and producing my team's take on Big Brother for the departmental away day, we shot the video last Tuesday night after work. Everybody got into the spirit of things and brought along great props - wine bottles, sunglasses, even a little silver suitcase. Yvonne shared her husband's reaction when she had told him she'd be working late on Tuesday night as she picked up her overnight bag complete with dressing gown stuffed in. My colleague Lisa was playing Davina and totally blew us away. She ad-libed her way through the interviews like a true pro and really brought the proceedings to life. We used the lift doors to portray us leaving the big brother house and even had the papparazzi waiting - complete with flashing digital cameras.
The real work comes in with overhauling my department's pages on the company website and re-thinking a particular suite of literature that isn't being used to full effect. Time will tell whether this goes as well as my film production talents.
I thought my week was off to a bad start when I rushed up to donate blood and was told that my flow was "a bit slow today," but that they were sure they'd "be able to do something with it." As the guy took the needle out of my arm and lifted up the bag of blood I'd offered, I was embarrassed to see that there was almost nothing there. I apologised for my crapness and the guy told me it was a simple case of self-preservation and not to bother stressing myself. But still, I thought it was a worrying sign. On Monday night I cooked dinner for my aunt and uncle in their flat. It was a really good night and I enjoyed chatting to them. It's nice to be able to have a friendship like that with family members. On Wednesday night, I was off to Sygn again for food and drinks with Mog and Debs. It was great catching up with Debs because I hadn't seen her since well before Christmas. On Thursday, my mum took me out for dinner before we went off to view some flats. She really liked the one I like, so it's just a question of whether I have enough money to do anything about it.
By Friday, I was knackered so it was a night of quiet bliss. I treated myself to an Indian takeaway, scoffed it and immediately regretted so when I discovered my ability to move had been seriously impaired. I swear that stuff expands and swells as soon as it makes contact with my stomach. Since I clearly wasn't going anywhere in a hurry, I read this week's Economist until I fell asleep. There was an interesting article on the lack of burial space in Britain (see previous entry).
Something fantastic happened while I was having my Decleor facial on Saturday morning. As well as the darkened room, soothing music and pleasing aromatherapy oils, the beauty therapist actually tackled my blackheads. It was the ultimate indulgence; lying there in a blissful state of utter relaxation and having someone attend to the needs of my individual pores.
Hopefully this rejuvenating experience will give my tired body the kick-start it needs to get through next week. If not, I don't think I'll be donating much blood, sweat or tears anytime soon.
The real work comes in with overhauling my department's pages on the company website and re-thinking a particular suite of literature that isn't being used to full effect. Time will tell whether this goes as well as my film production talents.
I thought my week was off to a bad start when I rushed up to donate blood and was told that my flow was "a bit slow today," but that they were sure they'd "be able to do something with it." As the guy took the needle out of my arm and lifted up the bag of blood I'd offered, I was embarrassed to see that there was almost nothing there. I apologised for my crapness and the guy told me it was a simple case of self-preservation and not to bother stressing myself. But still, I thought it was a worrying sign. On Monday night I cooked dinner for my aunt and uncle in their flat. It was a really good night and I enjoyed chatting to them. It's nice to be able to have a friendship like that with family members. On Wednesday night, I was off to Sygn again for food and drinks with Mog and Debs. It was great catching up with Debs because I hadn't seen her since well before Christmas. On Thursday, my mum took me out for dinner before we went off to view some flats. She really liked the one I like, so it's just a question of whether I have enough money to do anything about it.
By Friday, I was knackered so it was a night of quiet bliss. I treated myself to an Indian takeaway, scoffed it and immediately regretted so when I discovered my ability to move had been seriously impaired. I swear that stuff expands and swells as soon as it makes contact with my stomach. Since I clearly wasn't going anywhere in a hurry, I read this week's Economist until I fell asleep. There was an interesting article on the lack of burial space in Britain (see previous entry).
Something fantastic happened while I was having my Decleor facial on Saturday morning. As well as the darkened room, soothing music and pleasing aromatherapy oils, the beauty therapist actually tackled my blackheads. It was the ultimate indulgence; lying there in a blissful state of utter relaxation and having someone attend to the needs of my individual pores.
Hopefully this rejuvenating experience will give my tired body the kick-start it needs to get through next week. If not, I don't think I'll be donating much blood, sweat or tears anytime soon.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Tapas, tadpoles and tea
Decleor joy! - my 'official' invitation for an aromatherapy facial arrived in the post at the start of this week. I say 'official' because last week I went to the Decleor counter in John Lewis to complain about my AWOL new year's invitation. The kind Decleor lady apologised profusely and wrote me out an impromptu invitation. I now have luxury facials booked for February and March (ooooh, the extravagance!). The fact that the cost of the facial is redeemable against two or more products also means I will have to buy things on both occasions (well, it'd be foolish not to now, wouldn't it?).
I called Sinead on Monday night; she was making soup (very homely). She told me she would come through on Saturday and we could catch up and make a night of it (I have a feeling that carbs and black coffee will be required on Sunday). She'd been to see Brokeback Mountain and gave me her no-nonsense review of the film. It went exactly like this: "Saw Brokeback Mountain but wasn't convinced of the love story and there were too many sheep and hillside shots for me. Gyllenhall was a babe though."
Dinner at Tapas Ole with Leanne on Tuesday was great fun. It's the first time it's been just us since Ella (her beautiful baby) was born in November. I think Ella is the best baby I've ever met, but I do feel under pressure to mind my language whenever she's around (I'd hate for it to emerge in Ella's future therapy sessions that her ASBO stemmed from my four-letter rants during her infancy. Not that that's necessarily going to happen. Like I said, she's an excellent baby). It was good to be able to put my question (why do people have children anyway?) to Leanne in her new-found state of motherhood. Normally when I ask people that, they look at me like I'm some sort of freak. I'm not saying I don't want to have kids (I'm assuming the desire will hit me at some point - it just never has so far) or that I think it's wrong or anything - I'm just interested in people's conscious decisions to procreate (the unconscious decision to procreate is far more common and, for that reason, completely uninteresting to me). I totally get the desire to make love (thank the Lord!), I'm just a bit more shaky around the desire to make babies. I understand that people want to have kids, what I want to know is why they want them. Leanne got where I was coming from and feels kind of the same when it comes to having another. She said that people just assume that she'll want to have more, but she really can't see why she would want another one. Anyway - good chat!
Some prospective clients for my 'leisure-time' freelance venture flew up from London and took me out to dinner on Wednesday night. We went to the Living Room and I thoroughly enjoyed the food - though the house champagne left a lot to be desired. We talked business and they didn't hit on me - step up from last week (see 'Networking?'). I was firing on all cylinders and actually astounded myself. I had a bit of an out-of-body moment when I looked at myself, listened to what I was saying and wanted to laugh at how grown-up and knowledgeable I sounded. Anyway, I offered my services as a consultant for a few days and they were most receptive. Ka-ching!
I popped round to see Sam on Thursday night. It was freezing outside and the cup of tea he made me was delightful. I told him about my week; my ups and downs, triumphs and irritations. He told me about his week; his visa/passport issues, proteins, genes and bio-informatics. I am chuffed with myself because I have set-up a website and have been teaching myself how to build it (in the most basic of ways naturally). I was even more chuffed because Sam seemed chuffed at my being chuffed with myself because I wrote a little bit of HTML. Then he offered to give me a copy of Dreamweaver (an HTML cheat). Cool. I left Sam's place feeling ten times better than I had when I went in.
Bring on the weekend!
I called Sinead on Monday night; she was making soup (very homely). She told me she would come through on Saturday and we could catch up and make a night of it (I have a feeling that carbs and black coffee will be required on Sunday). She'd been to see Brokeback Mountain and gave me her no-nonsense review of the film. It went exactly like this: "Saw Brokeback Mountain but wasn't convinced of the love story and there were too many sheep and hillside shots for me. Gyllenhall was a babe though."
Dinner at Tapas Ole with Leanne on Tuesday was great fun. It's the first time it's been just us since Ella (her beautiful baby) was born in November. I think Ella is the best baby I've ever met, but I do feel under pressure to mind my language whenever she's around (I'd hate for it to emerge in Ella's future therapy sessions that her ASBO stemmed from my four-letter rants during her infancy. Not that that's necessarily going to happen. Like I said, she's an excellent baby). It was good to be able to put my question (why do people have children anyway?) to Leanne in her new-found state of motherhood. Normally when I ask people that, they look at me like I'm some sort of freak. I'm not saying I don't want to have kids (I'm assuming the desire will hit me at some point - it just never has so far) or that I think it's wrong or anything - I'm just interested in people's conscious decisions to procreate (the unconscious decision to procreate is far more common and, for that reason, completely uninteresting to me). I totally get the desire to make love (thank the Lord!), I'm just a bit more shaky around the desire to make babies. I understand that people want to have kids, what I want to know is why they want them. Leanne got where I was coming from and feels kind of the same when it comes to having another. She said that people just assume that she'll want to have more, but she really can't see why she would want another one. Anyway - good chat!
Some prospective clients for my 'leisure-time' freelance venture flew up from London and took me out to dinner on Wednesday night. We went to the Living Room and I thoroughly enjoyed the food - though the house champagne left a lot to be desired. We talked business and they didn't hit on me - step up from last week (see 'Networking?'). I was firing on all cylinders and actually astounded myself. I had a bit of an out-of-body moment when I looked at myself, listened to what I was saying and wanted to laugh at how grown-up and knowledgeable I sounded. Anyway, I offered my services as a consultant for a few days and they were most receptive. Ka-ching!
I popped round to see Sam on Thursday night. It was freezing outside and the cup of tea he made me was delightful. I told him about my week; my ups and downs, triumphs and irritations. He told me about his week; his visa/passport issues, proteins, genes and bio-informatics. I am chuffed with myself because I have set-up a website and have been teaching myself how to build it (in the most basic of ways naturally). I was even more chuffed because Sam seemed chuffed at my being chuffed with myself because I wrote a little bit of HTML. Then he offered to give me a copy of Dreamweaver (an HTML cheat). Cool. I left Sam's place feeling ten times better than I had when I went in.
Bring on the weekend!
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