Forever Amber

Because I’ve been so busy bringing about the death of journalism this week, I forgot to tell you about last Saturday, and the very special brand of torture it provided. See, Saturday was the day I had set aside to kill myself with heat exhaustion go shopping with my mum for her M.O.B (Mother of The Bride) outfit. We went to Edinburgh. Now, it being Edinburgh, and it being September, I assumed it would be cold, so I had dressed accordingly, in my fabby new mustard-yellow-sweater-that’s-also-a-jacket thing.  “I’ll be totally snuggly and warm in this!” I though, smugly popping an extra sweater into my bag JUST IN CASE.

I did not need the extra sweater. I did not even need the kicky mustard yellow jacket thing. Nope, the temperatures in Edinburgh on that September 9th day hit about 30%, people. Everyone was walking around in shorts and T-shirts – everyone, that is, except me and my mum, who were walking around like refugees: me in the grubby old grey vest that is only ever worn underneath other items (To keep me warm. Because I needed to be warm in that there 30% heat, for sure), and never, EVER allowed into the public eye, my mum in smart clothes and a pair of red deck shoes that she had to buy when the TREMENDOUS HEAT caused her feet to swell up and rendered her totally unable to walk. Seriously, I’m surprised no one offered to spare some change, that’s how bad we looked.

This “out in public in my grubby grey vest” experience was far from the worst thing that was to happen to me on that day, though. No, I’d say the WORST thing that happened was being accosted by Edinburgh’s resident batshit crazy person, while standing in the queue for the bathroom. For real.

We were in John Lewis at the time. We’d noticed the Crazy Lady as soon as we got off the escalator. She was walking along talking loudly to herself, and also FOAMING AT THE MOUTH. I kid you not.  Well, as soon as I seen her, I knew. I knew that sooner or later, that Crazy Old Lady and I would be getting better acquainted.  Remember that sign I have on my forehead, the one that only the insane can see? That sign did its job good.

As I stood in the queue for the bathroom not five minutes after seeing The Crazy, I felt an uncomfortable pressure on my arm. I looked down. Yup, sure enough, there she was, and she was now attached to my arm. “It’s very hot today,” she observed (It always starts thus, with a comment about the weather), foam dripping from her lips. “Yes, it is!” I answered, trying desperately to quell the urge to shout “MUUUUMMM! The old mad lady is taaaaallkingto me!” She looked at me. She looked me up and down, appraisingly, before pursing her foaming lips in disapproval. “Hmmmmmm,” she pronounced, looking as though there was a bad smell under her nose. At the other side of the room, a small child exited a cubicle. I threw the child out of my way and took refuge in the stall, barely able to believe that one of the Foaming-at-the-mouth-totally-freaking-batshit-crazy brigade, had turned her nose up at me. Me!

And that was our day in Edinburgh. We were also served diet Coke by the devil, but ach, you’d have to have been there.

Ikea Watch:
Meanwhile, back at The Igloo, the Ikea furniture is still status: unchanged…