Tonight, as I was getting ready for bed, I removed my makeup as usual and then slapped some toner on my face. "Why, this toner is particularly fresh and zingy tonight!" thought I. "In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d think it was almost burning the skin right off my face, haha!"
But it was burning the skin right off my face. Because it wasn’t toner, was it? No, it was freaking nail polish remover. Nail. Polish. Remover. If I had a brain cell, it would be an orphan.
In better news, when I went to Boots the Chemist to buy my Refine & Rewind serum today, the lady at the counter didn’t want to sell it to me because she said it was too intense for my "age group". When I asked her what she thought my age group might be, exactly, she reckoned I must be about 18. God, I love that woman. (Also: Boots the Chemist, if you’d like me to be the poster child for the Refine & Rewind serum call me! If you want me to be the poster child for facial toners, though, maybe don’t bother, hey?)
Seeing as how we’ll probably be coming up to our first anniversary by the time I finish recording the honeymoon, and given that I’ve finished all my work for today, like a good girl, I’ve decided to crack on with the honeymoon report. You lucky, lucky, people!
So, last time on "When will Amber stop talking about her wedding and honeymoon?" we met a badass camel, got the flu, and did quite a bit of shopping at Zara. You join us now as our intrepid explorers (that’s me and Terry) prepare to leave Lanzarote and journey across the ocean to the neighbouring island of Fuerteventura – and make quite heavy weather of it, to be honest.
Fuerteventura is only 30 minutes away from Lanzarote on the slow boat, and ten minutes away if you take the fast boat. Naturally, we took the slow boat, and it took us no less than two attempts to actually get on the thing. The first time, we drove to the town the boat leaves from, purchased our tickets… and then sat slowly frying in the car for a couple of hours waiting for the boat to turn up. The boat was late, we were hot, and, to cut a very, very long story short, by the time the thing finally nosed its way into the harbour it was too late to get on it, because we’d worked out that we’d need several hours on Fuerteventura. So we went home and came back the next day. This is why it’s a good idea to PLAN AHEAD, kids.
Anyway, the reason we needed such a long time on the island was because we had a PLAN, people. Yes, a PLAN. Normally we are totally plan-less – we are ministers without portfolios, if you will – when we travel, so this was quite exciting for us. The plan was to go and see the wreck of the American Star – a passenger ship that wrecked off the coast of Fuerteventura in 1994. The ship is hard to find, and even harder to reach, having wrecked off a treacherous stretch of coast, far from civilisation. Reaching it is both difficult and dangerous, so obviously we decided to go.
Now, a little known factoid about me for you: I am fascinated by old, abandoned things, especially shipwrecks. I had stumbled upon the story of the American Star by accident, over a year ago, and had been looking forward to seeing it ever since. So it was with no small excitement that we boarded the ferry (eventually) and set off on our merry way. (During this trip I also discovered that I am scared of being in the car hold of a ship while the ship is moving, and also: while it is not moving. You learn something new every day.)
So, we reached Fuerteventura and disembarked at the town of Corralejo. Never go there. I’d actually been there before, on a day trip from Lanzarote with my parents, but in those days it was all fields. No, really. There was literally nothing there except a lot of sand dunes and a couple of big hotels. The sand and the hotels are still there, but they’ve now been joined by a lot of strip joints and other shrines to tackiness: the town is now huge (compared to what it was) and as ugly as sin. So we had a quick lunch and hit the road…
The American Star is on the other side of the island to Corralejo, and it took a couple of hours to reach that coast. Then we had to find the wreck. When the ship ran aground, back in the 90s, the people of Fuerteventura had indulged in a little light looting, then had left it the hell alone, because it’s far from the beaten track, and the waters around it are dangerous – in fact, 7 tourists have died trying to swim out to it. So you can totally see why we were so stupid hellbent on seeing it. What the good people of the island didn’t do was provide any roadsigns to point the way to the wreck. Luckily, we had visited an Internet cafe in Lanzarote to find out where exactly it was. Unluckily – and also: stupidly – we hadn’t bothered taking a pen and paper with us to write down the directions, so we were relying heavily on memory.
What we remembered most clearly about the directions we’d read was that, in order to reach the wreck, you had to travel down the kind of dirt track you just wouldn’t drive down if you were in your right mind. We, of course, were not in our right minds, so when we found ourselves being almost shaken to death on a treacherous, rural road to nowhere, we simply whooped with delight and took the lens caps off our cameras, ready to capture the American Star in all its faded glory.
Here’s what the American Star looked like on the website I first found it on:
Here is the American Star that faced us as our poor little hire car finally rounded the bend that concealed it from our view:
So THAT sucked. I mean, who knew that sinking ships sometimes actually sink? Or that believing everything you read on the Interweb is one of those things that only stupid people do? Anyway, seeing as we were there, Terry built a cairn by the side of the road:
Then we got back into our car and drove all the way back across the island and went to the beach:
It was a nice beach, and I did manage to get this totally hilarious photo of me looking like a deformed hunchback (no offense to deformed hunchbacks, by the way) in the sand, so it wasn’t a completely wasted trip:
Anyway, this concludes part three of Amber & Terry’s Honeymoon Tale. Tune in soon for Part 4, and the amazing story of how Amber doesn’t get to drive a quad bike, but does get some new Gucci sunglasses. (Damn, I just totally spoiled the ending of that one, didn’t I? Oh well.)
Tagged American Star, Fuerteventura
So, in preparation for the start of Project Calm the Hell Down, I headed to the library on Friday to get myself a big pile o’books. While I was standing in the queue to check out this big pile o’books, I noticed two little boys standing in front of me. Suddenly, as if moved by some kind of sixth sense, Little Boy # 1 turned his head towards me, Exorcist style. He glanced at me and then did one of those comedy double-takes, his eyes widening in horror.
"Kids!" I thought, glancing quickly down to make sure I hadn’t, you know, forgotten to wear pants or something. But I hadn’t forgotten. And my humiliation was not yet over.
Little Boy # 1 turned to Little Boy # 2 and began whispering frantically in his ear, casting excited glances in my direction all the while. Something in his demeanor told me he was telling LB#2, "Don’t look now and make it too obvious, but…" Sure enough, both boys turned to face the front, and, after a discreet pause, Little Boy # 2 swivelled his head towards me, took a good look, and then collapsed, giggling, upon his friend.
WHY? WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? Why am I suddenly an object of ridicule to little kids?
Because I’m not much of a one for suffering the little children and all that jazz, I opened my mouth to tell them that, yes, I could see them laughing at me and it wasn’t very nice now, was it… then I remembered Project Calm the Hell Down, so I took a deep breath instead and satisfied myself with imagining how one day they, too, will be old and laughed at by young whippersnappers.
BUT WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? Is it because I’m a "ginger"? (I don’t think it can be, because LB#2 had red hair too). Was it the over sized sunglasses perched on top of my head which, OK, make me look a bit like a giant human insect, but hey, I like looking like a giant human insect, and anyway, they help with the migraines? Am I too fat for my skinny jeans? WHAT?
In better news, Project Calm the Hell Down is going well. Today? I didn’t get up until 9.30am. Go me!
The Scottish summertime hates me. And also: is trying to kill me. GOD.
Actually, it’s migraine that’s trying to kill me. And it’s not the Scottish summer per se, but all the thundery, humid weather that tends to be pretty much all we get in these here parts at this time of year. The thundery weather gives me migraines, you see. Migraines give me health anxiety. Health anxiety gives me stress. Stress gives me migraines. And the beat goes on…
Other things that give me migraines:
- Cheese
- Bright lights
- Flashing lights
- Hormones
- Asda (the one near us has flickering strip lights and acres of reflective white floor. It’s migraine-tastic, baby!)
- Meatloaf albums. (OK, not these, but they do give me pain, which is the same thing…)
- but mostly thunder and stress, really
The first migraine of this summer arrived almost exactly a year to the day since the first migraine of last summer. I was cleaning the kitchen with bleach at the time (other things that can trigger migraines: strong smells), having just eaten a cheese salad, and was fretting about how the hell I was supposed to find time to cut the grass, finish my work for today, start my feature on weddings for The Scotsman, pick bits of fluff off the stair carpet with my bare hands, walk the dog and also: clean the kitchen with bleach. I turned around from the dark living room to the kitchen window, which was filled with sunlight (bright lights, you see) and WHAM! Migraine now arriving, please clear your schedule…
Of course, being the hypochondriac that I am, I was immediately convinced that, even although the flashing lights and blind spots in my vision were exactly the same as every other migraine I’ve ever had, this was not, in fact, a migraine at all, but was a brain tumour. “Terry,” I called, panic stricken, “come quickly, I’m having a brain tumour”. The divorce comes through in a few months, apparently, and Doctor Amber is available for consultations any time you like.
Anyway, continuing brain-tumour fears aside (because I could totally have a brain tumour! I really could!) I have spent the last few days feeling delicate, like the heroine in a Jane Austen novel, and being brought ice cream, which has made me fat. (Note: ice cream doesn’t actually help with migraine, I just like it). This has mostly all just been me being a drama queen: I am fairly lucky in that my migraines aren’t too debilitating, and once the aura has gone, I’m left with a headache that’s not nearly as bad as the ones some people get. But hey, I like the drama and the ice cream, so I may as well milk it for all it’s worth.
On the upside, a gardener is coming to mow our lawn next week, because now that Migraine Season has officially started for me I have decided to embark on Project Calm The Hell Down, Woman. Less stress, less cheese and more relaxation is the order of the day, which means that someone else gets to do the gardening while I lie on my bed eating grapes, or something. Of course, I’m feeling absolutely fine now, but there’s no way I’m cutting that grass. Thanks, Migraine Season!
IMPORTANT NOTE: No one leave comments on this entry saying, “Oh, my mother’s auntie’s cousin’s dog’s sister used to get migraines, but it turned out she had a brain tumour and then she died!” Trust me, I don’t want to know…)
Some of you have mentioned that you’ve been having problems leaving comments here lately and because I am all about the attention I have investigated and have discovered that the problem is… something I don’t have a clue how to fix. Yes. But! But! I have had a bit of a twiddle with the configuration, and have made it so that you don’t have to provide an email address now to leave a comment. Hopefully that will fix it for the time being, and, as an added bonus, y’all will be able to post under fake names just to confuse/flame me.*
So, yes, comment away!
*Not really. I have your IP address logged. Big Amber is watching…
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As you go through life, you start to realise that there are some things only stupid people do. Pouring bleach in their coffee. Almost choking to death on their own dinner. Wearing crocs. To this short list, however, I would add one more item: trying to cut their own hair.
Now, I know not to cut my own hair, and specifically, not to cut my own fringe (or "bangs" if you’re in America). The reason I know this? Because I have done it before. Many, many times, in fact. And it has never, ever, worked out well. My hairdresser has told me not to do it. My friends have told me not to do it. I have told myself not to do it. So, what do you think I did today, folks?
I cut my own hair.
It was the work of moments. Do you ever get those days where you’ve been perfectly happy with your hair, and then suddenly you wake up one morning and you just can’t bear to have it on your head any more? I do. And today was one of those days. My frustration with my hair was largely focused on my long, sideways fringe. Up until yesterday, this fringe had done nothing to annoy me. This morning I woke up and it was totally in my eyes all the time. "What would be really stupid would be if I tried to cut my fringe myself!" I thought, heading for the bathroom. "But I’m not stupid enough to do that, nosiree! Why, small children aren’t stupid enough to do that. Even Britney Spears isn’t stupid enough to… oh no, wait…"
The next thing I knew, the scissors were in my hands and my fringe was on the floor. D’oh.
So, as you’re reading this I bet you’re probably thinking "How bad can it be? I bet it’s not that bad at all?" It is that bad, folks. I look like someone attacked my head with a lawnmower. Luckily for me, hairbands have been going through a bit of a resurgence recently. You know, those big, wide, Alice in Wonderland style bands? They are everywhere. I even own some myself. The problem with that, though? Those headbands look really stupid on me. Seriously, I look like an overgrown, Sloaney child right now. And this, my friends, is how I will look for the rest of the summer – or for a few weeks at least. Pity me. And also: let this be a lesson to you: never try to cut your hair yourself.
Tagged amber, cutting hair, cutting your own hair, forever amber, hair, hair bands, hair care
Well, folks, it’s Father’s Day in this here neck of the woods (and possibly in other necks of the woods, too, only I wouldn’t know about that), and as I managed to completely embarrass my mum with that photo of us and the monkies, on Mother’s Day this year, I thought it was only fair to embarrass my dad, too. I’m all heart, me.
So, without further ado, Forever Amber Enterprises is proud to present one of my other favourite photos of all time:
This was taken during a trip to Edinburgh Zoo back when I, as you can see, was but a tiny wee person. Unfortunately history does not record what was in those sandwiches that made us look so shocked, but I guess we got off pretty lightly, whatever it was, because if you look carefully, almost all of the people in the background are lying down dead.
It would be uncharitable to suggest that my mum, who hates cooking, must have made the sandwiches, but to be honest, she probably did. (But mum, your dinner last night was lovely, honest.)
So, there you have it: number 2 in an occasional series of "embarrassing pictures of me and my parents". Coming soon: the one where my dad has his head in a plastic tube. And no, I’m not even joking.
Happy Father’s Day, dad 
Tagged dad, father's day, parents, zoo
The Vigil is over, by the way. Did I not mention that? Whoops. Ever since I got my shiny new Facebook page, and got addicted to checking it every hour, on the hour (and sometimes even more frequently than that, to be perfectly honest), I just keep assuming that everyone in the entire world is on Facebook and knows what I’m doing at all times. But you’re not, are you? So, for the benefit of those of you who’ve been clinging to the "OMG Terry is totally going to die on the operating table!" vigil since 8am on Friday morning, you may stand down. And also: sorry for not releasing you sooner
As it happens, there was no need for y’all to be starting the vigil at 8am, and this was because the operation didn’t happen until 11.30am. So much for the whole "If he’s there at 8am he surely must be first!" thing. Oh National Health Service, how many are the ways in which you disappoint us!
Other ways in which the NHS disappointed us/freaked us the hell out on Friday:
1. They told Terry he would be having a local anesthetic.
2. So when he arrived at the hospital, he was all ready for a local anesthetic.
3. He was not having a local anesthetic.
4. "No way are you having a local anesthetic, that’s way too dangerous!" said Surgeon A.
At this point Terry called me to let me know that he would now be having a general anesthetic. This made my natural anxiety go into overdrive, because, as anyone who’s been watching Neighbours this week will know, general anesthetic is a highly dangerous procedure which can totally make you have an aneurysm and die. "He will totally have an aneurysm and die!" I told my mum, during a hysterical mid-vigil phone call later that morning (Vigil Stage 6 – ‘Calling in Reinforcements‘). However, this anxiety of mine turned out to be misplaced because:
5. They gave him a local anesthetic.
6. "There’s no way he can have a general now," said surgeon B, "because he hasn’t been fasting. So if we give him a general, he will die, like Stingray in Neighbours."
7. Surgeons A & B then begun the operation with a long conversation between themselves about how very, very dangerous it was to be carrying out this operation under a local anesthetic. This freaked out even Terry, and trust me, Terry does not freak out easily. Unlike, say, me.
8. When the operation was over, they came to look at his arm. "So, what will probably happen now is that you will develop blood clots in your vein," said the surgeon. "Maybe the vein will even totally, like, dry up and go hard, and we’ll have to take it out, who knows?" "Will the blood clots kill me?" asked Terry. "Oh no," laughed the surgeon. "They’re not those kind of blood clots." But then, he was the one who thought it would be OK to give him a general anesthetic. REMEMBER STINGRAY, people, is all I’m sayin’.
Anyway, after that Terry came home (in time for the lunchtime episode of Neighbours! Sorry y’all missed that, by the way, on account of you were still on the Vigil…) and we begun watching his arm obsessively to see if it would fall off or something. So far it hasn’t. But there’s still time…
OK, let’s try this again, shall we?
Tomorrow morning, Terry is going into hospital to have his fistula removed. Yes, just like he did last time, only this time we’re hoping the operation will, you know, actually happen.
Now, clearly the fact that Terry is having an operation kind of sucks, and when I say it kind of sucks, I mean it kind of sucks for me. Terry is happy and relaxed at the prospect of having his fistula removed. I? Am On a Vigil. For real.
Tomorrow’s Vigil starts at 8am. No, that’s not a typo, that’s 8am as in "an hour I barely knew existed". (I work from home, OK? I get lazy.) This is actually a good thing because the fact that his operation is so early means that he must be first in the queue (I mean, surely to God they don’t do operations BEFORE 8am? God, I really hope the surgeon is a morning person… ) so, technically speaking, he shouldn’t have to experience the long, tedious delays the NHS is so well known for. And I should be put out of my misery pretty quickly. Well, I hope so anyway.
So, yes, Vigil tomorrow, 8am. Are you with me?
* * *
In other news, I am now pretty sure that the man across the road is trying to steal my sanity. This guy washes his car every day. Every. Day. Not only that, but he washes his car for an entire hour every day. Sometimes longer. Dude clearly has more time on his hands than I do. Anyway, I’m sure you can guess what’s coming here. When the man across the road washes his car (Every day! For an hour!) he rolls down the car windows and does the old "using the vehicle as a massive speaker system" thing. GOD.
My question is this: how should he die?
So, things aren’t great in the ‘hood, is what I’m trying to say here. Maybe I should buy a new house? One with soundproofing and no neighbours? Or maybe I should just calm the hell down, hmmm?
Anyway: Vigil. Must concentrate on Vigil. Aaargh, hospital Vigil! Not good for hypochondriacs! Scary! Mmmm, wine.
Now, I know I haven’t been a very good blogger lately, and for that I can only apologise. I’ve been too busy blogging at other places to spend much time relating the boring details of my life over here (I also had a headache-that-was-actually-a-brain-tumour-OMG! yesterday, but we won’t talk about that, nosiree) but, hey, will you be my friend anyway?
You see, I got me a Facebook page. I don’t really know why I did it, but what I DO know is that since I got it, I haven’t been able to stop complusively checking to see how has made me their friend (thanks, both of you!) and feeling a bit like Amber No Mates. So. You can find my page here. When I work out what the hell I’m supposed to do with it, I’ll let you know.
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