Well, folks, we made it. And having only been in the States for about five hours, I’d already bought myself a Zac Posen for Target dress, which I think has to be a personal best for me in the shopping stakes. I normally wait at least 24 hours:
I mean, we only went in there for some groceries. Whoops. I don’t think Terry was quite convinced that what we’d really gone out for was bread, milk, and a Zac Posen dress, but, you know, those are the basics in life, no? Isn’t grocery shopping fun these days?
Here’s the wonderful and amazing thing about Florida for me, though: it feels so much like coming home. Much more than actually coming home does, say. And as I stood there in that same Target changing room that I always seem to end up in when I come here, with my mum struggling to yank the dress over my head (it’s one of those double layered things. I got the two layers twisted, somehow, got stuck, and had to call in reinforcements. Which just goes to prove that changing continents doesn’t make me any cleverer, sadly.), it was hard to believe that earlier that day I’d been at Glasgow airport, or waking up at home, getting ready to leave. It already feels like I’ve been here forever, and I love that. It’s like coming home.
On the plane on the way over I sat across the aisle from an elderly man, who seemed to be on his own. Being slightly emotional at the time (I welled up when we touched down and the pilot said “Welcome to Florida”…), I just couldn’t get this man out of my mind. I imagined him waking up on his own, travelling to the airport and sitting there waiting for his flight, with no one to share a few words with, or even just to sit in companionable silence with. And now here he was, still alone, and for some reason it made me feel maudlin to think of him travelling all the way across the Atlantic without a kind word from anyone other than the cabin crew, if he was lucky, and I wanted to try and reach out to him somehow, but I didn’t know what to say so I had to settle for a few friendly smiles in his direction, which probably made the poor guy think I was a lunatic.
I hope someone was waiting for him at the other end. I hope he was actually completely happy in his solitude, or that his wife, or friend or whatever was just sitting in another part of the cabin, because ever since we landed, that old man’s been on my mind. I feel so lucky to be here, in my favourite place in the world, and to have my family here with me. (I also feel a bit teary and introspective, like someone who hasn’t slept properly for three days, and who has drunk a bit too much coffee to make up for it. Note to self: stop doing that.) And I’m going to try and enjoy every single second of this trip, as much as I possibly can, because, well, you never know how long next winter will be.. .
I’m also going to probably buy some more shoes and dresses. But I guess you already knew that…
Obligatory photos:
(Terry really needs to eat a sandwich, doesn’t he?)
Tagged florida
Remember when I said I was so relieved to be able to go on holiday despite the best efforts of the ash cloud, that I wasn’t even feeling a smidgen of my usual fear of flying?
That was before I read this:
[Source: warning, this link is to the Daily Mail, proceed with caution!]
(And oh hey, remember when I said I’d never read the Daily Mail ever again? Wish I’d kept THAT promise…)
You see that, people? That “terrifying mid-air drama”? That “plunge” from the sky? That “hitting severe turbulence”? That right there would kill me. I would die. And I don’t mean I’d die because I didn’t have my seat belt on (I ALWAYS have my seat belt on…) and I got thrown around the cabin like a rag doll, I mean I’d die because of THE FEAR. Actually, I’m pretty sure I’ve come very close to dying of THE FEAR on previous flights, and those were ones with only very mild turbulence. Some of them were flights with no turbulence at all, and I still almost died of THE FEAR.
(Two days after 9/11, Terry and I flew back from Spain, where we’d been during the attacks. Naturally, I was terrified, and this was intensified by the fact that the airlines at the time weren’t allowing passengers to bring anything into the cabin at all, so I was denied my usual coping mechanisms of book and music. At one point during the flight I got up to go to the bathroom, which was at the very front of the plane, right in front of the cockpit. As I stood there awaiting my turn, the door to the cockpit opened, and a young woman came out. Seriously, she looked about… twelve, maybe? She looked at me. I looked at her. We both looked at the locked door of the bathroom. “I have to go before you,” the woman suddenly announced, glaring at me. “Because I am the pilot.” I nodded dumbly, and let her go first. Then I stood braced in the doorway of that cockpit, knowing that the only thing standing between a planeload of people and a fiery death at the hands of the maniacs who were almost certainly on board, was… me. I am glad to report that I rose to the occasion. I did not shirk my duty. I protected that cockpit as if my life depended on it – which it basically did, as far as I was concerned – and it was only as I walked back to my seat afterwards that I realised there must’ve been a co-pilot in there anyway, and my fears of the woman never coming out of the bathroom, and me having to guide the plane to safety, guided only by a small team of people on the ground and my sketchy knowledge of Microsoft Flight Simulator were, um, ridiculous. I remained in a state of constant vigilance and total and utter panic for the rest of the flight, though. I’m still in that state now, actually.)
So, readers, please give a warm, Forever Amber welcome to: THE FEAR! It’s back, and it’s bigger than ever! One terrifying mid-air drama, coming right up!*
(*There’s almost almost a terrifing mid-air drama when I fly. Unfortunately, the drama is normally provided by me…)
Tagged fear of flying
Three sleeps to go, people! Three! And you know the one good thing about this whole Ash Cloud O’Doom extravaganza? It means that I’ll be so relieved to be getting on that plane on Saturday morning that I haven’t even bothered to go through my usual “OMG, what if the plane crashes? I bet the plane will crash!” hysteria or anything. Well, I mean, there was that dream in which we became the first people to fly directly through the heart of the ash cloud “Just to see what would happen”, but other than that, SCREW the fear or flying, just get me on that plane, bring me the little miniature bottle of wine or three and let’s get the hell out of Dodge, people, seriously. Also, the Ash Cloud seems to have abated somewhat, so although I hesitate to tempt fate in this way, I’m tentatively hopeful that we’ll be going to Florida this weekend, and that the plane will not crash.
(I am SO dying in a plane crash this weekend, aren’t I? And then all of the advance posts I’ve written for my my blogs will continue to publish on schedule, so it’ll be like I’m speaking to you from beyond the grave. About shoes. Because that’s totally what my ghostly self would return to earth to talk about, isn’t it?)
Anyway, today is my last day of work – or I hope so, anyway. The aim is to have everything finished up by tonight, so I can spend Thursday and Friday cleaning the house, packing my suitcase, re-packing my suitcase, and working my way through my cryptic pre-holiday To-Do list, which simply says things like “eyelashes!” and “Rubin!”. I am AWESOME at this, seriously.
(I will also be spending some of that time going to the dentist to have impressions taken for my next few sets of braces. I am terrified about this, because apparently when I said all that stuff about not being afraid of the dentist, I had yet to know the horror that is having a giant metal tray stuffed into your mouth so you can’t breathe or swallow, and you become convinced you’re going to throw up, and then suffocate, because, well, there’s a huge metal tray blocking your mouth. Terrified.)
Our flight is at stupid o’clock on Saturday morning (I’ve just been thinking about this, and I actually can’t remember ever catching a flight that wasn’t at stupid o’clock in the morning, other than the couple that were at stupid o’clock at night, that is. Why do they do that to you, do you think? Is it so you’re so exhausted you become more docile and easy to manage? Because that doesn’t work with me, airlines, just FYI.), so once again we’ll be spending Friday night at my parents place, which is closer to the airport. Rubin, meanwhile, will be spending the next three weeks with Terry’s mum, who I’m sure is preparing a fattened calf as we speak, in preparation for his visit. He’s also in disgrace, having repeatedly rooted through Terry’s open suitcase, and twice removed and chewed a tube of toothpaste.
(“WHO DID THIS?!” Terry asked me incredulously, holding the mangled tube aloft, as if there was a possibility that I had got down on my hands and knees next to the suitcase and ripped the tube apart with my teeth. Me.)
(Wow, I’ve really used a LOT of parentheses in this post, haven’t I? Sorry. I’m over-excited.)
For the next three days, then, I’ll be living in that Limbo Land of pre-holiday preparation, where everything you do is either just marking time or getting ready for all the fun you’ll be having this time next week. I know I shouldn’t wish it away, and God knows, the passing of time continues to freak me out good, but honestly, I wish these next three days AWAY. Begone! Haste ye, oh weekend, when I will be back in my favourite place in the world, for three whole weeks.
First, though, I have exactly 11 blog posts to write. Better get on with that, then…
Folks, there has been a development in the mysterious case of Nigel, the International Man of Mystery Next Door.
It’s not much of a development, to be honest. In fact, if you just clicked through from Twitter, or wherever, hoping for some kind of juicy development, you may just feel you’ve had a wasted trip, because this development actually happened last week, and was so insignificant that I totally forgot to mention it. In the interests of keeping an accurate account of the comings and goings next door (or, er, the goings and staying gones, as the case may be), and also in case one day the police need to use this blog as evidence, let the record show that, last week, Nigel had visitors. Two of them.
I say Nigel had visitors. Obviously he didn’t, because he isn’t there. So Terry and I took it upon ourselves to speak to these visitors. You know, as nosey good neighbours do.
The two men arrived by car, and spent a few minutes sitting outside, observing the house. Terry happened to be passing the window at the time, and this activity instantly triggered his “Nigel” sensor, so he called me over, and together we watched the men get out of their vehicle and approach Nigel’s door. Both men were wearing dark suits, and looked a bit like the Men in Black, only without the talking dog, which was a bit of a shame, because that would’ve made for an AWESOME blog post, no?
Anyway, no sooner had they knocked on the door than Terry was out of the house and headed towards them. (I’d have gone with him, but I was just back from the gym and out of the shower, so I was wearing my dressing gown and a towel turban at the time…) Sadly, however, Terry’s Nancy Drew skills are less finely honed than mine, possibly because he has never been a 12 year old girl, so he didn’t manage to get much more information out of the visitors other than that the usual, “When did you last see him? Does he ever come back to the house? What, NEVER?” Terry was left with the strong impression that they were debt-collectors, or similar. I’m still convinced they were, you know, galaxy defenders, but I do have a pretty active imagination, so maybe not.
What this proves, however, other than that Terry and I would be useless detectives, is that wherever Nigel is right now, and whatever he’s doing there, not everyone in his life knows about it. He appears to have left some loose ends behind him, shall we say, and obviously if this was a novel, this would be the part where Terry and I (and possibly Rubin, because never underestimate the importance of a dog when it comes to solving mysteries) tie up those loose ends into a nice, neat little bow. It’s just a blog, though, so I’m going to have to leave you to try and tie them up yourselves. Enjoy!
P.S. I had to switch comment moderation back on this week, but I totally forgot to tell the site to notify me when comments came in, which means they’ve all been sitting in the moderation queue for a couple of days. If you posted a comment in that time, sorry, I wasn’t ignoring you – it should have been approved now!
Tagged International Man of Mystery
OK, that’s it, I’m DONE with eBay. DONE. Finished. Over. I know I’ve said this before, but seriously, this time I mean it. More than I did last time, obviously. It’s not even because of the foot fetishists, either. Well, not just because of the foot fetishists. Last week, you see, I sold five items on EBay. Of those five:
1. Three sold for about £0.99 each, which is less than the cost of the fuel I use driving to the post office and back. Yes, I know it’s my own fault, and I should have given them higher starting prices, but I’d already tried that, and although each item had lots of watchers, none of them bid, so I figured this time round I’d start off low and hope all those watchers would be tempted into participating in a bidding war. They didn’t, so between the listing fees, plus the time it took me to photograph the items, write the listings, answer various dumb questions (“What brand is the Topshop dress you’re selling?”), package them up, then head to the post office with them, I made a loss.
2. One person just didn’t bother to pay me, and when I looked at her account a few days later she was “no longer a registered user” and had multiple comments from sellers all saying “This is the worst bidder in the history of the world!” and “This person is Satan himself!” The thing is, though, because eBay no longer allows sellers to leave negative feedback, all of these comments were marked as POSITIVE, so I’d simply looked at the 100% positive rating, and hadn’t realised that every single one of those “positives” was actually a big fat NEGATIVE. Again, yes, I know this is my fault, but even so people, even so.
3. The one item that did sell for a decent price sold to someone who didn’t bother to pay me, or contact me in any way for four days. At the end of that time, when I finally cracked and sent her an email saying, “Look, are you actually intending to pay for this?” she was all, “Oops, sorry, I actually only intended to bid £5.50, I’m not prepared to pay £32 for it!” I’d maybe have believed her, too, if her bid hadn’t been placed when the item was already at £28.50. Sigh. (And when was she planning on contacting me to let me know about the “mistake”? My guess would be “never”.)
4. Having realised that the idiot in number three had no intention of paying me, I reported her to eBay, and sent a Second Chance Offer to the underbidder. It expired 12 hours later without the person accepting it, so I decided it was time to accept defeat. Then, two hours later, I got an email from said underbidder saying, “Hi, thanks for the Second Chance Offer! I’ve bought and paid for the item now!” HUH? But I thought it had ended unsold? I went back and checked eBay. Yup, sure enough, the item had not been purchased. I checked Paypal: no payment. So I emailed the bidder and politely explained that she must be mistaken, and… she emailed me back and tried to insist that yes, she had paid and I must send her the item, even although I hadn’t been paid for it. Funnily enough, when I finally managed to get her to agree that she hadn’t paid for it, and pointed out that if she wanted it, it had been relisted as Buy It Now, she declined to purchase. I think she was just trying to get me to send her it for free. I hate people.
5. FOOT. FETISHISTS.
So, at the time of writing, eBay has cost me more than I’ve made from it this month, and I’d actually be better off if I’d just taken my old clothes and shoes to the charity shop rather than thinking, “Hey, these are all practically unworn, let’s give eBay one more shot, shall we?” This is all particularly annoying to me, because any time I decide to buy something on eBay, it always sells for a fortune: almost always more than you’d actually pay for it new. There’s always a bidding war involving twenty different people, all hell-bent on securing the precious, precious item, and you’d think it was the freaking Mona Lisa we were bidding on, rather than someone’s secondhand dress. I, on the other had, could actually HAVE the Mona Lisa to sell, and I’d be lucky to get 25p for it. Even then, the winning bidder would take three weeks to pay me, and then ask me if I’d consider throwing in a photo of my feet for free.
In conclusion: I’m done. Oh, I’ll probably continue to buy secondhand dresses at vastly inflated prices, but never, ever again will I waste one more second of my time, or penny from my back account, on selling there – at least, not until they introduce the ability for sellers to deliver giant, virtual slaps to their buyers. Until then, if you ever see me on Twitter talking about the possibility of selling something on eBay, please feel free to give ME a giant virtual slap. I will deserve it.
Tagged ebay
Here’s what happened last night:
It’s not frost, it’s SNOW. This was taken at 6am, when Rubin woke us up with his patented “Yapping at 6am for no reason whatsoever” manoeuvre. By the time we actually got up, it had melted, but even so, people, EVEN SO.
This is bad. It’s very, very bad. It’s particularly bad because lately I’ve been feeling like a dark cloud is hanging over me. And that’s because there IS a dark cloud hanging over me: it’s the Ash Cloud O’Doom from the Eyjafjallajökull Volcano, or “That Stupid Freaking Volcano That Wants to Ruin My Life”, as it’s known in my house.
(This is going to be one of those really whiny, bratty posts I write sometimes a lot. Don’t say you weren’t warned.)
I’m convinced the volcano is going to stop me going on holiday. (Now THERE’S a line I never thought I’d write). Absolutely convinced. Seriously, I haven’t even bought new shoes for the trip or anything, that’s how convinced I am that we won’t be going. And sure, we don’t leave until the end of the month, so the world still has a couple of weeks to sort itself out, but the thing is, it doesn’t really look like it’s going to bother, does it ? No, it looks more like that freaking volcano is just going to keep on belching out ash, and that it’s going to do it PURELY to ruin my holiday/life. And rather than basking in the sun for three weeks, I’m going to shiver in the SNOW instead, and also have no money, because I spent it all on a holiday I can’t take.
If that happens, I am going to FREAK THE HELL OUT. I mean, like I’ve never freaked out in my life before. I’m actually starting to do it now. In fact, I feel a bit like a volcano myself right now, and trust me, if I blow, YOU WILL KNOW ABOUT IT.
I should put in a disclaimer here to make me sound like a vaguely reasonable person, even although I’m not in the least bit reasonable, ever. Here it is:
I know safety has to come first. I’m terrified of flying – absolutely terrified – so trust me when I say that the last thing I want is to be sitting in a tin can that’s plummeting towards the earth at a million miles an hour ON FIRE, just because everyone ignored the Ash Cloud O’Doom. I know it’s no one’s fault, even although I’d dearly like to be able to blame someone, and it’s at times like this I wish I believed in God. I also know that there are people in a far worse situation than me when flights get cancelled: people who miss weddings and funerals, and people who might even miss out on the chance to have their lives saved because either they can’t get to the hospital, or the surgeon can’t, or whatever.
I know all of these things. And I still want to scream like a baby, because IT SNOWED IN MAY, people. MAY. May is normally the nicest month of the year in Scotland. This year? Yeah. The best case scenario now is that we get to Florida, THEN the ash cloud gets really, really bad, and we can never come home again, ever. That would be awesome, because right now, if I never saw snow again, it would be too soon. If our flight gets cancelled, meanwhile, I think I will try to swim there. I’m not even joking.
(P.S. If even one person tells me they’re “SO JEALOUS!” of the snow, I swear my head will explode. It’s like being jealous of someone who just lost a limb, seriously.)
Tagged snow
Phones. I hate ‘em. I know I don’t have to explain this to any regular readers, but for those just joining us, I am phone phobic in the extreme, and will go to any lengths to avoid making or receiving phone calls - I have even been reduced to begging Terry to do it for me if it’s absolutely essential.
I particularly hate mobile phones. The very nature of mobile phones means that people are always going to call you on them at an inconvenient time. I mean, if I’m not at home, it’s because I’m out doing something. If I’m out doing something, then it’s not going to be a great time to chat, is it? Add to that the fact that it always seems to be a crappy connection, and there’s always loads of background noise outdoors, and, yeah, I pretty much hate being called on my mobile, and will avoid calling people on theirs, either, employing the same logic of “if they’re not at home, they’re probably too busy to chat”. Sure, I’m surgically attached to my iPhone at all times, but that’s because of the Internet access and the apps. The actual phone part is for emergencies only as far as I’m concerned, which is why any time the phone rings, I immediately assume that it’s an emergency, and fly into a total panic.
Like I did today, for instance.
I’d just arrived at the dentist’s office to be fitted with my next set of Invisalign braces. I was a few minutes early, so I pulled out my phone to pass the time on Twitter and… whoops! Two missed calls, both from the same number, missed on account of the fact that I’d somehow managed to switch the phone to “silent”. The number wasn’t one I recognised. It wasn’t from any of my contacts, but whoever it was had wanted to speak to me urgently enough that they’d called twice, so I pulled up Google and typed in the area code so see where they were calling from, and work out from that whether I wanted to call them back or not.
The area code was from the town my dad used to work in up until the start of the year. He’s since moved offices, but still works for the same firm, so there was a chance they’d sent him to the other office for the day. And that he’d, I don’t know, DIED or something while he was there.
* PANIC *
(A little bit about my dad, here: my dad is the person I inherited my propensity to walk into doors and bang my head on low-hanging objects from. Not a week goes by – and I’m honestly not joking here – without him bashing his head on something hard enough to leave a mark. He works for a company who have a lot of heavy, dangerous machinery lying around. You can see where I’m coming from here…)
Well, I called my dad, got voicemail. Tried to email him, phone refused to send the email. And, at that point, I was called in to my appointment, so I got to spend the next 20 minutes lying with my mouth wedged open, PANICKING. It was the exact opposite of fun.
As soon as I was released, I called my dad again: nothing. So I called my mum, who assured me that if something had happened, she’d have been called first, and she hadn’t, so this meant all was well. I calmed down a little, but was still sufficiently disturbed that when I got home I typed the full phone number into Google. I didn’t expect to find anything, but to my surprise, Google found an exact match for that number, and not only was it from the town my dad used to work in, and possibly could be in at that very minute….
… it was from the MEDICAL CENTRE IN THAT TOWN.
I mean, what are the odds of that?
So, two missed calls from a medical centre in a town there was a good chance my dad was in: PANIC.
Well, I called the number, and asked why they’d been calling me. And they had absolutely no idea. “Are you a patient here?” they asked. “No? Oh, well, there’s no possible way for us to check why we were calling you, then. Maybe a wrong number? Maybe someone you know is DEAD?”
“If it was something really urgent,” I said, “you’d have left a message, right?”
“Oh no,” said the receptionist cheerfully. “We never leave messages! Have a nice day, now!”
Now, I immediately got back on the phone to my mum (I still don’t have my dad’s new office number, or I’d obviously have called him directly) who, as luck would have it, had just spoken to my dad a few minutes earlier, and was able to reassure me that not only was he alive and well, he was nowhere near the town these people had been calling me from. So all’s well that ends well, except I’ve lost a few years of my life to the panic, and have probably earned a few grey hairs into the bargain.
I just want to say, though, people: LEAVE MESSAGES. Seriously, if you’re calling someone, and you’re a medical centre, say, LEAVE A MESSAGE TO SAY WHY YOU’RE CALLING. Don’t just leave them to Google your number, assume some has died, and then not be able to find out who. LEAVE A MESSAGE. It’s what voicemail is for, and it would possibly have helped keep me just a little bit saner this morning. Possibly not, though. I mean, I am the Queen of Worry. I worry all the time, about everything. I can’t even hear an ambulance go past without assuming it’s rushing to the scene of an accident involving everyone I know. This morning’s events , though, took me right back to those dark days when Terry was ill and almost every single day brought a fresh reason to panic like there was no tomorrow. I’m every glad those days are over. I do, however, think there are important lessons to be learnt, here:
1. LEAVE A MESSAGE
2. Keep your phone switched on (DAD) so you can be reached in case of emergency
3. If you are a medical centre, never call me again. And for the love of Gaga, check you’ve got the right number before you decide to give someone else a heart attack…
Tagged phones, The Panic
Just a quick photo from the weekend, when we went bowling with some friends, and then headed back to theirs to work our way through this bad boy, which filled up the entire boot (trunk) of Mhairi’s car:
My favourite part of this photo is the “little” pizza next to the big one. Well, you wouldn’t want us to starve, would you?
Foot fetishists. They’re everywhere, aren’t they? And by “everywhere” I mean “they’re on eBay”. In large numbers, apparently.
Last week I decided to sell some shoes, you see. (I know! Me getting RID of shoes rather than acquiring them: who’da thunk it?) And as with every other time I’ve ever tried to sell shoes on eBay, this brought the foot fetishists out in droves.
It always happens the same way. A question floods in. The question is from a man. First of all, the man comments on how “sexy” the shoes I’m selling are (Note: always “sexy”. Never “cute” or “beautiful”or “stylish”, or any other of the dozens of words you could use to describe a pair of shoes. Just “sexy”.) Sometimes he’ll say that he wants to buy them for his “girlfriend”, but other times he’ll just miss out this part and leave me to conjecture what someone named “Jim” or “Pete” or “Brian”, or whatever, wants with a pair of size 4 ladies shoes. Then comes the kicker:
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Brian will say (for he is a polite young man at heart), “could you take some photos of your feet inside the shoes? It’s, um, so I can see how high the heel is, because there’s no other way to know that than by looking at a strange woman’s feet.”
Now, you could argue that this is a perfectly reasonable question for Brian to be asking. But in response, I would argue that Brian is a foot fetishist. He is only interested in seeing photos of my feet in high heels. It’s just a feeling I get. A sixth sense, if you will. There’s always just something a little bit off about these messages. Something that triggers my “this is a foot fetishist” alarm. Also: women never ask these questions. I mean, I’ve been using eBay for years. In that time, I’ve sold a lot of shoes. NEVER have I received a question from a woman who’s asked me to take some photos of my feet in the sexy, sexy shoes. And in all the time I’ve been buying shoes (which is… a while) I’ve never emailed a complete stranger and said, “Oh, hai, could you send me some photos of your feet, please?” It’s just not done, is it? OK, sure: sometimes a shoe looks different on the foot than it does in the image. Sometimes you really do need to see it being worn to know what you think of it. But, I dunno, something about asking a stranger to photograph their feet for you just strikes me as odd. Maybe it’s just me?
The final clue that all is not what it purports to be on Planet Brian/Steve/Tony is the final line of the message which always, without exception, says something like, “By the way, could you please not publish this question on the auction listing? Just send the photos to my private email instead.”
Uh-huh. FOOT. FETISH.
I should add here that I have nothing against people with foot fetishes. I really don’t. I honestly couldn’t care less what people do in the privacy of their own homes, or what turns them on. Each to their own, after all. It’s only when they try to involve ME in their little fantasies by, say, trying to trick me into sending them photos of my body parts, that it starts to bother me. I know it’s not actually harming anyone (although it IS wasting my time, given that these people have no intention whatsoever of bidding on the shoes), but even so, it’s still devious and underhand, and, you know, some women charge good money for those kinds of “services”.
(That was a joke.)
With that in mind, I’m afraid to say the latest “can you send me photos of your feet” message was the one that tipped me over the edge. In fact, I was so annoyed to be receiving this request AGAIN that a red mist of anger descended over my eyes, and in my haste to send my “Actually, no, I won’t be emailing photos of my feet to strange men on the Internet,” response, I may have accidentally checked the box that says “publish this question and my response on the listing”. Whoops. My bad.
Still, I guess there’s no harm done. If it WAS a genuine, reasonable request, people will see it as that and think no ill of my high heel lovin’ correspondent. And if it turns out that Brian IS actually the kind of man who tries to get women to send him photos of their feet for his own, er, use, well, so be it. After all, if you don’t think there’s anything wrong with asking people to send you photos of their feet, then there’s no reason to be embarrassed, is there?
Tagged ebay, email fun, shoes
1. Pre-school age children should not be handed the car keys and invited to treat the vehicle as a giant toy. Cars are not toys.
2. Car horns should not be leant on for five minutes at a time.
3. Nor should they be blasted repeatedly for a similar amount of time.
4. Cars should not, under any circumstances, be treated as mobile discos. They are not mobile discos.
5. Houses are not nightclubs. They should not be treated as such.
6. Garage roofs are not for dancing on.
7. Nor are the roofs of garden sheds.
8. The Others should not throw raw burgers into other people’s gardens.
9. Or even cooked ones, for that matter.
10. Or empty beer bottles. (I mean, at least throw full ones, for God’s sake.)
Would anyone like to hazard a guess as to how many of these Things That Should Not Happen have, indeed, happened recently in this part of the world (and not all involving the same household, either)? Go on, it’s easy really…
Tagged the others
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