Last Thursday morning, Terry and I had some errands to run. We set out early, and it was a bit of a stressful morning, for one reason or another, so by the time we got back into the car and headed for home, I was just looking forward to putting the kettle on, pouring myself a giant mug of coffee, and relaxing a bit.
Terry was driving, and I’d picked up a leaflet in one of the places we’d visited, so I started flipping through it to pass the time. I was so engrossed in this, that I didn’t even see the other car. In fact, I didn’t see anything at all. One minute I was sitting there, reading my leaflet and half-listening to the music on the car stereo, the next I was being flung forward in my seat, and then snapped back by the safety belt. There was no time to think, and yet somehow there was all the time in the world to register the look of shock on Terry’s face, hear him shout out something – I don’t remember what – and feel the sickening moment of impact as the bonnet crumpled in front of us and the thought this is it, this is how we’ll die flashed through my head.
The car came to a halt. The music played on, inappropriately loud.
Then I started screaming.
“Oh my God!” I shouted. “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” And I think I would probably have kept on shouting it – in fact, I think there’s a small part of my head which has been just repeating that phrase, over and over ever since it happened – if Terry, having established that there was nothing physically wrong with me, hadn’t interrupted my hysteria by getting out of the car.
By the time I’d calmed down enough to take a look around, the two people from the other car had, thankfully, also gotten out to inspect the damage, so I could see right away that no one was hurt. Even without looking, though, I could tell that our poor car wasn’t going to be so lucky, and as I sat there and looked at the buckled bonnet, I was all of a sudden completely blindsided by the horror of it all.
First came the ‘what ifs’. What if we’d been going faster? What if the seatbelts had failed? What if Rubin had been in the car, and had been thrown forward with the impact? And, of course, the biggie: what if we’d been hurt, or worse? What if someone else had?
The ‘what ifs’ were quickly followed by the ‘if onlies’. If only we hadn’t gone out that morning, or at that time. If only I hadn’t decided that THAT day was the only possible day to run those errands. If only I’d actually stopped and bought those flowers I’d seen in the supermarket, rather than just stopping to admire them: then we’d have been a few minutes later than we were, and we’d have driven home, drank our coffee and got on with our day, just as we always do.
But I didn’t. And so instead of that blissfully normal day, I found myself sitting by the side of the road, in our once-beautiful car, which was now completely destroyed. And as I sat there, I discovered that my mind could just not compute this. I couldn’t fathom how something could be so perfect one second, and so utterly ruined the next. And I thought that this could have been me, or Terry, or one of the two people in the other vehicle, and I started to sob. It was a long time before I stopped.
* * *
The other car had just one small scratch on the bumper.
Ours is a write off.
* * *
Because of the holiday weekend, we had to spend the next four days waiting to find out whether it was repairable or not. In fact, we still don’t have the official verdict from the insurance company, but the garage have told us the cost of the repairs, and it’s more than the car’s worth, so it doesn’t take a genius to work out what will happen there.
Of course, it’s just a car. The main thing is that no one was hurt: I’ve been being told this all weekend, and it’s one of those things that really goes without saying (Although, seriously, if one more person tells me that “worrying won’t help!” I will scream. I don’t think anyone worries or feels bad about things because they think it will help: you just can’t help but feel bad sometimes, when something bad has happened.) It could have been worse. Cars can be replaced. No one was hurt. But honestly? I still feel absolutely wretched about it. I loved that car. I wrote before, back when we bought it, about how I tend to get emotionally attached to inanimate objects, especially cars, and although I told myself I wouldn’t do it this time, I seem to have failed in that endeavour, because I can’t even think about it without wanting to cry.
One second, everything was normal, and fine. The next second, everything was ruined.
And as bad as it was, it could have been so much worse.
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Kurt Geiger’s wall of shoes
I had a whole other post planned out for today, but then I remembered it was Easter, and that no one ever reads blogs on holidays, do they? Which makes them as good a time as any to do one of those huge Instagram posts that everyone hates, but which I actually love, because one day when I’m senile, I will be able to look back on them and say, “So THAT’S what March 2012 looked like! But who’s the ginger with all the shoes?”
So here IS what March 2012 looked like.
I had a birthday. And finally, someone bought me a castle! No, I jest. I went to Edinburgh, drank champagne and tried on shoes I couldn’t afford. It was ace.
Shoeperwoman’s Shoe Challenge started. You should join it. You know you want to.
People continued to believe that I have some connection to Joan Rivers and/or the ability to influence Kelly Osbourne’s hair choices, and I received many, many emails on the subject of “why Kelly Osbourne’s hair sucks, and why Amber should be doing something about it.” Given that I can’t even manage my OWN hair, though, I can’t imagine Kelly Osbourne would pay much attention to me: this was, after all, the month in which I dyed my hair orange.
My blog got a bit of a makeover, too:
And so did my closet. I got all of my summer clothes out of the attic:
And then I bought MOAR SUMMER CLOTHES, yay!
I even got to wear some of the aforementioned summer clothes, during the Week That Was Summer In March:
Then summer left, and we ended the month more or less how we started it: drinking champagne in Edinburgh, this time with my best friend and her family, and celebrating our 5th wedding anniversary.
It was a good month. And then April came. And so far? April has sucked. But that’s another story for another day. Have a Happy Easter, everyone!
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(Image fails to depict blizzard that was blowing at the time…)
… which kind of explains why I was so happy about the sunshine last week, no?
I guess it’s a good job I kept out some coats and boots when I packed away my winter stuff last weekend, too. I KNEW there would be consequences of that foolish move…
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Tagged i hate snow
It’s a sad fact of my life that when I’m actually, you know, doing stuff, I don’t have the time to write about it, and I usually forget to photograph it, too. I will never be one of those people who whips out their camera in a restaurant to photograph their food, for instance, partly because I can’t imagine anything more boring than photos of food, but also because I’m too busy eating it. And talking. And talking while eating. Oh, and WINE.
What was I saying?
Oh, yeah: when I actually do interesting things, I don’t really take photos of them, and I don’t always blog about them either, because there is just so much to say, and I get all overwhelmed. Also, I don’t ever post photos of my friends on the Internets, because I am all about respecting people’s privacy and not exposing them to strange comments about their hair or whatever. And then, when absolutely nothing of interest happens, I document it exhaustively, and refuse to shut up about it. Life isn’t fair, is it?
This is all my long-winded way of saying that while we had a fabulous weekend with Stephanie, Nick and Dylan, instead of blogging about that, today I’m just going to show you a bunch of photos of that time Terry and I went for a walk with the dog last week. Back in the summer. The summer of ’12: how we will always remember it, and talk about it, oh wonderful summer it was! Also, I wore clothes. Go me!
This frog is following us. We came across one just like it in Edinburgh last weekend – it actually jumped onto my foot as I was walking along, minding my own business – and then exactly the same thing happened with this one, just a few days later, out in the country near our house. So now I’m convinced that it’s the SAME FROG, and it’s actually a prince, and it has some kind of message for me that I just haven’t been able to decode yet. Just to be on the safe side, I’ve been working under the assumption that the message is “BUY DRESSES”. But it might also be “BUY SHOES”: you just never really know with frogs. I mean, we all know what happens when you kiss a frog, but but what if you (accidentally) kick a frog? What if you do it twice?
And this week the forecast is for snow. Awesome.
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(Dress, River Island last year; Shoes, TK Maxx, about 6 years ago.)
For some reason, sunny weather (Oh, hey, did I mention we’ve been having sunny weather recently? Did I? Because I feel like I haven’t gushed about it quite enough yet…) brings out my inner fashion blogger, and if I’m not prancing around in a field of flowers, there I’ll be: jumping. And jumping in that “look! I’m hovering!” kinda way that you only ever see fashion bloggers do, too. I hope you’ll all join me next week, when I will be touching my hair while gazing pensively at my feet. Oh no, wait: I’ve already done that. I’ll just try to behave like a normal person, in that case. It’ll be hard, but I’ll try.
These photos were taken on Tuesday, when it was once again sunny and warm (Did I mention it’s been sunny and warm?) and Terry and I decided to go for a walk in the country with the dog.
We walked for a bit, sticking to the nice, easy footpath you see in the photo above. And then… we abruptly left that path, and plunged into the undergrowth, where we became instantly lost, and had to wander around for ages, trying to find our way back to the car. Our circuitous route took us up hill, down dale, and also over quite a few of those stupid wire fences, which Terry had to lift both Rubin and I over. And all the while, I was expecting to come face to face with a farmer with a shotgun, going, “Ger orfa ma land, varmints!”
But we didn’t. And I lived to jump another day.
Tomorrow is our fifth wedding anniversary, which is something I still can’t quite get my head around. I mean, five whole years? Really? That’s, like, half a DECADE. I seriously feel like my life is on fast-forward or something, and I’ll wake up next week and be 90. (Actually, sometimes I LOOK like I’m 90 when I wake up, so that’s not too far fetched, really.) Terry and I will be celebrating with my best friend, Stephanie, who’s in town for the weekend with her husband Nick and their gorgeous little boy, Dylan. Stephanie lives in the south of England, and the last time she made it this far north was ALSO five years ago tomorrow, when she did a reading at my wedding while just a few months pregnant with Dylan. We have seen them since then, but this will be the first time we’ll be re-uniting on our old turf (Steph and I met on our first day at Edinburgh university) so it’ll be fantastic to catch up. Naturally, the beautiful weather is forecast to come to a screeching halt at roughly the same time their train pulls into the station, but hey, we enjoyed it while we had it. And you, my friends, will get to enjoy EVEN MORE OF IT next week, when I post the approximately 45,567 other photos I took of it. It’ll be like the sunshine never ended…
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So picture it: there I am wandering lonely as cloud. You know, like I do. When all of a sudden, what do I see? Only a crowd! A host! Of golden daffodils! That totally matched my outfit!
“Quick, Terry,” I said. “Take my photo: let us immortalise this magic moment forever, and not with a cruddy poem, either!”*
(*Forced to study Wordsworth at university. Not a fan.)
So we did. And, you know, it’s a bit like Where’s Waldo? for fashion bloggers, such is the perfection of my camouflage, no? I mean, you can’t even see me in some of these, can you? It’s almost like I AM a daffodil. Another dream realised!
(Where’s Amber?)
These photos were taken on Sunday, otherwise known as The Best Day of the Year So Far, Not Even Joking. You see, I’d spent most of Friday unpacking all of my Spring clothes, and trying to find creative ways to insert them into the limited storage space in the house. By the end of the day, I never wanted to see another 50s-style dress again (Seriously, why did I have to buy so many dresses with huuuge skirts? Did I not realise how much of a pain they’d be to iron when they’d been in storage all winter?), and there were clothes all over the house – tucked under the living room rug, hiding behind paintings, that kind of thing. Note to self: GET A BIGGER HOUSE. Because fewer clothes just isn’t an option.
When I went to bed that night, it was with fear in my heart. I’d completed this switchover of mine a couple of weeks earlier than usual, you see, and I knew – I just KNEW – that by getting out all of the Spring stuff and packing away the winter (Or most of it, anyway: I did leave out a couple of coats etc, just in case.) I was seriously tempting fate, and that we would likely wake up the next morning to a complete white out.
And we did.
Luckily for me, the white stuff was fog, not the snow I’d been expecting, but even so, my fears were confirmed: I had single-handedly prompted a new ice age – or a second winter, at the very least. Now we would never see the sun again, and it would be ALL MY FAULT.
That night, the clocks moved forward. And so, apparently, did the seasons, because we woke up on Sunday morning to Spring. And I know I complain a lot about winter (This is where you look politely astonished and say, “Why, YOU, Amber? Complain about winter? Surely not!”), but I don’t think even I had realised how much it had been sucking the life out of me, until it finally ended and Spring arrived. I was like a little kid at Christmas, I was so excited.
(Note to people who are about to scold me for picking wild flowers: the ones I’m holding were ones which had been trampled on or something (not by us, I hasten to add) and had their stems broken. I brought them home and put them in water because they were going to die anyway, but I didn’t pick any healthy ones, because I would’ve felt like I was murdering them, and I am many things but I am not a flower killer…)
Terry and I both had a ton of work we’d planned to tear through on Sunday, but the fact that this one day might be the only sunny day we get this year made us realise that to spend it stuck in front of a computer would be a tragedy. So, instead, we threw caution to the wind, dressed like daffodils (Well, I did anyway. Terry doesn’t really do “daffodil dressing.”) and headed out to enjoy the sun. It was the happiest I’ve been since, like, August or something, seriously. And it was kind of surreal, too: the leaves aren’t even on the trees yet (in fact, the BUDS aren’t even on the trees yet), but when we took Rubin to the country park in the afternoon (yes, I changed into flats for that part), people were actually SWIMMIMG in the river. Swimming. In the river. In MARCH. I don’t think I’ve EVER seen people swimming in that river, let alone at a time of year when it has been known to snow heavily. Everywhere we went, though, people were out in their summer clothes, having barbecues, being all happy and smiley and saying to each other, “This might be the only summer we get, you know!”
It wasn’t, though. Because it was sunny and warm yesterday, too. And today. And I, my friends, am as happy as a clam. Happier, even. (Seriously, it must kind of suck to be a clam, don’t you think?)
(Dress, River Island, last summer; cardigan, local shop, many moons ago; belt, stolen from my mum; sunglasses, eBay; shoes, Carvela ‘Gypsy’, c/o Sarenza [available here])
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This morning I got up not-so-bright and early, and headed to the supermarket, where I purchased the bottle of Head & Shoulders Citrus which I should have just bought the second this whole “orange hair” saga started. Well, you know me: if there’s an easy way to do things and a difficult way to do things, I will choose the difficult way every time. Every time.
Well, I came home and shampooed my orange hair with it. Then I shampooed it a second time, just for luck. And I had absolutely zero hope of this making even the slightest difference. In fact, so zero were my hopes that when I got out of the shower I sat at my desk, still wearing my towel-turban, and started frantically Googling the phrase, “OMG, everyone always says red hair dye fades quickly, but mine won’t fade AT ALL, EVER, WHY?”
Then I blow-dried it and…
YOU GUYS, IT WORKED.
(Actually, this photo is from a couple of days ago, when it was still totes orange. But the orange was so camera shy and elusive, the pimpernel of hair dye, really, that this photo totally failed to show the extent of the orange, so I’m using it anyway.)
Well, I mean it sort of worked. It’s still a little brassy, and I have a couple of orange-ish streaks at the temples, like a reverse Geri Halliwell, but the good news is that I can finally stop talking about this now, and I think we’re all glad about that. In fact, how about we change the subject rightthisverysecond, and start talking about… hmm, let’s see: how about The Others, instead?
You know that thing they do? Where you’re standing in line somewhere, like a supermarket, say, waiting to pay for your magic orange-removing shampoo? Everyone is standing there patiently, in a neat, orderly queue, such as we British are famous for, and then suddenly an Other appears and, rather than simply joining the queue, like everyone else did, the Other just kind of stands there, open-mouthed, gazing at it. And everyone already in the queue feels a bit awkward, really, so they all shuffle forward a bit to make room – even although there is ALREADY PLENTY OF ROOM – but the Other still doesn’t join the end of the line. Instead, he tries to kind of MERGE with the line, singling out the orange-haired girl at the end of it – the one who’s standing there thinking, “please not me, please not me, please don’t try to merge with me,” and then coming to stand BESIDE her rather than BEHIND her, which is the normal queuing etiquette. And then, every time she moves forward, The Other moves forward, too. And every time the orange-haired girl looks at the Other, all, “This is my space: don’t you even THINK about trying to steal my space or I will cut you,” the Other simply smiles benignly, as if to say, “Gosh, isn’t this fun, us simultaneously occupying exactly the same spot in the queue? Also, as soon as you get to the front, I’m cutting in front of you. Have a nice day!”
That happens to me EVERY SINGLE TIME I have to stand in a line for something. EVERY time. It’s like I have some kind of sign on my head which reads, “Hey, Others! If you’re looking for someone to make uncomfortable in the queue, I’m your woman!” A bright orange sign, naturally…
It’s… still kind of orange.
I’ve been washing it faithfully with Head & Shoulders, and it’s faded quite a bit, but I still have my orange temples (That’s totally going to be the name of my band, by the way: Amber and The Orange Temples) and am having to choose my outfits really carefully, because while it looks not too orange with some things, other colours just seem to bring out the OMGORANGE and make it glow like a radioactive carrot. So it’s really messing with my important FASHUN, to be honest.
(Someone on Twitter told me I should use Head & Shoulders Lemon? I just have the regular stuff, so maybe that’s where I’m going wrong?)
In some lights, it looks almost back to normal. And in other lights…
BOOM BOOM POW! ORANGE!
And after that, Amber had well and truly learned her lesson, and she never dabbled with hair dye ever again, The End.
Haha, April Fools! In March.
OK, I’m just kidding: this isn’t what it actually looks like. The top photo is unfiltered (and doesn’t really show the full extent of TEH ORANGE, to be honest), but the other two have been run through my BFF, Instagram which, in addition to making me look a bit like a vampire, ups the orange quotient by quite a bit. Quite a bit. This is how it FEELS to me, though. It’s a bit like walking around with a giant sign on my head that says, “Hey, everyone! This woman is stupid! She thought she was using a temporary colour glaze, but actually it was a semi-permanent colour! LOL!”
Still, at least I’m in no danger of getting dandruff any-time soon…
Just after hitting “publish” on my last post, I headed downstairs to continue my Spring cleaning in the kitchen.
I was in the middle of washing up some dishes when I heard it: a strange, jaunty little tune, which appeared to be playing from somewhere inside the room with me. “That’s strange,” I thought, looking around the kitchen. “From where could this jaunty little tune be coming?”
It was a mystery.
The music didn’t sound like it was coming from a car, or a radio. It wasn’t coming from the TV, and I didn’t recognise the song, which seemed to be being played on some kind of wind instrument, so I knew it wasn’t anything Terry or I owned. In fact, the longer it went on, the more it sounded to me like it was probably coming from something like a very small cellphone, such as a miniature person might use. An elf, say. Or a hobbit.
“That’ll be it,” I thought, and went back to my cleaning.
A few minutes later, though, the little tune started up again.
“Where IS this tiny cellphone?” I thought, throwing down my dishcloth in frustration. “And more to the point, where is the very tiny person who must own it?”
The music played on.
So I started a search. First, I searched the kitchen for the tiny person and their tiny cellphone. Nothing. Next, I searched the living room, and the porch. As I did so, I noticed that the tune would play for a few minutes, then it would stop. Then, after another couple of minutes of silence… it would start up again.
Having exhausted the bottom floor of the house, I stepped out into the garden, still carrying the mug I’d been washing when the music started, and the scrubbing brush thing I’d been using to clean it. I circled the garden, thinking that maybe the tiny person was in one of the neighbouring gardens, and the sound was just carrying on the cold, March night. Still the music played. This was starting to get weird, because no matter how hard I tried to locate the source of the tune, it just wasn’t possible. The music neither faded as I got further away from it, nor got louder as I approached. In fact, the music remained at the same level the whole time. It was… all around me. And the longer I searched for its source, the more convinced I became that the music was IN MY HEAD. I was the music. And also: I was clearly going insane.
I stepped back into the kitchen just as the creepy little tune started up again.
“Terry!” I shouted, now starting to panic a little. “Could you come down here for a second?”
Terry thundered downstairs, and arrived in the kitchen just as the tune reached its now familiar end. “Did you hear that?” I demanded, gesturing around the room, the mug still swinging from my hand. As if on cue, the music started up again. I stared at Terry, looking for a sign that he heard it too.
“Have you brought me down here just to listen to that mug?” he asked.
I followed the direction of his gaze, to the mug in my hand. And in that instant, I recognised the Magic, Music-Playing Christmas Mug Terry’s brother gave us a couple of years ago. It plays a jaunty little tune when you move it. And there I’d been, carrying it around the house, swinging it around and causing that FREAKING LITTLE TUNE to follow me everywhere I went.
Still, at least I won’t make that mistake again. By which I mean I almost certainly will.
What a mug, huh?
(Sto kings? WHUT?)
(The highlight of the weekend: a crisp (potato chip, Americans) with a heart. The only thing better would’ve been a crisp with a shoe. Or if I’d backed the hell away from it a bit, so this photo wasn’t such an extreme close-up. We live and we never really learn.)
I’ve noticed that a lot of other bloggers do weekend recaps, which are always full of charming photos of them being super-cute in lovely, interesting places. My weekends aren’t normally like that. Here’s what this weekend looked has looked like so far:
Friday night:
Rubin ate chocolate.
I know you’re all about to tell me that OMG, dogs should NEVER eat chocolate, because it can be TOXIC to them and they can DIE and we are BAD owners, but trust me, I know. Ever since we got Rubin, I’ve exercised extreme paranoia about chocolate, and all the other things dogs aren’t supposed to eat – we’re always careful not to let him near it, and if anyone’s going to be looking after him, I back out of their house shouting, “Remember not to let him eat chocolate! Or grapes! Or small bones! Or chocolate!” But I’m clumsy. You all know this. And because I also know this, I have always been aware that the day would surely come when I would drop chocolate on the floor, and before I could react, Rubin would pounce and swallow it whole.
What I didn’t really expect was that Terry would be the one who would end up doing this. But he did, and, of course, Rubin reacted with his usual lightning speed, and almost before the chocolate hit the ground, it was gone, and he was looking at us all, “YEAH, SO?”
Much Googling ensued. Also much panicking, and shouting of the phrase “OMG, he’s going to die! He’s going to die!” (from me, naturally) while Rubin just sat there looking like chocolate wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
(He also tried to eat pizza.)
After a bit of frenzied research, we managed to establish that what he’d eaten probably wasn’t enough to cause him any harm. Nevertheless, our “relaxing” Friday night, which we’d planned to spend watching a movie, was instead spent with Terry watching a movie, while I watched Rubin, providing a helpful running commentary on his actions (“He’s standing up, he must be ill! Oh! He’s sitting down again! Why do you think he’s sitting down? Should we call the vet?”) and played a fun little game I call “Sleeping…or Dead?” And by “fun”, I mean “not even remotely fun, seriously.”
After a few hours of this, and absolutely no sign of any ill-effects on Rubin, I took the panic down a notch and allowed myself to cautiously acknowledge the possibility that he might live.
Then I went to the kitchen to get a handful of chocolate-covered cereal and, yeah, I dropped one on the floor. And yeah, Rubin ate it. He got to sleep in our bed that night.
And, naturally, he was absolutely fine.
(Terry took this photo the next morning, while I was still asleep. When he woke me up to let me know he was heading out to see his friends, I tried to say something like “See you later – take care/have fun!” but what came out was, “You! Take fun!” COFFEE.)
Saturday
You know that thing I do? With the dyeing my hair bright orange? And then with the doing it again? Yeah, that. Only this time , rather than the wash-in, wash-out colours I usually use to turn my hair orange, this one was a semi-permanent, so hello, orange hair! (Yes, I did a strand test first, No, it didn’t look quite so bright.) I’m strangely calm about it. And yes, I know I could get the salon to strip it out, or buy something to do it myself, but actually, I think I’m just going to leave it, and let that be a lesson to me. Thankfully, the REALLY bright orange is concentrated on the (formerly) strawberry blonde bits around my temples, so as long as I comb my fringe in a certain way, it’s not THAT obvious. Like, my hair just looks slightly unnatural, as opposed to glow-in-the-dark unnatural. Meh, fluorescent is, like, SO HOT right now, anyway. And I KNEW that fringe would come in handy one day!
(I’ve heard that Head & Shoulders or clarifying shampoos can make colour fade faster, yes? And… there’s always hats?)
(I did try to take a photo of it, by the way, but it didn’t really reveal the full extent of the orange, which gives me further hope that it’s Just Not That Bad.)
Also on Saturday, Rubin was apprehended in my parents’ garden in the act of eating God Knows What, But He Seemed to Find it Tasty. Another vigil ensued. He is still alive.
(The red sky, it was at night. The shepherds, they were delighted.)
Sunday
Sunday was a gorgeous Spring day, so naturally we chose to spend it engaged in various mundane household chores. Don’t you just HATE it when you wait all year for Spring, and then when it finally shows up, you have to spend it digging in the garden and scrubbing down your house? Luckily for me, Terry was up super-early to watch Formula One (like, 5am early. I didn’t even know there WAS a 5 o’clock in the a.m.) and afterwards he got through the various tedious gardening chores I had outlined the night before during one of my awful, “OMG, we will have to start doing battle with the garden again, why won’t that thing just DIE already?” rants.
Then we painted the porch. You’re starting to understand why I don’t do weekend roundups now, aren’t you? We’re on a bit of a mission at the moment – or, at least, I am - to make the house a bit less gloomy and awful, and we decided to start small. Literally, I mean: the porch is so small we can’t both stand in it at the same time, and because I can’t really be trusted with a paintbrush (Look, would YOU trust a woman who’s dyed her hair orange three times now? Didn’t think so.), Terry did that too, while I gave the house a bit of a Spring-clean. He earned MAJOR Brownie points this weekend, seriously.
(I worked hard too.)
(We painted it mint green. Because of course we did. It will match all of my clothes! And if crazed killers are ever chasing me through the house, why, I will just stand next to that wall in my mint-coloured clothes and be instantly camouflaged. Oh no, wait: I keep forgetting I have fluorescent orange hair now. That’ll blow my cover. OK, well, I’ll stand next to the wall, and they will see me, but I will look like a freaky, disembodied head, and they will be scared and run away, crying like girls. I’m glad I have a plan for that particular scenario now: that’s been bothering me for years.)
(God, I wish I hadn’t introduced the idea of disembodied heads. Because now I’m thinking about being beheaded, and you all know how I feel about THAT.)
(At the moment, the mint green paint is ALSO a lot brighter than we’d anticipated. WHY DOES NOTHING LOOK THE WAY IT DOES ON THE BOX?)
This Sunday was also Mother’s Day in the UK. We visited my mum on Saturday instead, and although it was HER special day, I was the one who got the gift, in the shape of this little polka dot dress she has made for me. From scratch, people. With her own hands. Isn’t she clever? Do you think I might be adopted?
Oh, and I also changed my banner. Never let it be said that I don’t know how to have a good time. Even although that’s totally true.
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