Forever Amber

The only good thing about winter: the shopping

Hey, fellow UK residents, remember "summer"? It was this hot, sunny thing we used to get, long, long ago? No? Not ringing a bell? I think I can just about remember it if I try really hard, but the memories are fading. Actually, I'm pretty sure that at some point in the future, when we talk to kids born in the UK in the 21st century about "summer", they'll just laugh at us and call us rude names, because it'll totally sound like we're remembering some ancient, possibly mythical thing. Like unicorns, maybe. Or the black Michael Jackson.

Which sucks, really.

Anyway, last week, I started receiving press releases telling me that now that summer is almost over, it's time for me to start thinking about Halloween and - oh God - Christmas. Christmas. And I REFUSE to start thinking about these things. I WILL NOT, and they can't make me. But I will indulge the senders of these doom-laden press releases ("NEWS FLASH: TIME MOVES ON! WHOOO, SCARY!") by buying myself some new coats for Autumn. Just, you know, to be prepared, and not AT ALL because I'm a shopaholic who just can't seem to stop herself, seriously.

(Yeah, this is another entry about my clothes, by the way. Sorry about that. I AM a fashion blogger, though, so I guess it is to be expected...)

In preparation for the approaching Autumn (BOO! HISS!) I have bought, not one, but two new coats. Which makes me happy. Not as happy as it would make me if someone figured out a way to reverse time and make it so that summer actually happened this year, but happy none the less. Here is the first one, which - shockhorror! - is not black:

Obviously, with this coat - in fact, with both of them - I'm going to have to either pretend we live in a warmer climate than we actually do, or just accept that it'll be too cold to wear it without multiple layers underneath by mid-October. But look! Swirly skirt!

Here is the second coat, which IS black. Because I cannot seem to stop myself buying this stuff.

The photos don't do this coat justice at all, because it's too dark to see the details... Anyway, it's a rainproof material, and it has these cute little puffy shoulders and a big stand up collar, which I like, because it makes me feel a bit like Elizabeth I, and I'm all about the drama. ("No!" I hear you exclaim in amazement...)

Even when I tied my hair back in a crappy pony tail and adopted a "ready for my close-up, Mr De Mille" pose, I still couldn't quite capture it, but hey:

Clearly, this year's theme is big, swishy skirts with pockets cut into the seams, and standy-up collars. Which is fun, you know, but not nearly as much fun as SUMMER would have been. I miss it. I miss it so, so much. Today, when I was out mowing the lawn (fun factor: 0) I realised we haven't had our wooden picnic table and chairs, which we got for our wedding, out AT ALL this year. Last year we got it out once, but it rained that day, so it doesn't really count. And then it rained for the next two months. Annoying!

At least I'm prepared on the coat front, though. Whew!

The Day Rubin became a REAL Bichon Frise

For as long as we've owned him, Rubin has never actually looked like a Bichon Frise. Well, OK, maybe when he was a puppy. He looked like a Bichon Frise when he was a puppy. What's that you say? You want to see the "Rubin as a puppy" photo AGAIN? Oh, OK, any excuse...

Everybody say, "Awww!"

Once he grew up, though, he stopped resembling any kind of pedigree creature at all, and started to look a lot like a raggedy ball of fur that likes to spend its time digging in the mud, standing belly-deep in stagnant water (yesterday) and maybe rolling around in things that are too unspeakable to mention. And that's exactly what he is.

Because of Rubin's love of Unspeakable Things, Terry and I do our best to keep him groomed, but sadly, that doesn't often extend to the full-on, fluffy Bichon treatment. Because it would be a waste of time, basically. No sooner than Rubin was done being be-fluffed, Rubin would go out and find a dead bird to roll in, or a wood full of twigs to get stuck to his fluffy self, and that's why we tend to keep his hair in what's known as a "puppy cut".  It's also why when we take him out for walks, people always stop and ask us if he's a poodle. (This is ironic, actually, because when I DID have a poodle, people used to stop and ask me if he was a Bichon Frise. Fluffy white dog ownership: ur doin it rong!)

Anyway, over the last few weeks, Rubin has been a little @*!#, to put it mildly. Sorry, mum. There has been barking. There has been more barking. There has been - yes! - even more barking.  Sometimes the barking has come at 6am, sometimes it has come at 5am. Sometimes the barking has come at 2am, and again at 4am. Then there's the barking that goes on ALL DAY, every time the wind blows, or someone drops a feather in the next street.

We have tried everything to work out what the night-time barking is about. He has water. He has toys. He does not appear to need to relieve himself. His routine has not changed. Our routine has not changed. We don't think anything is disturbing him, because our night-time alarm call is not his trademark "hysterical bark", but rather his, "I'm going to bark steadily and consistently until I get to sleep in the Big Basket" bark.

Terry thinks he's doing it because he's jealous of Pepe and the Tortoises. (Their new album is out on Monday, by the way). I think it's probably just the way we raised him. Maybe the wine wasn't such a good idea:

Anyway, today it suddenly occurred to me what all of the barking meant. It meant Rubin was trying to tell us something. Either someone was stuck down a well, or... he was trying to tell us that he wanted to look like a REAL Bichon. I couldn't be bothered going to look down all the nearby wells (or to find out if there even ARE any nearby wells - we'll leave that one to Lassie, I think), so I decided to assume Rubin was sending us the second message.

And so I made Terry brush him, and trim his hair into a proper "Bichon" shape. (Look, I had twenty gazillon blog posts to write today, OK? Also, if Rubin is going to start hating one of us, I'd rather it was Terry). I should add here that we DO brush him regularly anyway, but this was different: rather than the usual, "brush out all of the tangles and make him look vaguely presentable" brush, this was a mammoth, "make Rubin look like a proper Bichon, even although tomorrow he will be back to usual bedraggled self" brush. It took hours. But lookit the result!

These pictures actually don't really capture the amazing fluffball that is the R-Man right now. Seriously, that is one BIG head he has right there. But I thought I'd post them here anyway, so that tonight, when he wakes me up at 4am with his barking, I will perhaps be able to remember this moment, when he was fluffy and cute and totally silent.

Oh, and as well as spending a long, long time be-fluffing Rubin, Terry also found time to make me this as a snack:

I think I'll keep him. And oh, what the hell, Rubin too.

The One Where I Wear Black to a Christening. And on lots of other occasions.

I've just about recovered from the Two Flights from Hell experience. I'm not quite recovered from the experience of writing that mammoth post about it, mind you, but I'm soldiering on bravely, and the reason I'm soldiering on bravely is because I know you all have but one burning question in your minds right now, that question being:

"What DID Amber decide to wear to the christening?"

And the answer? Why, I wore the WRONG thing, of course. Of course.

After writing that long, rambling post about how I had absolutely nothing to wear and needed to clean out my wardrobe, I actually did go and clean out my wardrobe. But I still had absolutely nothing to wear, and this is because I work from home. Yes, I know I work from home as a fashion blogger, and you'd think that would make a difference, but you would be wrong, folks. The fact is, I sit around the house all day, venturing out only to either go to the gym, walk the dog or have my regular disastrous haircuts. Not only does it seem a little OTT to do all of this in a dress and heels, I'm also way too lazy to make the effort, which means I have adopted the skinny jeans/vest top/cardigan outfit that is my uniform.

When it comes to things like christenings, then? Nothing to wear.

In an effort to try and address this issue, I ordered loads of clothes from the Internet. Then I sent them all back again because either they just didn't fit or looked really odd on me. See "The One Where I Am Deformed" for background on my really weird shape and how nothing ever fits me right. If you have nothing better to do with your life, obviously.

By the time last weekend rolled around, then, I STILL had absolutely nothing to wear. So for the first leg of our journey, which involved travelling from Edinburgh to Birmingham, to briefly visit Terry's brother John, I went with my trusty outfit of ... er, skinny jeans and a top. Because I am THAT adventurous. Oh, and I also took a cardigan. And a coat. And SPF 50, because the thing about travelling in the UK is that you never know WHAT you might need.

In this case, it was the SPF 50. The sun was absolutely blazing down on Birmingham, and by the time we'd finished walking around the agricultural fair John and Jolene took us to near their house (this was really nice, and I got to touch an owl. Note to self: ask Terry again if we can get an owl.) I had basically melted, and was really regretting the skinny jeans, let me tell you.

Anyway, we had lunch at a cute little country restaurant (we weren't actually in Birmingham city centre, by the way, but in the countryside surrounding it) and then went to John and Jolene's house, which was lovely. Then it was time to drive south, to Hertfordshire, where we checked into our hotel and started getting ready to meet my friends Stephanie and Nick (parents of the baby being christened) and most of Nick's family for dinner. Here's what I WAS planning to wear to the restaurant:

The problem with this, though? Couldn't iron it. This was fairly annoying to me because I'm a little bit obsessed with ironing. I mean, I say, "a little bit" - I'm the woman who took her iron with her to Hertfordshire. Yes. And before you say anything, yes, I know hotels normally have irons in them. But I'd stayed in this hotel before, and it had been one of those situations where you have to ask for the iron at reception and they bring it to your room. I knew we were going to have less than an hour to check in and then get ourselves to the restaurant, and what if someone else in the hotel was using the iron at the time, and I was forced to wear really badly creased clothes? WHAT IF, people?

Well, that thought just could not be borne. I iron EVERYTHING. Sometimes I iron things when they come out of the machine, and then iron them again before I wear them. We recently ran a poll on The Fashion Police asking people whether or not they iron, and I was absolutely amazed by the number of people who said they don't even own irons, let alone use them. How do they do it? How are they not walking around looking constantly crumpled? Because I certainly am, and I DO iron. It boggles my mind.

Anyway, that black dress crumples up like a dishcloth if you so much as look at it, let alone cram it in a suitcase for several hours, so I packed the iron. And of course, there was one in the room. D'oh! But I did not wear the black the dress. No, because it's a really complicated dress, with lots of different sections that need to be very carefully ironed, and it was screwed up like a dishcloth and I just didn't have time. So instead, I wore another black dress. Which seriously, was a really, really bad idea given how freaking hot it was...

Anyway, we met up with Stephanie and headed to the restaurant where we proceeded to slowly melt while catching up and drinking way too much wine. Really great to see her again, though: Steph and I have been friends since the first day of university, when we discovered we were the only two girls in the dinner queue wearing high heels. We shared a flat together in Edinburgh for two years (two different flats, actually, both fairly scummy), and now she has a baby, OMG! I haven't seen her since my wedding, and the weekend made me wish I lived closer to my friends, and not just because maybe they'd be able to stop me wearing skinny jeans or black dresses all the time.

After dinner Terry and I went back to our hotel and had another glass of wine each. Because if you haven't drank much in the way of water all day, are starting to dehydrate from the heat, and have remembered to bring the iron but forgotten to bring the painkillers, you would totally have another glass of wine at that point. Then we went to bed, and in the morning I got up and got dressed for the christening in....

Yet another black dress! Well, it couldn't really have been anything else, could it now?

Of course, everyone else was dressed as if for a wedding. And it was boiling. But we still had a fantastic time:: the baby, Dylan, is just super-cute, and my other friend, Morag (also from University) was there, and announced that she's expecting a baby of her own in January, so it was a day of much celebrating. The weather was glorious, the barbecue was yummy, and I ate about four slices of cake.

But I am now more determined than ever to try and invest in some clothes that aren't:

a) skinny jeans

or

b) black dresses

I'm recording this fact here to try and motivate myself to actually do this.

And now I'm going to go and do some ironing. 

The Hammer House of Hairdressing Horrors

Yeah, I know, I'm totally running out of clever titles for posts in which I go to the hairdresser and return with a headfull of crazy layers that don't look any different AT ALL to anyone else but me. Sorry.

And I know what you're thinking. You're thinking: "The hell? Didn't we just do this not so long ago? Surely it can't be time for another disastrous haircut entry already? And also: what the hell is wrong with this woman? WILL SHE NEVER LEARN? What was she doing back at the hairdresser when she knows it always ends badly?"

Well, you see, it needed a trim. And I had this idea that if I keep getting the back trimmed, but not the sides (mullet), then the sides will surely catch up with the back quicker than they would if I just let sides AND back grow unrestrained. See, that made sense when I said it in my own fool head, but ... gah. You know the luck I have with the hairdresser. I should really just stay at home, and trust me, this time I really think I will. I think I'm just going to let it grow until people start shouting "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!" at me. I figure then, and only then will I be rid of these freaking choppy layers that, oh my God, make me want to PULL MY HAIR RIGHT OUT OF MY HEAD. Because GOD, this is getting old.

Anyway, so I went to the salon, and I asked, as usual, for a trim. To be fair, that's exactly what I would've got: I mean, the stylist had sympathised with me about the mullet job, had gently warned me that there was no quick fix for this, and that it was just going to have to take its own sweet time to grow out. He agreed with me that I was doing the best thing by keeping it trimmed, otherwise it would start looking even worse, and he took only the tiniest amount possible off the mullet part, so it wouldn't look any shorter.

So, it was all going pretty good, huh? I was sitting there silently congratulating myself on at last getting a good haircut, and then, all of a sudden, my mouth snapped open and I heard myself say, "Also, you could just cut in a fringe at the front." Seriously, it was like a scene out of The Exorcist or something - like some other, malevolent being had taken over my body and started asking for FRINGES. Because hell, it's not like THAT'S ever worked out before, is it?

I thought I'd got away with it at first. When I got home and looked in the mirror, I thought it was fine. I mean, it wasn't GREAT: my hair will never be "great" until  grow out these damn layers, but it certainly didn't look any worse than it had before, and I'm at the point now where "not looking any worse" counts as a good haircut for me.

Then I went downstairs to make coffee and let the dog out, and caught a glimpse of myself reflected in the glass on the back door.

And I hate it.

AGAIN.

It's a long fringe - in fact, it's really not so different from how it was before. But it IS different. It is shorter. It's too long to sit on my forehead, like a regular fringe, but too short to stick behind my ears, like I always wear my hair. And the introduction of yet another different length of hair on my head... well, let's just say it wasn't such a great idea, because it has only served to emphasise all the other layers, and this time I have only myself to blame, because the stylist did exactly what Evil Amber told him to do.

Thank God all those Blair-Waldorf-style headbands are in fashion right now, is all I can say. And at least I'll save money on haircuts for the rest of this year, because as God is my witness, I will not be going back until these stupid layers grow out. Not even for a trim, because clearly it's too dangerous. If I even mention the idea of getting another haircut here, or on Twitter, please feel free to reach through your computer screen and deliver a good, hard slap, because seriously.

Just to soothe my frazzled nerves, here is a picture of the new shoes I got this week, as a PR freebie. They are shiny. I will wear them when I'm off to see the wizard. To ask him to give me some hair, natch.

The One Where I Fall On My Ass

Yesterday, to my very great surprise, there was clearly some kind of disturbance in the Force, and the weather changed from "Unbelieveably, heart-rendingly awful" to an approximation of a pleasant spring day. That's about as good as it gets in Scotland, so naturally we all ("we all" being my parents, Terry, the dog and I) jumped into the car and headed to the beach.

The beach we went to was at North Berwick, which,as some of you know, has the distinction of being my Favourite Place in the Whole of Scotland. It's a pretty little seaside town, with lots of little restaurants and bars, and oh, a great big old volcanic plug, called Berwick Law. Here is a picture of Berwick Law (not taken by me, I hasted to add):

Here is a picture of me, Terry and Rubin on the very top of Berwick Law, which is steeper than it looks, let me tell you:

And here is a short video of me falling flat on my ass on the way back down:

Notice the way my family all come rushing to my aid... they clearly weren't too concerned, because obviously I do this kind of thing A LOT. The long pause after I land was caused partly by my reluctance to accept my own clumsiness, and partly by my quiet conviction that I had broken my right wrist. Which I hadn't, luckily.

Just a few minutes after this I almost fell again, the result being that my parents had to take an arm each, and half-carry me down the hill, like Amy Winehouse being escorted out of a nightclub. As my dad said, people were probably looking at us thinking, "Tut, tut, drunk in the middle of the day!" This time, though, my complete inability to walk unaided was caused by my shoes, which my dad described as "ridiculous" and I described as "the only flat shoes I own, what do you expect me to wear?" So, yes, fun for all the family! And ridiculous shoes = the only kind you'll ever need...

Actually, falling-on-ass aside, we had an excellent day, and I have spent most of my time since we got back looking at property prices in North Berwick on the internet, because it's one of the few places in Scotland I can actually imagine myself being happy to live in. It's only 30 minutes from Edinburgh by train, and I've always wanted to live by the sea, but unfortunately so do a lot of other people, as property is really expensive there, and as things stand, Terry and I could possibly stretch to a one bedroom flat, but only if we give up food and send Rubin out to work. Still, it's a more realistic dream than my "cross my fingers and hope the American government will let me live in Florida" one, so I'm going to continue to persue it.

And also to look into buying more sensible shoes...

Amber & Terry's Menagerie Now Open for Business

Ever wondered how long it might take to get three tortoises to stand in a straight line? I HAVE:

Oh, and "a long time" is the answer, just FYI. That whole "tortoises move slow" thing is just a rumour they put about to try and trick you. Trust me, as soon as their little feet hit the deck, those bad boys are off and running...

Anyway, the reason they're here, guest starring on the ole blawg today is because we have reached that part of the year when the in-laws take their annual five week trip to Greece and Terry and I take custody of Pepe & the Tortoises, which sounds like a 60s skiffle band, and actually, is almost as noisy as one, too.

Here is the lead vocalist of the group (the tortoises are on percussion, banging their food dishes against the glass of their tank. Yes, like prisoners.), Pepe le Parrot:

Don't be fooled by the little smile he appears to be giving in this picture, folks: Pepe hates me with a vengeance (he hates everyone except Keith and Terry), and was probably thinking about how he's going to bite my finger first chance he gets. And to think mine is the hand that feeds him, too!

And, because he gets crazy jealous every time we so much as look as the other animals, here is Rubin, just before trying to eat what appeared to be a large pool of vomit which we encountered on our walk tonight:

Terry and I will now be subjected to a couple of days of Rubin acting out almost constantly, in a bid to divert our attention away from Pepe & the Tortoises, and to prove that he's still the most bad-ass pet in da house. (A mission he is doomed to fail in, by the way: Pepe is the most bad-ass pet, for sure.) Seriously, for the first couple of hours of their stay, he will generally follow me around, sometimes placing his paw on my knee appealingly and looking at me as if to say, "I'm still the number one pet, aren't I? Say I am the number one pet." Then he'll clamber up onto my knee (he can jump up perfectly well, but for some reason he's always preferred to climb, like a small child), and will sit there looking at Pepe smugly, thinking, "Hee! Lookit me sitting on Amber's knee! Not so smart now, huh?" Then Pepe will say "Hello, pretty boy!" and that'll freak Rubin out all over again.

You know what they say, people, never work with children or animals...

Magic Kingdom = Totally magic. Going home = not so much

Well, it's our last full day in Florida. I'm sad. And also: totally and utterly depressed, because who wants to go back to the Kingdom, United when you can have the Kingdom, Magic? Not me.

(Why, yes, I did wear pretty much the same outfit to every park...)

The Happiest Place on Earth totally lived up to its rep (and huge thanks to The Parentals here for treating us to the trip, on account of how Sephora now has all of my money, and various retailers across central Florida have Terry's), and was every bit as... magic... as I remembered it. My love of the Magic Kingdom has absolutely nothing to do with the rides inside the park (Especially not It's a Small World), and everything to do with the atmosphere and appearance of the park. It's just a little, perfect place, and it feels like nothing bad could ever happen there. Unlike, say, an airport. Or where we live. So, yes, it was all very magic indeed. Especially this bit:

I swear this picture is not photoshopped. And that even the Splash Mountain staff (sorry, cast members) laughed as they sold it to us. Just call me The Joker. Call Terry "crazy". Moments after this photo was taken, my mouth ate my entire head. For real. (I've actually been having nightmares about Splash Mountain for years now, so this was actually a brave move for me, indeed. See "I don't like steep drops", for reference. Totally worth it, though, if only for this picture.)

So, yes, it's the last day, and I'm now off to sit by the pool and feel sorry for myself while worrying about airplane crashes. We fly out tomorrow evening, so if this is the last entry you ever read here, my worst fears were probably realised. Rest assured, though, that I will not be leaving Florida without a few small mementos:

GLAST Off

Hello, loyal reader, who has bravely remained with this blog through all of the "What I did on my summer vacation" posts! As a reward for your loyalty, here is a picture of the GLAST (no, I don't know what it means either) rocket taking off from Kennedy Space Centre, on a day that may or may not have been this Wednesday. (What day is this? Where am I? Who am I?)

Thanks to my mad photography skillz, it's almost like you were there, no? Say it is like you were there. Actually, being there was pretty cool - much more so than this crappy photo suggests. We were standing on a piece of scrub land right next to the highway on the approach to Cape Canaveral (We go to all the best places when we vacation), and the view was about as good as it gets without the type of security clearance they're just never going to give the likes of me. Especially not if "they" read my blog...

There were a couple of dozen other people there, most of whom seemed to be rocket nerds (I say that in the nicest way possible, by the way, because they were all very lovely), and one guy counted down to blast off for us all through a loud hailer. A couple of military helicopters circled us constantly, which made it all feel a bit like an episode of 24, and when the rocket finally went up, it appeared to rise silently into the sky, followed a few seconds later by a rumble that grew and grew until it got to be really quite freaky.  Which was cool.

After the launch, we drove to Cocoa Beach, where we managed to finally defeat the East Coast Curse which has dictated for years now that any time we try to take Terry to the Space Coast, it will pour with rain. The weather stayed warm enough for us to take a swim (the water was so warm it was hard to believe it was the same Atlantic Ocean that washes up against the UK. Back home, you wouldn't even paddle in it without Wellington boots. And actually, probably not even then.) and for me to get a sunburn on my nose, which has led Terry to refer to me as "Rudolph" ever since.

Anyway, the rain stayed off until yesterday, when we drove down to Tampa Bay to go to Busch Gardens. It had been ... um, 14 years... since I'd last been to Busch Gardens, and about the only thing that was familiar about it was the animals, who were really pleased to see us:

Blue tongue! Blue tongue! RUN!

(Note: Blue from cotton candy. Not strange tropical disease. But looks like it.)

After about an hour or so, though, the rain came on and basically closed down the park. Not before Terry and my dad managed to ride most of the (totally terrifying) coasters, though...

My dad took the opportunity to have a quick snooze on this one. He is famous for his ability to sleep anywhere, at any time. Terry, not so much. Oh, and speaking of coasters, I found the evidence of my one, never-to-be-repeated attempt at one (from last week) tucked away on my mum's memory card:

Hee!

After that it rained, and it rained, and it rained a little more. And so we shopped. And I didn't really buy anything other than half of the Benefit counter and some more workout gear, because seriously, that's a LOT of food they like to give you over here. Terry did manage to win a couple of Barts (now there's a phrase you don't say every day) to add to the little Simpsons family we've got lined up for Rubin to eat when we get home:

The Barts are bigger than the Homer because they ATE ALL THE FLUFF.

Today we went to Downtown Disney. You know, for the MAGIC.

Two Princesses. I am the one on the right. (Disney: call me!)Aaaand... that's about it. Tomorrow, though: MAGIC KINDGOM! OMG! THE HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH. And actually? That whole "Happiest place on earth" thing? Is totally true. I LOVE the Magic Kingdom. Love it. Haven't been since 2001 (although before that I'd been more times than I care to remember), and am now so excited I may throw up any second. Although, that could be the wine.

Anyway, I'm off to bed now to make tomorrow come faster. And to eat FLUFF, obv...

So, that whole "blogging every day" thing isn't working out too well...

I just realised I ended my last entry with the implication that if I didn't post again soon, it would probably mean that I had died of fright on a roller coaster, then... didn't bother to post again. Despite the fact that there has been no huge outpouring of grief from my loyal readers about this, I thought I should probably set the record straight by recording that yes, I did try out the teeny tiny baby roller coaster I mentioned in my last entry, and no, I did not die. But almost.

What you have to understand here is that when I say "teeny tiny baby roller coaster" here, I AM NOT JOKING. This coaster is not tall. It does not go fast, or turn you upside down. There are no particularly steep drops or wicked twists. In fact, I'm pretty sure that it's designed for children, such is the sheer tameness of the thing. All the same, as it begun its climb to the top of the frame, from which it would begin its lame, totally not frightening AT ALL descent, three things flashed through my mind:

1. I am scared of heights

2. And drops. Don't much like drops, either. Even baby ones.

3. Actually, know what I REALLY hate? Like, more than almost anything in the world, except crabs and Crocs? Roller coasters. God, I hate them things.

And so it was that as soon as the ride started, I opened my lungs and commenced screaming, and I did not stop until was all over. And actually, maybe a couple of minutes after that too. Even the sight of a six year old getting out of the car in front of me did nothing to convince me that I had not just escaped with my life. And this is why I did not ride any of the coasters at Universal Studios/Islands of Adventure. I like to think of it as "knowing my limits". Terry likes to think of it as "being a complete and utter wuss" and... actually, you could call it that, too.

Despite this, we had a great day. The highlight, for me, was the new Simpsons ride, which is a simulator. Now, I like these, mostly because they ARE NOT ROLLERCOASTERS, and even although this one opens with ... a roller coaster... I still loved it. So much so, in fact, that on the way out, I bought a Homer Simpson toy for Rubin to tear apart when when we get home:

Mmmm! Fluff!

Terry, of course, rode the coasters and loved them. So did my dad. My mum and I, meanwhile, found activities more suited to our level:

My dad had the camera on the wrong setting for this, but I think it worked out quite well because ooooh, look! Scooby caught a scary ghost! No, there is no trace of the fake tan job in this picture. Or, indeed, on me, because basically I got too lazy to bother maintaining it. You'd think the fact that this happens every. single. time. would deter me from using the stuff in the first place, but mmmm, nope.

Slightly less ghostly on the legs, though. But not much.

Yesterday was a little overcast, so we spent most of it shopping. Weirdly, I haven't bought too much this year (other than all of Sephora, obviously), but I did buy some jogging pants and new running shoes because given the vast amounts of food I've been managing to consume since I've been here, I'm thinking the gym and I are probably going to be seeing quite a lot of each other when I get home. Which is something else to look forward too, only not really. Am totally dreading coming home already. In fact, I can feel that familiar fog of "Oh God, I don't get to actually live here" depression start to descend, and on that note, I think it's time to get me some sun while I still can...

Breathless

So, hello! I am still alive, but I'm also very, very lazy and have been spending most of my time either lolling around in the sun or finding new branches of Sephora to bother, so I somehow haven't found the time to blog. Just imagine me eating a lot, lolling a lot and spending a lot, and you've pretty much got a snapshot of my holiday so far, if you're curious. Here are a few more, though, for the very bored...

Last night we took a cruise on Breathless, which is a lovely wooden speedboat which you board at Disney's Boardwalk (officially one of my favourite places on earth)... I've been looking at and admiring Breathless for years now, so my parents booked us on it as a treat for Terry and I a few months ago - thanks, parents! You basically get the use of the entire boat and a driver for an hour, and they take you onto the lagoon at Epcot to see the fireworks from the water. I was apparently quite smug about this:

The thing about that, though? The boat goes FAST. Like, really fast. And spins you round in little tight circles, so the side of the boat is almost touching the water. It was seriously better than some of the rides you get in the theme parks, and the fireworks were absolutely amazing from where we were moored.... I've always thought Epcot's firework display is one of the best, but from the water it was really spectacular, and all lump-in-the-throaty. It was fab. And I was still, apparently, very smug about it all:

Today has been a "laze around the pool with a headache" day, but tomorrow we're off to Universal Studios, which should be good because I haven't been there for years, and Terry hasn't been there at all, so there should be some new stuff to see. Tonight we're planning to warm up by riding the baby roller coaster at Old Town - or at least, Terry is. I'm too much of a wuss for even the teeniest of roller coasters, so if you never hear from me again here, you'll know I decided to give it a try. (Note: I wont, though.)

For now, Terry is hanging over my shoulder waiting to use the laptop to find somewhere to eat tonight, so I shall finish by saying that I don't care what anyone says: I still loves me some marshmallow fluff, so there.

Florida Photo Fest 2008

So, I'm pretty sure no one is actually reading this at the moment, especially given that my parents and Terry are actually here with me, but for the benefit of anyone who is, hi! Please keep reading, and maybe even leave me a comment, because I am all about the attention. And just for you, here are some moments from our trip so far...

Yesterday morning we woke up to this sight at the back of the house:

It was kind of a shame we didn't (and by "we" I mean "I") wake up to the fact that my camera was on the wrong setting until much later, but hey, them's the breaks, and actually, I didn't have my contact lenses in (it was about 7.30am and I'd just had a night of practically no sleep, with the small snatches of sleep I DID manage to grab marred by dreams in which I was made to blog about the shoes of every single person on our flight before they'd let me off the thing), so this is more or less "through the eyes of Amber". There were about four of these balloons surrounding our house, which gave a nicely surreal touch to the morning.

When we'd picked up our rental car the night before, they'd given us a car with two flat tyres (nice) which they replaced with a Jeep. We weren't too sold on the Jeep, so we decided to take it back to the airport and swap it out for the car we'd originally paid for. This would've been a bit of a drag, but hey, lookit what I picked up on the way back:

I'm guessing I should probably be embarrassed by the fact that I hadn't even been in the States for 24 hours before spending too much money at Sephora, but, oh, Sephora, how I missed you! And how I wish I hadn't bought the Philosophy 'The Present' "clear" makeup because that stuff truly is the Emperor's new clothes of cosmetics. Just in case you were wondering.

Oh! I also went to Target to faithfully buy the Jergen's Natural Glow some of you recommended last week, but I'm afraid to say I was seduced by something that seemed like an even better idea at the time (and please remember I was probably still a little jet-lagged here) - it is sunblock THAT IS ALSO A GRADUAL TANNER, and that is why I now have orange palms and ankles. Oh yes.

Anyway, all of this frantic consumerism basically knackered us out so blah blah pool, blah sun, blah Cracker Barrel for dinner:

Blah blah wine by the pool, blah blah waking up in the middle of the night feeling sick after the huge amount of food I had managed to consume that day, and finally, today, in which we decided to take a trip to Tarpon Springs, which is a little community on the Gulf Coast which is basically like a little Greece with Greek restaurants, Greek shops, Greek music and... just Greek stuff. Because that's totally why we came to Florida, you know?

I jest, of course... The folks and I had been to Tarpon Springs years ago, but we decided to bring Terry to see it, partly because it held particular interest for him (Terry's family are Greek), and partly because you can take a little cruise out into the Gulf from there to spot dolphins, and all I can say about that is that if you're ever in Tarpon Springs, TAKE THE CRUISE. It cost $13 each, and we totally thought there was no way we would ever actually see dolphins, but they took us out to this little island and lo and behold! Dolphins! That were jumping out of the water and rolling over on their bellies, and then following the boat like they do in the movies and stuff. Naturally I didn't manage to capture this on film AT ALL other than in this one crappy picture:

But trust me: dolphins!

Then we ate Greek food, got back in the car and drove home via St Petersburg. Which was totally not on the way home, but still...

Anyway we're back home now and I'm thinking I may go and sit in the jacuzzi for a while, but what I will probably actually do is drink wine. I leave you with this picture of my breakfast this morning:

Coffee and marshmallow fluff. Why don't we have this stuff in the UK?*

(*Note: We do have coffee, obviously. We're not THAT backward...)

Kitchen complete! Sanity lost!

It's taken four weeks, a lot of cursing and the last remaining shreds of my sanity, but at last - at long, freaking last - we have a fully functional, shiny new kitchen. You know, like normal people.

Photographing a really small kitchen = much harder than you'd think, which is why you get two pictures featuring more or less the same view. I promise we DID do the other half, too, it's just that I couldn't really get a decent picture of it without hovering somewhere near the ceiling. I did take a video of it too, but I'm going to take a wild guess that my kitchen isn't of so much interest to you that you'd want to watch it in glorious Technicolour, even although it has consumed Terry's every waking thought for the past four weeks. Mad props to Terry, by the way, for his kitchen fitting skillz, and to my dad, for giving up his Sunday to cut worktops: always a good way to spend a weekend, I find. (I went shopping while this went on, of course. So I can take no credit AT ALL for anything that's happened in the house this month, but I DO have a really nice new coat.)

As well as the kitchen, we also have shiny new floors throughout the house, and will be moving into the garden shed now, so we can keep them that way FOREVER. It's the only way, really. I mean, last night, for instance, after the final boards had gone down and I was lovingly cleaning the new kitchen, I happened to glance out of the window to see this:

Clearly someone had been digging in our long plant pot thingy (which, actually, I have no idea why we even have that, or what's in it. That's the old flooring beside it by the way. We don't just have random bits of rubbish in our garden. Well, not ALL the time, anyway). Now, I knew the culprit couldn't be far away, and sure enough:

Rubin then proceeded to walk around the shiny new kitchen, placing his dirty paws on the shiny new doors, and wiping his dirty face on... everything. And why had he been eating the dirt in the plant pot thingy? Because Terry put FISH OIL in it. It's testament to how stupid trusting I am that I have no idea why he did this, despite questioning him about it twice now:

CONVERSATION 1:

AMBER: Terry, Rubin seems to be eating dirt from the plant pot. WHY?

TERRY: Oh, that'll be because I poured fish oil into it.

AMBER: Okay!

CONVERSATION 2:

AMBER: Terry, Rubin's still eating dirt from that plant pot. Why did you say you poured fish oil into it again?

TERRY: Well, it was better than pouring it down the sink.

AMBER: Oh! Okay!

And this is why no plant or flower we've owned has ever lived for more than a few weeks. And why Rubin's been smelling of fish oil for the past few days, now I come to think of it.

Anyway, the house is now complete. And I promise that this is the last post you will have to read about my house decorating woes for ... oh, how about forever? Because that sounds good to me round about now...

Oh, crap.

I really thought the whole kitchen situation couldn't get any worse. "It totally can't get any worse," said Terry, cheerfully wrenching a cabinet off the wall with his bare hands. And I believed him. Then last night I went downstairs and found this:

Which, really? Is WORSE.

And then there's this:

ALSO WORSE.

On the plus side, the whole no kitchen = no food thing means that a Chinese takeaway is on its way to us right now.  Even so: WORSE.

Spoke too soon...

Remember that whole, "Hey, I am totally not bothered by the renovation of the kitchen, and the fact that I haven't been able to use the ground floor of my house for three weeks now AT ALL" thing? Well, this was my cooker and food preparation area yesterday:

It's worse now. Oh, so much worse! And no, the empty wine bottle isn't empty because we drunk it in a fit of kitchen-inspired rage. In fact, I have no idea what Terry was doing with the empty wine bottle. And I don't want to know.

So, dinner at ours this week, anyone? ANYONE?

Luckily, that cooker is getting replaced soon, because I don't think I'd really want to use it again now. In fact, it's lucky that it's ALL getting replaced, because to be perfectly honest with you, when a house gets THIS MESSY, I just want to sell it and start over somewhere else. Somewhere clean, with a working kitchen and no sink in the living room. Speaking of which...

Kitchen sink watch 2008! Kitchen sink in da house! It's planning on crashing on that couch for a while longer, while it works through its issues and learns to accept that yes, it is a kitchen sink, and its role in life is to... do sinky things. In the kitchen. What really annoys me, meanwhile, is the fact that these pictures don't even come CLOSE to illustrating what a total and utter wreck we're living in right now. I mean, seriously, that picture just looks like we have a normal house, albeit one with a sink on the couch, doesn't it? What you can't see, of course, is the fact that the floor you can see here? Is the only clear area of floor in the entire room, the rest being taken up with mess. MESS.

Still, at least that whole wooden cutlery tray thing is working out pretty good for us:

Also pictured: Mr Potato Head. Hi, Mr Potato Head! It's just a shame we can't use you no more on account of no longer being able to, you know, EAT, thanks to the building site that is our kitchen. Hey, remember FOOD? Man, that stuff rocked. Oh, and yesterday? The toaster broke. Now we're having to use the grill to make toast, the food of champions, and given that I didn't even know we HAD a grill, that's not been much fun at all.

About three more weeks of this to go. Send food parcels to the usual address... (And also: wine)

Everything including the kitchen sink

So, this Saturday is my mum's birthday, so over the weekend I went to the shops, and this is what I bought:

Yes, platform pee-toes: the shoes of champions. So, yeah, Happy Birthday, mum! And don't worry about these not fitting too good, because, as luck would have it, they both fit me perfectly, so whew, disaster averted there, eh?

Oh, and I also bought an entire new kitchen and new flooring for the entire house. Because, you know, that whole "re-doing the bathroom" thing worked out so well, and was just SO! MUCH! FUN! that we thought, "Hell, let's put ourselves through another couple of months of that crap." I mean, it's not like we had plans, or anything...

Of course, I say I bought this brand, spanking new kitchen and flooring-for-the-entire-house: what I mean by that is we bought it, and what I mean by that is: Terry did it. I contributed financially, obviously, but in terms of actually organising the whole thing, Terry did it all the measuring and boring stuff, and I just walked around the store going, "I like that one. Let's get that one." I don't really "do" buying kitchens, you see. Me, I just buy shoes...

Anyway, what all of this means is that the next couple of months, they're not going to be so much fun for either of us, but particularly not for Terry, who will be installing the new kitchen and laminate-for-the-whole-house. Poor Terry. I will be suffering too, of course, because I am a compulsive neat freak, and this is how our living room looks right now:

That silver thing you can only just see at the top of the picture? Is the kitchen sink. And I just know that this sink is probably going to go all "bathroom radiator" on us and sit there for months now, unable to fulfill its destiny as a sink, because we'll be just too darn lazy busy to install it. God, I love it when we do home improvements, I really do.

The worst thing about this? That's not even half of the stuff. No, the rest of it doesn't arrive until May 1st, so we have AT LEAST one month of living like this ahead of us. If it's anything like the whole bathroom saga, we'll end up camping out in one room for the duration, like savages, although, looking on the bright side, at least I won't have to clean the house any more because seriously, what is the point? Fun times, folks, fun times. Most exciting purchase BY FAR, though: one of those trays that holds knives and forks and stuff, which is made completely out of wood. OF WOOD.

God, I'm getting boring in my old age, aren't I? Let's look at my shoes again:

Ah, much better!

Nice day for a white wedding

This weekend, Terry and I went to a wedding:

This is what I have to deal with all the time. Although, given that he has to put up with me basically growing out of his back, I guess he has good reason to drink... Actually, Terry was the designated driver for the day, so that's someone else's drink he's holding. No, I have no idea whose. NEVER PICK UP STRANGE DRINKS, kids, no matter how inviting they look. Lookit what happens to you!

Anyway, a good time was had by all, even although it did make me sad to think that it's now just under a year since our wedding, and unless I divorce Terry and re-marry, I will never again get to dress like a princess for the day. Other than in the privacy of my own home, obviously.

There is, however, one thought that's keeping me going throughout this long winter that doesn't have a wedding at the end of it for me to look forward to, and it is this: WE ARE GOING TO FLORIDA IN JUNE.  Yay! Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking our plane is totally going to crash, and that we will all DIE I'm going to Florida for my own, selfish reasons, which will probably involve buying a lot of shoes and shopping at Sephora. Well you are WRONG. Well, I mean, I WILL probably buy shoes, and I will definitely do a lot of shopping at Sephora, but I am actually going to the Sunshine State for the purely altruistic reason of helping to re-invigorate the American economy by injecting cash into it. DON'T WORRY, AMERICA - I'M COMING. If you could just have Bloomingdales gift-wrapped for me, that would be great, thanks.

So, yes, we're off on June 2nd, and it can't come soon enough for me because ohmygod, are we all agreed that this winter needs to just END, already? Naturally, the nightmares about the flight have already started, with last night's extravaganza involving us all flying to Florida in a four-seater plane. And I mean, there are four of us going, so WHO WAS DRIVING? Scary stuff. Note to self: get Valium this time... 

Haircut 101

First: after reading all of your comments on my entry about phobias, I realised that actually, I have WAY more phobias than I had written about, and, indeed, that I had completely omitted some of my biggest, and most all-consuming phobias. Maybe I was trying to suppress the thought of them or something?

Well, because the thought of leaving an entry unfinished makes me break out in hives, I went back and edited it to add them in, and to make the entry in question only slightly shorter than my University Dissertation (On the Road: the American dream as seen by Jack Kerouac, JD Salinger and someone else who I totally can't remember anymore. So that was a worthwhile exercise, no?). So, yes, you can go back and read the bits you missed if you have a burning desire to delve even further into my psyche. Death! Cancer! People who kind of rumble sweets around their mouths before crunching them loudly! Fun times, people, fun times...

Anyway, this post isn't actually about phobias. No, this post is about my hair, and how I went all the way to Edinburgh yesterday to have it cut, at great expense, I might add, in a salon that actually dries your hair after they've cut it and everything. Fancy! Round these here parts they just kick you out with your hair still wet, and I'm not even joking. Well, I mean, I am partly joking, because they will blow dry your hair if you really want them to, but they will also charge you extra for that service, and will mostly just not bother to do it.

I'm still not 100% sure what it was that possessed me to haul ass into the city and get a super-expensive haircut when, actually, I could just have driven the two minutes to the Little Hairdressing Shop of Horrors and have it cut for less than half the price, even if I decided to get all high falutin' on them and ask for a blow dry as well as a cut. Well, actually, I kind of do know, to be honest. I think I did it because I'm always reading articles in women's magazines which are all, "Spend lots of money on haircuts! Haircuts are an investment! You wear your hair everyday, so a haircut is the one thing you should not hesitate to spend a small fortune on!" So, I read these articles, and apparently I also lost my mind and forgot that I've had lots of expensive haircuts in my time, and they haven't been any different AT ALL from the really cheap haircuts I've had, too, because yesterday afternoon found me paying the aforementioned sum of money in order to end up looking exactly the same as I did before:

Hi! I am exactly the same as before! I'm also really rubbish at the "taking a photo of yourself in the mirror" thing, I wonder how other people manage to do that?

My advice to you, then, would be this: if you are the kind of person who always seems to end up with exactly the same haircut, no matter how hard you try to change it, don't spend lots of money on haircuts. Spend a lot of money on shoes, instead. No one will know the difference with your hair, and at least you'll have lots of nice shoes.  < /wiseoldsage>

I did have a good day, though, even although I managed to perform my usual trick of "spending all my money but not actually having very much to show for it", and will now have to live off water and gruel for the rest of the month. Because I am a workaholic, you see, it's not often that I get to spend an entire day walking around the shops, and as I walk around shoe shops in the same way other, more cultured people, walk around art galleries, this was a nice little break for me.

The salon I had my hair cut in is located inside Harvey Nichols, so I got there early and amused/tortured myself by spending some time winding up the shop assistants by inserting my poverty-stricken and clearly unworthy self amongst the merchandise and making as if I was actually going to reach out and touch something with my grubby, proletariat hands every so often. By the time I left for my hair appointment, I had a whole little gaggle of them following me around the store at a disdainful distance, and when I made my usual pilgrimage to the Christian Louboutin section and actually dared to pick up a shoe, I swear they all gave a collective little gasp and tottered backwards in shock. So that was fun.

Of course, today on the way to the gym, my car (Terry's is still in the garage, being held at ransom) started to make a funny whirring noise, which was different from all of the other funny whirring noises it has made, and which probably means that as soon as we have liberated Terry's car, mine will be incarcerated in its place, and yet more money will be sucked from me. It's not true that you can't get blood from a stone, you know - the folks at our local garage manage it just fine.

Back to the Little Hairdressing Shop of Horrors for me next time, then.

Friday Photo: Still Life With Radiator

Because I'm still aiming for that "most boring blogger in the whole wide world" award, this week's Friday Photo depicts the new radiator in our wreck of a bathroom. The one that's STILL not been actually attached to the wall, on account of NO PLUMBER WILL COME AND DO IT. I hate plumbers. (Note: Unless any plumbers are reading this, in which case, I totally LOVE plumbers. Also: will you come and fix my radiator?)

This isn't the radiator, of course: the one that was the cause of Watergate. No, this is the radiator that has, you know, been sitting in our shed for FIVE YEARS NOW because we were too lazy to call someone out to install it. Five. Years. I actually think we may have owned the radiator for longer than we've owned the house. I'm pretty sure we rushed out and bought it as soon as our offer was accepted (because clearly it was, like, really important to us at the time to have a radiator that is also a towel rack. Warm towels rock. Or I'd imagine they do, anyway. I don't actually know, on account of we don't actually HAVE a radiator in our bathroom. Not one that works, anyway), and I remember it living in the spare bedroom for a few years, before it made its way out to the shed. Terry did try and convince me that we should stick it on eBay at one point (this was around about year three, I think), but I was all "NO WAY! We really need that towel-rack-come-radiator! And one day we will have it installed in our bathroom!" Oh, the innocence of youth. Or, you know, the innocence of a couple of years ago. Whatever.

Also shown in this picture is the mess that is our walls, sans tiles. It's still only without half of the tiles, though, and this is because.... it's something to do with the radiator. I think. Terry has now called almost all the plumbers in the phone book (Note: I totally made that up because I have no idea how many plumbers he's actually called. I may be boring, but I'm not quite at the stage of counting plumber-phonecalls yet. OK, it was about five. And he emailed a couple as well.) For some reason, all of them just say, "Yes, no problem, we can do that! Can you call me back tomorrow?" And then when you call back tomorrow, they say the same thing. WHY? What's with the calling back thing? Is it just to get rid of us? And if so: WHY?

What I'm basically trying to say here is: we are no further forward with the bathroom project. And I think it's started to make me insane. I mean, where have all the plumbers gone? I'm not good at dealing with rejection, and these dudes just keep on rejecting us, day after day after day. WHAT IS WRONG WITH US? Is our radiator-that-is-also-a-towel-rail not good enough, huh? Is that what it is? Will it never enjoy a useful life, fulfilling the purpose it was made for? And will it even care, given that it's now spent five years in the shed/spare room anyway?

Anyway, at least one person in the house is happy, and that one person is Rubin, who has just updated his blawg. And it's not about radiators, either. (It's about a Tennis Ball on Legs. Which is much more exciting.) 

Friday Photo: "Dongledees"

For this week's Friday Photo, I present the evidence of the one and only time in my life when I was persuaded that dungarees were an acceptable item of clothing. Of course, I didn't call them "dungarees". No, to me they were, and forever shall be, "dongledees". ("Dong'el'deez"). To this day, I have a deep and abiding mistrust of anything that looks even remotely like it could be related to the "dongledee" family. Hey, I wonder why?

In other news, the gym called. They wanted my membership card, my free towel and a written undertaking to never whine about them on the Internet again.  Nah, I'm just kidding - although this would possibly be a much more interesting post if they had. No, the gym were doing one of their regular "user surveys", and let me tell you it COULD NOT HAVE COME AT A BETTER TIME. Terry took the call, and I could see from the panicked glances he was casting in my direction that he was thinking, "Oh God, what have you said in your blog this time?). But it was all good. In fact, the manager who called us said there had been other complaints about the "pool full of kids" things, and that this is something that tends to happen any time there's any influx of new members, which there has been after new year, as everyone makes resolutions to get fit, lose weight, and leave their offspring in the middle of the fast swimming lane while they lounge in the spa.

Anyway, the woman said the gym are going to "take steps" to resolve the situation, and hey, you know, "steps" are all I ask. So basically Amber - 1, The Gym - 0. Even although I didn't actually do anything other than whining in my blawg.

In yet other news, our house is still standing after the Watergate affair, but I'm not sure how much longer that'll last. The huge crack o'doom in the ceiling (or 'Mount Doom' as I like to call it) had widened, and also bulged, giving every appearance of being about to fall down or heads at any seconds. The wood floors in the hall and living room, meanwhile, are slowly rising UP to meet the ceiling (Terry says no one else but me would even notice this, but I think not. And also: don't care, I want it fixed.). Everything else, including me, Terry and the dog, is just permanently coated in a thick layer of dust, which is replenished every time Terry goes to the bathroom and begins knocking more tiles off.

I was trying to clean this dust up as we went along, but I started to feel like I was fighting a losing battle with that one so recently I, er, just haven't been bothering. I'm not much liking this "2008" business AT ALL, to tell you the truth...

Watergate

So, on Sunday evening, we broke the house.

This is, of course, the latest chapter in the never-ending-story that is our attempt to redecorate the bathroom. Sunday night's installment started like this:

Terry: You know, I don't think I'm going to get a plumber in to move that radiator. I think I'm just going to do it myself.

Amber (wearing her rarely spotted "Voice of Reason" cap): I don't think that's such a great idea. Isn't moving radiators really complicated?

Terry: Nah, I've watched a few videos on how to do it on You Tube. It'll be fine.

And so it was that, a few short hours later, as I lay on the bed reading and polishing off the rest of the Christmas chocolate, I heard a shout go up from the bathroom:

"CALL YOUR DAD! CALL YOUR DAD!"

Now, most people, upon hearing such a cry, would instantly spring into action. Not me. I took a moment to reflect on what was happening. Terry clearly hadn't injured himself, because my dad's not a doctor. He is, however, a professional "dad" (who has moved a few radiators in his time), and his advice was required to help Terry tackle the small but mighty FLOOD that was now happening in our bathroom. Our what used to be our bathroom Before The Flood Came.

I called my dad and asked his advice. "Build an ark and send the animals in two by two," he said. Nah, I'm just kidding. What he actually said was:

"Stick your finger in the hole and keep it there until I get there."

Which was less exciting, but more practical, you know? At this point, before Terry reads this, I should probably explain that the hole in the pipe was NOT TERRY'S FAULT. No, the pipe had a BROKEN BIT inside, and even if we had asked a plumber to do the job, the outcome would have been the same. Only probably without the phone call to my dad, I would imagine.

So, Terry stuck his finger in the hole, while I gathered every last towel in the house, and threw them into the bathroom, in a feeble attempt to soak up some of the water. Once there, they joined both our bathrobes, plus the towel we use to dry Rubin's feet when he goes out for a pee. I don't know how that got in there.

The water, by this point, had managed to escape the bathroom, and was making its way along the hall, headed for the bedroom. I started to try and add more towels to the mix, in an attempt to halt its progress, but as I did so, I became aware of a strange noise coming from downstairs, and realised that someone had left the shower on in the living room. This struck me as strange because, like most people, WE DON'T HAVE A SHOWER IN THE LIVING ROOM. Or we didn't, until approximately 9pm on Sunday evening, at which point, the escaping water thought, "ah, screw it, I'll just get out through the light fixture" and started pouring out of the ceiling light.

Well, I ran downstairs and started placing basins on the floor, and also a mixing bowl (Which, actually, I was wondering when we'd get some use out of that. Every cloud.). The water was coming thick and fast, and I had already emptied the basin twice before another, very pressing problem came to my attention. You see, I'd drunk a lot of coffee that day. And water. And hadn't had access to the bathroom for a while. And had now been listening to the sound of running water for twenty minutes. Folks, I needed to go, and I needed to go BAD. There was a problem, though: the bathroom was filled with two inches of water, plus a Terry with his finger in a hole.

"Just go in the garden," said Terry, through gritted teeth.

"No!" I told him, horrified by this. I mean, it was COLD on Sunday night!

"Why not?"

"Because. I. Don't. Pee. Outside." I said, totally forgetting for the moment, that actually? Sometimes I do.

There was only one option. That option was for Terry and I to swap places, and for me to take possession of the bathroom and its leaky pipe while Terry manned the mixing bowls downstairs. So we swapped places, amid a shower of water that would have made us look a bit like we were in some kind of body mist commercial or something, were it not for the fact that actually, I was about to try and pee in a flooded bathroom.

I will draw a veil over the next few,awkward minutes of my life, and leave it to you to imagine what it might be like trying to use the bathroom whilst at all times keeping your finger stuck inside a leaky pipe, at ground level. And now I'm just going to take a moment to reflect on this new low I have reached, in both my personal life and in my blogging career...

*   *   *

Not long after this, my parents arrived to, um, relieve us. (Boom Boom!) and my dad availed himself of the opportunity to stick HIS finger in the radiator, while Terry assisted him and my mum and I spread more towels upon the floors and walked around with anxious expressions, repeating the phrase, "Do you think we'll need a plumber? Should we call a plumber?" at regular intervals.

Luckily, we did not need a plumber. Between them, my dad and Terry somehow managed to plug the leak, and my parents headed back home, taking with them three carrier bags filled with soaking wet towels to remember us by. Thanks, parents! I'm assured that the bathroom will be lovely when it's finished. The rest of the house, though? Not so much, really. The wood floor on the hall and in the living room took a bit of a beating, mess somehow spread throughout the entire house, and, as I write this, the final load of towels is in the washing machine.

Our trials were not over yet, though, for that night, as I lay dead to the world, dreaming confused dreams involving towels and plumbers, Terry became aware of the sound of that living room shower starting up at full blast again. Yes! The water left in the ceiling had finally found an escape route, and was pouring out of it, forcing Terry to go downstairs and prod a hole in the ceiling, before the whole lot fell down. This was what we woke up to the next morning (It actually looks worse in real life):

  So that sucks.

Also, at the height of the Flood, as we anxiously waited for my dad to appear and make it all better, I appeared at the bathroom door with the camera. "Sorry, Terry," I said, "But I'm totally blogging this..."

Friday Photo: Forever the Fashionista

For today's Friday Photo, I proudly present yet another in my continuing series of Embarrassing Photos of Me as a Child. I'm the little boy on the left. Yes, that is a bathing cap and a pair of Wellington boots I'm wearing. No, I am not in fancy dress: when the aforementioned items were bought for me, I was just so excited by them I refused to take them off, because I thought I was THAT COOL in them. That still happens now, sometimes. (My face is like that because the wind changed shortly after the last photo was taken, remember? The same facial expression is in this one, too. Seriously, all my adult photos have to be photoshopped to get rid of that whiny baby face I have. For real.) I liked the bathing cap so much I tried to sleep in it, but my mum wouldn't let me. It sucks to be a kid, sometimes, it really does.

My dog-faced friend on the right there was the little girl who lived next door. That's not her real face, needless to say: she was just so jealous of the bathing-cap-and-wellies combo (also: Anorak!) that my mum had to cut a mask out of the back of a cereal packet so she could wear it. I mean, that's what they tell me now. I guess it could just have been that she was embarrassed to be seen with me dressed like that. Actually, come to think of it, THAT still happens sometimes too...

Anyway, enough with the reminiscing: I have work to do, you know, and I'm totally not happy about it. The Christmas break spoiled me. Just over a week of relaxation and already my body is used to sleeping for as long as it wants, eating well past the stage of "hunger" or even "reason" and generally lying around on its increasingly lardy ass eating Fruit Pastilles and wondering if there are any chocolate coins left. I am dreading my return to the gym, which has been tentatively penciled in for Sunday. I reckon I should have finished eating all the chocolate in the house by then, and probably most of the other food, too.

In fact, I'm going to go and eat some right now... 

Friday Photo: Nude redhead in bathtub

(Hi, Google searchers! Sorry, I don't expect this was really what you were looking for, was it? )

I thought this was a particularly appropriate Friday Photo for this week because this picture was taken on Christmas Eve back in... let's just say it was a few years ago. I have no idea what I was crying about (Presumably the excitement was just too much for me. That still happens now, to be honest.) but what I do know is that, sadly, the wind changed shortly after this picture was taken, and my face stayed that way FOR EVER. Yeah. So let that be a warning to all the whiny-faced kids out there, OK?

Anyway, fast forward ... a few years... and not a whole lot has changed. I'm still so excited about Christmas that I'm on the verge of throwing a tantrum at any second, but this time round the excitement is more to do with the prospect of having a week off work and getting to eat and drink my own bodyweight while being surrounded by my loving family, rather than the thought of that Girl's World and Silver Cross Pram that Santa will be bringing. I'm still hopeful about the pony, though. Oh please, Santa, bring me a pony!*

We'll be spending Christmas with my parents, which will be lots of fun (and not just because it will give us the opportunity to live in a house in which you don't have to wear your outdoor clothes every time you want to visit the room formerly known as "the kitchen" and now known as "The Antarctic". Seriously, I think I saw a penguin scrambling out of the sink when I went down to make my coffee this morning. It's THAT cold down there.), and other than that, we have no plans at all. Which rocks.

In the meantime, I'm off to faithfully churn out a few more contractually obligated blog posts, and pretend to myself that someone will actually read them, while knowing that actually, everyone else is already off getting into the Christmas spirit. Ah well, at least by the end of today I'll finally be able to join them...

* Or a pair of Christian Louboutin shoes. Either one is fine.

Friday Five Photo: Before I Was Butch

OK, Friday Five, that's it - you and me are through. I tried to make this relationship work, I really did (well, I tried twice, but who's counting), but the thing is, Friday Five: it's not me, it's you. I mean, it all started out well enough, with questions about stuffed animals and, er, extremes of temperature, but soon you were all, "Which one of your friends has the dreamiest eyes?", "what's hanging from your ceiling?" and "where is your nearest playground?" and I was all, WHO CARES? I'm pretty sure no one wants to hear me listing the names of my friends, talking about my ceiling or providing the utterly fascinating information that there is a playground not five minutes walk from here, so that's it: enough.

From now on, I'm going to be playing a new game every Friday, and you are welcome to join me. It's going to be called the "Friday Photo", and what will happen is that every Friday I will post ... can you even begin to guess?! Yes, I will post a photo! Well, that's the idea, anyway. The problem with that is that Friday is my Bad Day - the day when it's all workworkwork, so I don't really get the chance to blog much on a Friday, hence the fact that I am actually writing this entry LAST SUNDAY, with my words coming to you as if from THE PAST. Spooky, no? I really hope I don't die between now (Sunday) and the time this entry is published, otherwise you'll all be really freaked out to see me suddenly start bitching about The Friday Five from beyond the grave.

Anyway, here is this week's photo:

You can probably tell from the hair (and the butchness) that this photo is another in my occasional series of embarrassing photos of me as a child. This particular photo is notable, not so much for the "Double Dummy" action going on there (yes, we in the UK call pacifiers "dummies". Never fails to make me smile.), but for the fact that when I was shown this picture when I was a slightly older child, I immediately started up a weeping and a wailing, and the only thing my parents could get out of me were the words, "MY LEG! I ONLY HAVE ONE LEG! WHY DID YOU NOT TELL ME I ONLY HAD ONE LEG!"

Indeed, when you look at the picture again, you'll see that it does indeed look like I have only one leg. You'd have thought the fact that, when I was shown it, I was very obviously standing there ON MY TWO LEGS would have been a clue, though, hmmm? I think this says a lot more about my mentality than I really like to dwell on, to be honest.

Also: in a related incident, when I was a bit older again, my grandad once told me that my leg had fallen off and rolled under the chair. Yes, I believed him.

Anyway, I think I've probably embarrassed myself enough for one day now, so it'sback to work for me. (Unless, of course, I really did die in between writing this entry and it being published, in which case at least I don't have to spend my Friday night working.)

When I Was a Boy

I have absolutely nothing to say for myself at the moment, so, instead of a proper entry, here's the next installment of my occasional series of "Embarrassing Photos of Me as a Child". I call this one, "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man":

Oh, I've come a long way, baby. You see, although I was to grow up to edit a website about shoes and own more makeup than Sephora (actually, come to think of it, I more or less own Sephora's makeup. All of it.), what most people don't know about me is that I started life as a tomboy. In fact, when my friend Ed saw this picture (on my 21st birthday, when my parents blew it up to giant proportions and taped it to the door of my bedroom at University, no less), he looked at it for a few long minutes before saying, "Yes, you were a nice little boy, weren't you?" And you know what? I totally was. I was a PROPER boy. I was always dirty. I was always on my bike. I would sometimes frighten little sissy girls by pretending to be the Incredible Hulk. I liked to collect worms...

Actually, no, that's not quite true. I didn't collect worms - I just used to "rescue" them. You know how when it rains, all the worms come up out of the earth and you sometimes find them on the path, dying? I was their Avenging Angel. I used to rescue them, and by "I used to rescue them" I mean "I used to pick them up, put them in my jacket pocket or in the little box which sat on the back of my bike, and then forget about them."  The poor worms. My poor parents, who would unsuspectingly put my jacket in the wash and... well, you know.

This picture was taken at what was probably the height of my tomboy phase. As you can see, I look dirty, tousled, and as if I've just been in a fight. Which I probably had. The swing was not mine: it belonged to the kids next door, who were the type of kids who weren't allowed to play with their dolls in case they got them dirty, and who almost certainly wouldn't have been allowed on the swing in case it messed up their hair or something. Clearly I had no such concerns. They were always clean and perfect, and actually, come to think of it, God knows how they were ever allowed to associate with the likes of me. In fact, they probably weren't. I probably broke in to use the swing and decapitate their Barbies or something.

Anyway, the man of the house next door liked to go fishing, so one day as I was out "rescuing" some worms, an idea came to me. I went to the house next door and rang the doorbell. When the lady of the house opened it and smiled down at me, I gave her my most charming smile in return, and told her I had brought a present for her husband - something that he could use on his fishing trips. "Oh, isn't that nice!" she exclaimed, holding out her hand and closing her eyes as instructed. You can probably see where I'm going with this...

Yes, into the open hand of The Lady Next Door, I placed.... a handful of wriggling worms, sill covered in the mud I had just pulled them from. I meant well, my mum explained later, once the lady had been revived and the worms were back where they belonged (in my jacket pocket). I though the Man of the House might like to use my worm friends as bait. I meant no harm. (Other than to the worms, obviously). The apology was accepted. The worms lived to fight another day. Well, probably not, actually, but let's just pretend they did.

I don't know why, though, but when I think about it now, I like to think I did it deliberately...

(I won't forget when Peter Pan came to my house, took my hand
I said I was a boy; I'm glad he didn't check.
I learned to fly, I learned to fight
I lived a whole life in one night
We saved each other's lives out on the pirate's deck.

And I remember that night
When I'm leaving a late night with some friends
And I hear somebody tell me it's not safe,
someone should help me
I need to find a nice man to walk me home.

When I was a boy, I scared the pants off of my mom,
Climbed what I could climb upon
And I don't know how I survived,
I guess I knew the tricks that all boys knew.

And you can walk me home, but I was a boy, too.

I was a kid that you would like, just a small boy on her bike
Riding topless, yeah, I never cared who saw.
My neighbor came outside to say, "Get your shirt,"
I said "No way, it's the last time I'm not breaking any law."

And now I'm in this clothing store, and the signs say less is more
More that's tight means more to see, more for them, not more for me
That can't help me climb a tree in ten seconds flat

When I was a boy, See that picture? That was me
Grass-stained shirt and dusty knees
And I know things have gotta change,
They got pills to sell, they've got implants to put in,
they've got implants to remove

But I am not forgetting...that I was a boy too

~ Dar Williams, When I Was a Boy )

Here comes the new haircut, same as the old haircut

So, a few years ago, as I mentioned in my last entry, I was given a mullet by the Hair Salon Down the Road - or the Little Shop of Hairdressing Horrors, as I affectionately liked to think of it at the time. It was the result of one of those last-minute emergency haircuts that no-one should ever have to subject themselves to: I had some big event or other to go to, and I woke up the morning before it with the certain knowledge that if I didn't get a haircut THAT VERY DAY, why I would take the nail scissors from the bathroom and I would cut it myself, oh yes I would.

My regular stylist wasn't available at such short notice, so, with a nonchalance born of the knowledge that I had never in my life had a haircut that wasn't exactly the same as its predecessor (and this through no lack of trying on my part) I breezed into the Little Shop of Hairdressing Horrors and asked them give me a trim. No, actually, that's not quite right: I asked them to give me a trim, a fringe and to "just shape it a little round the sides". Now, to this day, I have no idea what it was that caused the stylist to interpret my "shape it a little round the sides" as "I want it all business in the front, party at the back, my good woman!". But she gave me a mullet.

Being socially inept, I could only sit and watch in horror as great chunks of my hair fell to the salon floor. "Why, it looks... it looks like she's giving me a