Folks, if I can give you one piece of vacation advice, it would be this:
Never stay anywhere that’s significantly nicer than your own home.
Because trust me: it’ll be SO hard to leave…
The front gates
The driveway
We stayed in the Encino area of L.A., which is in the San Fernando Valley – or just “The Valley”. (Where the girls talk like this? Like, totally?) Tom Petty’s house was just one street along, and the Jackson compound was nearby. We’re told Clark Gable once owned our house, and used to bring his “floozies” to it: I have no way of knowing whether that’s true or not, but I liked to imagine Clark standing out there admiring the view in a silk dressing gown, holding a glass of whisky. (Because Clark Gable would’ve totally drunk whiskey for breakfast. And so would I, now that I’m home, actually, if I thought I could possibly get away with it.) As soon as we pulled into the driveway, and got a glimpse of the view, I knew I was in serious trouble. Surely my family couldn’t be expecting me to stay here for two and a half weeks, and then simply pack up and go HOME?
But they were expecting me to do that.
I wonder why they hate me so much?
Here’s the outside of the house, plus some random photos of me posing in my latest Bettie Page dress:
(Wearing: Bettie Page dress, Christian Louboutin shoes)
And here’s the inside:
This is the fridge:
I know what you’re thinking. Why so tiny? Don’t worry, here is the spare, right next to it:
What, you don’t have two giant fridges? How do you survive?
Here’s the walk-in closet in the master bedroom:
It was larger than my ENTIRE HOUSE.
By far the best thing about this house, though, was the view:
Oh, how I miss it.
This little rocking chair was where Terry and I used to sit every morning with our coffee:
Every morning we’d sit there. And then, on our second last morning? We were sitting there drinking our coffee, when one of the springs on the chair broke with a BOOOIIIINGG and Terry nearly fell on his ass. And now nobody can sit on that chair no more. Which is just fine by me, because, you know, MY CHAIR.
(That photo of it is now my desktop wallpaper. I actually asked Terry last week if it would be possible to have it blown up to the size of the wall in front of our desks, so I could look at it every day and pretend I was still there. And I wasn’t even joking.)
I really, really miss it.
In fact, here is my sadface:
Sadface 
Tagged california, L.A., outfits
You know how every time I take a vacation, my body thinks, “Oh, great, Amber’s giving me some time off: I think I’ll fit in a quick illness?” and I spend the first few days of my trip coughing and wheezing and generally feeling like death warmed up?
That kicked in on our last day in San Francisco, during which I also got me a migraine. So I was REALLY happy to be getting up at the butt crack o’dawn in order to go and pick up our rental car and then drive down to L.A. That’s why I’m wearing jeans and a hoodie in all of these photos. I’m just going to get that out of the way upfront, so you can all start laughing at me. I WAS COMFORTABLE, OK? And ill. And, you know, keepin’ it real. Ahem. Luckily, though, I didn’t have long to wait for our first stop, which was just outside the city:
The Googleplex. Yes, we did that. We went to an office complex and we posed outside it with our cameras while wearing tourist sweaters. (Well, one of us, anyway.) And at this point I’d just like to say a quick thank you to all of the Google employees who laughed, but did not jeer at us, as they walked by.
Now, my pet hate right now (and for quite a few months, actually) is when people declare themselves to be “geeks” just because they use Facebook, or like very mainstream movies or TV shows. (“I can’t wait for Eastenders tonight. I’m such a geek, lol!”) But I must confess, Terry and I did feel just a tad geeky* to be visiting the Googleplex, which is probably a little bit bigger than my hometown.
The thing is, though, Google basically OWNS me. They’ve been more or less paying my salary for the past few years. (Yes, Google, YOU paid for all those shoes!) So it seemed wrong to just drive by and not, you know, stop to say hello.
“Oh, hai Google! I can has Pagerank 7, yes?”
“They’re going to HATE it when they find out we were here,” I told Terry. “They will probably ban me from the internet or something. Especially after I steal that bike over there.”
Google provides these little bikes outside its buildings, which staff can borrow to get around the complex. I was slightly worried that I would, indeed, be banned from the internet or something when they found out about the two seconds I spent sitting on this one, but then I realised that THEY ALREADY KNOW. Because Google knows everything.
Anyway, having spent just a few minutes looking at the headquarters, we jumped back in the car and hit the road: specifically, the Pacific Coast Highway, or Big Sur.
Our original intention had been to take Highway 1 all the way to L.A. but in the same way that my decision to take a plane trip has the ability to make volcanoes erupt, my decision to take a road trip caused a section of the highway to become impassable due to a landslide. I should really just stay at home, huh?
We still managed to drive all but around 60 miles of Big Sur, however, and wow, is it beautiful. It’s also a really, really slow road to drive on, because every mile or so you have to pull over to look at the view:
Our next stop was Carmel-by-the-Sea. (Actually, we stopped there before taking the photos above: I’ve got my photos out of order.) My mum has wanted to visit Carmel ever since Clint Eastwood was its mayor, and honestly, I thought we were going to have to leave her there. It’s one of those picture-perfect little towns which almost doesn’t seem real. If you told me Carmel was a Disney attraction, I’d probably believe you.
We had lunch in the famous Hog’s Breath Inn (once owned by Mr Eastwood himself), and then we were back on the road.
We took Highway 1 as far as we could, and then cut right across the mountains, in an act of lunacy that I still look back on with amazement. The views were breathtaking. I mean that literally, by the way: we actually thought we were going to die. However, we reached the valley beyond safely, and settled down for several long hours of driving.
Since I was a teenager, I’ve been obsessed with the American road, and the idea of the road trip. In fact, a large part of my dissertation at university focused on the symbolism of the road in American literature, so I always look forward to long road trips with no small amount of excitement, imagining that I will be just like Jack Kerouac, having crazy adventures, meeting tons of “characters”, and feeling the poetry of the road.
Which is stupid of me really, because, for the past few years now, I have been completely unable to spend any amount of time in a car AT ALL without falling instantly asleep:
This photo was actually taken the following week, on the way to Disneyland, but it could’ve been taken anywhere because this is how I roll, people. I fall into a doze leaning against the window, and then I suddenly jerk awake, convinced the car door is going to spring open, spilling me out onto the highway. Then I rinse and repeat, over and over and over again. And oh yeah, I’m wearing TWO hoodies in this one. We quickly discovered that our rental vehicle had ISSUES with the aircon in that, anywhere we went, the people in the front would be so hot they’d be starting to see mirages, while those in the back would be so cold they had to wear everyone’s sweaters at once. And by “those in the back” I mean “me”. And by “our rental vehicle” I mean “every car I’ve ever travelled in, ever.”
So, basically, this stage of the journey was less like On the Road, and more like being stuck in a car for hours with nothing to look at but a field of wheat. I tell a lie: there was actually plenty to look at. We saw oil fields. We saw military bases. We saw the most beautiful mountains and hills. We saw little one horse towns that looked like movie sets. We didn’t take photos of any of them, because by that stage we were all just staring straight ahead of us with glazed expressions, wondering when the hell the road would just END, already. My poor mum, meanwhile, had a killer headache, and had also started to feel car sick somewhere on those mountains, so she got to spend the rest of the journey trying not to throw up. Fun times!
It was all worth it, though. Because after almost 400 miles and many, many hours, we arrived at The Best Holiday Home in All the Land.
But that’s another post for another day.
“What’s your road, man?–holyboy road, madman road, rainbow road, guppy road, any road. It’s an anywhere road for anybody anyhow.”
- Jack Kerouac, On the Road
Note: not really.
Tagged big sur, california, carmel
Want to know the strangest thing about visiting Alcatraz?
Right before you get on the boat, they make you stand in front of this giant photo of the island, and have your photo taken. Then, on the way back, they try to sell you the photo for $20. This struck us a a little, you know, weird, because why would you want to stand in front of a PHOTO of Alcatraz, when you can stand in front of the real thing?
The Real Thing
Of course, when we got back, there was a huge line of people, all patiently waiting to pay their $20 for a photo of themselves standing in front of a photo of the place they’d just visited. (The taxi drivers we met would approve of this, although would probably argue that once you’ve had the photo taken, there’s no need to go to the island itself…) I tried to convince Terry to take a photo of the photo of us standing in front of a photo, to see if we could perhaps make the universe implode or something, but there were signs everywhere saying “ABSOLUTELY NO PHOTOS OF THE PHOTOS OF THE PHOTO!” so he didn’t dare.
“What are they going to do,” I quipped, “Send us to Alcatraz? Oh…”
(Except I didn’t, obviously, because I only ever think of these things later. Let’s just pretend, though.)
Anyway. We chose to take the night tour to Alcatraz, because we figured it would be good and spooky there at night, and as you know, I love me some spookiness. I’m also fairly obsessed with abandoned places, and although Alcatraz isn’t strictly “abandoned”, on account of the hundreds of tourists who visit it every day, I think it still counts. The boat leaves in daylight, so you get plenty of time to see things before the sun sets, and it also circles the island before docking, which the daytime tour doesn’t do, so we thought it was well worth it.
(Word to the wise: we had to book the tour three months in advance, so if you’re thinking of visiting, BOOK FIRST.)
After dutifully having our photo taken, we boarded the ferry and were on our way.
It. Was. Amazing.
Alcatraz was one of the things I was most excited about seeing on this trip, and I definitely wasn’t disappointed. Most of the jailhouse tour is an audio one, which worked out quite well because although there were a lot of other people there, we were able to wander around at our own pace, and wait for the crowds to dissapear, while listening to the narration of the former prisoners and guards.
The jailhouse itself is one of those places you’ve seen so much on TV, and in movies, that it’s hard to believe it’s real, and that you’re actually there. Or that people actually used to be locked up there, in those tiny little cells, for hours and hours of every day. Every so often the crowds would clear from a particular area and I would just stand there and try to imagine what it must have been like, but it’s almost inconceivable, especially when we looked at the cells which served as solitary confinement, and which were absolutely pitch dark inside, and totally terrifying.
After we’d wandered around for a while, we decided to try to escape the crowds, so we all paused our audio tour and walked outside, where we found that the island was surprisingly beautiful: I’d somehow imagined that everything about it would be grey and austere, but it’s absolutely teeming with wildlife, and covered in flowers. And, of course, the views of the city are spectacular, and must have been particularly galling for those stuck on The Rock…
We did a bit more wandering, and then discovered a set of stairs leading to who knew where:
I mean, I say “Who knew where”. This should really have given us a clue:
Yes, it was the restrooms! And they were AWESOME!
No, I’m kidding. (And they weren’t, by the way. They were just OK.) It was the recreation yard, and it was completely empty:
Or it was until we arrived, anyway.
This was my favourite part of the tour, and actually one of my best memories of the trip. The whole island was so evocative – one of the most atmospheric places I’ve ever been, for sure – but the emptiness of the recreation yard, the setting sun and the huge building towering behind it made me stop in my tracks. My family had all gone on up the steps, but I stood there for a moment in the yard, and felt the history of the place surround me. I swear I could almost feel the ghosts of the various people who’d been there before me: and who weren’t all lucky enough to be able to turn around and take the ferry back to the mainland.
And, of course, once we did get back to the mainland… we tracked down that taxi driver and told him he was WRONG.*
* We didn’t.**
** He was, though.
(P.S. Most of these photos are courtesy of my mum or Terry, some by me.)
Tagged alcatraz, california, san francisco
In our last episode of Amber Describes Her Trip to San Francisco In Excruciating Detail, our heroine (that’s me) was still on Pier 39, admiring the seals. As we left, however, the rain which had been threatening for a while finally started to fall. We’d been walking for hours by this point, so the sensible thing would’ve been to return to the hotel and get some rest, at least until the rain stopped.
We’re not sensible, though, so instead we decided to go straight to the Golden Gate Bridge.
This wasn’t quite as stupid as it sounds. The rain which had just started signalled the start of a two day storm which was due to hit the Bay area. We’d heard about this storm on the weather forecast, where it was being spoken about as if it signalled the End of Days. The rain would wash San Francisco right off the map, the weatherman solemnly informed us, so if we had any sights to see, we’d better get them seen before they were obscured forever by fog.
OK, he didn’t say that last bit. The storm did sound like it would be a pretty bad one, though, and we figured we should see the bridge before it started, so we jumped into a taxi and asked the driver to take us to the side of the bridge closest to the city.
“OH GOD, NOT THE BRIDGE!” said the taxi driver in horror. “What do you want to see THAT for? You can see it from here! And it’s going to rain! RAIN.”
Feeling like the world’s biggest idiots, we explained that we’d quite fancied walking across the bridge. “Actually,” said Terry, “It looks like the rain’s eased off a bit: could you take us to the opposite side, so we can walk back?”
“No,” said the taxi driver.
We all laughed, nervously, for we had assumed this gentleman was being paid to drive us, but obviously this was not the case. Awkward.
“No,” said the driver again, “I most certainly could not. You asked me to take you to this side of the bridge and that’s where I’ll be taking you. Anyway,” he added, “you don’t need to WALK the bridge to be able to SAY you walked the bridge. Just step onto it from this side, then you can say you done it, but you won’t actually have to DO it.”
He chuckled, pleased to have been able to impart such great wisdom to us.
“Tell you what,” I said, leaning forward, “How about you just take us back to the airport? We’ll just look at PHOTOS of the bridge on the internet and then that’ll be even better because we won’t have to see the rest of the city AT ALL!”
Except I only said that in my own head, obviously. Well, I didn’t want to annoy the man. He was actually quite nice. He just REALLY hated that bridge.
It seemed useless to try and explain to the driver that we didn’t want to just SAY we’d walked the bridge, we actually wanted to DO it, so we meekly got out of the cab at the place of his choosing, paid him, and, of course, tipped him for his trouble. And there it was:
“That’s rubbish!” we all chorused. “We should’ve just stayed at home and looked at a photo of it instead!”
No, I’m joking. It was well worth seeing in person. I mean, it’s quite some bridge, no?
Obligatory “arm out” photo. I promise we did actually GO to San Francisco. We didn’t just Photoshop that same photo of us on images of the various landmarks, although more on that in my next post…
We walked out to the middle, before the wind and rain forced us back, as we realised that if we walked all the way across we’d just have to turn and walk all the way back in the rain (The Other Side being a place where taxi drivers will not go, obviously…). Also, although he’ll probably kill me for saying this, one member of our party is not fond of heights, and was finding the constant shaking and groaning of the bridge just a little bit disconcerting:
He did conquer his fears, though. And he even found time for a quick low-level plank:
I did suggest that a plank on the side of the bridge would’ve been more impressive, but he suggested I take a running jump off the bridge if I was going to indulge in crazytalk, so that was that.
We still weren’t done, though. You really wish we were, don’t you? The rain had stopped again, so we headed first of all to the famous Painted Ladies:
After that, we walked to the Haight Ashbury district which, as I heard one passer-by say, “Is where the 60s happened.” It’s crammed full of vintage and second hand shops, and basically has a lot of counter-culture type stuff, which makes it endlessly interesting for a walk around. Haight Street is also home to the Bettie Page store where I bought this dress, so needless to say, I loved it.
THEN we headed back to the hotel.
In a taxi.
In the taxi, Terry made the mistake of telling the driver we were making the trip to Alcatraz the next day.
“OH GOD, NOT ALCATRAZ!” exclaimed the driver in horror. “Man, I hate that place. Worst day out ever. Seriously, you guys are about to have the most boring day of your lives. I’ve been twice, and I have NEVER been so bored. GOD.”
“Well, where would YOU go in San Francisco, if you were us?” Terry asked.
The driver thought for a moment.
“Honestly?” he said. “I’d just go home, get an early night.”
We didn’t, though.
And the next day? We headed straight to Alcatraz.
Tagged california, san francisco
Look! It’s the Golden Gate bridge, all tiny and far away! And it’s one of those, “I am taking this photo myself!” photos! And it’s obviously completely freezing! But I’m getting ahead of myself. Before we got here, to this freezing pier with its view of the bridge, we had first of all to survive the taxi ride to our hotel, which was completed at breakneck speed, with the driver simultaneously listening to music from his iPhone and the car radio, and not paying much attention to the road. It was our first experience of San Francisco taxi drivers, and we were all pretty relieved to emerge from it alive.
We were also relieved to check into our hotel. We stayed at The Chancellor, which is right on Union Square, and right in the middle of the “action”, as the guide books all say.
Our room was on the 12th floor, and this was its view:
That large white roof you can see in the foreground? Saks Fifth Avenue. We were so close I could actually see all the little duds hanging in the women’s department. The brown building next to Macy’s? Neiman Marcus. I went there as soon as I’d unpacked. I would’ve just remained there, too, but Terry wouldn’t let me. Spoilsport.
(A quick aside and then I promise I’ll stop talking about shopping: San Francisco is possibly the best place I’ve ever been for it. Shopping, I mean. All of the big stores are within easy walking distance of each other around Union Square, and there’s also no end of vintage and second hand stores, plus numerous little quirky boutiques. It was bliss.)
Anyway! The Chancellor was built in 1911, which makes it very old by San Francisco standards. Because of its age, it has small rooms, no air con (not that you need it in San Francisco in June…) and only three stars. All of the rooms have been renovated, though, and what it lacks in mod cons, it makes up for in character and service: it’s one of those little boutique hotels where nothing is too much trouble, the waitress always remembers your drink order at the bar, and you could eat your dinner off the floors if you were that way inclined. We all loved it, and for me, the age of the building was definitely a plus point: before I’d visited San Francisco, I’d always associated the city with the hippies of the 70s, but so much of the architecture of the city centre made me think of the early decades of the 20th century instead. I could easily imagine the flapper girls of the 20s and the glamourous women and dapper men of the 30s and 40s walking through the lobby and having a drink at the bar…
(This is actually my parents’ room. Within five minutes, ours was far too messy to be photographed, but it was identical.)
Oh, and they also give you ducks:
I ended up with two ducks: this baseball-playing duck (because ducks and baseball go together like me and Neiman Marcus, don’t you know…) and another one in a scuba mask. It was my mum’s fault, really. She decided to wind me up by telling me they’d been getting a new duck every day. I had to find out if the Duck-a-Day policy applied to everyone at the Chancellor, or if my mum was just some kind of crazy duck whisperer, so I put this one in my suitcase (don’t worry, you’re supposed to take them with you: I am many things, but ‘Duck Rustler” isn’t one of them. Yet.) and sure enough, as soon as this one disappeared, my scuba-diving friend showed up. Awesome! Then my mum revealed that they’d only been getting a regular amount of ducks, anyway, so all of my fears about being slighted by the ducks had been for nothing.
But enough about ducks.
On our first morning, Terry and I were both awake at the crack of dawn, so we decided to get a head start on the day by heading out to explore. We walked from the hotel down to Fisherman’s Wharf, and that walk is one of my favourite memories from San Francisco: the city was still waking up, the streets were quiet(ish), the morning light was filtering through the clouds… We got both Lombard Street and Fisherman’s Wharf all to ourselves, and if you’ve ever been to San Francisco, you’ll know how much of a treat that was.
So we went back to the hotel, collected my parents, had breakfast… and did it all again.
(These photos were taken by my mum: thanks, mum!)
Before we left, we’d all agreed that on our first morning in San Francisco we’d all still be jetlagged from the flight, so we’d just take it easy, and not try to fit in too much. Ha! From our hotel, we walked through Chinatown and back down to Fisherman’s Wharf, stopping on the way at Lombard Street, which was now absolutely thronged with tourists: Terry and I were really glad we’d taken our early morning walk. We had lunch at Ghirardelli Square, next to the famous chocolate factory, before walking out onto one of the piers for a view back to the city, and over the bay.
Obligatory cupcake photo, as required by Blogger law. This one was made with Ghirardelli chocolate, and was the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted, EVER.
Don’t ask.
After that, we wandered back along to Fisherman’s Wharf, and Pier 39.
When you tell people you’re going to San Francisco, they instantly start telling you not to go to Pier 39 under any circumstances: not even if someone holds a gun to your head and tries to force you. The reasoning for this is that Pier 39 is OMGTOURISTY and is therefore SO! AWFUL! that death would be preferable to a few minutes on its boards. We were given this sage piece of advice numerous times by various people, so naturally we went to Pier 39 as soon as we possibly could. Well, you see, we ARE tourists. And it’s not like we’re going to travel all that way and then not see the pier, is it? So we went there, expecting it to be some terrible, Hades-like place, and of course, it wasn’t at all. Actually, we quite liked it. And we wouldn’t have wanted to miss seeing these faces:
They reminded me of Rubin. He smiles like that when he’s asleep, too.
And, with that, I’ve crossed the 1,000 words mark, so the rest of my San Francisco tale will have to wait for another day. Because, yes, there’s more. I haven’t even finished day 1 yet. Well, I DID warn you…
Tagged california, san francisco
(Dress, Bettie Page; Shoes, Zara (last season, out of stock)
I’m back. And rather than get straight into the OMGDEPRESSION I feel at being back, I’m just going to go right back to the start of my trip, and systematically bore you with all of my stories and photos. Then, when I get to the end, I might just do it all over again, and in this way I will relive my holiday over and over again, right up until the next one. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I’m starting off with the the trip from London Heathrow to San Francisco, during which I managed to clock up the following Random Acts of Stupidity:
# of times I left my “baggie” full of liquids at security and had to run back for it, with just minutes to spare before our flight - 1
# of times something leaked inside said “baggie”, soaking the contents of my handbag – 2
# of times I threw my Kindle across the aisle of the aircraft and almost into the lap of the gentleman sitting across the aisle from me – 3
# of drinks spilled over Terry’s crotch – 1
# of times I caught my watch strap on my bag, causing it to drop off my wrist - 3
# of times this happened before even leaving Edinburgh – 3
# of times Lady Gaga disrupted the entire cabin, courtesy of an alarm on my phone which I’d forgotten to disable - 2
# of contact lenses lost during the flight – # 1 (subsequently found stuck to my knee, a dried-up husk of a thing. The contact lens, I mean. Not my knee.)
# of times I lost my Liz Earle Superbalm during the flight – about 27, culminating in it being lost for good just before we landed.
# of times I complained about this – 92
And finally, having reached San Francisco, the # of times I failed to heed the warning presented by this notice in the entrance to our hotel bathroom, and almost fell flat on my face?
About 1,473.
In contrast, the flight back from LAX yesterday was pretty uneventful, save for two things:
1. The aircon unit that started leaking onto my head halfway across the Atlantic. Trust me, when you’re a nervous flyer, the very last thing you want as you sit there trying to get some sleep on the plane is to feel a steady drip, drip on your head, and to think, “Oh, it must be raining outside… wait… CRAP!”
2. The fact that I almost caused my family to miss our connection at Heathrow, due to the Kurt Geiger shoe sale in Terminal 5. Sorry, family. (It was a REALLY good sale, though…)
I do, of course, have many (many, many…) more stories and photos to share, but I also have laundry to do, sleep to catch up with, and a lot of whining about being back home to get through, so for now I’m just going to leave you with these random photos of my new Bettie Page Captain dress, purchased in San Francisco, and the Hollywood sign, neither of which have anything to do with this post at all. Enjoy!
(He’s got his paws up. Because he was born this way, baby.)
What you see looking out from the sign.
And what you see looking back.
(Yeah, I told you there would be a LOT of photos…)
Tagged bettie page, california, dresses, flying, shoes
… and if you think you might come to California,
I think you should.
~ Counting Crows, A Long December
It’s our last night in L.A. The usual end-of-trip depression has already set in, as I walk around saying goodbye to this little house, which I’ve come to think of as “home” over the past few weeks, and which I’ll, in all likelihood, probably never see again. (Not because we’re never coming back, of course, just because when we do, we quite possibly won’t be able to rent the same property. I get ridiculously sentimental about leaving places I’ve been happy in. I almost go into mourning.) And every time I write about coming home, people say the same thing. They all say, “Oh, it’s good to go away, but it’s always good to come home, too!” But I’ve never, ever felt like that, so all I feel is sad as I soak up these last few rays of sun, and look back over the last three, fantastic weeks. I can’t believe this trip, which I waited so long for, and planned for so meticulously, is already on the brink of being just a memory.
It’ll be a wonderful memory, though.
Tagged california
We made it to L.A., and we’re having far too much fun for me to find time to blog, so for the moment, let the record show that my hair is continuing its assault on my person, this time under the new guise of…
THE HAIR HORN!
Don’t have nightmares, kids…
Tagged california, hair, L.A.
Well, we got to the West coast safe and (mostly) sound, and I have a few minutes to spare while I’m waiting for everyone to be ready for breakfast, so I thought I’d quickly show you some photos from my phone (which is all I have to take pictures with at the moment, on account of our camera being surgically attached to Terry’s face at all time). Here are some quick snaps from yesterday, when we walked for around 10 miles around the city, and which you’ve probably already seen if you follow me on Twitter…
   
(A pair of shoes, just lying in the gutter. I would love to know the story behind that…)
And oh yeah, I might have shopped:
(Sorry about the super-blurry photo, I think my hands must’ve been shaking with excitement…)
I also found a Hermes scarf for $0.99 in Goodwill. People really weren’t joking about the quality of the vintage stores here.
So far? We LOVE San Francisco. Tonight: the night boat to Alcatraz!
Tagged california, san francisco
Back when I wrote this post (which was about that time I flashed everyone at the local garage, thanks to a strong gust of wind and a big-skirted dress, just in case you can’t be bothered clicking the link), some of you were kind enough to say how much you liked the photos which accompanied it. And honestly, I felt a bit bad about that, because the fact is, that’s not what I actually look like most of the time.
HERE’S what I ACTUALLY look like most of the time:
Funnily enough, this is also going to be the poster for my very own horror movie, The Hair. Tagline: When hair is cut violently, a powerful curse is released…
OMGHAIR!
The curse cannot be broken:
(I’m also waltzing with a ghost in this photo. If you can see the ghost, I’m afraid you’re cursed, and your hair will kill you in your sleep tonight. If you can’t see the ghost, meanwhile? Also cursed. Sorry.)
The curse can strike at any time, and ruin any photo:
As you can see, in this photo Rubin’s special canine senses had alerted him to the approach of THE HAIR. He tried bravely to fight it (or perhaps he’s actually just struggling to get away from it, who knows?) but alas, it was too late, and that nice photo Terry had set up, with my disembodied head floating above some flowers, was ruined by the curse of THE HAIR.
Sometimes The Hair will find new and unusual ways to attack. There you will be, just walking along minding your own buisiness, when:
HAIR MOUSTACHE!
Think you can escape it?
THINK AGAIN:
Note the expression on my mum’s face here. She sees The Hair. She knows I’m doomed. She’s just wondering how to tell me. Or whether to run.
(No, I have no idea what was going on in this photo. Other than that my hair was trying to kill me, obviously.)
You should also fear the close cousin of the Hair Moustache, the HAIR BEARD:
It’s a little more subtle, but just as deadly.
So, readers, while it’s not my intention to make you all have nightmares (I think I did that already when I posted the link to THAT OLD WOMAN from Insidious) I hope I’ve shown you today that you can run, but you cannot hide from…
THE HAIR.
Move over, Samara. There’s a new creepy girl in town.
(Coming soon to a blog near you.)
(Er, if you could maybe imagine the Psycho music or something playing here, thanks.)
Tagged hair
|
|
|
