Forever Amber

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!

What I Got for Valentine's Day

In all the excitement of getting our bathroom back (seriously, it's been like living in a hotel this past week, only one that you have to clean yourself), I realised that I completely forgot to mention Valentine's Day, and, more importantly What I Got.

Well, perhaps unsurprisingly, Terry and I both opted to give each other gifts themed around the idea of "We've got a new bathroom and by God, we're going to use it", so I got him a selection of stuff from Lush (Terry is actually a man, I promise, he just really likes Lush) and he got me this:

Yes, it's a gel spa bath. It turns your bathwater into... gel. Because really, when you think about it, who wouldn't want to sit in a tub full of gel? Well, as far as I was concerned, there was only one thing that would be better than sitting in a bath full of gel, and that one thing was blogging about a bath full of gel. Am always the professional. So I pressed Terry into action to act as my model for this quick guide on How to Have a Gel Spa Bath.

Step One: fill the bath to the halfway point

Lookit the fun he's having already!

Step 2: Pour in the gel powder (for yes, 'tis in a powdered form)

Step 3: Stir it with your hands

I guess you could use, like, a giant wooden spoon or something for this stage, but that wouldn't be as much fun, would it?

Step 4: Congratulations! It's a blue bath!

You must now wait five minutes for the water to turn to gel. You must also pray to any God willing to listen that your sparkling new bathroom does not turn blue because of all of this. Because admit it, that's totally what you think's going to happen here, aren't you? Well, it isn't. Sorry.

Step 5: Enjoy your gel-filled bath!

Also enjoy: looking like a disembodied head! And no, you're not getting pictures of his naked body, no matter how much you beg and plead.

Step 6: Find a large blob of undissolved gel on your body

Urgh!

Step 7: Pour dissolving powder into bath and mix with hands. Then shower off the blue stuff.

Note: artist's impression only.

Now, I also tried this myself, and let me tell you, it was a pretty strange experience, and not unlike sitting in a large tub of warm slush. Not, of course, that I've ever sat in a large tub of hot slush, but if I did, I just bet it would be exactly like that. Those large blue blobs were everywhere - in fact, I'm still picking them out of my hair now - but it was actually strangely satisfying to squeeze them. Yes. And no, we didn't dye the bath blue, although we certainly deserved to.

So there you have it: our Valentine's present, 2008. Recommended.

The One Where I Am Deformed

So, I'm having a dress made. This is probably a mistake, because, as loyal readers (hi, mum and dad!) will remember dressmakers hate me. But I am doing it anyway, and unfortunately for me, a necessary part of this process has involved being measured. Which has led to the discovery that I? Am deformed. Yes.

The dressmaker, you see, provided a list of about half a million different measurements she would need in order to make this dress for me: bust, waist, hips, shoulders, distance between left buttock and back of right ear, right elbow to left little toe - that kind of thing. I knew beyond doubt that, left to my own devices, I would screw this up beyond belief, and so it was that my mum and I spent a strangely puzzling half an hour or so on Saturday night trying to work out what the hell size I am. This was made more difficult by the fact that, as we measured, we discovered that my shape was subtly, yet constantly, shifting (AM SHAPE SHIFTER! WOO!) all the time, so that no matter how many times we measured a particular part of my body, we would get a different measurement every time.

Eventually we managed to pin down a set of measurements that we believed to be accurate. We double checked these, to make sure no further shape-shifting was going on. It wasn't, so I went home and the next day, sent off the measurements to the dressmaker, and then sat back, in happy anticipation of the arrival of my perfectly fitting dress.

It was at this point that I discovered that I was deformed.

"Are you SURE these measurements are correct?" asked the dressmaker in an email, clearly puzzled. "I mean, are you REALLY sure? Can you double check them for me, please? FREAK." I could almost see her, staring at her computer screen and scratching her head, thinking, "Man, this chick is deformed! DEFORMED!"

So, I measured again, and discovered that, at some point in the intervening hours, I had managed to lose an inch off my waist. Yay! And also: HOW? ("Read my amazing weight loss story in next week's Forever Amber!") Well, I emailed the dressmaker back, and admitted that actually, my waist measurement had changed. Again. This blew her mind.

"This is definitely your WAIST you're measuring, right?" she asked. "Like, the NARROWEST part of your waist? Are you sure you're not measuring your hips? Because most people measure their hips. FREAK."

Yes, I was sure I was measuring my waist and not my hips. I was sure because:

a) I have been able to tell the difference between the two for quite some time now, and

b) My hip measurement hasn't been 24" since I was in short pants. (Note: I have never actually been in short pants. But you know what I mean.)

The dressmaker, however, was convinced I was lying. And she was also convinced that I was DEFORMED.

"Do you have trouble buying jackets and tops that sit right at the waist?" she asked, still presumably scratching her head in bemusement. "Like, do they normally sit either way above your waist or way below it? Because it sounds to me like you're deformed. FREAK."

OK, she didn't actually say that last bit, but she may as well have, because WHAT''S THE BIG DEAL WITH MY WAIST? And you know, I've thought about this, and actually, no, I don't have problems finding jackets and tops that sit on my waist. I mean, almost everything else about them will be wrong: the sleeves are always so long that I look like I'm wearing a straight-jacket, and the necks are always so low that last time I went out wearing a scoop necked top I had to get dressed and then painstakingly sew my top TO MY BRA, otherwise I would have spent the evening, er, flashing people. But waists? Generally sit right where they're supposed to.  You know, on the waist. Such are the joys of being a "petite" person. And, actually, such are the reasons that drive me to have my clothes made, rather than buying them off the peg. Well, that and the fact that I'm way fussy.

Apparently, though, I am deformed. My waist is not where it should be. (WHERE SHOULD IT BE?!) This has thrown me for a loop, because I thought I had successfully listed each and every one of my physical defects when I was a teenager (I'm not joking, by the way - there is an actual list) and "position of waist" was not one of them. It is now, though, obviously.

I haven't heard from the dressmaker in a few days now. I'm assuming she's too busy laughing at my freakish shape to type. I have to say, I can't wait to see where the waist is on the dress she sends me.  In the meantime, I'm off to get my deformed ass some coffee...

A Long November

I bought Ugg boots.

There, it's out there, you can do what you will with it, but I'm begging you now, please don't post comments telling me that OMG! THEY ARE SO UGLY! and that I must have clean LOST MY MIND, because the thing is: I KNOW. And also: I don't even care.

While we're admitting things, I may as well just go the whole hog and tell you that I actually bought my Uggs months ago, in Florida. Well, they were a helluva lot cheaper there (I may be mad, but not mad enough to pay UK prices, thanks very much), and even although we were basking in the rosy glow of 100 degree heat at the time, I knew the day would come when I would be back home, wearing a thermal vest under two thick sweaters, my winter coat in the house, and contemplating buying fingerless gloves to allow me to keep typing despite the deadly chill.

That day came last Thursday, and so it was that I found myself wearing a thermal vest, two sweaters, a coat... and UGGS. Why yes, I did look like an absolute freaking idiot, thank you! But here's the thing: I did not care, and if you lived in my house, and had to walk your dog in temperatures that would freeze your nose off, you might even do the same. I mean, probably not, obviously.  I AM a freakishly cold person. Terry, for instance, doesn't find it nearly as cold as I do, but since last Thursday I've been so cold that I wasn't even joking about the whole fingerless gloves thing.

I hate this time of year with a passion. Hate it. It's at this time of year that all thoughts of fashion have to go out the window for me, such is the struggle to keep warm. See, I just can't stand being cold, and all those cute little dresses I bought, thinking they'd be perfect for winter? Are too cold. Instead, I've been walking around in a fleecy thing that's actually meant to be worn outdoors, but which has been pressed into active service indoors, plus the aforementioned boots and vest. When I go outside I add a very thick coat, a wooly hat and gloves. (Or I would if I actually knew where my gloves were. Note to self: find gloves.) It's absolutely miserable.

So I bought Uggs. I don't know why, but I feel like I have to keep justifying this purchase by saying that I will not be wearing them out in public (other than walking the dog), and they were very much a practical purchase, not a fashion one. It was either that or tie hot water bottles to my hands, feet and body all winter, and it's hard to type like that. (Trust me, I know).

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to crank up the heating and iron my thermal vest...

This Pool Ain't Big Enough For the Both of Us

I am done with the pool. No, that didn't take long, did it? And actually, to be fair, it's not so much the pool I'm done with so much as it's The Others:

Yes, The Others have troubled me for the very last time - or I hope so, anyway - but they have gone out with a bang, driving me from the pool this afternoon after a mere 15 lengths.  Bravo, Others!

See, I was swimming in the super-wide "only really for children and old people" lane. When I arrived, there was only one other person in it. By the time I left, there were five of us, all swimming en masse, and bumping into each other like tadpoles in a jar. Every time I reached the end of the pool and turned round to come back, another person would emerge from the changing room and slide into my lane. The water was so choppy from all of the frantic activity that it was like swimming on a storm-tossed sea, only with Others all around you. So no, not the most pleasant swim I've ever had in my life.

In the "fast lane", which is really only wide enough for one person, there were two Others: one powering up and down at a rate of knots, and the other just floating gently on his back, because he was That Guy Who Wears a Nose Plug Just to Float Around Like a Dead Person. 

In the middle lane, meanwhile? Was The Whistler.

I swam for as long as I could stand it, but when I noticed a sixth person beginning to insert himself, sardine-like, into the pool, I decided to get the hell out of Dodge and go and soak in the jacuzzi instead.

Unfortunately, The Whistler decided to come with me.

I went to the poolside showers to wash the chlorine off first, and in the time it took me to get there, The Whistler had made it to the jacuzzi. "PEEP!" he said as I pressed the button to switch on the shower. And "PEEP!" he said again as I turned the shower back off, grabbed my towel and beat my retreat.

I got dressed and went to sit in the lounge to wait for Terry. Before I sat down, though, I wandered over to the window overlooking the pool and looked in. THE POOL WAS EMPTY. EMPTY. When Terry went in, just a few minutes later, he had the whole pool to himself. Gah. Freakin' Others.

Anyway, clearly this state of affairs cannot continue. With the pool now established as the private domain of The Others (Leader: The Whistler), I'm going to have to venture into the gym itself. GOD. If anyone would like to start placing bets on how long this will last, just let me know. I'm determined it'll last at least a week, though, so to this end, I went shopping this afternoon to buy gym clothes, on account of I gave all my old gym clothes to the charity shop, thinking I would never need them again. This leaves me with absolutely nothing I can wear to the gym, other than an ancient pair of yoga pants which I bought when I was about 20 and some running shoes Terry bought me five years ago.

Things I Do Not Own:

• Jogging pants
• A hoodie
• Any shorts that are designed for function rather than fashion
• Any t-shirts that are designed for function rather than fashion
• Ummm, what else do people wear to exercise in

Things I Have No Particular Wish To Own:

• See above

So, I hit the shops and bought these:

And also: a really nice little cashmere blend cardigan with a little bow at the neck, which will be absolutely no use at the gym whatsoever.

So! Ancient pair of yoga pants and old white trainers it is then! I did try to find gym clothes. The problem was that I'm a skinny short ass, so all the pants were way too long and all the tops were way too baggy, and also: I have no idea what people wear to the gym. What do people wear to the gym? Do they wear leggings?  Or do they wear... something else. Help me out here, people: what do you wear to the gym?

The Grey Lady

Last night as I got ready for bed I opened my wardrobe to stroke my clothes and was hit by a sudden, hideous realisation. It was this: almost everything I have bought in the past couple of months... is grey.

Things I Have Bought That Are Grey

• Sweaters
• Cardigans
• Jeans
• Vest top
• Shoes
• Pyjamas. FREAKIN' GREY PYJAMAS, PEOPLE!

They join a couple of things I already own that are also grey, namely:

• Grey dress
• Grey underwear. (Technically a mistake. Wash whites separately, kids.)

Also: the dress I am currently coveting that  I would totally have bought if they'd  just had it in my size? Is grey.

WHY? Why have I done this to myself? I really don't understand it, because my favourite color? Is green. And OK, there's not a whole lot of green in the shops at the moment but DID YOU HAVE TO BUY SO MUCH GREY INSTEAD, AMBER? DID YOU?! Actually, I don't think I even like grey. Except my new  grey skinnies, obviously. They rawk. But still: why so grey, I wonder? Am not happy. Especially given that I've spent all my money now, so it's not like I can go out and buy more things, that aren't grey. And I can't take the grey stuff back either because, well, I kind of already wore it all. I appear to have been building my collection for quite some time now.

No, it looks like I am destined to walk through the winter like some creeping grey thing, and I have no one to blame but myself. That I write about fashion for a living just makes it all the more embarrassing. "Fashion writer in 'no longer allowed to go shopping alone!' scandal". "Woman swallowed whole by mountain of grey clothes!"  "Amber is a total freaking idiot! And also: poor!" Gah.

Grey is the new black, folks. You heard it here first.

Not So Far From the Madding Crowd

It's One of Those Weeks, folks, and by "One of Those Weeks" I mean, "Oh my good God, is it not the weekend already? And also: where is the wine?"

Even although it's turned out to be a pretty crappy week, though, it did start off reasonably well, in that I I got to go shopping at the weekend. I love me some shopping. The problem with that, though? Well, there were a few problem with that. Allow me to list them for you:

1.  I went specifically to buy a new winter coat
2.  I did not get a new winter coat
3.  OMG, how will I keep warm this winter?!
4.  Oh. With the *ahem * thermal vest I bought.
5.  Shut up.
6.  You know you'd buy a thermal vest too if you lived in Scotland.
7.  No, you really would.
8.  Where was I?
9.  Oh, yeah. I didn't buy a winter coat, but I did buy a whole bunch of other stuff.
10. That I didn't really need because, hello! Winter coat, anyone?
11. Why am I writing like this, all listy? I should stop that now...

The main thing that troubled me about my shopping trip - that troubles me about every shopping trip, basically - was all the other people that were there at the same time as me. God, I hate other people. "Hell is other people," said Jean-Paul Sartre, and all I can say is that ole  J-P must have shopped in the same places as me because yes, it really was hell.

They were everywhere, the Other People: whole crowds of them, all doing that Slow-Walk-of-the-Shopping-Mall thing where they spread themselves across the entire aisle and then walk reeaaallllly, reeeaaaalllly slowly, stopping randomly to look at things and totally disregarding the fact that THERE WERE PEOPLE BEHIND THEM WHO NEEDED A WINTER COAT, DAMMIT. Most of them had those massive strollers that you can fit five babies in at once with them. Most of those babies were screaming. So was I at some points, I think: it was hard to tell over all the noise.

No matter where I went, the crowds of people would follow. It was a bit like being a famous person, except without all the money and, well, fame. In the first store I went into, the fitting rooms seemed to be closed (WHY?) but  I was only trying on coats, after all, and, OK, some sweaters, so I took my haul to the emptiest, most obscure corner I could find, far from the madding crowds and close to a mirror. Except it wasn't far from the madding crowds at all, was it, because the freaking madding crowds CAME WITH ME. Everywhere I went, in every nook and/or cranny I found for myself, the Madding Crowds would all appear as if from thin air and squeeze themselves in next to me. Then they would blatantly watch me get changed. GOD.

Finally, in my desperation to just get the hell out of Dodge, I grabbed things more or less at random and paid for them, and that's how I came to have two new sweaters that are all but identical, and no winter coat.

How was your weekend?

The handbags and the gladrags that my poor old Terry had to sweat to buy me

Have y'all got the theme tune to The Office stuck in your heads now? Is it making you good and melancholy? OK, good, for I come bringing melancholy news indeed. Yes, that thing that you probably all knew would happen has, indeed, come to pass.

My handbag arrived this morning.

My laptop does not fit inside it.

So, by now you're probably thinking one of two things. You're either thinking "What the hell kind of huge-ass laptop does this woman have?" or you're thinking "Looks like Amber screwed up with the measuring, huh?" Well, you are wrong on both counts. My laptop is just a little 'un. The bag, it is big - and technically, should  hold the lappy. It doesn't, though, because the zip? At the top? Is tiny. Tiny. There's no way in hell my laptop is going in there, which leaves me with a dilemma. Do I:

a) Send it back and get the bag I would have bought in the first place, had I known I was buying an ordinary handbag and not a laptop bag

b) Send it back and buy a laptop bag. Or maybe: no bag, because that would be what a sensible person would do, and sometimes I like to imagine what it must be like to be a sensible person.

c) Do nothing.

The matter is complicated somewhat by the fact that the shop in question will only take the bag back now if I pay them a 15% restocking fee and spring for the shipping. So, if I send it back, I will still lose money. I don't really enjoy spending money and having nothing to show for it, but at the same time, I can't really justify paying the re-stocking fee and shipping and the cost of a replacement. So I should just keep it, shouldn't I? But then, I don't really like the hardware on it. It looks cheap. In fact, it IS cheap. Which brings me to option D:

d) Email bag store. Explain that hardware is not what I was expecting. Whine. Pout. Hope that they will agree to waive the fee so I can send it back. But then I will have no bag. I want a bag. Why can I not have a new bag?

So, we've gone for option D. I will keep you posted, needless to say: I'm boring like that.  And to think that just last Friday I didn't even KNOW I needed a handbag...

The cure for stress? Handbags. Obviously.

Well, I totally found a cure for my current state of stress - or rather Erin (henceforth known as "The Voice of Temptation") has found it. It's handbags, folks. Yes, handbags. Y'all totally thought I was going to say "shoes" didn't you? Well, don't think I didn't consider it. But, although shoes are the main love of my life (man, I hope Terry doesn't read this), I also love (and write about) handbags. So it was with no small excitement that, having just finished watching Neighbours this afternoon (Paul Robinson does have a brain tumour by the way, just as Doctor Amber predicted. Which makes me think: I wonder if I might have a brain tumour? Are red weals a sign of brain tumours?* Why, I think my head's starting to hurt just thinking about this..) I retired to the office to find an email from The Voice of Temptation.

"Handbags" wrote Erin. "On sale." Actually, she wrote more than that, and in a proper, joined-up sentences kind of way, because she is like that. But "handbags" and "sale" were the words that jumped out at me. By the time I got her email, Erin had already bought four of said handbags for herself. I was soon to beat her spending total, though, for within minutes of hitting up that website and with just a few little clicks of the mouse, I had bought myself this:

God, I really hope Terry doesn't read this.

No, I jest. Terry knows. And, faced with the choice of living with either Stressed-Out-Amber or Happy-Amber-Who-Also-Has-a-New-Handbag, he even agreed that yes, we can totally give up food for a while. We can eat next year or something.  Anyway, I really needed a new bag for my laptop (YES IT IS A LAPTOP BAG. IT IS TOTALLY A LAPTOP BAG. Shut up.) because - *casually inserts dramatic news in a post about handbags* - we are going to Florida in two weeks time.

Yes! Florida! Party in the city where the heat is on!All night on the beach 'til the break of dawn! We're goin' to Miami! Welcome to Miami! (Note: totally not goin' to Miami. Well, I mean, we will be goin' to Miami, but only for the day. But still.) Anyway, I wasn't going to mention this here on the blawg because, well, there are some funny people out there, y'know? But then I bought my new laptop bag and Ithought, "Hey! I could take my laptop with me and liveblog my trip!" Because everyone will love that, right?  So, yes, Florida at the end of the month. Leaving from Glasgow airport, which was recently targeted by terrorists. Flying in to Sanford, where a plane recently missed the runway and crashed into some houses. Did I mention I'm frightened of flying?

On the other hand: Sephora! Anthropologie! Nordstrom! I really shouldn't have bought a new handbag laptop bag!

Ugg Update

Fashionistas: look away now. What I have to show you here today ain't pretty, and I mean that literally.

So, you remember this entry? In which I wondered aloud and at length about whether or not I should buy a pair of Ugg boots?  Well, the argument raged long and weary. "Sure," I thought, "Ugg by name, Ugg(ly) by nature, but it's cold here, so, so cold, and you know what would be nice? Some toasty warm boots with fleecy, furry stuff in the inside, that's what!" Then yesterday it was so cold that I had to turn the heating on and wear all of my clothes at the same time, so my mind was pretty much made up for me.

No, I did not buy Uggs. I bought these instead:

These? Slippers, people. But! But! Not just any old slippers - SLIPPERS THAT LOOK LIKE BOOTS! I am mighty pleased with myself. And yes, OK, they're not exactly the most stylish footwear in my collection, but you live through a Scottish winter then try telling me these aren't crazy warm and also: cosy! And for £12, who can really argue?

Of course, as soon as I bought the furry slippers, the sun came out. I actually had to open the sunroof on the way home from the shops and

***Insert panicked pause while Amber realises that, why, she can't remember closing that sun roof! Just talk amongst yourselves while I go and check****

when I got home and decided to take the dog for a walk I had to first of all REMOVE MY JACKET and second of all ALSO REMOVE MY THICK WINTER SWEATER. Er, hello, October? Don't get me wrong, I'm loving your work here, but I have an entire wardrobe full of boots, sweaters and cute little woolen dresses to wear, you know what I'm saying?

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, furry boots. And shopping. Well, today was the day I had set aside to take myself down to the shops and splash some of the (pitifully small) amount of cash I have spare every month on some new winter (ahem!) clothes. Naturally, then, someone had called ahead to let the shops know I was on my way, so by the time I got there they'd managed to clear the racks of anything nice, leaving me with just a big ol' heap o'crap to sift through. (Incidentally? I'm pretty sure it's Terry with the "phoning ahead" thing. I mean, he's the one who benefits when I fail to buy clothes, isn't he?)

It was all very disappointing. New Look didn't have ONE SINGLE PAIR of shoes in my size. Not one. (Well, OK, they did have one pair, but they were in the children's section, and they were just a boring pair of gold ballet flats. I mean, obviously I bought them anyway, but SO not worth writing home about. Even although I kind of just did. Oops.) I was so disappointed that as soon as I got home (And after tearing the furry boots from the jaws of Rubin, who clearly thought they were stuffed toys for him. Oh, the shame.) I immediately hit up eBay and bought some YSL False Lash Mascara. So, I may have absolutely nothing to wear except for a pair of furry boots, but God, I'll have great eyelashes. Small mercies and all that.

Oh, and the sunroof was closed, by the way. Not as stupid as I look, me!

Manny is mine! All mine!

Ohmigod! Ohmigod, ohmigod, OH.MY.GOD. Just when every last ray of hope was gone, and I had totally resigned myself to walking down the aisle barefoot, an email floods in from Nina, telling me that I may now proceed to the check out and pay for my MANNY, which is now in stock in my size, and my size only! I was so excited I added two pairs to my cart by mistake and got a stern message saying "NO! We do not have enough stock for you to have two pairs, you selfish girl. Put them back now!" Or words to that effect.

Anyway, Manny is mine. He will be winging his way across the Atlantic any day now. He has cost me $50 just for the shipping, and honestly, I think they seen me coming. I think the people at Nina were all, "Hey, this chick will do anything for a pair of these shoes. Let's totally jack up the price and see what she does. Hee!"

This, I am ashamed to admit, will be the third pair of shoes I've bought for the wedding now, the first (totally unsuitable) pair being panic-bought from eBay minutes after the venue was booked ("I'm getting married! I must buy shoes right now!"), and the second pair being the ill-fated Kurt Geigers. Please, God, let this be an end to it. Let these shoes work out and I promise I will never ask for anything else again.*

* Except for those Christian Louboutins I saw at the weekend. Thanks, God!

Who knew shoe shopping could be this difficult?

My shoes arrived. Arrived, and will be going right back where they came from tout de suite because as soon as I opened the box (with my heart in my mouth, natch), it was glaringly obvious that they're just totally the wrong colour for my dress. I am gutted: partly because they were the shoes of my dreams, but mostly because it means that the whole wedding-shoe-hunt will now have to recommence, and damn, but that's getting old now.

I honestly never thought I'd hear myself say this, but you know what? I am sick to death of looking at wedding shoes, people. I mean, I wouldn't mind - shoes are shoes after all, and they are my most favourite things in the whole wide world, but seriously: why are wedding shoes so ugly? Most of them are flat, clumpy and ugly, and that's SO not the look I'm going for here. Call me stupid (most people do), but I really don't want to be waddling down the aisle in the kind of shoes the Queen wears for God's sake, but that appears to be all that's on offer.

I blame other brides, personally. "Oooh, I'll be standing up all day," they say, "I have to make sure I buy comfortable shoes!" Now, I have never subscribed to this view. I'm a heels girl: I've been wearing heels for over fifteen years now, and I maintain that anything you can do in your trainers, I can do in my heels. I can stand up all day in stilettos. I can dance all night in stilettos. I even once climbed up the side of a mountain in stilettos, but that's not a story I like to repeat too often, so moving along, lalala.

My requirements for my wedding shoes are simple:

• They must have high heels
• High, NARROW heels. Not wedges, or big clumpy heels. Narrow.
• They must be either pointy-toed or peep toed, but ideally peep-toed. Not square or round toed.
• They must be ivory, champagne or gold.
• They must not have an ankle strap.
• They must be pretty. Sparkly would be good too.
• I would ideally like to add here that they must be made by Christian Louboutin, but unless I wake up tomorrow and discover that everything I know about my life is wrong, and I am actually a rich woman, that's not going to be happening.

So. HELP ME. Send shoes. Send money. Send me back my sanity. End this madness, for the love of God!

20-20 vision is overrated anyway

I got paid today. Spent it. Yes, all of it. Oops.

See, I needed new glasses. Actually, I've needed new glasses for about three years now, ever since Rubin ate the old (expensive, Chanel) pair and left their mangled corpse on the living room rug, but I haven't bothered to do anything about it because: a) I have contact lenses  b) but no money and c) I don't like myself in glasses anyway, which is unfortunate really, because I'm almost totally blind without them.

I've been hating myself in glasses since I was given my first pair at the age of 10. They were brown and ugly and I was beside myself with excitement about them, mostly because my friend Jenny had glasses and I wanted to be like Jenny. Jenny had flat feet too. I couldn't have those, but I did persuade my parents to buy me a pair of hideous, double-buckle shoes which I'm pretty sure were designed to help correct the flat feet, but I didn't care because they were exactly the same as the ones Jenny had. They were brown and ugly, too, and as soon as I got them I realised that actually? I didn't want them anymore. This was to become the theme for my young life. Hey, I wonder what happened to Jenny?

Anyway, we picked up the new glasses, and I skipped gleefully home, absolutely full of myself, and imagining that everyone was looking at my glasses enviously and totally wishing they were me. They weren't. This much became clear as soon as I skipped into the kitchen and glanced at myself in the mirror before recoiling in horror and running screaming to the bathroom, where I plastered my face with talcum powder (I was too young to own makeup. Doh), which I refused to remove until my dad threatened to ground me.

You see, I hadn't realised quite how many freckles I had. Or how unkempt my hair was. I had known that my eyebrows met in the middle, like a bridge, but I hadn't known quite how similar to Liam Gallagher this made me look. In fact, until I got my first pair of glasses, I had been but slenderly acquainted with my own appearance. No one had realised quite how bad my eyesight was - probably because it just hadn't occurred to me to tell anyone - so when  I looked in the mirror, all I saw was a vague, pale shape with a lot of red hair around it This was acceptable to me. The "warts and all" reality was not.

Years passed. I developed an expensive makeup-buying habit, bought contact lenses, and learned never to look in the mirror while I was wearing them. To this day I will wait until the last possible second before inserting my lenses. All of the beauty magazines tell you how important it is to put the lenses in before applying makeup. Hee! Because yes, I will totally want to see myself without my makeup on, especially when I can see myself really clearly.

These days I've come to realise that some things just look better in soft focus. Like my face, for example, and my house. Last week? On (MO)T-Day? I was forced to wear my contacts in order to drive the car to the garage, and because I knew I'd have to drive it back again, I couldn't take them out when I got home. I spent almost the entire time between dropping the car off and picking it up cleaning like a woman possessed. Who knew the floors were so filthy? Or that there were hand prints on the upstairs windows? (HOW?) Not me. Uh-uh. I'd been rolling along in blissful ignorance of these facts, and when I finally seen the light, it totally blinded me.

I mention all of this because it's the only way I can emphasize just how much I resent having to spend all - ALL - of my disposable income on new glasses this month. I mean, it's like a tax on the blind. And I know it was necessary. You shouldn't really wear contacts for fifteen hours per day (which is the approximate amount of time I spend staring at a computer screen), and I'm pretty sure that all of the squinting I've been doing is the cause of the WRINKLES I found under my eyes last week, because it CANNOT be my age, and I will not even consider the possibility that it is.

So. New glasses. I got Playboy glasses, because I'm so hip it hurts. They have little diamante things at the sides (I am drawn to sparkly things), which Terry says makes them look like granny glasses, and I think they might be these ones, but also, maybe not:

I get them on Saturday, and as I spent more than the third world debt, I also get a free pair of ugly-ass prescription sunglasses, so yay! And I spent all of my disposable income for the month. Two pairs of glasses and one large bottle of Benefit foundation. Not making that mistake again, that's for damn sure...

Ooops! I did it again!

I hate myself. No, really. I mean, I was there to buy birthday presents for Terry and my dad. But they were right there in front of me and they were so pretty, and they were £50 reduced to £20 and...gah.

In my defence, I walked around with them in my hand for an entire hour while I tried to talk myself out of wanting them. In fact, I was concentrating so hard on not wanting the shoes that I almost walked out of the shop without paying for the thing I'd bought my dad for Father's Day, and it's a good job the sales assistant saw the funny side of that.

It's like an illness with me, I swear. I just can't help myself. I see shoes, I buy shoes. I can't afford shoes, but hey! It's like Carrie from Sex and the City said, "I will literally be the old woman who lived in her shoes." I am SO not joking here. HATE myself.

Lookit what I got!

I know, I know, I am the last person in the world to have an ipod. The finances of a starving writer just don't allow for the purchase of many gadgets, y'know - in fact, I'm thinking of sending Rubin out to work down the pit or something just so we can get some more stuff. For real.

For a long time I persuaded myself that I didn't need an ipod. (And when I say "I persuaded myself", what I mean by that is "Terry persuaded me"). But the thing is, we have no stereo. I know! See how poor we are! I really wasn' joking with the "pit" thing! Actually, that's not true: I do have a stereo, but when we moved to this house I didn't bring it with me, purely because there's nowhere to put it.

Now, I know that as you read this you're probably all, "No way do they not have space for a stereo, have you see the size of those things these days?" but it's true. We live in a shoebox. If I'd brought the stereo with me, we'd have had to put it right slap in the middle of the living room floor and, y'know, that's where we keep the alcohol...

Anyway, we have no stereo. But! But! We currently have four computers, (See - poor!Oh, the humanity.) all of which are loaded up with mp3s and Cd drives. So we were sorted, right? Well, not really, no, because the computers all live in the "office" and that's pretty much where we live as well, so you can pretty much guarentee that when I want to listen to music, Terry will want to work, when Terry wants to listen to Meatloaf, I will want to kill myself, and so on.

So, long story short, I squweemed and squeemed until I was sick, and then Terry bought me an ipod. Why no, I'm not spoiled, what makes you say that?

I love my ipod. When I was installing the software it told me I had to choose a name for it, so I named it Sawyer. As soon as I got it, I realised that my life had been just crying out for white plastic-clad music. I've been busy loading my CDs onto itunes, and it's like meeting up with old friends that you haven't seen for years, but as soon as you see them you're all, "OMG, I will never leave you again, little dudes!" My life, once again, has music in it. I am happy. And so is Rubin.

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