Remember how last week I started doing The Friday Five again and I was all, “I am going to do this every Friday now for the rest of my life, only maybe not”?

You all thought I forgot yesterday, didn’t you?

Well I did not! No, I did not forget The Friday Five, but it seems The Friday Five forgot me, because the website I get the questions from  didn’t get updated at all yesterday. And hasn’t been updated today either, at the time of writing. So, what basically seems to have happened is that I started doing The Friday Five, and The Friday Five stopped. Maybe forever. So, in other words, I broke The Friday Five. GOD.

Instead, here is a Random Act of Stupidity that took place in the early hours of Friday morning, so is still somewhat “Friday” themed…

So, because I am lazy, I have either ordered all my Christmas gifts from the internet, or I have delegated Terry to buy them.  Trust me, I totally suck at buying gifts, it’s for the best.  On Thursday afternoon, then, one of these packages was delivered, and I opened it, checked the gift inside… then, for reasons that aren’t particularly clear even to me, I placed it back inside the packaging and put the packaging on my desk.

Then, a few hours later, I picked it up, carried it downstairs, and placed it in the recycling bin outside.

The recycling bin that Terry later wheeled down to the bottom of the driveway, for collection in the early hours of Friday morning.

D’OH!

For some reason, though, luck was on my side that night. This was unusual in itself, because luck is hardly EVER on my side, but suddenly, as I lay drifting off to sleep at about 1am, the image of that parcel came floating into my head. I saw it sitting on my desk. I saw myself walking downstairs with it. I saw, as if from a great distance, my hand reaching out and throwing it in the recycling.  And then, with a small shriek, I sat bolt upright and shouted, “OMG! I HAVE THROWN THE PARCEL IN THE BIN!”

Then I lept from the bed and rushed to the window, where I peered down at the dark street outside. Sure enough, there, at the bottom of the driveway, stood the bin, waiting to be collected. I actually have no idea why I went to the window and looked at it, to be honest. I mean, did I think I’d be able to hear the feeble cries of the package as it threw itself helplessly against the sides of the bin, shouting, “let me oooouuuttttt!”? Because I couldn’t.

Anyway, because Terry is a chivalrous gentleman, he volunteered to go to the rescue of the package, so I jumped back into bed and lay there, as snug as a bug in a rug, listening to the sounds of him going outside and rummaging through the rubbish at 1am on a freezing November night, his dressing gown whipping friskily around him as he did so.

He did manage to find it, though. And that’s how it came to pass that one of my friends/family (because it could be either! Hell, it could be yoooouuuu!) will receive a gift that has spent a few hours of its life inside my recycling bin this Christmas.* It’s the thought that counts, no?

* I feel I have to point out that the gift itself was well-wrapped at the time, so it did not suffer for its time inside the bin. And it’s all paper in there anyway. No gifts were injured in the making of this entry, I promise!

A couple of years ago, some cataclysmic event or other happened to my computer (clearly it was so cataclysmic all memory of it has been wiped from my mind, because I’m dammed if I can remember what it was) and I was forced to re-enter all of my Outlook contacts by hand.

Not long after this, I found out my mum was no longer receiving email from me. At all. Everyone else was receiving my messages just fine, and she was getting emails from everyone else but me (it was actually a pretty sweet deal for her, to be honest), so clearly we had a mystery on our hands.

And clearly I couldn’t be bothered investigating this mystery too deeply, or, indeed, at all, because rather than try to find out WHY this was happening, I chose to do absolutely nothing about it,  and blithely continued firing off emails to my mother’s email address. This is why my childhood dream of being Nancy Drew when I grew up was never realised, obviously.

Now, my mum and I are close. I tell her things I probably wouldn’t tell other people. So it came as something of a horrible surprise when some guy in Nova Scotia contacted me to let me know he’d been receiving email from me for quite some now, and by the way, how was that rash coming along and had I ever located the source of that funny smell in the kitchen?

My mum’s name is Norma. My mystery correspondent was called Norman. You can see what I did there, can’t you?

Of course, after that, I totally learned my lesson and I was always really careful when sending email to make sure I was sending them to the right person, and not, say, sending them to be published on a national news website. Oh no, wait, my mistake: I didn’t learn my lesson at all, did I? Which is why, when my mum used the “send to a friend” function on the Sky News website last weekend to send me a link to a story, I just hit “reply”, without realising that my reply was going, not to my mum, but to the wesbite’s comment section.

Oops.

When I got a “Thank you for posting your comment on Sky News!” email a few minutes later I was, like, really confused and thought it must be some kind of mistake. And it was. But it was my mistake. D’oh.

I mean, it was an easy mistake to make. Anyone could’ve done it. Well, anyone with the brain of a gnat, obviously. And when I realised my mistake, I obviously learned my lesson for good this time, and made sure I never did the same thing ever again, didn’t I?

Er, no.  Because Outlook automatically saves the email address of everyone I reply to into my address book (note to self: make it not do that any more), which now contains entries for ‘Mum’, ‘Mum – work’ and ‘Mum – Sky News’.

Guess which one I’ve been sending my emails to?

This is why, if you happen to have visited the Sky News website this week you may have noticed a long comment from me asking someone to pick me up a certain brand of face cream next time they happen to be in Tesco. You’d know it was me because, er, my full name would be on it, plus my email signature, containing links to all of my websites.

Um, sorry, Sky News! But if you could send me that face cream, that would be grand, thanks!

(Note: although I did get another “Thanks for posting a comment on our website!” email, I can’t seem to find the comment in question, so presumably someone at Sky removed it. And probably banned me, into the bargain. Which would be fair enough, under the circumstances…)

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…

Last night, Terry and I went to an engagement party. As is my usual way with these kinds of things, I used it as the perfect opportunity to dress like a homeless person.

See, I couldn’t be bothered fake-tanning my legs, so I bought me some Sally Hansen “spray on tights”. Now, I know that the words “fake tan” have probably just made you roll your eyes and get all “GOD, fake tan, I would NEVER wear fake tan!” on me. And I know the words “spray on tights” probably made you roll those eyes a little more, and say, “GOD, Amber is a dumbass! Isn’t Amber a dumbass?”  but y’all try walking a mile on my “so-pale-they-shine-like-the-moon” legs before you judge me too harshly, ‘kay?

So, spray on tights. Now, I know I’m probably preaching to the “don’t even need to be converted” here, but they’re just not a great idea, you know? Or actually, they ARE a great idea. I mean, tights! That spray on! Who wouldn’t love those bad boys? What’s not such a great idea, though, is buying your spray-on tights from eBay, so, naturally that’s exactly what I did.

It could have worked. OK, so maybe it couldn‘t have worked. All I know is that the fact I was buying the tights ON THE INTERNET, which made it totally freakin’ impossible to judge the colour accurately… well, it didn’t really help. As it happens, the colour I got claimed to be ‘Tan Glow’, but turned out to be good old American Tan, i.e. a colour that no human being has any right to be. So I decided to use it anyway. Because I am stupid.

I’d sprayed one leg from ankle to knee before I realised that ‘Tan Glow’? Wasn’t such a great look, really. Neither ‘tan’ nor ‘glowy’, it made me look like an Oompa Loompah, and I don’t know about you, but that’s just not a look I’ve ever aspired to.  So I reached for the emergency pair of tights I’d bought at Asda last week, in preparation for this very eventuality. I dunno, it’s almost like a gift, this ability of mine to see into the future, it really is. Now, you’d think that buying my tights in person rather than on eBay would make it pretty hard for even me to get the colour wrong, wouldn’t you? You’d be wrong about that, though. Because, even although my legs are so pale I look like I’ve just been exhumed, these tights somehow contrived to be even paler. I looked like Courtney Love on a very bad day, and given that every day is a bad day for Courtney, that’s not good, dudes.

So I hit the ‘Tan Glow’ again.

And it still made me look like an Oompah Loompah.

An Oompah Loompah, yesterday.

By now time was a-wastin’ and I could hear Terry downstairs jingling his car keys in that “I’m not trying to rush you, but actually, I am totally trying to rush you” way he has, so I quickly washed off the Tan Glow (no, that didn’t go too well, thanks for asking) and rummaged around in my hosiery drawer until I found two pairs of hold-ups I’d forgotten I had. “All of my troubles are over!” I thought, smugly pulling on the first one and ripping it with my bracelet as I did so. I threw it into a corner and managed to successfully clothe myself in two more. As I pulled on my coat, though, one of my freaky premonitions hit me, and I tucked the last remaining hold-up into my bag. Just in case.

As it turned out, it was my dress I destroyed first. See, it was a knit dress, and I was wearing a rhinestone bracelet. Every time I moved my arm, the bracelet would catch on my dress, snagging at the material and leaving lots of little unattractive raised bits, so that I looked like I was wearing an acne-ridden teenager. “COULD YOU NOT HAVE JUST TAKEN OFF THE BRACELET?” I hear you ask, and, indeed, this was the first thing my mum asked when I emailed her this morning to ask if she could fix my dress.

Well, yes, of course I COULD remove the bracelet and I did. I decided to wait until I’d laddered another one of my hold ups with it first, though. Then I went to the bathroom to replace it with the spare hold-up I had cunningly brought with me, only I put my stupid hand right through it as I pulled it on. D’oh!

I emerged from the bathroom looking a little bit like a newspaper: black dress, white legs, red hair. I was very careful not to mention to anyone that I write about fashion for a living.

Still, we had a great time. And hey, I’ve always wanted a ‘Tan Glow’ bathroom anyway…

So, you remember the time I fell off my bike twice in thirty seconds and you all thought that surely that was the lowest I would go in terms of complete and utter stupidity? Well, I have beaten my personal best, folks. In fact, I will see your “falling off a bike twice in thirty seconds” and I will raise you an “almost killing myself twice in five minutes”. For that, people, is what I did yesterday, during a normal Saturday evening meal at my parents’ house.

Picture the scene: there we all are around the table – me, my parents, Terry, Rubin (Rubin not so much round the table as salivating under it, you understand). I have in front of me a large plate of roast beef and man, am I hungry. Hungry and, yes, greedy. Too greedy by far, in fact, because as I force an enormous piece of meat into my mouth, and chew not enough times before swallowing, I realise, that, whoops, can’t breathe no more, uh-uh!

Of course, what any intelligent person would probably have done at this point would have been to simply stick their head between their knees, give a polite cough, and then return to the meal. Not me, though! Instead, I rose from the table, purple in the face, and began frantically pantomiming, “HEY! I AM CHOKING TO DEATH! SAVE ME!”

Luckily my reputation for regularly placing myself in mortal danger whilst carrying out the simplest of tasks precedes me, so all three members of my family realised instantly that whoops! I’d done it again! All hell broke loose as they started shouting instructions to BEND OVER! and DON’T PANIC! at me. I, of course, chose to do both, bending over and panicking simultaneously as I waited to, well, die. Just as my dad prepared to administer the Heimlich manoevre, though, and the thought that “Bugger, I’m going to throw up right next to the dining table” flashed through my head, the hunk o’ meat slid swiftly out of my throat, thus proving that no, it really wasn’t stuck that badly in the first place, and that, once again, I had managed to make a drama out of a crisis.

All joking aside, I got a pretty bad fright, and probably gave my mum a few extra grey hairs into the bargain. Sorry, mum. They say your life flashes before your eyes in these situations, though, but your intrepid reporter is here to tell you that no, actually, it does not. In fact, the only scene from my life to flash in front of my eyes was that of a depressing Blackpool hotel room, circa 1989, when my little cousin Blair almost choked to death on a Murray Mint and my dad had to hold him upside down by the ankles while my uncle slammed him on the back. “God, I wonder if my dad’s going to do that to me?!” I somehow had time to wonder, with what would have been my dying breath. Other than that, the overwhelming thought going through my feeble mind was “OMFG I COULD TOTALLY DIE HERE!” Seriously, it was not nice.

My brush with death was not yet over, though. As I took my place, shamefacedly at the table, and conversation resumed, I pushed the roast beef aside (DANGER! DANGER! THE COW WILL BE REVENGED!) and reached instead for a harmless bread roll, my mind still replaying the scenes of horror that had so recently transpired. So transfixed by this horror was I, however, that as I took the bread knife and sawed viciously through my roll, I went a little bit far and – yes – sawed into my own hand. GOD.

To be honest, there was probably little to no chance of this one killing me, but you know what? It totally could have. I could have bled to death, or contracted blood poisoning or something. I mean, OK, a sticking plaster managed to stem the flow, but even so, I am claiming this one as my second near death experience in under five minutes. GO, me!

I managed to get through the rest of the meal unscathed, although not without thinking a good many tedious, cliqued thoughts about how you just never know what’s coming, and how each breath could be your last. It was a life-changing moment. For instance, I think I will become a vegetarian now, and live only on a liquid diet (wine and vodka will be fine), in order to avoid dangerous kitchen implements. Probably safest to stay away from the car and lawnmower for a while too, because if it’s true that these things always come in threes, I still have one brush with death coming. What fun.

Needless to say, should there be no further entries after this one, it’s probably safe to assume that some bizarre accident, of the type that Could Only Happen To Me, has befallen me…