So, after yesterday’s incident, in which Terry left the front door open all night, prompting the police to pay us a visit in the early hours of the morning, I resorted to desperate measures to make sure the same thing couldn’t happen with the BACK DOOR:

What? A bit of an over-reaction, you think? Trust me, this particular event has been in the post for a loooong time now. A looong time. It was just… unfortunate… that it had to happen on the very day the doors in our house were already under a black cloud. And hey, isn’t it funny that we left the front door wide open, and then made sure it was totally impossible to get out of the back one? And by “funny”, I mean, “GAH, I’m going back to bed now. With wine.” Who knew doors would one day declare themselves The Enemy?

That’s how Terry came to spend all of Friday afternoon procuring, and then fitting, new locks and handles for both of our doors. It took a while. And it was FREEZING. Now our house is like Fort Knox, though: or, at least, it will be, assuming we actually remember to LOCK THE DAMN DOORS, FFS.

I don’t think he’ll be making THAT mistake again in a hurry, somehow.

We tried to rescue the day with a nice, relaxing evening, but right before we went to bed we let Rubin out, and he came back in like this:

I refer not to the OMGDEMONEYES, but to the mud on his face, paws and undercarriage. We don’t know what happened out there in the garden. We honestly don’t WANT to know. But it did mean that at 1am in the morning, we found ourselves facing a “Dog in the Bath” situation:

And that concluded our Friday the 13th. We’re not really looking forward to the next one…

This skirt is a UK size 6, which, for the benefit of my transatlantic readers, roughly corresponds to a US size 0:

I say “roughly”.  The size charts will normally equate US0 to a UK4 (which is a largely mythical dress size, usually only found in petite ranges, and even then, in such tiny quantities that it’s like finding the Holy Grail, seriously).  That may well have been the case at some point in the past, but as someone who shops a lot in both countries, and who also regularly orders online from the US-based Shopbop, (who, in the interests of disclosure, are sponsors of Shoeperwoman and TheFashionPolice) my experience has always been that size 0= UK6. This is why it always annoys me when the UK media bangs on about “size 0″: it leads people who don’t know a lot about sizing differences between countries to believe that this is some terrifyingly-unnatural size which is THREE FULL SIZES smaller than a UK6. It’s not. Seriously.)

But I digress. This skirt is a UK size 6:

That’s Terry wearing it.

(Yes, he IS a good sport, isn’t he? Also, I’m trying to convince him to start a personal style blog:  he already knows how to WORK IT, after all.)

THIS IS WHAT YOUR “SIZE ZERO” LOOKS LIKE, UK FASHION MEDIA.

Or at least, it does at La Redoute, which is where I ordered this skirt from last week, along with a bunch of sweaters which would also have fit Terry, but which wouldn’t have been nearly as amusing on him. Sorry, Terry.

(And yes, I double and triple-checked the label and dispatch notice to make sure they’d sent me the correct size, and they had. I guess there’s a chance it could’ve been wrongly labelled in the factory, but I’ve had to send back items in the past for the same reason, so I suspect it’s simply a case of vanity-sizing gone mad.)

What does this tell us? Other than that Terry should totally have a fashion blog, and that green is SO his colour, obviously? Well, it tells us that vanity sizing is OUT. OF. CONTROL. with some brands. It also helps illustrate how totally random clothes sizing is these days.  Because if the “Tall” ranges are  too short even  for a petite woman, and the smallest dress sizes available will fit a 6ft tall MAN, where on earth are people supposed to shop? Not all of us are handy with a sewing machine (or have the time to alter everything, even if we are), and it’s so frustrating to constantly order clothes and find that they’re not just a little bit larger or smaller than you’d expect, but are actually a completely different size altogether. And will fit your husband.

(It also hopefully tells us that some of the skinny-bashing comments I’m forced to read on The Fashion Police every day, telling me that “no one should be that size!”  because “It’s not healthy!” are even more misguided than I’ve always thought they were, given that I now have a “size 0″ husband.  But perhaps it’s better not to open that particular can of worms…)

Of course, these issues aren’t just confined to the petites: every woman I have ever met seems to struggle to find clothes that fit properly, and while I understand that it’s impossible for brands to please everyone with their sizing, as we’re all so different, just a little bit of consistency would go a long way, I think.

Still, at least Terry gets a new skirt. Every cloud, people, every cloud…

(P.S. I feel I have to point out here that this photo was actually Terry’s idea, as was posting it on the Internets. I ask a lot of that man sometimes, but posing in a skirt for my blawg was a line even I had hesitated to cross!)

(P.P.S. For some reason, WordPress is currently sending about 50% of my comments straight to spam, for no reason whatsoever. I’m releasing them as quickly as I can, but if your comment hasn’t appeared yet, don’t worry, it’s nothing personal: it’s doing it to my own comments, too!)

Folks, I’d like to introduce you to the new man in my life:

It’s Terry, the slack jawed yokel!

Handsome brute, isn’t he?

Don’t you just LOVE his hat?

Weird thing, though… when I was editing these photos, I noticed something strange reflected in Terry’s glasses. Something… spooky…

I’m scared. Hold me.

(P.S. As you might have noticed, I changed the layout again. I did this myself, and haven’t quite finished tweaking it yet, so apologies for anything that doesn’t work properly – I will get round to it!)

“You lookin’ at me, punk? I don’t see anyone else around so you must be lookin’ at me…”

So, this is what I wore on Good Friday to go to the local garden centre.

Not quite what you were expecting this post to be about, huh? It’s not what I was expecting it to be about either, to be honest: I mean, I freaking HATE gardening. Seriously, I wake up every Saturday morning, which is the day designated for trying to tame the wilderness that is our “garden”, and I think, “Yay! It’s the weekend!” And then I think, “Damn, I have to mow the lawn today!” And then I wish I’d died in my sleep.

Even although we are very, very old, then, a garden centre is the very last place Terry and I would normally choose to spend Good Friday. Or any other Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday…  you can fill in the rest yourself.  But this garden centre. This one was said to be different. It is a new garden “supercentre” which opened in our town a few weeks ago. My in-laws have been 1,287 times since it opened (117 of those times were on the opening weekend) and reported it to be a place so full of wonder that even we, garden haterz that we are, would be transported into fits at joy at the very sight of it.

“Have you been?” asked my mother-in-law eagerly, a couple of days after the House of Fun opened its doors.
“No,” I answered. “We hate gardening, remember? I’d rather eat my own head than go to a garden centre.”
“Oh, you should go,” she insisted. “They have EVERYTHING there. Everything you could possibly imagine.”
“Do they have Christian Louboutin shoes?” I asked, suspiciously.
“Well, no,” admitted my mother-in-law. “They no have no shoes.” (She is Greek.) “But they have everything else you can imagine! They even have… ” she paused to wrack her brains. “THEY EVEN HAVE BREAD!” she finished, triumphantly.

Well, Terry and I just couldn’t believe there was a place in the world selling BREAD, so we reported this unlikely piece of information back to my own parents, who, being complete and utter shopaholics (They done raised me good.) had obviously already been to the Pleasure Garden(Centre). They make it their business to visit every new store that opens within a fifty mile radius. It’s like their hobby.

“Oh yes,” confirmed my dad, when we asked him about this place. “It’s actually the best place in the word, ever. A bit like the Magic Kingdom, only better. When you walk through the doors, there is a choir of cherubs playing harps to greet you!”
“A magic unicorn takes your jacket and brings you the elixir of youth!” my mum interrupted, excitedly.
“THEY EVEN SELL BREAD!” they chorused together.

“We’re never going to that place,” Terry told me as we drove home that night. I don’t care if they have the philosopher’s stone, Lord Lucan and Shergar inside it. We’re never going because it makes people crazy.”

So, this Friday, we got dressed and went straight to the garden centre.

Well, you see, it’s been a rough couple of weeks. While Terry and I have been dealing with the MAD STRESS, Rubin has had to be very, very patient. And I should point out here, before you all up and report me to the RSPCA, we have been feeding him, walking him, and otherwise fulfilling our duty of care to our wolf. But we have been very distracted, and although Rubin HAS been repaying us for this by barking at 3am every night without fail, and not stopping until I allow him to sleep on my stomach, he has been a Good Boy about it.

“Let’s go to the pet store and buy Rubin some treats,” said Terry on Friday. “Like a really smelly pig’s ear, or one of those horrible cheese bones that he leaves lying around the house for weeks.”

“OK,” I said, “But rather than getting the treats from the pet store, let’s get them from The Best Garden Centre in the World Ever.”

And then Terry jumped out of the upstairs window and ran away from me as fast as he could. He is still running to this day.

No, I jest. He did take a bit of persuading, though.

“Not you too!” he said in dismay when I presented him with my Garden Centre O’Doom plan. “You’ve been infected by the madness! It’s spreading! AM I THE ONLY SANE ONE LEFT?!”

Then he calmed down and drove us to the garden centre.

(This is the face I made when Terry finally agreed to take me there. I was THAT excited.)

We pulled into the car park in a state of excitement (me) and complete and utter cynicism (Terry). The car park was so busy it was like Disney on the fourth of July. Everywhere we looked, people milled around clutching cameras, full of the excitement of a trip to the GARDEN CENTRE! There were even some tour groups, all wearing t-shirts with “GARDEN CENTRE 2011!” printed on the front, and a group leader with a flag to help keep everyone together.

“This better be %^&$*&^ good,” Terry muttered under his breath.

The doors opened. We expected a choir of angels to burst into the Hallelujah Chorus as we stepped over that hallowed threshold.

They didn’t, though.

Because it was just a garden centre.

Full of … gardening stuff.

And don’t get me wrong: it’s a NICE garden centre, as garden centres go. Their trowels and spades and… other gardening stuff… all looked very nice and shiny. And there’s some other stuff too: amazing patio furniture, designed for millionaires who don’t live anywhere near this country or its weather, for instance. Tropical fish! A restaurant full of lovely, over-priced food!

Terry had only one thing on his mind, though.

“Bread…” he muttered. “Bread… I need to see this freaking BREAD I’ve heard so much about…”

I actually didn’t give a crap about the bread, so I set off to look for the live chickens I’d been told the Garden Centre sells, and which I’ve been trying to persuade my in-laws to buy ever since, so I can gather eggs and pretend to be a farm girl when I go to visit them. (I was thinking a gingham dress, maybe? And an apron?) I couldn’t find them, so I headed back to Terry and found him standing next to the bread display, looking a bit like Dr. Bruce Banner in the seconds before he turns into the Incredible Hulk.

“Look. At. The. Prices.” he said, incredulously. “The bread… it’s SO EXPENSIVE!” And it was. And so was everything else in that food hall. I know, because Terry made me look at every single item of food they were selling, whilst speculating on how much he thought the same item would cost at the supermarket.

“Our families are being duped into buying overpriced bread!” he said, furious. “They must put something into the food in the restaurant. Something that makes people come back here again and again, and buy food at vastly inflated prices!”

So incensed was Terry by this, that I never did find those chickens, and Rubin didn’t get his dog treats, either. In fact, we had to drive straight from there to the supermarket, so Terry could calm himself down by looking at the prices of everything he’d seen in the garden centre and reassuring himself that HE WAS RIGHT and they were all cheaper in the supermarket.

And he was right.

They were all cheaper in the supermarket.

But it was a very nice garden centre…

(Photos by Terry, for Shoe Challenge # 11. Top, D&G; (c/o Shopbop), skirt, Topshop; shoes, New Look)

Unlike me, Terry does not feel compelled to write down every single thing that ever happens to him. (I guess that’s what he has me for, mind you.) When we go on holiday, however, he does like to record our movements, in a little journal I bought him after his operation, thinking he might like to write down some of the deep and important thoughts he was having at the time. He did that, and then he moved on to recording every time I dropped something on my foot or tripped over the dog or whatever, so that particular gift worked out well, I thought. Anyway, in lieu of the holiday wrap-up post I was intending to write when we got back from Tenerife a few weeks ago, but abandoned in favour of lying on the couch eating as much food as I could fit into my mouth, I now present to you – with his permission, of course – some excepts from Terry’s holiday journal. (And, in a neat little role reversal, while the words in this post are Terry’s, the images are mostly mine, other than the ones I’m actually in, obviously.)

Over to Terry…

December 7th, 2010

Got up at 5am and tried to call airline to make sure flight was still on. They were closed. Got onto M8. It was like a disaster movie. Got to Glasgow at 7am, but flight delayed until 2.30pm. Sat on runway for 90 mins waiting on de-icer. Arrived at Tenerife at dusk. Amber was scared on road, freaked out. Terry freaked out right back at ya. Got room 1007. Changed it as it looked onto car park. Terry is Amber’s hero. Changed to room 303. Went to one of our old favourite haunts for something to eat/drink. 

Ways Amber hurt herself: stubbed toe twice; hit leg on door; cut finger on suitcase; hit head on sink

December 8th, 2010

Got up, put on shades, went outside – very bright! Breakfast buffet was very good – dozens of types of bread, lots of different egg dishes, fruit, fresh fruit juices and bananas for the monkey park, which we went to right after breakfast.

Went to beach for a walk - sun was lovely and warm – bought Amber shoes and a sailor’s top. Went to dinner at the hotel, which was much better than expected. It was raining when we went in but had stopped by the time we were finished, so we walked over to the 5 star sister hotel next door, whose facilities we’re allowed to use, and had a drink in their bar. Managed to convince Amber that the English translation of the chorus of one of the songs the band was playing was “My left thigh hurts”. She believed me. (Note from Amber: this is totally untrue!) The next singer sung in German, which prompted a brief panic from Amber, who informed me she was having trouble understanding him – lolzers!

Ways Amber hurt herself: sprayed water in her face while turning on shower; punched drawer while trying to remove plug adaptor from hairdryer; burnt herself on hotplate at dinner.

Favourite photo so far:

December 9th, 2010

Buffet breakfast again, then we went for a super-long walk along the coast. We sat watching the sea at dozens of viewpoints, basically taking any opportunity to soak up the amazing warm sun . Along the way we saw sprays of water coming from caves under the cliffs:

We also saw another natural wonder about a mile along the coast:

TMI!

Went to Mango. The toilets in the mall had opaque glass doors so people can see you through them. The ladies had a queue so Amber had to go with everyone watching. Lolzers!

Went to dinner in the hotel again. People keep staring at Amber, so we have developed a code word so that we can point out the starers to each other. The code word is secret, though, so you can never know it just in case we catch you staring one day. (Amber’s note: I have no idea who he was addressing this to…) Annoying guy one table away is trying to perfect the art of making trumpet noises with his nose.Went out for drinks after dinner. Amber tried to befriend a cat at the bar, but it liked me better and decided to share my seat:

The staff at the cafe seemed pleasantly surprised the cat had found love. It was short lived, though – after about twenty minutes it rained and the cat left me. Not sure I will ever get over it, but that night will forever be warm in my heart.

Amber update: opened cupboard door, slamming it into her foot. Did a little dance, something like a Morris dancer, shouting “OW! OW! OW!” Amazing!

December 10th, 2010

Left the hotel at 10:30 and went for a trip to the Masca Valley. Lots of roadworks because of landslides and the roads down to the valley were the craziest I have ever seen – bad vertigo a lot of the time, which made both Amber and I a little nauseous.

On the way there, Amber declared a Thumb War:

(Amber’s note: we’ve no idea what’s actually going on in this photo. When we looked back at it that night, “Thumb War” was our best guess…)

Amber didn’t hurt herself today: amazing!

(Amber’s note: if you’re particularly bored, there are a few more photos from Masca over at Shoeperwoman today…)

December 11th, 2010

Breakfast in the hotel again, yum. Amber had a screw loose on the way back to our room. Nothing unusual there except this time it was on the leg of her sunglasses. The leg fell off and Amber freaked the hell out, then got excited thinking she would have to buy new ones. Unfortunately for her, I managed to find an optician’s and got them repaired. Sorry, Amber.

December 12th, 2010

The 10th anniversary of our relationship. Going out for dinner tonight – looking forward to it. I have got something special for Amber which I will give to her at dinner. By the time she reads this diary entry she will know what it is!

Spent the day at the pool. VERY warm again. Just finished reading a book about 13 of the biggest mysteries of the universe. Enjoyed it. Amber is reading a book about a mysterious house, just for a change. (Amber’s note: yes, I am obsessed with stories about creepy old houses which harbour devastating secrets…)

Stayed in the sun for as long as we could, then came back to the hotel to read some more. Just watching the most amazing sunset yet, while Amber rams herself in the shoulder with her hairbrush. That’s the first time she’s hurt herself in two days!

December 13th 2010

Sunny again, OMFG! Went to the beach. Still full from dinner last night. Note to self, no more big bowls of pasta. I headbutted a beach umbrella today. Not to be outdone, Amber headbutted her sun-lounger.

It was a beautiful starry night, so after dinner and cocktails we went back to our balcony to relax with a cup of coffee. Amber and I saw our first shared shooting star. Until yesterday, Amber hadn’t even seen one, but tonight we saw five. They are so fleeting but so worth seeing.

*Amber just punched the cupboard!*

(Amber’s note: speaking of the cupboard, here’s a sneaky photo Terry took of my side of it:

Did I ever mention I like stripes?)

(I absolutely hate these photos of myself, so I took them down. I seriously have no idea how daily style bloggers cope, because no matter how much time I allow myself for getting ready, I always end up running around at the last minute with a pair of laddered tights in one hand and a lipstick in the other. Then I’ll try to put the lipstick on my legs and the tights on my face or something. Add in the fact that this month I’ve also had to allow time to take a handful of badly-lit photos and, well, this is what you end up with. Daily style bloggers, I salute you.)

So! Yesterday was a day Terry and I had been anticipating almost as much as Christmas itself, or perhaps more, actually, given the planning that went into it:  Terry’s mum’s surprise 70th birthday party, which I totally failed to take any photos of, because I am so full of fail this week. I actually had the camera on the table in front of me all night, and every so often I’d pick it up and examine it like it was some kind of foreign object, the likes of which I’d never seen before. Then I’d put it back down and continue ignoring it. In the end, I forgot to capture so many important moments of the evening that I figured I’d just focus on enjoying the evening instead, and rely on the many video cameras in the room to capture it all for posterity.

Terry’s mum’s birthday isn’t actually until the first week in January, but because everyone was going to be back at work/school by then, it was a little too difficult to arrange for that day, so we decided to have the party yesterday, when most people were still off work, and it was easier for Terry’s brothers to make it to Scotland for the event. Terry had been planning the whole thing for weeks: he’d booked a venue, arranged food, etc, and had planned to basically make it a “This Is Your Life” style surprise for his mum, who thought she was going to the theatre, but was met instead by a room full of people doing the full-on “SURPRISE!” *jazz hands* kinda thing. She was pretty shocked. There may have been tears. They may not all have been hers. Thank God I wear waterproof mascara is all I can say…

(The solution to hideous photos: just cut off your own head…)

The biggest surprises were still to come, though. Terry started off his “welcome, one and all” speech, and mentioned that there were some people who unfortunately couldn’t make it, namely his brother George and his wife, who live in Athens, and his other brother, Niko, with his wife and family, who’re in the south of England. At that point he cut to a “Sorry we couldn’t be there” video which George had recorded in advance, to get their mum good and disappointed before George and Georgia appeared in person and almost gave her a heart attack.

That done, Terry told his mum that all of the surprises had now been had, and that Niko, Rachel etc definitely weren’t coming. Then he went back to his presentation, and a “waitress” came into the room to start serving water to people. But! This was no “waitress”! It was, in fact, my sister-in-law Rachel, who reached Terry’s mum and offered her some water. “No thanks,” said Terry’s mum politely, before doing the biggest double-take I’ve ever seen, and then jumping up to hug Rachel, and then Niko and their son Jonathan, who’d snuck out of their hiding place by that time. More tears were shed, and then Terry did a little speech he’d prepared, which led to even MORE tears. So, basically, we invited lots of people out last night in order to make them cry. You’re welcome, everyone!

Anyway, it was a great night, and Terry’s mum was completely amazed by everything, which was, of course, the whole point. Oh, and I did remember to take a photo of one thing:

The cake! Isn’t it amazing? Here’s a better photo of the top:

(Terry’s mum sews  a lot, needless to say.) This was made for us by Siobhan at Caketasia, who did an absolutely amazing job, and I can confirm that it tasted every bit as good as it looked, although it seemed a terrible shame to cut into such a lovely thing. (We did, though, and it was worth it.)

So, that was last night: because we have lots of family here and have been so busy with this, and the various other things we have on this month (it’s a complete social whirl, I’m telling you) we’re still not officially back at work yet, and all of my blogs except this one are still running automated posts which I wrote in November or something. I’m SO going to need another holiday when this month is over.

In other news, I introduced myself to someone yesterday with the words, “Hi, I’m Amber’s wife, Terry.” I am awesome.

(Dress, eBay; shoes, Zara)
First of all,I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone who left comments on my last couple of posts: the internet connection here isn’t letting me do much more than hop on every now and then to upload these Dressember photos, so I haven’t been able to reply to them all, but I am reading every single one of them, and, as always, your comments make my day, so thank you.

Secondly, and as promised, here are the photos from our anniversary, on which we went for dinner and some horrendously expensive wine at a lovely restuarant we’d earmarked earlier in the week. We don’t normally exchange gifts on this anniversary, but Terry surprised me (and totally put me to shame, I might add) with this necklace: he’d remembered me talking earlier this year about how I’d always wanted a Carrie Bradshaw-style name necklace, so he gets plenty of husband points for tracking one down for me.

This also solved the mystery that those of you who follow me on Twitter may remember from a few weeks ago, when Terry measured mine and the dog’s neck. Sorry, though, Rubin, if you’re reading this: no necklace for you, you just got your neck measured just to throw me off the scent…

Suffice to say, it was a happy anniversary…

All ready for Halloween Part 2.

Oh, who am I kidding: you all just want to see Terry, don’t you?

(more…)

Well, folks, it’s that time of year again: that precious, precious time when I get to dress up as much as I want, and no one can tell me I’m “overdressed”, because it’s Halloween – yay! And this year, as with last year, we have two costume parties to attend: one on the Saturday just gone, and one next Saturday, which means you have another one of these posts to look, er, forward to next week. I know, sorry.

Anyway! Although I love to use Halloween as an excuse to get completely and utterly overdressed, I also have to work around the fact that I’m completely and utterly lazy. With these two points in mind, I had actually decided fairly early on that I would dress up as Marilyn Monroe for our first party: not just because I hear blondes have more fun, but because I thought it would be relatively easy. “Why, all I’ll need will be a white dress and a blonde wig,” I thought, “And I bet I won’t even need to search for the white dress, because if I mention it enough times, my mum will probably find one for me!”

And she did. Thanks, mum!

With the white dress in the bag, then (literally: my mum altered it for me and then put it in a bag) I pretty much sat back and did absolutely nothing to prepare for my transformation into the world’s most famous blonde. I knew from my search for an appropriate Lady Gaga wig last year that eBay is just full of Marilyn Monroe wigs, and they’re even labelled “Marilyn Monroe wig”, just to make it even easier for lazy-asses like me. So confident was I that nothing could possibly go wrong with this, then, that I waited until just a week before the party before I hopped onto eBay and bought the first cheapest wig I could find. Then I sat back and resumed doing nothing, until the wig arrived and I realised it looked more like a blonde version of Little Orphan Annie’s hair than Marilyn Monroe’s. Whoops.

As for Terry:

(more…)

Folks, this box set up residence in my living room approximately 4 weeks ago:

Blurry iPhone photos FTW!

It’s still there.

It arrived containing a part for Terry’s car, which, bizarrely enough, was contained inside a much smaller box, which was inside this one. It was a bit like a twisted version of Pass the Parcel then, only with a really, really boring prize. (Not to Terry, I hasten to add. He was all about that flux capacitor, or whatever the hell it was.) The car part, and the small(ish) box it came in, are both long gone.

This box remains.

Basically, then, we’re-a livin’ with a box. We’re a-livin’ with a cardboard box. And, to be completely honest with you? I don’t want to.

Every time I ask Terry about the status of the box, I get the same answer: “Soon,” says Terry, with a faraway look in his eye. “The Box will leave us soon…” He apparently has “plans” for it, which will be revealled at some mysterious point in the future, known only as “soon”.

Like Morrissey before me, however, I just want to know: how soon is now? When will The Box leave my life? When will we get to see what lies behind The Box, in that forgotten area of the room which, OK, we don’t actually EVER use, but still. (“What a strangely shaped guitar!” said Arlene, when I posted this image on Twitter, making me almost choke on the piece of toast I happened to be eatin at the time). What are Terry’s mysterious plans for this huge chunk o’cardboard? WHEN WILL WE BE RID OF IT?

Place your bets, folks…