I either have an earache, a toothache or a brain tumour.
Either that or I am having a stroke.
I keep getting shooting pains in the side of my head, and when I touch my hair it hurts.
My hair is tender! That, surely, can't be right.
Of course I could have just slept badly and squashed my ear or something.
I've not been sleeping very well of late (thanks for asking).
I think the fact that my bed has taken to creaking like it's auditioning for the part of Freddie's house in Nightmare on Elm Street might have something to do with it – every time I turn over it makes a noise that should be followed by some hideous ghoul rising from the dead.
I've also taken to wearing one of those beyond-camp eye masks (in the absense of anyone offering to fund my black-out eyeshadow) as my room is so light, so I wake up not only feeling frazzled but with charming indentations around the top of my head, like I've had an over-enthusiastic lobotomy.
Light a candle for me…
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
knock me over with a feather
oh my god! i was so drunk last night.
and do you know how i know? not because i've got a hideous hangover – space hopper in stomach, drill in brain and fire in eyes – and not because of that vague sense of shame that often follows a heavy night (or in my case afternoon and evening, which featured a bottle of gin, a bottle of rose and a bottle of fizz between 2).
no, i know i was 'so drunk' last night because each of the three people who I share the house with (yes, i know it should be with whom i share the house, get over yourself) greeted me with the same words: oh my god! you were so drunk last night.
why do people feel the need to tell you what you already know?
it's like telling someone who leaves the house dressed as a clown 'oh my god! you went to a fancy dress party last night!', or if they really are a clown 'oh my god! you went to work in costume!'
i wasn't unfortunately, drunk enough to forget that oh my god! i ate a big mac to try and soak up the alcohol and because i had the foodie equivalent of beer goggles on. and for that i truly am ashamed.
i'm going to go for a hair of the dog lunch now and a walk on the heath.
i wonder if, when i get back, i will be greated with the earth-shaking revelation that 'oh my god! you've been out!'
and do you know how i know? not because i've got a hideous hangover – space hopper in stomach, drill in brain and fire in eyes – and not because of that vague sense of shame that often follows a heavy night (or in my case afternoon and evening, which featured a bottle of gin, a bottle of rose and a bottle of fizz between 2).
no, i know i was 'so drunk' last night because each of the three people who I share the house with (yes, i know it should be with whom i share the house, get over yourself) greeted me with the same words: oh my god! you were so drunk last night.
why do people feel the need to tell you what you already know?
it's like telling someone who leaves the house dressed as a clown 'oh my god! you went to a fancy dress party last night!', or if they really are a clown 'oh my god! you went to work in costume!'
i wasn't unfortunately, drunk enough to forget that oh my god! i ate a big mac to try and soak up the alcohol and because i had the foodie equivalent of beer goggles on. and for that i truly am ashamed.
i'm going to go for a hair of the dog lunch now and a walk on the heath.
i wonder if, when i get back, i will be greated with the earth-shaking revelation that 'oh my god! you've been out!'
Sunday, August 19, 2007
leaving on a jet plane
to spain, to throw a donkey off a tower. don't you hate people who begin diary entries or blog musings with that old to... nonsense.
anyway, was in Spain last week, where, among other things I spent 1 hour and 20 minutes in the bank trying to set up internet banking so we can monitor from here how much money is bleeding out of the account we have over there (long story). so, 1 hour and 20 minutes of my life (and my one beach holiday!) spent in the bank. during these 80 minutes a great American by the name of Blase helped me with my internet-pains while his colleague – a native female - dealt with one customer face to face, while taking phone calls from another. the customers were not related but by the time he left, the guy who had come into the bank new everything about the guy who kept phoning (so did i, along with everyone else in the branch). 'they keep trying to take money for electricity but he's broke', we were informed after one call. 'him again. now they want money for water. i don't know what he does up there...'
anyway, 1 hour and 20 minutes getting my internet sorted out. now back in Blighty. just tried to get onto the internet and guess what – no funciona! matame con una pluma. don't you just love la technologia?
before going on my hols i'd treated myself to a 'fantasy tan'. this involved standing in a dingy windowless room in a pair of paper pants while a lovely young girl sprayed me with a sticky liquid which i was told would develop into a fantastic glow several hours later. she was right – by the time i got on the plane the next morning i looked like i'd already been away. which was a good job as i have now joined the Joan Collinses of the world and. do. not. suntan. my. face. (i've spent the last 3 years of my life trying to rid my face of the effects of the 20 previous ones i spent ruining it with too much uva).
so, i arrive on holiday all brown, sunkissed and slinky (lots of pre holiday running).
treating myself to a week of no exercise however, along with an endless diet of chips, G&Ts, wine, tortilla, hamburgers and endless bags of crisps mean that as my tan faded my wobblier bits got wobblier than they have been for an age.
so, i go away tall and tan and thin and lovely... and i come back white and flabby! i feel like i've had a makeover in reverse, or a make under!
needless to say, this week will be spent chained to the treadmill......
anyway, was in Spain last week, where, among other things I spent 1 hour and 20 minutes in the bank trying to set up internet banking so we can monitor from here how much money is bleeding out of the account we have over there (long story). so, 1 hour and 20 minutes of my life (and my one beach holiday!) spent in the bank. during these 80 minutes a great American by the name of Blase helped me with my internet-pains while his colleague – a native female - dealt with one customer face to face, while taking phone calls from another. the customers were not related but by the time he left, the guy who had come into the bank new everything about the guy who kept phoning (so did i, along with everyone else in the branch). 'they keep trying to take money for electricity but he's broke', we were informed after one call. 'him again. now they want money for water. i don't know what he does up there...'
anyway, 1 hour and 20 minutes getting my internet sorted out. now back in Blighty. just tried to get onto the internet and guess what – no funciona! matame con una pluma. don't you just love la technologia?
before going on my hols i'd treated myself to a 'fantasy tan'. this involved standing in a dingy windowless room in a pair of paper pants while a lovely young girl sprayed me with a sticky liquid which i was told would develop into a fantastic glow several hours later. she was right – by the time i got on the plane the next morning i looked like i'd already been away. which was a good job as i have now joined the Joan Collinses of the world and. do. not. suntan. my. face. (i've spent the last 3 years of my life trying to rid my face of the effects of the 20 previous ones i spent ruining it with too much uva).
so, i arrive on holiday all brown, sunkissed and slinky (lots of pre holiday running).
treating myself to a week of no exercise however, along with an endless diet of chips, G&Ts, wine, tortilla, hamburgers and endless bags of crisps mean that as my tan faded my wobblier bits got wobblier than they have been for an age.
so, i go away tall and tan and thin and lovely... and i come back white and flabby! i feel like i've had a makeover in reverse, or a make under!
needless to say, this week will be spent chained to the treadmill......
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
what a carry on...
so, first of all there was the evil plastic bag.
which we all hearted.
every time you went to the super market you'd come back laden with them. you know, a tomato in one, another tomato in another, a diet coke in one, a full-fat coke in another – you get my drift. we'd all wantonly consume them. they were free, what do you expect.
then came the plastic backlash (which, now that i write it, sounds like it should be one of those 80s leaning electropoptechno bands that everyone pretends to like because they've been in this month's dazed and bemused).
and the plastic backlash meant that we all started talking about landfill and biodegradability and the like (and pulled horrible faces if anyone tried to give us non-bottled water and non-organice vegetables). and then we shunned too many free horrid plastic bags, opting instead to stuff as much of our shopping into each one as we humanly could so that somewhere between the supermarket and our front door the handles stretched until they resembled a cheese wire and nearly sliced our fingers off. but AT LEAST THAT MEANT THAT FEWER OF THE THINGS WENT INTO A LANDFILL.
and then some clever person had the idea of making a jute / organic cotton / fairtrade childhair version of the carrying vessel and the plastic bag became 'i am not a plastic bag' (how dada!). the trouble is, of course, that my kitchen is now full of 'i am not a plastic bag's and frankly, it's really getting on my tits. i'm all for avoiding landfill and just say yes to biodegradability but where am i going to put all these bloody monstrosities?
answers on a recycled postcard please
which we all hearted.
every time you went to the super market you'd come back laden with them. you know, a tomato in one, another tomato in another, a diet coke in one, a full-fat coke in another – you get my drift. we'd all wantonly consume them. they were free, what do you expect.
then came the plastic backlash (which, now that i write it, sounds like it should be one of those 80s leaning electropoptechno bands that everyone pretends to like because they've been in this month's dazed and bemused).
and the plastic backlash meant that we all started talking about landfill and biodegradability and the like (and pulled horrible faces if anyone tried to give us non-bottled water and non-organice vegetables). and then we shunned too many free horrid plastic bags, opting instead to stuff as much of our shopping into each one as we humanly could so that somewhere between the supermarket and our front door the handles stretched until they resembled a cheese wire and nearly sliced our fingers off. but AT LEAST THAT MEANT THAT FEWER OF THE THINGS WENT INTO A LANDFILL.
and then some clever person had the idea of making a jute / organic cotton / fairtrade childhair version of the carrying vessel and the plastic bag became 'i am not a plastic bag' (how dada!). the trouble is, of course, that my kitchen is now full of 'i am not a plastic bag's and frankly, it's really getting on my tits. i'm all for avoiding landfill and just say yes to biodegradability but where am i going to put all these bloody monstrosities?
answers on a recycled postcard please
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