Today I am having a specky four eyes day. I normally wear contact lenses but a few years ago the whites of my eyes started turning pink. When I went to the opticians about it, my eyeman told me that it was because my eyes couldn’t breathe properly and that if I kept wearing my lenses for 17 hours at a time, as was my inclination, he’d stop prescribing me them. He also told me I had fatty deposits on my eyes. Love him!
So, now, I put my lenses in first thing to go to the gym. Running in glasses is a no no. Who wants to look like a fish on a running machine!
Then when I get to work I take my lenses out and put my specs on.
So, today, I am bespectacled (but Look*, no pink eye!). I just went for a pee. Where the light above my head reflected through the lenses of my glass it through reflections onto the floor that made it look exactly like I had CP30 eyes. How crazy is that!
And on the subject of crazy when I was in Barcelona recently (see earlier posts) I came across what must be the only Mexican restaurant in the whole world that didn’t do margaritas!
Me: ‘Do you do Margaritas?’ (in Spanish, natch)
Them: ‘No, but we’ve got 7 tequilas’
* I really wanted to write Look with an eyeball in each of the os but couldn’t!)
Monday, August 11, 2008
Friday, August 8, 2008
long time no me!
when a man is tired of blogging, he is… on holiday of course.
so, just back from a week fighting them (off) on the beaches.
if they weren't trying to sell us coconut (which, btw, i saw them washing in the same place where people washed off their feet - right next to the portaloo) it was sarongs. do i look like the kind of person who would lay on (or worse, wear!) a sarong.
then of course, there was mobile Vision Express, each outdoing each other in the cheap and nastiness stakes. Finally there were the warm can men - beer, coke, diet coke. you name it. they had it. warm.
so, on the beach a booming economy.
leave the sunny shore though and it's a different matter. the credit crunch is biting hard.
how did we know?
snacks. or lack of.
a post-beach ritual of the Short holidays is a G&T at Bar Maripili, AKA the lesbian bar. each year we are greeted like 'faamly' and don't even have to order our G&T, it just magically appears alongside a lovely little plate of mixed nuts and pretzel bites, which, after a hard day's frazzling really hit the spot. NOT ANYMORE! this year, no matter how hard i looked (under the table, under the chairs, under the beermats) i couldn't find a crumb.
And it's not just the bars. the cafes are equally strapped. where once you would find a lovely little biscuit to go with your cafe con leche of a morning you now get, well, NADA actually. unless you're the kind of person who counts a spoon as added-value. which i certainly don't.
And I'm sure you're wondering about my tan.
As you know, i try and keep my non-surgical-procedured face out of the sun but even i catch a few rays while i am away.
the result? two rather orange cheeks.
my face is now so sensitive to the sun that i get a blotchy tan.
for a couple of days i looked like an extra from an 80s new romantic pop video.
orange! rosy i could cope with. deep beige at a push but orange! i looked like i'd been attacked by an 80s teenager with a blusher brush.
so, just back from a week fighting them (off) on the beaches.
if they weren't trying to sell us coconut (which, btw, i saw them washing in the same place where people washed off their feet - right next to the portaloo) it was sarongs. do i look like the kind of person who would lay on (or worse, wear!) a sarong.
then of course, there was mobile Vision Express, each outdoing each other in the cheap and nastiness stakes. Finally there were the warm can men - beer, coke, diet coke. you name it. they had it. warm.
so, on the beach a booming economy.
leave the sunny shore though and it's a different matter. the credit crunch is biting hard.
how did we know?
snacks. or lack of.
a post-beach ritual of the Short holidays is a G&T at Bar Maripili, AKA the lesbian bar. each year we are greeted like 'faamly' and don't even have to order our G&T, it just magically appears alongside a lovely little plate of mixed nuts and pretzel bites, which, after a hard day's frazzling really hit the spot. NOT ANYMORE! this year, no matter how hard i looked (under the table, under the chairs, under the beermats) i couldn't find a crumb.
And it's not just the bars. the cafes are equally strapped. where once you would find a lovely little biscuit to go with your cafe con leche of a morning you now get, well, NADA actually. unless you're the kind of person who counts a spoon as added-value. which i certainly don't.
And I'm sure you're wondering about my tan.
As you know, i try and keep my non-surgical-procedured face out of the sun but even i catch a few rays while i am away.
the result? two rather orange cheeks.
my face is now so sensitive to the sun that i get a blotchy tan.
for a couple of days i looked like an extra from an 80s new romantic pop video.
orange! rosy i could cope with. deep beige at a push but orange! i looked like i'd been attacked by an 80s teenager with a blusher brush.
Monday, July 14, 2008
how many posts make a theme?
just noticed i've done two in a row about my new ROF (roll of flab).
am i now officially obsessed or do i get a few more posts about it?
another recurring theme, of course, is the radiator in the bathroom.
it remains BOILING hot but continues to gurgle so i now have to unplug it every night and plug it back in every morning.
when i remember…
am i now officially obsessed or do i get a few more posts about it?
another recurring theme, of course, is the radiator in the bathroom.
it remains BOILING hot but continues to gurgle so i now have to unplug it every night and plug it back in every morning.
when i remember…
eat, drink and be merry, tomorrow we diet
The Mayo Clinic, Atkins, food combining, blood type. Forget those old-timers – I’ve started a new fad. It’s called the reverse diet. I go on holiday a week on Saturday. To Spain to lounge around in the sun and to stay at the house I co-own (and which leeches money from my bank account every month, but that’s a whole other rant).
Every year around May I start thinking, right, must drink less, eat a bit more sensibly and up my running so I’ve got a nice flat tummy / six pack for my summer holiday.
And every year I miss my target.
Well, this year I have surpassed myself.
I’ve had a particularly boozy / eatty (or is eaty?) few weeks, which consequently have left me with a rather unbecoming roll of flab that hangs menancingly over my trousers when I sit down – it’s like I’ve already been on holiday and have the body one expects to have after a week lounging around eating rich food, drinking too much and doing no exercise.
The day before I go I am going for a fake tan.
And that’s where the reverse diet comes in. I am going to go away brown and ‘cuddly’ and come back certainly paler (sunbathing is a no no in these surgically enhanced / face ripped off and stuck back on again times, you know) and hopefully a bit less flabby.
Get it? Remember where you read it first.
No doubt my first entry back will read To Barcelona, where my tan faded and my stomach became firmer. Which brings me to today’s pet hate: people who, usually in the Londoner’s Diary pages of ES begin a story by saying ‘To The Wolseley…’ or ‘To the courts of justice’. Whatever happened to ‘I went…’?
Every year around May I start thinking, right, must drink less, eat a bit more sensibly and up my running so I’ve got a nice flat tummy / six pack for my summer holiday.
And every year I miss my target.
Well, this year I have surpassed myself.
I’ve had a particularly boozy / eatty (or is eaty?) few weeks, which consequently have left me with a rather unbecoming roll of flab that hangs menancingly over my trousers when I sit down – it’s like I’ve already been on holiday and have the body one expects to have after a week lounging around eating rich food, drinking too much and doing no exercise.
The day before I go I am going for a fake tan.
And that’s where the reverse diet comes in. I am going to go away brown and ‘cuddly’ and come back certainly paler (sunbathing is a no no in these surgically enhanced / face ripped off and stuck back on again times, you know) and hopefully a bit less flabby.
Get it? Remember where you read it first.
No doubt my first entry back will read To Barcelona, where my tan faded and my stomach became firmer. Which brings me to today’s pet hate: people who, usually in the Londoner’s Diary pages of ES begin a story by saying ‘To The Wolseley…’ or ‘To the courts of justice’. Whatever happened to ‘I went…’?
Thursday, July 10, 2008
i have hangover cubed. that's a hangover on a hangover on a hangover.
i also have another kind of hangover - a roll of flab that spills from over the top of my jeans. it's a brouilly belly (i don't drink beer – far too butch). it was a sad sad day when i realised there were calories in alcohol. and not just any old calories. empty calories.
and i'm going on holiday in two and half weeks. every year i think to myself 'right, this year, i WILL have a flat tummy for the beach' then i go into psychotically social mode and go out night after night boozing.
i've always said that the best thing about me and the worst thing about me is that i am ALWAYS up for a drink.
so yesterday i had a Christmas food preview. this basically consisted of trying loads of food and drinking Champagne and shots of flavoured vodka. at midday!
i then went out with a mate in the evening to a new gaff in Park Lane where, apparently (does that take care of the lawyers?) there had been some shenanigans with rohypnal the previous night (too late again!).
so, get there. get in, by the skin of our teeth – despite the fact that mate is actually the pr for the place.
it is full of suits and overly tall, overly blonde sloaney types neighing things like 'Sophie, you look amaaaaaaaaaaaazing' and 'oh you must meet my backer, he's a sweetie'.
we were meant to have a table.
'private event i'm afraid, you can't have a table until later. can't you come back after supper.'
er, no.
'oh yes, i've got you down on our lists. no table, just 10 drinks.'
so, we get to stand at the bar drinking 5 cocktails each, being stamped on by suits and horses?
we took a rain check and went into Soho instead.
Vodka gimlet is currently vying with frozen margarita for favourite drink ranking.
i also have another kind of hangover - a roll of flab that spills from over the top of my jeans. it's a brouilly belly (i don't drink beer – far too butch). it was a sad sad day when i realised there were calories in alcohol. and not just any old calories. empty calories.
and i'm going on holiday in two and half weeks. every year i think to myself 'right, this year, i WILL have a flat tummy for the beach' then i go into psychotically social mode and go out night after night boozing.
i've always said that the best thing about me and the worst thing about me is that i am ALWAYS up for a drink.
so yesterday i had a Christmas food preview. this basically consisted of trying loads of food and drinking Champagne and shots of flavoured vodka. at midday!
i then went out with a mate in the evening to a new gaff in Park Lane where, apparently (does that take care of the lawyers?) there had been some shenanigans with rohypnal the previous night (too late again!).
so, get there. get in, by the skin of our teeth – despite the fact that mate is actually the pr for the place.
it is full of suits and overly tall, overly blonde sloaney types neighing things like 'Sophie, you look amaaaaaaaaaaaazing' and 'oh you must meet my backer, he's a sweetie'.
we were meant to have a table.
'private event i'm afraid, you can't have a table until later. can't you come back after supper.'
er, no.
'oh yes, i've got you down on our lists. no table, just 10 drinks.'
so, we get to stand at the bar drinking 5 cocktails each, being stamped on by suits and horses?
we took a rain check and went into Soho instead.
Vodka gimlet is currently vying with frozen margarita for favourite drink ranking.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
ping,,, pong...
so, was it bad chicken, a hairball or AASD (acute attention seeking disorder)? whatever it was that had me being sick at various points last night / this morning has also meant i have spent an extremely leisurely day at home.
i've been mostly sitting on the sofa waiting for a tennis match to start (more of which lately).
i also had a look through my old photos and couldn't help but think of that Baz Luhrman song that is based on a supposed graduation speech (though variously attributed to Kurt Vonegut and others on the interweb). the lyrics 'one day you'll look back on yourself in a way you can't comprehend how truly special you were' rang particularly true. i was, quite simply, ravishing!
a picture of vital fresh faced youth.
Oscar Wilde really did get it right when he said that yut is wasted on da yung!
mind you, my hands have certainly improved with age. i now have fingernails where once i had angry looking stumps - invariably with a cigarette between them.
i also have fewer wrinkles now than when i was in my 30s, which is uncanny.
speaking of which, is it my imagination or does Sue Barker look fresher faced than she used to?
anyway, got to go, the Murray / Nadal match is about to begin.
For those of you who don't speak Catalan (heathens!) Nadal translates as Christmas!
So Andy Murray is about to get his ass kicked by Mr Christmas.
i've been mostly sitting on the sofa waiting for a tennis match to start (more of which lately).
i also had a look through my old photos and couldn't help but think of that Baz Luhrman song that is based on a supposed graduation speech (though variously attributed to Kurt Vonegut and others on the interweb). the lyrics 'one day you'll look back on yourself in a way you can't comprehend how truly special you were' rang particularly true. i was, quite simply, ravishing!
a picture of vital fresh faced youth.
Oscar Wilde really did get it right when he said that yut is wasted on da yung!
mind you, my hands have certainly improved with age. i now have fingernails where once i had angry looking stumps - invariably with a cigarette between them.
i also have fewer wrinkles now than when i was in my 30s, which is uncanny.
speaking of which, is it my imagination or does Sue Barker look fresher faced than she used to?
anyway, got to go, the Murray / Nadal match is about to begin.
For those of you who don't speak Catalan (heathens!) Nadal translates as Christmas!
So Andy Murray is about to get his ass kicked by Mr Christmas.
Monday, June 30, 2008
water water (and smelly children) everywhere
For my birthday this year (41. who'da thunk it!) my sister paid for me to go to a meditation workshop at our local yoga centre. Unfortunately the workshop was cancelled as the teacher couldn't get there – she was too stressed. just kidding. she was flying in from LA and there was a problem with her flight.
So we got a refund and had to think of something else for my special day.
I decided on the London Aquarium as i) I've never been ii) i love love love snorkelling so figured it would be like that but while being fully clothed. and no jet lag!
We went on Saturday afternoon. It was baking. The Aquarium, therefore, would be empty right? Who (apart from me) would want to go to the indoor, dark Aquarium on one of the hottest weekends of the year?
Erm.... about 400 other people. And their children.
Now, for some reason I'd created this image of the Aquarium in my mind, which was all lovely crystal blue waters, endless exotic fish and a brilliant glass walkway/tunnel where you ACTUALLY WALK THROUGH A TANK OF MASSIVE FISH!
What we got instead was a dark and dingy basement with home aquarium stylee tanks with grubby windows, in front of which an army of space-invading, shouty children gathered banging on the glass while their parents took endless photos with endless flashes from their cameras, even though the signs everywhere clearly stated NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY.
I was terrorised by one particularly loathesome specimin of smelly boyhood who, I swear to God, appeared at every window I stopped, leaning into me and pressing his face against the glass.
At one tank, as I admired the parrot fish, he actually bobbed up in front of me like a shark! Or a turd in the sea. Not nice.
Unperturbed, sister and I skipped a couple of tanks to get away from the throng of families and found ourselves watching an episode of Life On Earth as what we thought were two crabs 'making lurve' turned out to be one crab eating a smaller one. We only found this out when an even bigger crab came along and nicked lunch from the smaller rival.
Next we made our way to the ray tank for some light petting – i'd been looking forward to tickling a ray's tummy all week. apparently they like it. they do!
So, we get to the tank and guess what! No petting! No bombing or necking either. obviously in these post Steve Irwin times man must not pet a ray. Which would be fine, except there was one little blighter plopping up and down on the surface of the pool, looking really upset that all the potential ticklers standing around goggling him/her weren't even putting their hands in the water – prefering instead to blind him/her with endless flash photography. or bang on the walls of his home.
Oh well, at least we had the brilliant glass walkway/tunnel where you ACTUALLY WALK THROUGH A TANK OF MASSIVE FISH to look forward to.
Only of course, we didn't. Moving past a couple more dingy windows we found ourselves unceremoniously guided toward the exit and through the obligatory gifte shoppe.
At the exit we were asked to fill in a questionairre about our experience.
Do you have children? it asked. No, I replied. And after today I don't want anyway.
I'm going to Barcelona in a few weeks where there is an aquarium with a brilliant glass walkway/tunnel where you ACTUALLY WALK THROUGH A TANK OF MASSIVE FISH! can't wait! it's bound to be really quiet at this time of year.
So we got a refund and had to think of something else for my special day.
I decided on the London Aquarium as i) I've never been ii) i love love love snorkelling so figured it would be like that but while being fully clothed. and no jet lag!
We went on Saturday afternoon. It was baking. The Aquarium, therefore, would be empty right? Who (apart from me) would want to go to the indoor, dark Aquarium on one of the hottest weekends of the year?
Erm.... about 400 other people. And their children.
Now, for some reason I'd created this image of the Aquarium in my mind, which was all lovely crystal blue waters, endless exotic fish and a brilliant glass walkway/tunnel where you ACTUALLY WALK THROUGH A TANK OF MASSIVE FISH!
What we got instead was a dark and dingy basement with home aquarium stylee tanks with grubby windows, in front of which an army of space-invading, shouty children gathered banging on the glass while their parents took endless photos with endless flashes from their cameras, even though the signs everywhere clearly stated NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY.
I was terrorised by one particularly loathesome specimin of smelly boyhood who, I swear to God, appeared at every window I stopped, leaning into me and pressing his face against the glass.
At one tank, as I admired the parrot fish, he actually bobbed up in front of me like a shark! Or a turd in the sea. Not nice.
Unperturbed, sister and I skipped a couple of tanks to get away from the throng of families and found ourselves watching an episode of Life On Earth as what we thought were two crabs 'making lurve' turned out to be one crab eating a smaller one. We only found this out when an even bigger crab came along and nicked lunch from the smaller rival.
Next we made our way to the ray tank for some light petting – i'd been looking forward to tickling a ray's tummy all week. apparently they like it. they do!
So, we get to the tank and guess what! No petting! No bombing or necking either. obviously in these post Steve Irwin times man must not pet a ray. Which would be fine, except there was one little blighter plopping up and down on the surface of the pool, looking really upset that all the potential ticklers standing around goggling him/her weren't even putting their hands in the water – prefering instead to blind him/her with endless flash photography. or bang on the walls of his home.
Oh well, at least we had the brilliant glass walkway/tunnel where you ACTUALLY WALK THROUGH A TANK OF MASSIVE FISH to look forward to.
Only of course, we didn't. Moving past a couple more dingy windows we found ourselves unceremoniously guided toward the exit and through the obligatory gifte shoppe.
At the exit we were asked to fill in a questionairre about our experience.
Do you have children? it asked. No, I replied. And after today I don't want anyway.
I'm going to Barcelona in a few weeks where there is an aquarium with a brilliant glass walkway/tunnel where you ACTUALLY WALK THROUGH A TANK OF MASSIVE FISH! can't wait! it's bound to be really quiet at this time of year.
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