Way back in the dark past, when I was still trying to improve my handwriting to something approaching legibility (NOWADAYS WHEN I HAVE TO HANDWRITE I USE CAPITALS SO IT CAN BE READ) and working out just who the hell I was, I decided to buy a pair of commando type boots. You know the kind; long, hefty, hardwearing, great for wearing with stupidly short skirts and eye-paringly bright tights*. I harboured goth intentions, a reinvention of myself as "kewl" or maybe "hott". In hindsight, I must have looked like I was wearing them either for a bet, or so I wouldn't blow away in high winds.
In the shoe shop was the most beautiful boy, no older than me, perfect in black T shirt and tousled straight-from-a-warm-bed hair. Nervous sweat inducingly gorgeous. So far out of my league I could have cried. But he is coming this way, and shitshitshit, he is talking, quick! form words you moron! After silently gibbering for a matter of minutes I succeeded in stuttering out my size and hefted my boot of choice at him, simpering helplessly like a drugged chimp all the while.
He came back with the boots and I was so pleased with their lumpen effect, I paid for them there and then.
Picture the scene. There I am, preparing to walk out wearing my new pavement crushing megaboots, when he stops me and points out the price tag still hanging from the laces. I fumble pointlessly with it and stand up. And then he kneels down on the floor, looks right up at me and bites the fucking tag off. While looking at me in a meaningful way, remember. Goodbyes were said. I left the shop and giggled hysterically all the way down the road.
Formative experience that. If only I was a little older and wiser at the time, I'd damn well have asked him what time he finished.
*Translation: Pantyhose. My God that is one filthy suggestive term
Tuesday 19 June 2007
Tuesday 12 June 2007
Bosomy
This morning, in between the usual foul language, tripping over stuff, including the cat who is permanently underfoot, drinking the coffee helpfully provided by Sidekick, washing while still unconscious, I mistakenly grabbed a lethal combination from the wardrobe - a push up bra and a fitted shirt. Which gapes.
I was getting odd looks all day, the whole look down, look at face, look down routine. I spent my time clutching at my chest as if suddenly suffering from angina, while secretly thinking hey! I got breastage worth checking out! Special.
When I arrived home I thought I'd have a look at my bazoombah display to see what the fuss was about.
Side view. Through the tiny gap in my shirt, I appear to have one strangely enlarged boob, while the other pales into insignificance. Actual melons on view: two. Visible norks: one only. More distressingly, this happens on both sides. The viewing angle doesn't seem to matter. The ribbon decorating the centre of the bra, which looked so damn perky when I bought it, droops sadly between the uneven valley of my pasty cleavage, in the gloom it looks less festive than slightly sinister, like a dribble of tomato soup.
Gah. Foiled again. I can only hope my mutant boobs haven't scarred anyone for life.
(Blogger spellcheck wants me to replace "boobs" with "bob's", and "breastage" with "barracudas". I refuse.)
I was getting odd looks all day, the whole look down, look at face, look down routine. I spent my time clutching at my chest as if suddenly suffering from angina, while secretly thinking hey! I got breastage worth checking out! Special.
When I arrived home I thought I'd have a look at my bazoombah display to see what the fuss was about.
Side view. Through the tiny gap in my shirt, I appear to have one strangely enlarged boob, while the other pales into insignificance. Actual melons on view: two. Visible norks: one only. More distressingly, this happens on both sides. The viewing angle doesn't seem to matter. The ribbon decorating the centre of the bra, which looked so damn perky when I bought it, droops sadly between the uneven valley of my pasty cleavage, in the gloom it looks less festive than slightly sinister, like a dribble of tomato soup.
Gah. Foiled again. I can only hope my mutant boobs haven't scarred anyone for life.
(Blogger spellcheck wants me to replace "boobs" with "bob's", and "breastage" with "barracudas". I refuse.)
Living and Mooing
I experienced what is perhaps the essence of true adulthood this weekend. This single event, more than anything else, illustrates that I am hurtling towards 30, and half my friends are rapidly fleeing it: the dinner party.
More than that, this was an actual fondue party. For real, there was a cheese fondue, and hot oil, all in all it was an accident waiting to happen. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Once upon a time the pub was the place for social interaction, meeting there at about 7ish after having scarfed down a pizza by way of ballast. Being fairly sozzled by 9ish was par for the course, in fact it was actively encouraged. This, my Bacchanalian idyll, my drink fuelled Eden, is long since gone. Because, let's face it, it was all about getting your phreak on (as I believe the kids call it these days).
Now it is all done differently. Most of our circle is now regularly (or perhaps not so regularly - it is also no longer de rigeur to ask) "getting their phreak on" with just the one person. This makes for a change in our social gatherings. The underlying tension is gone, leaving a different dynamic for interaction. This particular party started off as a gathering of the damned.
Imagine a bus stop. Then imagine a group of listless people waiting for a bus, one which may never come. Now position them on a group of sofas around a coffee table laden with three (count 'em) fondue sets. Give them neat little glasses of white wine, or pint glasses of lager. With guests quaffing tidily, silence descends. I deeply regretted not having stayed at home, I mean, Casualty was on and everything.
Thank God I managed to breach the gap and start up conversation with the other geek in the room, otherwise I might have had to strangle myself with my own knickers just to end the boredom. I never get tired of talking about how Trekkies are sadder than Star Wars fans, and about how, if I get the chance, I will drive toothpicks into George Lucas's cold, black heart for what he has done with the whole Star Wars ouevre. Or what browser is best, or about sites to go look at. Geek and proud of it, that's me.
The food was good too.
And finally, the crowning glory of the evening. One guest, desperately trying to cling to adulthood while everyone else was trying to forget it, piped up with this little gem: "I'd love to see a live production of The Mikado..." There was a short pause as we tried to compute this, like someone kicking the record player at a real party. Silence. Then Sidekick said "Naw. That'd be really dull - watching them tighten nuts and bolts and stuff". I replied "No, you're thinking of Meccano."
He sets 'em up, I knock 'em down. Being childish really kicks ass sometimes.
More than that, this was an actual fondue party. For real, there was a cheese fondue, and hot oil, all in all it was an accident waiting to happen. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Once upon a time the pub was the place for social interaction, meeting there at about 7ish after having scarfed down a pizza by way of ballast. Being fairly sozzled by 9ish was par for the course, in fact it was actively encouraged. This, my Bacchanalian idyll, my drink fuelled Eden, is long since gone. Because, let's face it, it was all about getting your phreak on (as I believe the kids call it these days).
Now it is all done differently. Most of our circle is now regularly (or perhaps not so regularly - it is also no longer de rigeur to ask) "getting their phreak on" with just the one person. This makes for a change in our social gatherings. The underlying tension is gone, leaving a different dynamic for interaction. This particular party started off as a gathering of the damned.
Imagine a bus stop. Then imagine a group of listless people waiting for a bus, one which may never come. Now position them on a group of sofas around a coffee table laden with three (count 'em) fondue sets. Give them neat little glasses of white wine, or pint glasses of lager. With guests quaffing tidily, silence descends. I deeply regretted not having stayed at home, I mean, Casualty was on and everything.
Thank God I managed to breach the gap and start up conversation with the other geek in the room, otherwise I might have had to strangle myself with my own knickers just to end the boredom. I never get tired of talking about how Trekkies are sadder than Star Wars fans, and about how, if I get the chance, I will drive toothpicks into George Lucas's cold, black heart for what he has done with the whole Star Wars ouevre. Or what browser is best, or about sites to go look at. Geek and proud of it, that's me.
The food was good too.
And finally, the crowning glory of the evening. One guest, desperately trying to cling to adulthood while everyone else was trying to forget it, piped up with this little gem: "I'd love to see a live production of The Mikado..." There was a short pause as we tried to compute this, like someone kicking the record player at a real party. Silence. Then Sidekick said "Naw. That'd be really dull - watching them tighten nuts and bolts and stuff". I replied "No, you're thinking of Meccano."
He sets 'em up, I knock 'em down. Being childish really kicks ass sometimes.
Tuesday 5 June 2007
Miss L and me decided to enter our massive intellect into a pub quiz.
For the record, out of 27 teams, "Hogs on the Run" came a smashing 23rd. Perhaps we have trouble with memory retention, but we remain blissfully unaware of the name of whoever won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1984, or who the oldest footballer ever to make a debut on the national team was. Shame, one of the prizes was described as "other bit and bobs". Note the lack of a plural there, had to be something good, I reckon. But we did get the question about horses right, and the one about who played Dirty Harry. And, most importantly, we were not last.
In lieu of entertainment, we spent our time doodling pictures of spaceships, beasts, cowboys and genitals on a spare bit of paper. Good to see we've matured nicely over the years.
When we skulked back to the car, I noticed that a strange slimy streak of matter appeared to have oozed, like ectoplasm, from the metal and glass. It glistened sickeningly in the street light. I goggled at it for some time before I realised someone had egg'd the damn thing, and it wasn't anything we needed to call TV's "Most Haunted" in to inspect. Which led us to wonder who the hell carefully packs an egg, takes that egg into town, nestled deep in a soft pocket, chooses a car, unwraps the precious chicken ova, aims and throws? Did it offend them like a politician might? Perhaps it was a drive-by egging?
One single egg, mark you. I hope they chose correctly, and did not regret the decision later, when they were eggless. At any rate, it seemed like a judgement of sorts - fare crap in Pub quiz, receive eggs. On your windscreen and bonnet. So there.
For the record, out of 27 teams, "Hogs on the Run" came a smashing 23rd. Perhaps we have trouble with memory retention, but we remain blissfully unaware of the name of whoever won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1984, or who the oldest footballer ever to make a debut on the national team was. Shame, one of the prizes was described as "other bit and bobs". Note the lack of a plural there, had to be something good, I reckon. But we did get the question about horses right, and the one about who played Dirty Harry. And, most importantly, we were not last.
In lieu of entertainment, we spent our time doodling pictures of spaceships, beasts, cowboys and genitals on a spare bit of paper. Good to see we've matured nicely over the years.
When we skulked back to the car, I noticed that a strange slimy streak of matter appeared to have oozed, like ectoplasm, from the metal and glass. It glistened sickeningly in the street light. I goggled at it for some time before I realised someone had egg'd the damn thing, and it wasn't anything we needed to call TV's "Most Haunted" in to inspect. Which led us to wonder who the hell carefully packs an egg, takes that egg into town, nestled deep in a soft pocket, chooses a car, unwraps the precious chicken ova, aims and throws? Did it offend them like a politician might? Perhaps it was a drive-by egging?
One single egg, mark you. I hope they chose correctly, and did not regret the decision later, when they were eggless. At any rate, it seemed like a judgement of sorts - fare crap in Pub quiz, receive eggs. On your windscreen and bonnet. So there.
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