I wonder how many thousands of bloggers are doing an end-of-national-blog-posting-month.
So how was it, to write every day for a month?
Well, on some nights fucking annoying (hi! a spot of t). I had to plan things around The Blog. "Can you come to the cinema?" "If the showing's after 9:30 I have to blog first". Quite irritating and raised some questionable eyebrows. Some nights I had nothing to say. And on those nights, very often I would produce a dumb post I wasn't happy with; poorly finished and mildly fabricated.
On other nights it would focus me, and I could turn a single moment or conversation into some of the best writing I'd done. That sentence is not an example of that, by the way. It wasn't that my blog quality went down, but that the number of stories I never thought I could blog but worked out quite well, went up. I began to formulate blogs whilst walking. If the anecdote had already happened, I'd wonder how to open it, what the punchline would be, how to phrase it. If it hadn't, I would plan to blog about thinking about blogging (meta-blogging?) which I'm sure will crop up one day.
I originally thought I'd say something like, sometimes the blog was a pain, sometimes it was a release. But that's not really what I mean. Sometimes the blog was an absolute pain when I had reading to do, and a boyfriend to see. Sometimes it was an arse to formulate something hopefully entertaining and not just theraputic moaning. However underneath all that is this happiness, that I actually have readers to please, who care, and comment so that I have at least 6 emails every single day. You have no idea how happy that makes me.
One thing's for sure; it's made me feel like a writer. I guess because the only difference between writers-t0-be and writers is that writers-to-be need a good kick up the arse. I hope I can look back on this long, cold November and have it perfectly conceptulised in my mind; that is one of the most previous things about a diary. But now it's more than a diary, isn't it? It's not private, it's not just for my memories; they're merely precious by-products of this whole new self-publishing game.
This month, thousands of people took the time to write every single day, not just for their diaries, but for their writing skills, and for their readers.
Now you tell me how many people were writing that seriously a century ago, and I'll tell you the internet's fucking wonderful.
Labels: NaBloPoMo
"I dunno what to do this summer," I say to Mike as we lounge on our bed.
"You can do whatever you like," he says.
"I know. I don't think I want to do law. I'm going to do that for forty years."
"Do something for not very long that pays well," he says. He sorted rubbish last summer for £500 per week. I'm not sure I'm up for that.
Suddenly realisation hits. "I'm going to be a dog walker."
"Are you?"
"Yes," I say. "How perfect would that be? I would get to pet and walk dogs and be paid. Oh, there will be no telephones or clients either. Just me and dogs."
"You're quite excited about this aren't you?"
"I think I might want to be a dog walker more than a lawyer."
Labels: NaBloPoMo
Hurrah, I am still in the running for National Blog Posting Month not really because I haven't technically missed a day and SOMETIMES BLOG TWICE, but because I am famous, internet-wide, for swearing:
Click.Labels: blogging, Mike, NaBloPoMo
1. I texted Mike today asking him to bring in some tampons (delightful I know) to university because the law school don't let people go home. He replied asking where I keep such items. I (lying), told him there was bound to be a box somewhere. He later replied informing me he had found a few "scattered across my floor". He has also made a pile of, bizzarely, all the batteries he found. All 18 of them. He is now demanding a tidy up of my room. I guess if there are 18 batteries, imagine how many rats there could be?
2. Somebody came into billygean.co.uk by googling "L'Estrange v. Graucob". Their ISP was from a Chambers (barristers' practising thingy) in London. I can imagine the barrister now, still drunk, post all-nighter. Difficult contract case, oh, we'll just throw in that case, now what was it. I hope I was helpful.
Labels: NaBloPoMo
Okay, I admit it, I had a
hard time cutting out coffee last week. I spent rather a long time smelling the jars and moodily ordering herbal teas in between lectures. And well - I just couldn't take it, so it lasted about 13 hours.
This week, I decided to go the whole hog. I have a generally-dodgy stomach, courtesy of my father who also gave me wild hair and bunions (didn't I do well?) so I decided to quit dairy having heard wonders about it.
Dairy, of course, includes caffeine.
It also includes chocolate. But not eggs, I learnt.
Me: Eggs so are dairy.
Mike: [smiling. Probably because he knew what was coming] No, they're not.
Me: But they come from co-.
Mike: There it is.
Day one saw me eating a baked potato - no butter, cheese or anything interesting - with tuna. It was so dry, I couldn't chew it. Incidentally this reminds of a meat-eating-at-Mike's-house story I must tell you all about at some point - do remind me if I forget.
It did get better though. I have rediscovered pasta and Dolmio. And also vegetables. I have been snacking on muesli bars, Parma Violets and Skittles. Soy milk is quite nice. As are soy yoghurts and, also, my healthy fruit of choice, glacé cherries.
The fact that I'm not giving up caffeine directly has had a good psychological effect on me. Because I am giving up dairy, I can choose to have coffee with soy milk. The fact that this makes it taste like aeroplane coffee with a SKIN ON TOP makes me not want coffee. This choice is better than army-like ban on coffee, therefore no headaches so far (which does rather worryingly make me feel I imagined them). I haven't even had hot juice. Having a perpetual cold has made Lemsip soothers (for warm bellies on cold nights) my drink of choice.
So by this weekend I was feeling rather healthy. No dairy for a week. No coffee. Only one minor Thorntons slip.
This morning I made myself my Lemsip even though my cold symptoms had long gone. Must be habit, I thought, idly reading the box.
Contains caffeine.
Oh, bollocks.
Labels: addictions, NaBloPoMo
Tonight Mike, my Dad and I journeyed to
sister and New Husband's house. Mostly to see the cats - named Merry and Pippin by the way, despite their being FEMALE non-hobbits - and also for the roast dinner.
Typically, I smushed the first cat I saw, pressing my face into its fur proclaiming I loved it. The cat was rather wide-eyed and all limbs as it scrambled out of my arms.
I approach the other one more timidly. I found her in Suzy and New Husband's room, in a drawer with her head on a jumper. I stroked her teeny tiny head and she spent around 20 minutes gazing. Not the sharpest cat I've ever met. Eventually I couldn't resist and picked her up. So she fled out of the room.
I went downstairs to find Mike playing with the other cat. They have this odd pink man on elastic toy and mike was bouncing it all around. The cat was back-flipping and narrowly missing red wine whilst Mike was shrieking.
After dinner Pippin skulked over and tapped Mike's knee with her paw. Within seconds she had nestled her head up by his neck and was kneading his jumper. I melted.
"How come they always love you?" I said to Mike.
"Because I'm not in their face," he said, smiling.
"Oh she's soo cute," I said, just as she stood up and attention-seekingly flopped on his knee.
"Yes," Mike said, frowning as Pippin pushed her face into his. "She's exactly like you."
Labels: cats, NaBloPoMo
I just found this photo whilst perusing a friend's
flickr:
It's weird, the frisson you feel when you stare at a younger you.
I've found that since I was about 12 when I felt I became an adult, I've been surprised when I've changed,
because I thought I'd established my identity. I felt it physically too; I no longer needed to buy clothes because they were too small but because I'd worn holes in them.
The guy on the left, in the white, in that photo is my ex-boyfriend. I went out with him for 2 weeks and 6 days and ended it - for Very Bad reasons not best to put on my website - in an underpass. It felt like the biggest event in the world, that night, that I had the power to upset someone that much and it was perfectly acceptable to walk away and let them get on with the heartache. The alcohol and cigarettes tasted bitter in my mouth as I walked home, head-bent.
I remember I had bought a white dress for that leavers' party. It was backless and even came with a special bra. Not that I needed a bra, let's face it. At the last minute I took it back, because I felt everybody would stare. How different that is to how I am now; I don't care what people think, I think it's okay to have a sexual identity and a backless bra if you need one.
The panic I felt on nights like this seems so manageable now. It's so
focused, like a needle-point. There was no need to avoid White Jacket Man, and sit for moments outside red-faced and anxious. No need to clutch my bag by my side and stare across the room at him.
Now, problems sometimes seem so vast I don't know where to start. The feelings that I have for some people run so deep that there are a million 'best things to do' and no real answer. Or the problems are sewn in to other problems, whose roots run too deep to touch. I wonder what adults do when they realise they have deep-set complexes they knew nothing about? Or when they realise they're horribly jealous, or overly critical? And I know the decisions I make so casually now, sure, I'll take that job, no, it's fine if we live apart, affect the rest of my life in a way I can't grasp now.
I miss that white dress, I think it told me a lot.
Labels: NaBloPoMo, reminiscing
Ah, well
that didn't last long. Housemate needed car, specifically a polo. Gave car away (housemate will pay sister).
Feeling quite good and charitable though. Hope she knows she has to drive me everywhere.
Labels: NaBloPoMo
"I'm turning a bit thick," I say to Mike, propping myself up on the pillows. "Earlier I was on my friend's profile thingy and spent ages wondering why she was so into the Maritme club. Turns out it was marmite."
Mike laughs. "At least you know what maritime means now."
"True," I say. "I know all about boats now. Bill of lading, banker's commercial cred-"
"Right," Mike says, in his bored-law voice.
"I still don't actually know why there's a boat court though. Cat doesn't either. We wondered what was actually shipped."
"You really have a problem with this, don't you?" Mike says, staring at me.
"Well, isn't everything flown now?"
Mike's eyes widen. "Er, no. Nothing is."
"What!" I admit, I am squawking. "What about vegetables?"
"Shipped."
"Books?"
"Shipped."
"Toys?"
"Shipped. Remember furbies?" He says. I nod. I had two afterall. "They're shipped."
"Are cats, then?"
Mike looks slightly worried about my classification of animals. "Er, I don't know actually. Basically you have a dock -"
"A what?" I say.
"Oh God. A dock. A port. Accept it. And people unload the good there and send it off in those big train carriages you see."
"Ooh ooh, the cargon carriers?" I say.
"Cargo, yes. The box ones."
"I've never seen those. Only the ones without lids and they're carrying rubble, not furbies or vegetables."
"Well, I'll show you one next time we're in New Street."
I think for a while.
"How big are these ships?" I say.
"Very long and flat. Because of
Archimedes' principle - do you remember that from a-level?"
"Yes."
"Well that means a lot of the boat has to be under the sea."
"Like on those plaque adverts?"
"Yes."
"And people on these cruise boat thingies sit there shipping vegetables that turn up in our ports?"
"Yes."
"So you're telling me," I say. "That there are people working at
docks that I never seen unloading these goods that I think are flown, on really big boats I've never seen, on trains I've never heard of."
"You are really, really thick sometimes."
Labels: blonde moments, NaBloPoMo
Mike: Gilly, I have some bad news.
Me: What. WHAT.
Mike: Charlie died.
Me: Your rabbit Charlie?
Mike: Yes. [sees expression]. Aw darling.
Me: [Uncontrollable sobs]
Labels: How to, NaBloPoMo
"What've you got there?" Mike said, walking into the kitchen and putting his arms around my waist.
"Mmmm hot toddies," I said, non-sensically, because I am essaying, and also, panicking about being left alone.
"What is it though?" he said, peering. Well, it was bright purple.
"Lemsip." I consult the box. "For warm bellies on cold nights."
Mike laughed. "I thought it was for colds,"
"Yes, mostly for colds."
"It seems to indicate it's for cold belly disorder."
"It's definitely just bog-standard cold medicine," I said, not wanting to admit it was making me feel better because of the warm-belly spiel. I will not succumb to advertising.
"Gilly's colds, maybe."
Labels: NaBloPoMo
I walk across campus from my 9 o'clock EU and contract lectures. I am not happy. It's cold. My eyes ache from the bright autumn sun.
I walk past some people handing out flyers and idly take one. I shuffle into the law building all the way up to floor three. It's time to go see Fabulously Gay Tutor and be embarrassed whilst he tells me why I'm worth 54%.
"Hello," I say, poking my head around the door. I hate that moment; when they realise you're the one who hiccoughs in lectures (yep) and you realise they're the one who wrote scornful marks all over your introduction.
"Take a seat," he says, sweeping a pile of papers onto the floor. He's reading Noam Chomsky. I so desperately want to ask him what he thinks.
"Gillian..." he says. "Gillian Gillian..."
I am nervous now.
He leans forward and looks me dead in the eye. "Have you received irratic marks in the past?"
I make a sort of snorting sound, a culmination of amusement and being full of snot. Sorry, but I am.
"Errr yes," I say.
"I thought so." He leans back in his chair and rubs his stubble. "What went wrong here," he says, "is that you did it backwards."
Oh God, here it comes. The "I think you're a circular thinker" argument. The "you're either a D or an A" speech I have heard so much.
"Ah" I say.
"Your essay was too advanced," he says. "You needed to do the basics."
"What are they?"
He tells me. I think this was obvious. We weren't allowed to use the lectures in English.
"This could have got 70," he says. "A shame really." He looks at me a moment. "What was your first degree?"
"English."
"English! You would have thought you'd be able to write an essay."
"Yes..." I say. What?
"You can tell, actually. Was it literature?" I nod. "Yeah you can tell. You're treating the judges' speech as a text. You're deconstructing them. It's very good. A little Derrida."
I smile ruefully. It's ironic really. As soon as I ever got physics I left it. Same with English. Same with law, one day.
"You know," he says, ruining my world, "maybe you should have stuck to English."
I try to laugh, really I do. I know it was only a joke. Only it comes out as another sort of grunt.
We look at my essay for a bit. He points out my poor legal grammar. We talk about the Human Rights Act. He calls me a liberal. Damn right, I think. He tells me a liberal woman in a law firm doesn't stand a chance. Great. I stand to leave once he's given me all those sentence-trailing-off signals.
"Bye, thanks for the help," I say.
"No problem. And nice postcard."
What? I stand outside his room for a moment and look at my hand. I'm still clutching that fucking flyer. All it's got written on it in fat, black letters is "Scratch Perverts."
Great, what a weirdo I looked.
Labels: embarrassing, NaBloPoMo
Well, it's surfaced that there are no engineering jobs in Birmingham.
Why is this relevant, you ask?
Because Mike's got an interview for an engineering job.
I am pleased for him. In fact, I flitted around him excitedly whilst he sent the application off.
Of course, this will render me homeless, because my other four housemates are all moving away.
Oh, and every single girl on my course is too.
So, looks like I will be living my dream in a box outside Woolworths, or housesharing with potential stalkers and pyromaniacs.
Glad I had that coffee.
Labels: NaBloPoMo
I just had a coffee. It was fucking beautiful.
Labels: NaBloPoMo
I have been dared to give up caffeine. When you have three essays and two days, this is a difficult task.
Day one
12:00pm (I know, I know) Shuffled to the kettle and the realisation set in. Had already got milk out. Smelt coffee jar anyway. Made self some hot juice, which did nothing. In an attempt to wake self up, necked a bit of the neat juice, which resulted in gagging and then just a tiny bit more because it was so nice and sweet.
2:00pm: Flitting around at lunchtime whilst everybody else had tea. More juice.
2:15: Thought I must start essaying. Went to the toilet. Pee was surprisingly long.
2:30: Toilet again. Pee was also long and not yellow. Perhaps should drink more in future.
2:45: Mike in his ignorance made me cup of tea. Was on a roll and ruthlessly threw it away.
3:00: Spent 12 minutes staring at eye-bags in mirror, pawing face.
3:13: Webcammed to friend who told me I looked tired.
4:00: More juice, more pee. This drinking lark is a good plan. Makes for more procrastinating in making and disposing of the liquid.
4:30: Had first glass of still, pure water in months. Was tasteless and made me cold.
6:30: X factor time (shut UP). Did not have caffeine. Realised when ears popped and throat tingled that was getting third cold this autumn. Realised probably have auto-immune disorder or some-such. Suggested AIDS to Mike who frowned at me.
9:30: After dinner (tasteless spaghetti bolognaise without cup of tea) Mike went to shop to get lempsip after I lamented on sofa about headache. I don't really think it's linked to caffeine withdrawal. No.
9:45: Mirror. Teeth look whiter already.
Now: May just go to bed. A grand total of 4.5 hours earlier than last night.
Addicted, me?
Labels: grumbles, NaBloPoMo
4 more essays. One of which contains the phrase "equitable beneficial interest behind a trust".
A full week on 4 - 5 hours' sleep per night.
A sore throat and bags under eyes.
Did not win lottery euro millions.
I really thought I would.
Ps. New layout is a productive way to spend one's early hours. Refresh away if you can't see.
Labels: grumbles, NaBloPoMo
I sat down on the train on the way to ballet, essay feedback sheet in hand.
It would appear our public law lecturer gave everybody either 54% or 70%. I am unfortunately a 54-er. This is okay, I thought, as the train left the station. I'm kind of used to this strange learning curve I seem to have to climb.
And anyway, I knew that essay was shit.
I glanced down at the feedback sheet. There's 2 pages of writing, and the essay itself. I caught sight of the first page where the lecturer's scrawled "no!" across my opening sentence. I closed the essay and leant my head against the black window.
At least I got an excellent for word processing, I thought. Yes, that will show my clients.
"Hi! I'll be your lawyer. I will get your situation right approximately half the time, but! and I mean this! I can word process like nobody's business."
Whatever, I thought. It was about Parliamentary sovereignty anyway. And it was an all-nighter. As if my clients will even know what thw
Factortame case was.
The train pulls into Birmingham. I stand up and grab the handle on the top of the chair.
Only it's not the handle on the top of the chair. It's someone's HAIR.
Abhorred, I step back and apologies profusely for randomly tugging on their black curls.
I scurry off the train.
Amongst the shit you have to smile don't you?
Labels: NaBloPoMo
So my sister has been given a car by generous new in-laws. This means she has offered her red car (formally my Mum's) to me and Mike.
To me
and Mike. As in, co-ownership. As in, yes, I'm drawing us a contract up as we speak.
Anyway, so this means I kind of need to learn to drive, right, to use the car? It also means the following conversations take place:
Me: I got overexcited about the car earlier.
Mike: Oh?
Me: Yes I went on Comfort's website and ordered their free sample air freshener.
[pause]
Except it's gone to the wrong house.
Mike: How?
Me: Because I still had my old address on paypal.
Mike: Paypal? Wasn't it free?
Me: Shit.
Mike: How much did you pay for a piece of cardboard? 50p I hope?
Me: Ten pounds.
Mike: I'm not sure I want to co-own anything with you.
Labels: NaBloPoMo
You, my blog readers have officially been
consulted.
My sister has agreed to buy two two-year-old cats from an owner who can't keep them anymore.
Problem is, they're called Madeline and Matilda.
She's requested you - not me! cat-wanter extraordinnaire! - name them.
They're girls. She wants pairs of names. I came up with Desdemona and Ophelia and it was shot down.
You've got until Tuesday where I have to text her the list.
This is serious stuff. Go.
Labels: NaBloPoMo
"How much do I owe you then?" the man at the door is saying to my Dad.
"Oh, just forty or so," my Dad says.
"Magic mate. Dunno how you do it."
The door closes behind him.
"Easily pleased," my Dad says.
"More dodgy dealings?" I say.
"No, just fixed a laptop."
"What was up with it?"
"Dunno. Just put the system CD to sort it," he says.
"And then what?"
"Well just, you know. Just pressed go."
"That man just paid you forty quid to restart his computer didn't he?"
"Yep!"
Labels: NaBloPoMo
I huffed as I walked into my bedroom after lectures. It was dark. It was supposed to be a reading week. It was week 10 of 16, and it was EU law.
I took off my coat and hat and scarf as Mike came in.
I gave him the "I'm cold, cuddle me," symbol - universally understood as folding your elbows in like wings and looking grumpy.
"Gilly," he said, looking over my shoulder.
"Yes?"
"What's on your back?!"
"What. WHAT." I said, immediately thinking of spiders.
"It looks like a pair of boobs," he said, laughing.
It turns out I had not realised what being on a two-pronged peg would do to my poor jacket.
Labels: NaBloPoMo
Courtesy of the kettle.
Labels: NaBloPoMo
Mike and I were lying in bed in the dark last night whilst I enjoyed the cuddling and he explained his final year project quietly to me.
"No no no, the position is different," he whispered.
"The what?"
"Position."
"What?"
"P-O-S-I-T-I-O-N."
"Pos... posit?"
"P-O-S-I-T-I-O-N."
"Positon?"
"Another I..."
"Posit-eon?"
"For fuck's sake."
"Ohhhh! Ohhhh position!"
"Er, English degree?"
Labels: NaBloPoMo
Last night Mike said I was sickly. I took great offence to this. For two reasons, really. 1), Because being sickly implies you mither people about it, doctors, for example. Harbouring secret hypochondriac thoughts you confess to your spouse and occassionally your doctor-sister (who is not a GP and therefore doesn't count), is not. And b), because Mike is sickly too. The only difference is that his idea of sickly is only being able to ride 80 miles instead of 120.
There's no difference, really.
Anyway, I think he might be right.
In my first year I, as you all know, 1) singed my bum on my hair straighteners. In my second year I had 2) an eye infection, still a 3) singed/scarred bum, a 4) burnt chin from dipping it in boiling water when I was steaming my face, because I also had a 5) cold.
Then I was randomly ill for a fornight which involved my director of studies sending me vicious emails and my European literature tutor
phoning me which was perhaps the worst thing that's ever happened to me. Think you have a query about
Crime and Punishment essays? Don't ever try to articulate on the phone, especially when your fever's so high that a blob of blutack on your bedside table just SPOKE TO YOU.
Over the summer I sunburnt my head and forgot. Went and told doctor because I decided I had a brain tumour. He, being a sort of reverse hypochondriac, decided I had MS wherein the head injury promtly went away and I never went back.
The other doctor I hide from thinks I'm anorexic.
At work I had a urinary tract infection so debilitating that I was forced to humour myself and pee every two minutes even though I knew colleagues could hear I wasn't actually peeing at all. I wonder what they thought of me?
I even "peed" in McDonalds loos on my way home.
And then obviously in my third year I had my foot drilled open and screws inserted. And wire, I learnt recently. Shortly after this I overdosed on mint and vomited up said after eights in Mason Lounge after an uncomfortable seminar.
In Rome I fainted and felt compelled to decide I was pregnant and inform Mike of this fact. Then I had an allergic reaction to pineapples and my tongue swelled up.
Last week, in the midst of my three-week-long-cold, I got a mild concussion from being hit on the head by an Evil Barrier.
Today, I felt a bit like I needed to pee too much so took some cranberry supplements - you know those lovely red things I told you about. And then, well, they were quite nice, and I don't eat enough fruit, so I ate some more.
Sort of like they were sweets.
"Mike," I whispered, walking into his room.
"Yes?" he said, not looking at me.
"I've done something bad."
"What?"
"I took too many cranberry things. And I just went to the loo and my wee was
pink."
"Gill. Give me the tablets," he said, looking aghast.
And then do you know what he said?
"Good girl."
Labels: NaBloPoMo
This morning we had words. This is it on Saturday night; when it was a good idea.
(
Fussy I did originally write this yesterday but blogger wouldn't play. Therefore I have not violated NaBloPoMo rules
)Labels: NaBloPoMo
"What colour do you think those bits were?" I said, indicating the underbelly of the Centro train.
"Probably black or silver," Mike said.
"How do they get more black?"
"With muck, and oil."
"Oil?"
"Yes, it's there to lubricate all the parts."
"The
pistons?" I said.
"Yes."
I felt my face heat up. "You told me that was TREACLE that lubrated those."
Mike smiled. "Well, I was using analogies."
"You KNOW they never work on me. I only ever end up understanding the analogy."
I paused.
"So there's no treacle?"
"No. It's oil."
"And a koala doesn't really hold up a lift to make sure it doesn't drop?"
"No."
Labels: NaBloPoMo
I am not getting a fringe, I am not getting a fringe. I will just walk in there and say I want a trim. A trim. One inch off. Then leave.
"Well now," he says.
I turn around. His burgendy shirt's gaping open. He has a belt slung low across his waist.
"Are we having a big change today?" he says, stroking my hair.
"Yes."
And so it begins. He swishes around and rubbed his hands together and I drink free cappuchinos and nod along to his theories of making my layers move and sparkle..
"God your hair's dry," he says, throwing up his hands dramatically.
"Thanks."
"What shampoo do you use?"
"I use Lush."
"Lush?"
"Yes. You are missing out." Suddenly I was protective of Lush.
"I see. Well you need a good conditioner because your ends are so dry."
"Whenever I use loads it makes my hair greasy," I say.
"Er, you really need to use it." he said.
I totally did not say I didn't use it. Of
course I use it. I have 8 conditioners. I know this because Mike, when making a perfectly valid point I'm sure, once counted them.
"I'm sorry to patronise you, but how are you supposed to know if you're not told?"
I blushed. "Right, I'll try to use it."
He fingers the ends of my hair. "You might want to consider spending a little more on cosmetics."
I gaped. Er, I might not. I did get my overdraft extended for that very reason thank you very much.
He snips away at my hair in silence. Posing and pouting and clicking at his assistants. I break the silence. I can't help it.
"Do
you condition?" I hear myself saying.
"Yes," he says, meeting my eyes in the mirror. "Every day. And I moisturise."
Christ, he is like the male ballet dancers I worked with.
He's looking critically at the ends again. "Do you use any heat spray?" he says.
"Any what?"
"Heat spray... it protects the layer of cuticles from the heat of the straighteners."
"Umm," I say, feeling more and more like a tramp. "No." I paused. "Am I your worst nightmare?"
"No. But close."
"You should grow your hair maybe," I say. Mostly because I was irritated and wanted him to insult his own and not mine.
"You know it used to be down to my shoulders," he says.
He must have looked ridiculous. His hair is so blond it's almost white. Plus his face is tiny. And, like Mike, he suffers from Ginger Beard Syndrome.
He's almost finished now. It's shorter. Near my chin, which scares me. It's behaving now, but what will it do in the morning?
He's concentrating on the layers now. And the parting. He's patting down my strange baby hair.
"It's quite unruly isn't it," he says, laughing.
I don't like having this confirmed by an expert. It feels sort of hopeless.
He pats some more, spraying miracle mist and rubbing pearls (or something) on my hair. He offers me a glass of wine. I decline, because I don't want to accidentally get plastered and have someone shave my head.
He pats some more.
And then he throws up his hands. "I give up," he says simply.
"You what?"
"It's ridiculous. Your hair."
Great. Thanks for that mate. Eventually we switch the parting. It lies flat, thank God. Of course, it's glued down with products, isn't it.
"I wish I was better at working when it's dark, I always feel crap in the winter." he suddenly says, reaching for the mirror.
"At least you bloody use conditioner," I say.
I make my way to the till. He's watching me. I'm looking at the products. Suddenly they're on the till and I've doubled my bill.
He smiles triumphantly as I leave.
Mike cannot believe I bought shampoo at the hairdressers.
Labels: NaBloPoMo
Having hair cut at 4 (1 hour 15 minutes). What to have done?
I know for a fact that about 50 people will check between now and then. Therefore if you see this you are under a binding obligation to comment.
Labels: NaBloPoMo
I lay back against the pillows.
Wait, that sounds like I'm having sex doesn't it?
Let's start again.
I turned over and opened my eyes. It was somewhere around 1 a.m. Mike was frantically kicking up the duvet.
Yeah. You know how he arranged those
horrible foodstuffs I showed you into nice geometric patterns? Well, he's the same with the duvet.
"
What is your problem?" I said into the dark.
"The duvet, it's all wrong."
"What's wrong with it?"
"There's just STUFF everywhere. There's pillows and teddy bears and clothes and... what's this?"
"Oh," I said. "That's my sock. I just took it off."
"My God," Mike said, hyperventilating. "I can't handle this."
I waited.
"If we ever get a place together you have to be neater," he said. "Your t shirts sometimes have stains on them because you never put them in for washing when you first stain them. Your wardrobe's a nightmare. There's shit in all of your drawers."
Mike honestly looked like the walls were caving in.
"There's tampons and t shirts and BRAS everywhere. Seriously Gill, you have 6 bras, and half of them are not in your drawer which by the way is broken. Do you know where the other bras are? Do you?"
"No."
"One is on your book case. One is on your floor. And the third one is on your fucking COMPUTER."
And he says
I'm premenstrual.
Labels: NaBloPoMo
