It's a month today till Christmas! Does that make anyone else just feel, you know, tired? I love having a big family gathering, and sitting round the telly (having been watching X-Factor, Strictly, The Apprentice and now I'm a Celebrity on the sofa on my own, I'm desperate for a sense of community that's not reliant on texting my friends going, 'WTF - HOW is Katie Weasel still on this show?' and 'Gillian McKeith is the most annoying person I've ever seen on TV. And I've watched all the bad TV there is to watch'.)
But the inevitable magazine articles on day-to-night dressing ('add some sparkle and a pair of killer heels - plus a swish of black eyeliner and you're ready to wow!' is the extent of their expertise every bloody year), the high-street battles as you trawl the streets for gifts, and the endless 'should I buy my colleague a present? Will they buy me one? How much should I spend?' dilemma gives me a sense of exhausting deja vu. Not to mention the fact that in my job, we start planning Christmas in about March, which means that by the time it rolls around, I tend to be surprised that it's not happened six months ago, and already thinking about Spring 2011. Not as bad as a friend who used to buy Christmas stuff for TK Maxx, and had to buy all next year's Christmas decorations for the chain in January, but close.
Perhaps I'm feeling particularly Grinchy this year because Christmas heralds the arrival of Winter Proper. Now, last year's winter in London was bad enough. But winter in Scotland? 2010's was apparently epic. This year there's snow earlier than there's ever been snow in the country since records began (or something; no snow here today, though, just rather nice blue skies and nippy temperatures). So I am dreading at least three months of bone-shatteringly cold, wet, windy weather with added snow/ice+cobbles+hills = lethal, ankle-breaking conditions. I suppose on the plus side I'll be spending quite a lot of time on well-heated trains zapping up and down between here and London for meetings and hopefully some red-wine-in-the-pub sessions with mates. But I'm tempted to just pre-emptively christen it The Winter of Our Discontent and flag the fact that I'll probably be SAD, bad and dangerous to know come about March.
Thursday 25 November 2010
Monday 8 November 2010
Bonfires and Vanities
Having previously noted that it was, gaah, October, it's fair to note that it's now, gaah NOVEMBER. Which is obviously how time works around these parts, but still, ruddy November. It's all a bit much. So, lots to catch up on, namely:
1/ The big, triumphant 40th birthday party
If you are planning to have a large, organised celebration, then I can heartily recommend this plan of action:
i/ Relocate to new city some three months beforehand, with limited friend/family visiting opportunities
ii/ Go on exercise regime like never before and sign up for revolutionary Callipers of Doom-based eating plan
iii/ Get as many friends/family in one place at one time, and combine with dress that makes you feel like Joan from Mad Men and dim lighting
iv/ Arrive late because it's taken ages to get ready. And also, y'know, it's your party - there's no point trying to make an entrance if there's no-one there to witness it
v/ Have everyone tell you you look amazing and living in said relocation city clearly agrees with you
vi/ Genuinely feel amazing - and also have such a good time that you don't need to drink, thus waking up the next morning feeling a thousand times more perky than you felt the day after your 30th.
I don't usually like being the centre of attention in large groups, but it was definitely the best birthday I've ever had - and I never thought I'd be saying that at the beginning of this year. The weather was so gorgeous the next day that I found myself sitting on my friend Mel's roof terrace, reading the Sunday papers over a delicious lunch, dressed in jeans and a vest top. A good omen for my 40s, surely (and fear not, I made up for this maturity and sobriety by getting catastrophically drunk at my friend John's 40th three weeks later, at which I also had a brilliant time).
2/ Cheerful James and the Callipers of Doom
It's the new, 7-volume exercise series from JK Rowling! Well, not quite, but it does sometimes feel like there are the baddies Who Must Not Be Named (carbs and sugar) who are constantly joining forces with the Dementor-like X-Factor, Strictly and Apprentice in the war for my time, energy and enthusiasm. On the plus side, I have Potions of fish oil, water and increasing numbers of supplements. I have little to no idea what any of them are supposed to be doing (I am apparently 'zinc loading' currently, for example), but I just nod, hand over money and chuff pills like it's finally the 21st century and I don't need to eat actual food any more.
This has resulted in - ta-dah! - me losing 6.1% of my body fat since I started the regime on the 13th September (I last faced the CoDs on the 20th October, so not quite sure what havoc parties, hangover food whilst waiting for a plane at Gatwick, the occasional muffin and binge-eating half a tub of Ben and Jerry's last week after a stressful day at work will have wreaked. Let's hope not much). I've put on 5lbs of muscle in the same period, which is, James tells me, merrily burning off 250 calories a day for me, all by itself. Crikey, I'm practically Hilary Swank in Million Dollar Baby! Well, hopefully without the dismal end in a hospital bed. But you know what I mean.
James has now started referring to my arms as 'guns' whilst I try to assure him that I'd rather just keep calling them 'arms'. Men love a label, don't they? They can't just say, 'I'd like to have nicer arms/better legs', they're all, 'I'M BUILDING MY BICEPS' and 'I'M WORKING ON MY QUADS'. I'm not sure if this is better or worse than the approach that women take, which is to look at themselves like those pictures of cows that you sometimes see in butcher's shops, with all the different cuts of meat marked out. They find areas, either large or small, to parcel up into packages of dissatisfaction, criticism and self-loathing. Which they then decide to torture themselves with for years and use to defuse and deflect any compliment anyone dares to pay them. 'My, you have a well-turned ankle', someone might say (if they've emerged, blinking, from the Victorian era). 'That's as maybe', you reply, 'BUT LOOK AT THESE HATEFUL THIGHS'. I'm working on just saying, 'Thanks!' whenever someone tells me I look nice. It's hard to break the habits of a lifetime, but at the moment, I definitely feel I'm earning it.
3/ My first outing as an Edinburgh hostess
I finally got round to having a house-warming party - only about 6 weeks after I'd moved in (and still with most of my possessions in boxes, hastily crammed into the myriad cupboards that are now at my disposal). The 'warming' part of it nearly became literal when, halfway through, there was a mighty banging on my front door and a man telling me that the laundrette next door was belching smoke and it might be a good idea to evacuate everyone. We duly poured out onto the pavement (largely, it has to be said, because the entire party - bar one guest - was female and we'd got over-excited at the prospect of firemen). There were FOUR fire engines (they don't do things by halves round here). It was all very dramatic; as it's also a dry cleaner's, my colleague remarking that, 'the thing about dry cleaners is that they're all full of chemicals, so that could actually blow up...' did make me panic somewhat, but luckily it didn't (there weren't any flames to be seen, weirdly). As there was so much smoke, however, it was decreed that as my flat was on the ground floor, and smoke-free, the occupants of the flats further up the building had to take shelter in my flat till given the all-clear.
Lucky I was having a party anyway, then. And a good, if odd, opportunity to meet some of the neighbours (being still in London mode, I, naturally, hadn't seen fit to break the ice by knocking on doors, introducing myself and inviting them).
The bathroom, which I previously thought was haunted by the spirit of an 80s hairdresser, as it smelled mysteriously of perming fluid, now smells of rather acrid smoke. It's not particularly an improvement, but maybe a change is as good as a rest when it comes to matters olfactory.
1/ The big, triumphant 40th birthday party
If you are planning to have a large, organised celebration, then I can heartily recommend this plan of action:
i/ Relocate to new city some three months beforehand, with limited friend/family visiting opportunities
ii/ Go on exercise regime like never before and sign up for revolutionary Callipers of Doom-based eating plan
iii/ Get as many friends/family in one place at one time, and combine with dress that makes you feel like Joan from Mad Men and dim lighting
iv/ Arrive late because it's taken ages to get ready. And also, y'know, it's your party - there's no point trying to make an entrance if there's no-one there to witness it
v/ Have everyone tell you you look amazing and living in said relocation city clearly agrees with you
vi/ Genuinely feel amazing - and also have such a good time that you don't need to drink, thus waking up the next morning feeling a thousand times more perky than you felt the day after your 30th.
I don't usually like being the centre of attention in large groups, but it was definitely the best birthday I've ever had - and I never thought I'd be saying that at the beginning of this year. The weather was so gorgeous the next day that I found myself sitting on my friend Mel's roof terrace, reading the Sunday papers over a delicious lunch, dressed in jeans and a vest top. A good omen for my 40s, surely (and fear not, I made up for this maturity and sobriety by getting catastrophically drunk at my friend John's 40th three weeks later, at which I also had a brilliant time).
2/ Cheerful James and the Callipers of Doom
It's the new, 7-volume exercise series from JK Rowling! Well, not quite, but it does sometimes feel like there are the baddies Who Must Not Be Named (carbs and sugar) who are constantly joining forces with the Dementor-like X-Factor, Strictly and Apprentice in the war for my time, energy and enthusiasm. On the plus side, I have Potions of fish oil, water and increasing numbers of supplements. I have little to no idea what any of them are supposed to be doing (I am apparently 'zinc loading' currently, for example), but I just nod, hand over money and chuff pills like it's finally the 21st century and I don't need to eat actual food any more.
This has resulted in - ta-dah! - me losing 6.1% of my body fat since I started the regime on the 13th September (I last faced the CoDs on the 20th October, so not quite sure what havoc parties, hangover food whilst waiting for a plane at Gatwick, the occasional muffin and binge-eating half a tub of Ben and Jerry's last week after a stressful day at work will have wreaked. Let's hope not much). I've put on 5lbs of muscle in the same period, which is, James tells me, merrily burning off 250 calories a day for me, all by itself. Crikey, I'm practically Hilary Swank in Million Dollar Baby! Well, hopefully without the dismal end in a hospital bed. But you know what I mean.
James has now started referring to my arms as 'guns' whilst I try to assure him that I'd rather just keep calling them 'arms'. Men love a label, don't they? They can't just say, 'I'd like to have nicer arms/better legs', they're all, 'I'M BUILDING MY BICEPS' and 'I'M WORKING ON MY QUADS'. I'm not sure if this is better or worse than the approach that women take, which is to look at themselves like those pictures of cows that you sometimes see in butcher's shops, with all the different cuts of meat marked out. They find areas, either large or small, to parcel up into packages of dissatisfaction, criticism and self-loathing. Which they then decide to torture themselves with for years and use to defuse and deflect any compliment anyone dares to pay them. 'My, you have a well-turned ankle', someone might say (if they've emerged, blinking, from the Victorian era). 'That's as maybe', you reply, 'BUT LOOK AT THESE HATEFUL THIGHS'. I'm working on just saying, 'Thanks!' whenever someone tells me I look nice. It's hard to break the habits of a lifetime, but at the moment, I definitely feel I'm earning it.
3/ My first outing as an Edinburgh hostess
I finally got round to having a house-warming party - only about 6 weeks after I'd moved in (and still with most of my possessions in boxes, hastily crammed into the myriad cupboards that are now at my disposal). The 'warming' part of it nearly became literal when, halfway through, there was a mighty banging on my front door and a man telling me that the laundrette next door was belching smoke and it might be a good idea to evacuate everyone. We duly poured out onto the pavement (largely, it has to be said, because the entire party - bar one guest - was female and we'd got over-excited at the prospect of firemen). There were FOUR fire engines (they don't do things by halves round here). It was all very dramatic; as it's also a dry cleaner's, my colleague remarking that, 'the thing about dry cleaners is that they're all full of chemicals, so that could actually blow up...' did make me panic somewhat, but luckily it didn't (there weren't any flames to be seen, weirdly). As there was so much smoke, however, it was decreed that as my flat was on the ground floor, and smoke-free, the occupants of the flats further up the building had to take shelter in my flat till given the all-clear.
Lucky I was having a party anyway, then. And a good, if odd, opportunity to meet some of the neighbours (being still in London mode, I, naturally, hadn't seen fit to break the ice by knocking on doors, introducing myself and inviting them).
The bathroom, which I previously thought was haunted by the spirit of an 80s hairdresser, as it smelled mysteriously of perming fluid, now smells of rather acrid smoke. It's not particularly an improvement, but maybe a change is as good as a rest when it comes to matters olfactory.
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