I am in full winter coat already. If I were a dog, I'd have moulted around the August Bank Holiday. I feel like a confused hedgehog, not knowing when to start hibernating; it feels like it should be right now.
Saturday 22 October 2011
Baby It's Cold Outside
Before I moved up North, I used to have an unwritten rule that I wouldn't put the heating on till the beginning of November. This year, in another first, I had the heating on in the evening before the end of August. I'm resisting putting it on in the morning, but only just. I put my winter jacket away for all of six weeks over the summer. When people joked about the 'summer' in Scotland, I thought to myself, 'Yeah, but I've been to the Festival in August and it's been boiling'. Those, my friends, were the halcyon days, it seems. The sun shines here and there are beautiful blue skies, but don't be deceived. It. Is. Bloody. Freezing.
Wednesday 12 October 2011
The Seven Ages of (Wo)man
I have had my first real instance of thinking, 'I am properly old' - I woke up on Saturday morning and totally forgot it was my birthday. You know when old people say, 'Oh, I missed my birthday' and you think, 'How could you miss that?' Well, I lost track of the days, and even though I was getting together with my family, specifically because it was my birthday (very kindly organised by my aunt), I didn't go to sleep on Friday night thinking, 'Ooh, presents and cards tomorrow!' and I woke up and had to remind myself it was my birthday. Very different from last year, when I was planning the damn thing six months in advance. I blame the fact that I was caught between being excited about giving my dad his belated 70th b'day present (a Glen Baxter print that my sister had tracked down, through actually emailing him - always cool) and being excited about going to my old school friend Shelly's wedding on the Sunday, which was going to be in a cocktail bar in South Kensington, aka a superglam drinkfest of unparalleled proportions.
I managed to prove how properly old I am by only drinking two cocktails (these were free from 4.30pm till 11.00pm. Free, I tell you!) because I was worried about getting embarrassingly drunk and falling over, then having The Fear the next morning whilst hungover. I had a bloody brilliant time. Although if last year is anything to go by, when I didn't drink on my birthday, and had a bloody brilliant time, I will get totally shit-faced this weekend and will spend all of Sunday catching up on Strictly Come Dancing and The X-Factor on iPlayer and thinking, 'Maybe I should just give up drinking'. I think I have what the experts refer to as 'a balanced lifestyle'.
I managed to prove how properly old I am by only drinking two cocktails (these were free from 4.30pm till 11.00pm. Free, I tell you!) because I was worried about getting embarrassingly drunk and falling over, then having The Fear the next morning whilst hungover. I had a bloody brilliant time. Although if last year is anything to go by, when I didn't drink on my birthday, and had a bloody brilliant time, I will get totally shit-faced this weekend and will spend all of Sunday catching up on Strictly Come Dancing and The X-Factor on iPlayer and thinking, 'Maybe I should just give up drinking'. I think I have what the experts refer to as 'a balanced lifestyle'.
The Rule of Three
Cheerful James and I have at least one thing in common - we are both Librans. Yes, well balanced, with elegant homes and dress sense, plus a marked inability to make a decision. That's what my horoscope profile always insists, at any rate. As I've never seen Cheerful James out of his regulation Virgin Active PT kit (black T-shirt, black shorts), I have no idea what his dress sense is like. Naturally, I have no idea if he has an elegant home. I've never asked him to make a decision (other than when best suits him to make me flail around doing lunges, boxing, tricky manoeuvres with large rubber tubes called ViPRs - no idea why; makes them sound like an iPad crossed with a snake, and they resemble neither - and other ungainly but improving things for an hour at a time.) You get the idea.
But yes, we both had birthdays over the weekend. I asked him how old he was, knowing perfectly well he'd just turned 29. He's never asked me how old I am, even when, last year, I said one of the reasons I was doing all this Bionification (that's definitely a word) in the first place was because I was having a Big Birthday Party, and wanted to look, as the young folks say, Amazeballs. He never asked, so I never said. But of course when I asked him how old he was, he had to ask me how old I was. So I made him guess. This has turned into my favourite game of late - not long ago, I was out in a very dimly lit bar and a boy (no other word for it) was talking to me. I asked how old he was, as he didn't look as though he was even legally able to buy a drink, and he said 24. I then made him guess my age. It was, as I've said, dark, and he was really drunk. He said, '27', which made me laugh like a hyena. 'Is that the oldest he can possibly imagine a woman being?' I wondered.
Mind you, I've decided I'm going to have to start lying about my age - it was one thing saying, 'I'm 40', it's going to be quite another saying, 'I'm in my 40s'. People in their 40s have their lives sorted - they organise holidays more than a fortnight in advance. They have a capsule wardrobe. They get their shoes re-heeled before said heels actually fall off. They hoover regularly. They have pints of milk in the fridge, just because that's what you're supposed to do, not because you're having people to stay and they might want milk in their tea. They don't have teetering towers of Grazia that date back three months by the bedside. They probably don't buy Grazia at all! They've moved on from caring about whether Poor Tragic Jen is over Brad and whether Cheryl Cole has a 'job' in telly and they now read The Economist. Gaaah. I've decided I really liked being 38 - you didn't have to worry about any of this stuff.
So, Cheerful James has been seeing me, at close range, in the glaring strip lights of Virgin Active for over a year. Most of the time, I have my hair in a ponytail and practically no make up on, as it's the end of the day. I am a sweaty mess. How old did he think I am? '32'. 32! 'So, you think I'm three years older than you?' I asked. He nodded, a bit bemused (he'd given it a bit of thought). Aww, could I love him more? I told him how old I was and that the Big Birthday last year had been in aid of me turning 40. I have come to the conclusion that if you imply that you're a bit older than someone they either a/ just assume you mean 'about three years older' or b/ have such a great fear of being punched in the noggin that they will only venture an age that's three years older in order not to cause offence.
Either way, I know it's incredibly vain and shallow, but being told you don't look your age is the best free ego boost you can get. Let's just hope that when I suddenly age overnight, I've managed to save up enough cash for industrial amounts of Botox and fillers to fix things. I'm aiming for a look that's between Kylie Minogue and Lulu on the age spectrum. Alternatively, I suppose I could just add a decade on to my age. Which would be infinitely cheaper and no more deceitful.
But yes, we both had birthdays over the weekend. I asked him how old he was, knowing perfectly well he'd just turned 29. He's never asked me how old I am, even when, last year, I said one of the reasons I was doing all this Bionification (that's definitely a word) in the first place was because I was having a Big Birthday Party, and wanted to look, as the young folks say, Amazeballs. He never asked, so I never said. But of course when I asked him how old he was, he had to ask me how old I was. So I made him guess. This has turned into my favourite game of late - not long ago, I was out in a very dimly lit bar and a boy (no other word for it) was talking to me. I asked how old he was, as he didn't look as though he was even legally able to buy a drink, and he said 24. I then made him guess my age. It was, as I've said, dark, and he was really drunk. He said, '27', which made me laugh like a hyena. 'Is that the oldest he can possibly imagine a woman being?' I wondered.
Mind you, I've decided I'm going to have to start lying about my age - it was one thing saying, 'I'm 40', it's going to be quite another saying, 'I'm in my 40s'. People in their 40s have their lives sorted - they organise holidays more than a fortnight in advance. They have a capsule wardrobe. They get their shoes re-heeled before said heels actually fall off. They hoover regularly. They have pints of milk in the fridge, just because that's what you're supposed to do, not because you're having people to stay and they might want milk in their tea. They don't have teetering towers of Grazia that date back three months by the bedside. They probably don't buy Grazia at all! They've moved on from caring about whether Poor Tragic Jen is over Brad and whether Cheryl Cole has a 'job' in telly and they now read The Economist. Gaaah. I've decided I really liked being 38 - you didn't have to worry about any of this stuff.
So, Cheerful James has been seeing me, at close range, in the glaring strip lights of Virgin Active for over a year. Most of the time, I have my hair in a ponytail and practically no make up on, as it's the end of the day. I am a sweaty mess. How old did he think I am? '32'. 32! 'So, you think I'm three years older than you?' I asked. He nodded, a bit bemused (he'd given it a bit of thought). Aww, could I love him more? I told him how old I was and that the Big Birthday last year had been in aid of me turning 40. I have come to the conclusion that if you imply that you're a bit older than someone they either a/ just assume you mean 'about three years older' or b/ have such a great fear of being punched in the noggin that they will only venture an age that's three years older in order not to cause offence.
Either way, I know it's incredibly vain and shallow, but being told you don't look your age is the best free ego boost you can get. Let's just hope that when I suddenly age overnight, I've managed to save up enough cash for industrial amounts of Botox and fillers to fix things. I'm aiming for a look that's between Kylie Minogue and Lulu on the age spectrum. Alternatively, I suppose I could just add a decade on to my age. Which would be infinitely cheaper and no more deceitful.
Wednesday 5 October 2011
Cool Hand Luke
I was at a hen do in Harrogate this weekend; it was all very restrained - no drunken tarting around town dressed in T-shirts with the bride's name on the back, chatting up unsuitably young men. Thank God. Anyway, that's by the by. This was one of the conversations that I had:
Bride's Mum to me: Wow, your nails are amazing, nice manicure!
Me: Thanks, I did it myself, on the train on the way down. I've done them on the Tube before now, actually, I'm quite practised at it.
Bride to be: Hmm, so if you wanted an alternative career, you could be a...
[rest of table fills in the word 'manicurist']
... Sniper.
All: Eh?
Bride to be: She's got really steady hands! You need steady hands to be a sniper!
Brilliant.
This reminded me of two stories:
1/ The time I had to go out to dinner with a Russian author who'd written a book about his violent life in a tiny community in the middle of nowhere. I hadn't read the book, and had run out of small talk (rapidly). I knew he'd been a sniper in the army, so in desperation, I was forced to ask:
So, um, how far away from someone can you be and still kill them?
The thoroughly alarming answer was two kilometres.
2/ The one and only time I tried clay pigeon shooting. I was with a female friend and two blokes - none of us had done it before. After a quick run through with the instructor ('Hold it really tight into your cheek - otherwise the recoil will smash your cheekbone' - it was at this point I thought it might not be the sport for me), the boys of course were hitting everything in sight. My female friend had her first go, and was told dryly by the instructor that she was, 'nearly in the same postcode with that one'. I went one better and panicked so thoroughly that I loosed off a shot, and then shouted, 'Pull'. Steady hand or no, I think it's going to take quite a lot of training before I qualify as a sniper.
Bride's Mum to me: Wow, your nails are amazing, nice manicure!
Me: Thanks, I did it myself, on the train on the way down. I've done them on the Tube before now, actually, I'm quite practised at it.
Bride to be: Hmm, so if you wanted an alternative career, you could be a...
[rest of table fills in the word 'manicurist']
... Sniper.
All: Eh?
Bride to be: She's got really steady hands! You need steady hands to be a sniper!
Brilliant.
This reminded me of two stories:
1/ The time I had to go out to dinner with a Russian author who'd written a book about his violent life in a tiny community in the middle of nowhere. I hadn't read the book, and had run out of small talk (rapidly). I knew he'd been a sniper in the army, so in desperation, I was forced to ask:
So, um, how far away from someone can you be and still kill them?
The thoroughly alarming answer was two kilometres.
2/ The one and only time I tried clay pigeon shooting. I was with a female friend and two blokes - none of us had done it before. After a quick run through with the instructor ('Hold it really tight into your cheek - otherwise the recoil will smash your cheekbone' - it was at this point I thought it might not be the sport for me), the boys of course were hitting everything in sight. My female friend had her first go, and was told dryly by the instructor that she was, 'nearly in the same postcode with that one'. I went one better and panicked so thoroughly that I loosed off a shot, and then shouted, 'Pull'. Steady hand or no, I think it's going to take quite a lot of training before I qualify as a sniper.
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