update on shutdown

As yet no firm date has been set for digging up my floor, but the incredibly patient fella on the end of the phone reckons it could be at least another four weeks before work will start.

To clarify: we will be open until the end of September, then we will close for refitting etc.

Possibly. *sigh*

wedding belle

I have been on a diet for the past three weeks. It is not, as you may assume, because I’ve gone all girly and decided that I should start ruining everyone’s day with a constant calorie count (hell, I ruin everyone’s day just by speaking – why bother counting the ways?) It’s not even because I care enough about the roll of fat over the waistband of my jeans (muffin top? Triple fudge chocolate gateaux, more like) to actively attempt to reduce it.  It’s because a good friend was getting married and I wanted to be able to do up my suit trousers without castrating myself.

I could, of course, have chosen a number of easier ways to be comfortable:

1. buy a new suit – I have no money, or at least not enough to justify purchasing something that will only see the light of day once every 3 years (the last time I wore the linen number I was so desperate to get into was actually at my cousin’s nuptials 4 odd years ago. Thinking about it, it hung off me then. Metabolic changes past 30 bite).
2. add a strip of fabric - I remember when sewing in a triangle of floral cotton to transform straightlegs to bellbottoms was all the rage, but it’s my arse that has expanded, not my ankles. Stitching a stip of ribbon would make me look as though I was wearing a very peculiar tux.
3. use safety pins and a strip of elastic to secure the waistband, then keep the jacket done up - knowing my luck, in the same way that brace bands used to ping out of Pete William’s mouth in Double Art on Tuesdays, the pin would give and I’d concuss the bride with a sharp projectile. Or everyone would assume I was pregnant. So, no.

I chose, instead, to bastardize the Atkins diet, cutting out all foods with a carb over 10 – in this way I could still consume vast amounts at each sitting, but I could delude myself that it was a diet and feel virtuous. My mother pointed out that it would also make my breath smell, but as I am an inveterate pack-a-day smoker I doubted that anyone would be able to tell…

In the end I lost a few inches (I don’t own a scale, so I’ve no idea what that translates to in pounds and ounces. Nor, frankly, do I care) and although the trousers were snug I didn’t bulge. Apparently I looked ‘glam’ so Colin took a photo for posterity (probably in sheer disbelief that I stuck to anything for longer than a week) in which I am clutching my bag, laughing like a drain and look, predictably, FAT. But no mind. I was able to sit down.

The last wedding I went to was a study in pained propping. That is to say, I carefully ‘propped’ myself against random ledges, refusing any offer of a seat with an airy wave, and prayed for the whole thing to be over so I could lie on the sofa in my pj’s. I have no idea how the service went as I was too preoccupied with stifling my cries of pain. (At least the tears looked as if I was moved by the whole event rather than close to exploding as the pressure of breathing in the whole time made me hyperventilate and nearly pass out).

This time I could actually pay attention to the proceedings – and they were gorgeous.

After agreeing with Colin that yes, it was amazing that neither had the church portal exploded when we entered nor was he struck by lightening, I was fortunate to attend the perfect wedding ceremony: it was, from start to finish, glorious, moving, personal and over in half an hour. The bride was radiantly beautiful, the groom attentively handsome and the guests patently honoured to be there. I may even have cried a little – the smile was certainly plastered across my face.

The reception was at a lodge a few miles away, so everyone got into their cars and tried to follow each other down the motorway, panicking visibly when a random vehicle – inadvertently wedged in the cavalcade of celebrants – peeled off. Cue lots of arm waving, gesticulating and a mass reduction in speed to the chargrin of the poor buggers trying to get to Tescos.

Colin decided to follow the car behind us – a little known yet apparently effective method of navigating the Highlands – until we lost them at a roundabout and had to guess for the next few miles. After a mild drive by (think Munch’s Scream plastered against tempered glass) we U-turned to the right road and joined everyone else for the funny, sweet, emotional speeches and a buffet my grandmother would be proud of.

The only down point was when I introduced myself to another guest who asked where I knew the bride and groom from:

ME: I met Liz when I was working in Edinburgh.

GUEST: Really?

ME: Yes *laughing aside* I used to make her latte every morning!

GUEST: Oh, did you work for PWC?

ME: No, Starbucks…

Colin rolled his eyes so far back he must have been looking at his brain. Awkward pause, then:

GUEST: Do you know many people here?

ME: Well, I’ve just been introduced to Liz’s oldest friend, but she had to go – she’s just lost her child…

GUEST (in horror): Oh, no…

ME (eyeing the remains of the buffet): …or her jumper – I forget which…

Colin started clearing his plate with alacrity in preparation for being strong-armed outtathere. The drive home was, thankfully, uneventful.

Now, I’m normally not a fan of organised anything as I’m usually late, frazzled, bad-tempered, ill-prepared and in dire need of a gin. On Saturday afternoon I couldn’t have been happier.

Mr and Mrs Lowe – may your life together be everything you wish for and so richly deserve.

My love to you both.

OMG, JMG

I have an obsession with JMG who regularly updates me on the good, the bad and the ugly of plastic pop.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rWZm9SfGgSU

This is now stuck in my head. And if I have to suffer, so do you…

karma’s a bitch (aka h2-woes)

All of my water was turned off in the street by my neighbour’s plumber. He did not think it neccessary to mention to me (purveyor of hot, caffeinated beverages by way of large, expensive, PRESSURISED machinery) that I may not be able to fill a sink, flush the toilet or serve a customer. But I figured, hey; we all have days like that. So when I eventually discovered the empty pipes and wandered off to find out why, I was full of sympathy for his tale of ceiling leaks from the flat above him.

Obviously, in a effort to bond, I enquired as to the source of the water.

“Was it melting ice, or rain water?”

He hasn’t spoken to me since.

Karma’s a bitch, and I owe her a drink.

update

Although some of the neighbours have paid their share of the communal bill, a proportionate number have not. The powers that be are threatening to make very pointed remarks. Or possibly write some more letters. (‘Cos that worked soooooo well before.)

When I know, you’ll know, but until then there is nothing of note to import.

Unless you consider the fact that I was in a suspiciously good mood today newsworthy.

(Must be something in the water).