Wednesday, 27 July 2011

You can't garden in skinny jeans and three other things I learnt this week...

It's been a thong hot summer

It has been a week of revelations, most inconsequential, but nonetheless it is good to know that this world still has a lot to teach me.

The first is...

You can't garden in skinny jeans

Perhaps I should be more specific. You cannot garden your front garden in skinny jeans.

This is because the world, his wife, and any passing person delivering 'McPizza' leaflets through your door, is likely to receive a non exclusive glimpse, of how should I say this, your 'whale tail' when you bend over.

'Whale tail' is the term taken from Roger's Profanisaurus which refers to the unsightly effect produced when a lady in ill-fitting jeans's thong rides way up for all to see.  

Anyway, don't do it.  I did it, and although there were fringe benefits - a slightly 'stranger danger' neighbour offered me his unused hedge cutter and a bottle of two euro red wine for free -  I became the cul-de-sac side-show, wriggling, hoisting and adjusting between every dig.

You can't argue with a man on the Atkins diet

The diet which supports rapid, unsustainable weight loss in order to achieve a slightly less wobbly beach body is in full swing at our household.  

Matt, who prior to Monday, drank fizzy pop like water and intravenously injected Twirl bars at 3pm every day, is in caffeine cold turkey.

This usually placid, centred soul has morphed into the testy version of Rod Hull's Emu - all black beady eyes and angry crinkled up beak ready to lunge if I do anything wrong.

So far, anything wrong has included shutting a kitchen cupboard and making a cup of tea 'too loudly'.

Dr. Atkins, you evil curtailer of carbs, you have a lot to answer for.

Some people are a bit too ok with death

I have had two slightly unsavoury encounters with death this week.

The first was during Sky news's gratuitous coverage of Amy Winehouse's demise in which they showed the poor love being transferred in a red body bag to an awaiting private ambulance.

I am sorry, did I miss the fashion memo which says your Summer '11 body bag should be clingy?

You could quite clearly see the outline of the recently departed Miss W, from her ballet pumps to her beehive.

Get that girl a box.  Ast-ounded.
The second happened at my dear filmmaker friend's beautiful barn conversion.  Plonked on a sun swathed deckchair, I drank in my surroundings: pink hydrangeas in full bloom, lavender bushes fizzing with plump bees and...holy shit...what is that?

Within flip flop distance of my pedicure was the rotting corpse of an animal.  I could see fur, backbone and tail.

I delicately drew the attention of my host to the critter carcass, only to receive the response: "Oh yeah, we think it's a baby squirrel.  We're waiting for the fur to fall off completely so we can have a proper look."

Good for you.  Why don't you make a time lapse film while you're at it?

And finally...

'You can afford shiny things by writing online' shocker

I have discovered, a lovely website where you can upload articles galore and get moolah in return.

I will tell you all about my adventures at cc in my next post. 


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