good day sunshine…
Or it was at least, since for the third time today the Scarborough skies have gone from bright light to dark grey in a matter of minutes causing me to hurry back from the indoor market and have to finish my 99 in the front room. Hey ho.
A slightly later-than-planned update, but the last couple of weeks have been entirely taken up with shameless domestic goddessdom in cake baking, a bit more painting and decorating, general MOT-ing (pedicure, dentist and eye test, the latter costing more than the first two put together and that’s without the new glasses) and most recently packing and preparation as my favourite bank holiday Frightfest is less than a week away – yay! For anyone interested, the weekend’s itinerary can be found here and after spending the oncoming Tuesday having my 40th Birthday/Mid Life-Crisis tattoo (picture to follow, promise) finished in good time for New York a few days spent sitting still in a huge air-conditioned cinema auditorium will be just the ticket, especially if the forecast thirty degree temperatures materialise. Not being able to bend much in the middle doesn’t lend itself well to many other activities, after all.
Other excitement has been a spot of interviewing for a proposed Channel 4 documentary, this one mercifully about actual business rather than oo-look-a-lady-who-takes-her-clothes-off-and-does-sex-with-men (and I often wonder where amongst the adult population are the people with so little idea about what ordinary, vanilla sex entails that they need a television programme to explain it to them) which may or may not eventually be made and go out in the autumn time, I think. Apparently the idea stemmed from this not entirely unhelpful but still rather bizarre article (and check out the obligatory street worker pic captioned ‘the mass-market end of the business’, despite the vast majority of prostitutes working indoors) in The Economist some time ago, which I read at the time and wondered who on earth they were asking for quotes.
I have also orchestrated and carried out a military campaign-esque shopathon in the sales for wedding guest wear; a beach wedding in February that is – not a month renowned for the easy purchasing of bikinis and pretty sundresses. It now transpires that I am (inexplicably, given the amount of fabulous food consumed in London over the first few days of the month) a size eight so a batch of courgette, carrot and orange muffins (recipe makes 12 and for the love of God, squeeze the water out of the veg in a teacloth first) were the order of the day which went some way towards making up for the hours spent at the Singer taking in all the things which no longer fit me (as well as hacking inches off the ‘standard’ length ladies jeans bought half price which turned out to be a 34″ leg – ?) And whilst it may be sad news for some – although not me, or more specifically my back – even the bra size has dropped one cup and I am now the proud owner of an FF cup bra for the first time in aaages.
London, as those who were there will know already, was very hot, very busy and very hard work not least thanks to another Adultwork outage on the Friday morning which had my poor long-suffering BlackBerry ringing red hot, and both of us in dire need of a full recharge by teatime (only one of us got one, and it wasn’t me). A fine time was had by all and after tapas and a catch up on the Sunday lunchtime with my old pal Kinky La Rue (as was) I managed to negotiate the singularly bewildering and maze-like battleground which has sprung up around Victoria Station and it’s immediate vicinity and bravely forge my way home without once having to get off the Underground due to the heat, Ride London having also put the kibosh on the buses.
So back to That London it is this coming week prior to New York* adventures next – it’s a hard life, right enough. I will be officially persona non grata from Tuesday onwards thanks to tattoo time, and then Frightfest beckons over the weekend – next Scarborough availability after Monday will be Wednesday 4th and then Monday 9th September after a mini-dash to Nottingham for some Other Stuff, with plenty of punting time included. The UK work phone will, needless to say, be off for the duration until I’m back in the UK, but emails are welcome as ever, although when I’m on New York time I would request that folk please be patient.
Time for us all to enjoy the lovely Frightfest nurse-ladies! (with a big wave to Canning Conveyors, on whose YouTube I found the clip from last year) and for me to get on with the suitcase-wrangling. More soon (I’ll do my best, anyway).
*Any New Yorkers reading, welcome! There’s a page for you here, although the details are all on the proper website (click the picture just up there on the right). A UK size eight is a US four, OWO is what we call your BBBJ (although either way it’s irrelevant since no one will be getting one from me), words like bollocks, twat and cunt are generally good-natured expressions of exasperation or friendly jibes at one’s compadres rather than references to body parts and a fortnight is a two week period of time. Oh, and fuck is pretty much universal. There you are.
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