Happy Valentine's Day

Dedicated to my handsome Valentine. x

The Lovely Man and I will be enjoying a takeaway and Champagne in honour of the occasion. Oh yeah, we like to push the boat out. You?

RIP

Two things.

1) It occurs to me that I should probably wear more giant headpieces and lycra bodywear. 

2) It is beyond my imagining that viewing this could fail to improve your day, so knock yourself out.

I'm sick of nude.

I, Me, Tom Ford. I from Steamy Window Productions on Vimeo.

  Thanks Kel.

Disease and drama.

So where was I?

Isn't that relentless barking irritating? Sorry about that.

There is some kind of lurgy dogging me yet again and if it wasn't for the persistent meatiness of my physique, you might imagine I was a tragic consumptive, what with all the snotty hacking and reclining on my fainting couch in my bohemian garrett draped in diaphanous gowns holding a bloodstained hankie to my lips, etc.

And in other news, despite all the evidence to the contrary, turns out I am not getting any younger. How very disappointing.

I'm not sure why I thought this sounded like a good idea, but to celebrate my upcoming birthday I'm going to face my fears, dance with the devil and/or frolic in the forest Thursday night. Apparently.

I'm a little trepidatious about the whole 'breaking the fourth wall' thing. Theatre means, for me, that everyone knows who is in the audience and who is performing. Because otherwise what else is there to distinguish it from real life? If I wanted to live in fear of alarmingly unpredictable interaction with strangers, I could save some money and take the night bus.

The food should be thoroughly stonking though, so that's nice.

What are you up to?

Booty

I made the decision yesterday to clear my front garden of potential missiles, including windowboxes, potted plants and recycling odds and ends just in case the destruction carried on a further half mile from South Ealing down to my street. We are blessed with a truly crap high street, so far not deemed worthy of looting, and long may it continue.

Of course my neighbours didn't worry about clearing their front gardens, so I guess it was all kind of pointless, but how stupid would you feel the moment your terra cotta plant pot came sailing through the window followed by wine bottles and the entire cast of Lord of the Flies? Pretty stupid I guess. Like, I wish I'd come out during the adverts and removed the temptation instead of turning over to Road Wars and eating the rest of the prawn crackers.

Are these looters "disaffected youth" or are they very avid participants in their own culture? I think we're witnessing the ultimate triumph of consumerism on the streets of London. It has worked so well at stirring people into a frenzy of aspiration and acquisitiveness that they've gone out and jolly well acquired all the real branded goods they can get their hands on. No more market knock-offs! No more Korean Uggs off eBay! The real deal, carried with one's own fair hand through the window of J D Sports and ready to wear once the broken glass is dusted off. And a sense of achievement to boot.  

I really should try to learn.

Despite having grown up in the States during the Just Say No era*, it turns out I am not very good at saying no, and despite my best efforts (jimjams wardrobe, general dishevelment, allowing my communication skills to atrophy until social intercourse is prohibitively trying for all involved), I seem to have a social life and friends and a fair amount of interaction which involves alcohol. Apparently I cannot refuse alcohol.

I belong to a group of Ladies in my neighbourhood who sing together. Yes. I have finally achieved the status of suburban singing matron, which, if I am honest, has been my life's goal along with eating in nice restaurants and antiquing. Ah middle age, where have you been all my life?

The singing Ladies drink wine. I love wine, but I am not very good at it. My increasingly elderly metabolism is easily bedrunkified and I can't be counted on to maintain any decorum at all. Don't even get me started on spirits. I can drink a little real ale with some dignity, if I can get past the feeling of looking like a hod carrier in a dress.

I'm feeling a bit fat and exhausted, which I put down to regular alcohol consumption. It must stop. I have no confidence that I can Just Say No and am searching for a passive way to get people to stop offering it to me. It seems mean to just stop bringing wine to rehearsals. Maybe bring a bottle of soda water instead? Hang a sign around my neck? Antabuse?

I'd like to join a book club as well, but it could kill me.

*...or perhaps because of it. I am contrary.