V is for Very Tangled Hair

Yeah I’ve talked about my hair before but we’re pretty much inseparable (especially given the infrequency of occasions when I can actually be bothered to go and get it cut. On the other hand, three of my friends have recently gone for style changes and if I do it now it looks like I’m copying, that’s definitely how female interactions work and don’t you dare try and contradict me, I haven’t got time to argue with you) so the subject was bound to crop up again at some point. That wasn’t me trying to do a pun. Honest. Or it might have been a subconscious impulse but I really hope it wasn’t. It rather cheapens the whole thing. Well, it might if this whole thing wasn’t completely free.

I’ll move on. My problem now is that my hair is really very boring. No, that’s not strictly accurate but it’s very straight indeed no matter what I do and very fine. So one time to try and experiment a little I didn’t comb it straight away after washing it. I just stuck it up in a bun and forgot about it. It definitely wasn’t laziness if that’s what you’re thinking (you know it probably was). The thing is though, it actually looked pretty good all swept back like that. The issue came when I took said bun down and realised that while it still looked quite nice, my hair had gone fuzzy and had managed to get itself incredibly tangled. I’m not sure what I was expecting.

Despite the knowledge of the final consequence, I’ve done it again. Maybe I’ve decidedly to provide myself with a handy arm workout trying to get the knots out. Maybe I like to create problems for myself. Perhaps I thought I’d eventually need some quick inspiration for a blog post (I’m so forward thinking, it’s ever so useful). The end effect might just be worth it though. It’s probably not a style tip they’ll give you at the hairdressers.


U is for Unflattering

I’m pretty sure I must have talked about photos before. In fact I know I have but it was simply ages ago (please don’t check, just take my word for it) and I’m not precisely certain what I could have possibly said about them. So let’s have a recap (or possibly a first airing, I might not actually have said this before, it’s like some sort of very low stakes Russian roulette. Or something of that nature); my basic philosophy of photos is pretty much that if someone takes one of me I just have to not look at it so I don’t insist that it be immediately deleted. It’s a perfect system.

Or it would be anyway were it not for Facebook. There on one handy dandy page is every single photo anyone’s ever tagged me in. Spiffing, really just spiffing. I get to see how manic I look when I try to be happy, which dresses I really shouldn’t have worn out for unhappily obvious reasons and just how often there’s a lovely hint of double chin (if you’re a friend of mine on this site, please don’t go and look at said photos, let the word picture I’m painting for you be enough. Please, let’s pretend they don’t exist).

I don’t really think there’s a solution to this problem. I mean, I could become some sort of hermit and hide from the cameras forever but something tells me that people might find this a little odd. Then again, I might become renowned as some sort of spiritual guru and disciples would flock to me for my wisdom. Then again, if that were to happen I’d have to ban any sort of photography like some sort of museum exhibit. Unless I found some sort of terribly photogenic shroud. Or a non weddingy veil and try to pass it off as some sort of style choice.

T is for Tone of Voice

Apparently, communication really is about so much more than just the words you use. This came as a bit of a shock, I’m a writer remember? Words is all I got. And it’s eminently possible that I don’t even have them. Now I may or may not be getting most of this from a Will Smith film I saw quite some time ago so you you’ll have to bear with me (so business as usual then).

There are a great many things that come alongside the words that go some to all of the way of conveying what you actually mean. You know the sort of thing; enthusiastic hand gestures (not those ones, that’s truly shocking behaviour), narrowing of the eyes to make sure the person you’re conversing with either knows you intensely dislike them or you’re deeply shifty and whether or not you’re sticking your tongue out (for interviews and stuff).

Just think about it, it’s so often the case that you can use exactly the same phrase yet it can have completely different connotations depending on things as simple as body language. Just to pluck a random example out of the air, definitely not based on anything in my life, something as totally innocuous as ‘I’m going to kill you’ can be completely open to interpretation. Is the person saying it holding some sort of weapon. How serious is their face? Have you done something incredibly stupid to piss them off? Are they famously known for their compulsive kidding about? No? Do they have crazy eyes? Ok, now might be the time to run.

Oh and how could I forget until this point that it’s Thanksgiving? Because I’m not American probably. Nevertheless, I should probably ponder one or two things I’m mildly grateful for. Tell you what, I’ll go and have a think (and definitely not just play some card games on my laptop) while you go and make me some tea. Thanks.

S is for Swalk

Yes I know it’s not a real word. It’s one of these new fangled, God forsaken modern texting acronym gizmos (I think I’ve managed to sound sufficiently old fogeyish don’t you?). Actually no, it isn’t. Ha, I have fooled you with misleading tricks. It turns out that particular abbreviation was used in the 1930s when they were properly unexpectedly filthy. Admittedly the list I’ve found was used by soldiers so what would you have expected?

Swalk is actually pretty sweet – it’s sealed with a loving kiss. I know right? Makes you feel all warm and gooey inside. It would seem that even then they were inventive in finding ways of shortening complex emotions. It’s like they were real people then too. Brace yourselves though, it’s only downhill from here.

France, oh dear, this can’t be good. These were soldiers after all, they must have hated the French. This has to be positively disgusting. Friendship remains and can never end. Oh, no, this isn’t a tear in my eye. But come on, that’s beautiful. I must have misjudged these veritable poets. I’m melting at the very idea of having such a letter written to me. That’s only two though, what else is there?

Italy and Holland. I trust and love you and I hope our love lasts and never dies. Stop making me so depressed that I’m single. Why aren’t men like this now? No one has ever come remotely close to saying such things to me, it’s all so crude nowadays.

Wait, I spoke too soon, I knew this was too good to be true. I’m Egypt and Malaya, so Burma and definitely have Norwich, I’ll be so Venice because truly England. Eager to grab your pretty tits. My ardent lips await your arrival. Be undressed ready my angel. (k)Nickers off ready when I come home. Very excited now I caress everywhere. Every naked girl loves a naked dick.

Make it stop. Please, just make it stop! I feel so dirty now, I need a shower.

R is for Riding a Bike

Once you’ve mastered it, there’s nothing simpler. Or so I’m told. Don’t get me wrong, I know how to ride a bike. It might have taken me three hand me down bikes and reaching the age of eleven (or possibly twelve) before I actually managed to learn this quasi-vital skill but I did it. It may well have taken blood, sweat and tears (you should probably read that as, the odd bump or graze and possibly an occasional whimper).

(Dad, I know you read this, thank you by the way, you’re a total love, but I’m going to have a little moan about your method of instruction. Just wanted you to be prepared) Basically, my dad’s attempt to try and teach me when I was little was a slightly too enthusiastic twist on a tried and tested classic. Rather than the sweet moment you see in many an after school special on American television where the small child starts to pedal as the parent runs alongside, holding the bike up and then the parent lets go and the child doesn’t even notice, I had something a little different. Dad gave an almighty push to add to the momentum. Then I fell off. And refused to get back on. Oh well, it’s all in the past.

That wasn’t even supposed to be my point. I just happened to see a man trying to ride a small child’s bike (I don’t think he stole it, he could probably have set his sights a lot higher if he did) and quite enjoyed the sight. Hmm, it’s a good thing I put in that thing about learning to ride because I’d be in quite a lot of trouble at this point word count wise if I hadn’t. And there’s still seven words to go. Clearly though, this is a sure fire way to brighten your day, a grown man struggling to ride a tiny bicycle. If only he’d been wearing a fez…

Oh, happy birthday Mum (I did send a card, I’m not that bad a daughter that all she gets is a footnote on my blog).

Q is for Quill

I am intensely glad that we don’t use quills to write any more. They just seem to be deeply impractical. For all that pencils are terribly irritating what with snapped leads and woody shavings that will flutter into every remotely available nook and cranny that presents itself, they are infinitely superior as a writing implement. And biros, scratchy ones, cheap ones, ones that leak and leave permanent stains on all your clothing (it’s occurring to me at this point that I should probably just invest in more expensive pens), they’re still better than a quill.

Now you might disagree, you might think that the aesthetic factor of a fancily feathered quill is more important than the efficacy of a scribing tool. And if that happens to be an opinion that you hold I might be tempted to think that you’re a poser who cares only for how things look on the outside. But you’re my very dear reader and as such I’ll always be inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt. Feathers are pretty, that’s a simple fact. So you can be easily forgiven for enjoying that aspect of them. There’s even something romantic and old worldy about a quill. But that’s probably just because of things like Shakespeare in Love – though I find Gwyneth Paltrow pretty unappealing, it’s very hard not to respond to a mildly smouldery Joseph Fiennes. Especially with facial hair.

But there’s a reason why quills are in fact a thing of the past. We’ve innovated, we’ve upgraded (and by we I mean infinitely clever and more inventive men and women than I) and now we have pens (right then, I knew that I could accidentally type penis and that would be embarrassing. And with that thought in my head I did it anyway. That is part of the magic of pens, you’re only ever a slip away from a potentially hilarious error). I happen to enjoy a nicely flowy gel variety.

P is for PDST

No I’m not trying to trivialise a very significant psychological illness, I definitely meant to spell it that way so it’s absolutely completely different. Ham-fistedly covering my arse to the point where I’m neck deep in a freshly dug hole of my own making aside, I haven’t quite figured out precisely what I PDST to stand for. It’s something along the lines of post Doctor special time. Or something to that effect, I haven’t quite worked it out. I’ll get back to you.

Anyway, in spite of my protestations of yesterday, I did actually go out. It was a rip roaring time that started with excellent Moroccan food. Unfortunately then my card got declined and I had to spend about half an hour on the phone with my bank to reassure them that I’m still me. Things definitely picked up from there though. However, when the proposal to go out was first expressed, my initial thought was not ‘how marvellous, an opportunity for merriment and sociability!’ No, instead my only, mercifully unexpressed, reaction was ‘but what about Doctor Who?’.

It turns out though that thanks to beautiful broadcasting innovation I can have my TARDIS shaped cake and eat it too. With only a few minor alterations to my original plan I was able to curl up on my bed rather than my sofa with water rather than tea to fend of the alcohol fuelled very slight headache and watch the long awaited special.

Final verdict, it was alright. There were some beautiful moments, sonic screwdrivers as penis metaphors, Peter Capaldi’s intensely forceful eyes and so much more. There were gaping plot holes and I’m not sure I agree with the supposed ‘re-boot’ of the series but on the whole it was pretty good. I even liked Billie Piper’s performance (just for the sake of context, I intensely dislike the character of Rose Tyler so I’m very glad that she didn’t make an appearance). Now I just have to wait for the Christmas special. Set your watches.