Maybe you had to be there...

"He's not very well, only has one month to six weeks to live."

OK, so that's not funny at all, but at the same time, it kind of is. Classic, classic example of British understatement.

"Oh honey, please try to look normal!"

Me to S, while taking photos on Christmas Day.

"Hey, you look just like an Aardman character!" and, later, on hearing me walk (stomp?) into the room, "Is that a baby elephant?"

S to me, getting his own back.

It's my birthday...

... and I'll post beefcake shots if I want to.

The Coat

I have a new coat. It's gorgeous, long, black, fur-trimmed on the cuffs and collar. Yes, fur. Rabbit, to be exact, and I don't feel too bad about it - if I can eat it, I figure I should be able to wear its skin, and vice versa.

It's not a young woman's coat, though. Not an old lady coat, either, but a rather bourgeois Parisian of a certain age coat. On weekends I can temper that by wearing it with jeans and motorcycle-type boots, but during the week with my smart-ish work clothes it's very bourge indeed.

Wearing it, I feel like a different person. More impatient, less nice for some reason. It gives me an attitude. I snapped at a post office employee the other day, and I swear it wasn't me, it was the Coat. The Coat doesn't think its wearer should wait in line for over a half an hour only to be told the package she was picking up had been mislaid. The Coat also make me paranoid. Wearing good jewels and a leather jacket, I feel inconspicuous and safe. Wearing jewels and the Coat, I feel like a target for pickpockets. On the other hand, it does get me instantly good service in posh shops.

Clothes may not make the man, but they do allow a woman to role play.

I don't have to worry...

...about S having an affair. In addition to love and trust and all those groovy things, there is the fact that he would simply be too bad at hiding the evidence.

Take my Christmas presents, for instance. He has bought them on his own and hidden them. So far so good. Except that one receipt is in plain view on the coffee table, a shopping bag is left lying on the living room floor, and another shopping bag (both from stores he would never shop at for himself) is somewhat out of sight but still, in a place I have a look at every few days.

Bless.

If you read this, sweetie, don't change a thing. I love you.

Huh?

Skimming through reader reviews and comments on The Departed on various sites, because I'm the sort of geek who likes to read comments on a film after I've seen it. Stunned at the number of people who take the film to task because of the violence and profanity.

If that's not your scene, fine. I can understand.

But what the fuck? It's a movie by Martin fucking Scorsese. A Scorsese movie about cops and gangsters, not an Age of Innocence type adaptation. Of course it's fucking violent. Have these people been living under a rock for the last 30-odd years and then randomly decide to go into the first movie theatre they came across?

Somewhat out of context quote

"The only thing you really have to do is be happy, be kind, love somebody, pay the bills. That's it. "

Or so writes a wise acquaintance/friend-but-to-write "friend"-would-be-presuming-a-bit type person.

And I would tend to agree with her. But that's actually 4 things, isn't it.

I love

The smell of lardons, onions and garlic frying.
Dim sum at my favorite Chinese restaurant.
My new top, pinkish mauve with lace trim around the V-neck and sleeves, perfect for wearing under a jacket now and on its own in the summer.
Spending an argument-free weekend with my mother (OK, so I rolled my eyes and muttered under my breath a few times - I can't help it, she pushes my annoyance buttons like no one else).
Seeing Casino Royale with her, and having her - a long time Sean Connery devotee - agree that Daniel Craig is the best Bond ever.

When you've had

...short hair your whole life, then spend 5 years growing it out until it's down to bra-strap length, then get it cut short again - it feels like coming home.