Holding page (maybe)

For the next week I will be going deep into the untamed wilderness, far (so far!) from PC and laptop that I may not be able to share my usual flurry of deep and meaningful thoughts with you, O Best Beloved. (That would be Shropshire - a small and discreet break with a dozen or so of my bestest buds.)

I haven't yet mastered Blogger on the CrackBerry so this is likely to be a fond farewell from me for now, favoured reader. But I leave you with a picture of my Best Boy and Number One Shipmate for the week: yes, Connery and I are together again!

Yes, it was raining when I took that picture. And yes, even if rains tomorrow, we'll be driving with the roof down... that's just the way the Morgan crew roll!

(I may give the Boy a few more drinks before I break that particular bit of news.)

"I wanna make love in this club"

Oh Usher, Usher, Usher.

Do you really think the women of the world are so smitten by your (admittedly very fine) cheekbones that we can't tell you're suggesting we get busy in a skanky club toilet?

(Women of the world - you had noticed that, right?)

Wii? Ow!

Today's moral tale concerns the Wii Board, that device of Terrible Power and Unknown Mysteries. Approach with care, mortal friends, lest you too become a victim of the beast!

It seemed like such an innocent thing when I first stepped on it on Sunday afternoon, fun and friendly, with chatty comments coming out of the TV screen as it warmed itself up. But little did I know of the tortures it contained.

A few clicks in I found myself faced with an alarmingly cutesie six-inch tall version of myself with big eyes and a weirdly shaped nose. This bizarre character encouraged me to input my vital statistics, but upon doing so (to my horror) the little bugger promptly swelled up to full-scale Buddha-belly proportions. "Blimey, you're a bit of a lardarse, aren't you?" the Wii Board said with a snigger (or at least I'm pretty sure that's what I heard).

Next was the posture and balance analysis: rather traumatically, it turns out that I list irrecovably to the left. "You didn't come to me a moment too soon," said the voice beneath my feet. "How on earth have you stayed standing up this long?"

A few clicks of a button later and I managed to find something that didn't upset me too much: a hula hooping game. Just swivel your hips as fast as you can and lean over to catch the new hoops thrown your way by two other (equally twee) mini-people. So far so good; so very good, in fact, that after ten minutes I figured I had that one cracked and switched over to the step aerobics programme.

What was I thinking? Step aerobics? I can't even do those in real life. Within thirty seconds I'd fallen off the wretched thing twice and was prepared to put the Wii remote through the Wii screen and the Board itself right out the window.

So back to the hula hoops it was and win I (eventually) did. With only minimal drama and a few broken furnishings I shattered the existing records to become the afternoon's Super Hula Champ. Who would have thought swivelling would turn out to be my secret superpower?

But I'm paying it for today, O Best Beloved. I'm broken, utterly broken. My left thigh has cramps in places it never knew existed and I'm hobbling myself trying to correct the leftwards-lurch that I'm suddenly convinced everyone else has known about for the last 28 years of my life. Oh, the humanity!

There's no hope for me now, I fear; there's only choice left in my listing, hobbledy life. I'm just going to have get a Board of my own.

A radical clothes initiative (and a bit more Indiana Jones)

Ladies of the world! I know that you secretly (and sometimes not so secretly) want to be thinner. Believe me, of all people, I really do feel your pain. You cling onto the size you think you should be for dear life and you work your ass off (alas, if only that were true) to stay there. You suspect that if you were to change the size of your dress, somehow everyone would know, would whisper about it behind your back and point accusing fingers as you walk past.

Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we inflict on our gorgeous bods a lifetime of VPL, too-tight shirts, circulation-restricting sleeves that leave incriminating red marks on our arms, skirts that sit three and a half inches above our waists, jackets that squish boobs into shapes they never wanted to be and - worse than all of these sins together - the dreaded Camel Toe?

But no more. Today, ladies, I'm here with a bold and daring message: free yourself from the constraints of your clothes!

Woah - slow down back there, I'm not suggesting we all get naked. Jeez, none of us needed to see that. All I'm saying is that maybe, just once in a while, we should open our minds to the idea that - dare I say it - we might actually look better if we swallow our pride and wear the clothes that fit.

A bit radical, I know, but I really think I'm onto something here.

Phew! So with that crazy proposition out of the way, let's get back to the important stuff: Indie was great. My inner fangirl is in a very happy place today. Sure, it was bit improbable in places (weren't they all?) and a little over the top, but it had lots of lovely touches and a lot of laughs. There's also one heck of a drinking game in the making for all of the knowing reference to the earlier films. Let's put it this way: you'd be over the limit very, very quickly.

I can't really say much more without spoiling it. Go see it and make up your own minds ;)

Sigh. I love you, Indie. Never leave us.

Indiana Jones and the last pair of Jimmy Choos

I'm trying very hard not to get too excited about Indiana Jones this evening (tickets procured by the Boy at short notice through what I suspect were rather nefarious means). It's harder than you'd think. It's not even that I fancy Harrison Ford (although, come on, you know you would. Yes, even now) - but I really love a good adventure.

At least, I love the idea of it. I kinda hate to admit it, but the character I've identified the most with in the whole series was not feisty Marion Ravenwood but flighty Willie in the Temple of Doom. The poor girl spends the entire film teetering around in impractical footwear, oscillating between rage and panic - and I'm pretty sure that if a dashing adventurer swept me away tomorrow the same thing would very quickly happen to me. Ye gods, I can barely imagine the state of my hair after a week without a proper shower.

Still, it's best to be prepared. I have a couple of friends who are convinced that the apocalypse will be on us any day now - and given that I saw a group of schoolgirls at the bus stop this morning wearing thigh-high socks, I'm starting to think they may be right. They've planned pretty extensively for it, right up to tagging the people they want to join them in their post-disaster survival group. The Boy du Jour has been tapped up as camp defence (he's a dab hand at shooting zombies, even if it is only in an arcade) and I was touched when they invited me to come along too. Nonetheless, I had to regretfully decline; I'm not really cut out for post-Apocalypse living and, if I'm honest, a world without Jimmy Choo is not a world for me.

Unless Indie's on board, of course.

The Fountain of Youth

Maybe it's because I'm now approaching my fourth decade at a rate of knots, but I've started noticing anti-ageing adverts everywhere I go. Billboards, bus shelters, TV and online - pro-this and anti-that, full of phenodactylamines and god only knows what else.

I'm not all that bothered by them. I'm quite interested in watching the lines start to creep over my face; they're the mark of a life well-lived and I see no reason to start being ashamed of them now, whatever Andy McDowell would have me believe.

But the ad I saw this morning really took my breath away. "Try R-," purred the just-turned-30 Twiglet on screen. "This uplifting facial treatment can make you look almost ten years younger in a matter of minutes. Results from the first use." So far so standard... but it was the next bit that caused me to nearly stab myself in the eye with my mascara brush. "Do not try and use R- at home. This acid wash treatment should only be applied by a trained professional."

Dear lord, people, acid? Really? Isn't that rather like having your face licked by one of Sigourney Weaver's aliens? Or maybe I'm just being melodramatic - perhaps washing your face in acid really is the obvious next step in denying the aging process...

The advent of Scary Sadshaw

I feel a bit like I'm betraying my people by admitting this, but nonetheless: this is perhaps the funniest article I've read on Gawker all year.

Beware the oestrogen riots!

The trials of Bridget Jones, part 1

... in which full-on crazy rears its head (and sadly not for the first time).

Over the weekend the Boy du Jour chose to share with me those bits of Thursday night that are (still) a little hazy in my memory. Apparently when I arrived home I had mascara smeared down my face and was in the midst of a full-on white wine hysteria fit about all my friends* leaving the country.

"Everyone's leaving me!" I howled. "They're all going off out of the country and I'm going to be ALL on my OWN! But there's still you! You can never leave! Promise you'll never leave! Why would you do that? Why would you be so mean? Why? Why?"

He tells me that this was not the most attractive side of me he has ever seen; for my part, I can only assume I'd mistaken him for the Domino's pizza delivery man.

(*Actually just Emily and my sister. I'm a little prone to exaggeration.)

The Prisoner

Yesterday was not a good day for the Boy du Jour.

He'd decided to work home so that he could come out for a few drinks with me and Miss Wearmouth (now, alas, counting down her last few days as a UK citizen) after hours. He was working so hard that he didn't even try to leave the house til 8pm - so it wasn't til then that he discovered that I'd actually locked him into the flat.

Look, it's not as bad as it sounds.

Ok… maybe it is.

For reasons best known to themselves, the previous owners of my flat decided to install a Chubb lock that you can only access from outside the flat. Yesterday morning, a little frazzled and in a hurry to get to work, I double locked the door behind me, as I've been doing for the last year of living on my own. I didn't even realise I'd done it til I picked up seventeen voicemails from the prisoner sometime after 8pm, which would be about the time he discovered there was no food in the house other than a rather elderly packet of noodles.

However, while the cupboards were bare, I did have six bottles of really rather nice wine brought over a few weeks ago by dad and the Wicked Stepmother. At some stage in the evening (probably some time between my claim that I'd be "home right away" at around 8.32pm and my actual arrival at 11.54), the Boy unearthed these bottles and not unreasonably decided to claim them as a forfeit. By the time Emily and I eventually trailed in, bearing pizza and apologies, he seemed to be coping rather well with captivity.

You'd think that after an experience like that he'd have insisted on leaving the house at the same time I did this morning - but apparently that lesson is still to be learned. He's in bed with a stinking hangover... honestly, some people have no restraint!

Boys (and girls) and toys: the Morgan SLR

Those who have looked at my Twitter profile have probably guessed that I'm a bit of a Morgan fan. This is true: my best beloved Connery (a Morgan +8 with racing pedigree) is nothing short of a god among cars.

As is often the case, the weakness for classic cars is a family failing. With the Roadster, +8 and 3-wheeler under their belts, the latest project chez parents is Morgan's first real racing car, the SLR, lovingly constructed by hand (as they all are) and one of only three of its kind. (Pedants may point out that there was an original prototype as well, but I'd remind them that was built on a Triumph chassis so barely counts as a Morgan at all;)

Around two years ago dad tracked down the first of the three ("the most original", he assured me when I asked). It was in a pretty run down state and needed a lot of love to restore it to its original glory. And lo and behold, as of this week, it's back in one piece.

Ladies and gentleman, for your delight and delectation, the newly reconstructed Morgan SLR!

The only question now is what colour to paint it...

Hotel Babylon?

Yesterday the Boy du Jour turned 28 (bless his cotton socks). We dined with his family in the East Croydon branch of Bella Italia and told tall tales over garlic bread and pizza.

At some point over the course of the meal the Boy's father revealed that in his younger days he had helped out as a part-time valet at a top London hotel, where his own dad had been head doorman for some years. "The pay was appalling," he told us, "but the tips were incredible - dad would come home with a 2 kilo jar of Beluga caviar and that would be all we had for dinner. One evening he couldn't even afford the bus fare home so had to walk from Piccadilly Circus to Putney carrying a brace of pheasants and two bottles of champagne under his arm."

We listened with eyes the size of saucers as he rolled out story after story. "The PR parties were the worst", he said. "They'd come in, drink themselves silly and then throw a strop when the hotel ran out of champagne. In the end, dad used to put cheap white wine through the Soda Stream and give them that instead. They never noticed."

And it wasn't just the plebs who were on the receiving end of the tricks of the trade. One of the worst kept secrets in London A-list circles was Princess Margaret's liking for a tipple or two. The rule in the hotels was simple: serve her an alcoholic drink, lose your job. But how to refuse royalty? Barmen across the capital put their heads together and came up with the answer: carefully pre-prepared martini glasses with rims rubbed in gin. The glass reeked of booze - and the drinker never knew that the actual content was tonic water and lime. "It's something they'll still do today if someone's had one too many," he told us.

Hammer Horror star Peter Cushing was another familiar face on the 5-star scene. "Dad always said he was the perfect gentleman," the Boy's father said. "He would never make extravagant demands or interrupt a conversation; he would always wait his turn, like he was just any man off the street."

He also had a particular quirk. "Mr Cushing would always put a white glove on his right hand to hold his cigarette . Since he was a chain smoker that meant the glove was on and off once every four minutes."

Last but not least was a story of his own. "One summer I was standing in for their usual valet for a bit of extra cash. Liz Taylor was in the hotel and had sent a dress out to be dry cleaned. It was covered in sequins from top to toe - but when I went to pick it up every single sequin had melted off. All that was left was a few smudges and a lot of twists of thread that had held the sequins in place. I was horrified and so was the hotel manager. Eventually, they sent me, the temp, up to the penthouse to hand the dress back - because I was easy to sack if she threw a fit."

Eventually he made his way through the maids and security staff and found himself in the presence of Miss Taylor herself. "I handed her the dress and for a moment she was completely silent - before laying into the designer and telling me exactly what she thought of the quality of Parisian dressmaking. I walked out of the room with my job intact and a tip to boot. The hotel manager couldn't believe it."

At this point I asked if she had been as beautiful as they say, and had I not been looking out for it I would never have noticed the tiny glance he shot his wife before he replied. "You know, I didn't really notice."

So that's where the Boy gets his tact from.

Friday treats

This lovely dress from Warehouse fell into my hands this lunchtime, crying out to be bought. And who am I to say no?

The top is (beautifully) fitted and the waist definition helped along by a large bow in the back. The skirt stops just above the knee and is rather poofier than the picture suggests thanks to a double layer of white netting. It's amazingly flattering - and in the time it took me to queue and pay for it, three other people had picked one up, so I suspect it won't be in store for long.

I shall be taking it on its first trip out with the Boy and his friends tonight. Wish me luck ;)

Good season / bad season

Without a doubt, 'tis the season to be ginger. When the sun comes out I almost regret the many years and hundreds of pounds I've spent beating the errant copper tones out of my hair - because it's on days like these that the redheads really come into their own. And it's like they've all come out of hibernation at once; everywhere you look there are flame-topped halos sailing proudly down the street.

I have ginger envy! Maybe it's time to get the henna out again.

But what about the Goths? I can't imagine they have a lot of fun at this time of year. I passed a couple (a gaggle? a murder? how do you pluralise Goths?) on the way to work and even at 8.30 in the morning they looked very sweltery indeed. All that black can't help, and what do you do when your makeup starts to run? Do they kick you out of Slimelight if you turn up in a summer dress? And what about the massive bovver boots? Don't your feet just get a bit... nasty?

I can't really picture an appropriate summer uniform for someone who spends the winter wrapped up in seventeen layers of velvet and lace. Maybe some lunch hour research is in order.

FOX?

Spotted from a taxi window: a gorgeous woman in sweats with her hair tied back in a ponytail, jogging along outside St Paul's Cathedral. Somehow, despite the heat, she was a picture of grace - right up until the moment the cab turned left and I saw the word FOX emblazoned in large black letters across the back of her tracksuit trousers.

Why, god, why?

Mr and Mrs Smith

I've finally got around to becoming a Mr and Mrs Smith member and I have to say I'm already pretty impressed. The site is the essential starting point for anyone planning a naughty weekend or a romantic break and I haven't yet found a hotel on there that I wouldn't enjoy staying in. It has the feel of something that's been carefully handpicked by someone who cares about what they're doing.

I'm sure that when I first came across the company they were UK only but it seems they've expanded globally - ski hotels, safari hotels, exotic locations; beautiful boutique venues in (pretty much) whatever country you care to name. As a member you get access to a new section of the site with various special deals and the like, and best of all, each booking you make comes with a little something extra - a bottle of champagne on arrival at the hotel being one of their (and indeed my) favourites.

Entry level membership is only £10 for the year or you can splash out on one of the fancier packages with additional perks like travel deals and VIP events. Either way, lots of fun.

Things not to say when drunk, part 2,000,000(b)

This weekend, after a couple of drinks (ed: somewhere between eight and ten) I decided to share with the Boy my thoughts on where our relationship is going. We’d been swapping news of a pair of friends whose relationship is stretched to the limits over the question of marriage – she wants to get hitched, he thinks she should get knotted – and (I think) I (probably) just wanted to make sure that we weren’t going to end up in the same situation.

The finer nuances of the conversation are a little fuzzy but the gist remains both with me and, alas, with the Boy. We now know that:

1. I consider two to two to two-and-a-half years to be the optimum time for a marriage proposal. From him. To me.
2. Pizza Express is not an acceptable venue. I do at least know where this one came from – my most memorable proposal was from a deeply misguided young man who seemed to think that it would be a good idea if he went down on one knee in the Regent Street branch of Pizza Express. Over lunch. On a Tuesday.
3. One ring = two months’ salary. This was apparently a bit of a discussion point since the Boy is under the (mistaken) impression that one month is still acceptable. Maybe it’s just as well I brought it up when I did...

Apparently I’m also quite taken with the idea of running away to Las Vegas and being married by Elvis, though I think the Boy may be taking some artistic license with that one.

Although these details are all a little hazy, I do recall dancing merrily down the Canonbury Road with the Boy following patiently behind. (Please note: I cannot dance.) When we reached Essex Road station we stopped and I shared at some length my views on the world. “You know,” the Boy said, with a sigh, as he encouraged me across the road, one arm around my waist to stop me accidentally running out in front of a truck (as I sometimes do when overexcited), “It’s at times like these that I realise I love every weird, difficult, boozed-up bit of you. And I can’t help judging myself a bit for it.”

The romantic fool.

Leggings: Just Say No!

Look, if this relationship is going to go anywhere, we need to get a few things straight.

1. Leggings are wrong. Just. Say. No.

2. If you really must indulge, please bear this in mind: leggings are not transparent.

3. If they're transparent, they're tights.

4. If you wear tights with a waist length t-shirt you are, in effect, walking down the street semi-naked. You have now become Lindsay Lohan. Is that really what you wanted to achieve?

A time of crisis

Drama, disaster and horror of horrors: this morning I hated almost all of my shoes. How can a girl hold her head up high without confidence in her footwear?

Luckily there are always the Parisian flats to fall back to save the day - otherwise who knows what might have happened!

It does however make me think that it may be time to visit the spring/summer collections. One perfect pair of Choos should see me through the next sartorially challenging months - or perhaps, as so many people have told me, it's time to play away from home and pay a long-overdue visit to Mr Louboutin.

Decisions, decisions...