Happy.

I’m a happy bunny today. I discovered that my hair is now long enough to make into plaits. Good, old-school plaits. I now look like a WW2 evacuee with an education.

It reminds me of when I was younger and my year 6 teacher used to hold onto my plaits and pretend she was driving a motorbike. I guess using them as handles would be quite useful if you had to urgently jump onto the back of a plait-haired person who had suddenly been blinded by a rogue jam-attack and guide them to safety away from the ravenous darkness of the cavernous ravine of DOOM…

Alternatively, plaits are also useful if the crimper you bought in 1997 has been lost or given up the ghost.

In primary school, I used to plan out all the possible ‘’do’s I could make for myself. I drew them all out in diagram form and made meticulous notes on which was suitable for which day. At the time I thought I was the trend setter, the envy of my classmates, an enigma which awed my teachers with the ribbons in my hair, glittery striped tights and Dr Martin shoes. Now, with humility, I realise I just looked like I’d been assaulted by Lady GaGa's Christmas Tree.

Anyway, I think I should buy some decorative ribbons, or those hairbands with the oversized poms-poms on in offending shades of pre-teen lilac or pink to complete my new look. Or the giant zebra (not zebra print actually a small zebra) bobble I wore in my year 7 photo- you can see one black and white leg posing just behind my ear.

Now it’s time to relive the glory of those past good old days. YES!

Shopping.

Ok, I confess. 

I haven't been clothes shopping since November 2011 and haven't bought shoes since December. I'm steadily looking more dishevelled and as if I'm growing as I slowly shrink everything I own in the one-setting-fits-all university laundrette.

However, with a holiday in a week and a day to Spain on the horizon I decided it was time to invest in something that wouldn't make me look like an anaemic WW2 evacuee.

In my mother's words, this was A Mission. With the seriousness of the situation in mind, The Boyfriend and I hit the cobbles of the city centre and found these...

Dress, shorts, vest and sunglasses from H&M. Shoes from Topshop.

Now, it wouldn't be fair for me to be prepared to hide in the shade head to toe in factor 50 without helping everyone else prepare for the holiday too. 

So I bought Wally, my bear, some swim shorts from the Bear Factory.

Ok, ok so he doesn't look so happy about it now, but just use your imagination...

...

...

All this picture really needs now is a pina colada and some hot, hot fluffy eyecandy.

All this holiday talk has 'Peaches' by the Stranglers in my head. Bring on the sunshine!!

Little Red.

Jumble.

Right. So. 

Erm.

How are you?

Moi? I’m completely exhausted, stressed and fed up. Listen carefully.

...

...

Yes. Violins. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love my degree to bits. Just sometimes it makes me feel like this.

I am also entering into the confusing situation where I’m more confident with the complexities of the philosophy of language (don’t ask) than the most basic of French grammar (I thought compliments were things one expected to receive on a date, not the parts of sentences such as 'that she was hit by a car' or 'that she shaved off her eyebrow').

For the last week I’ve been buried under a mound of notes, attempting to read my own handwriting and piecing together something legible about Batman going to parties and the importance of telling your wife her dress is unflattering.

Last week I took time out to faux sympathise with the boyfriend. He had convinced himself his bruised foot was a repetitive strain fracture that could cause it to splinter into a million pieces at any moment, causing mutual destruction to himself and the entire universe. He took himself off to A&E with his foot wrapped in a Sainsbury’s bag and using a broom as a crutch. There is just no accounting for style with some people.

However, time out this week was far jollier. I visited Dorset to sit in the sunshine with some wine and spend time in good company, especially a dog called Merlin.

 I say took time out, I mean I took my work into the garden, which are now annotated with pawprints. But he looks like a dog who knows his embedded from un-embedded clauses, non?

Also, check out the view from one of the local pubs.

Gorgeous ain’t it? Green!!

The party that evening was also a good’un: like I always say, its no party without wine, dancing, and setting the kitchen floor on fire.

Back home now. There are cake crumbs everywhere due to the birthday we are celebrating today. 4 tier Orange & Lemon cake for a special friend.

What’s the French for nom nom nom?

As part of these celebrations, my flatmate has awarded herself the ‘best-housemate’ crown. The hat itself looks a bit like she attacked the Pope with felt tip pens and tin foil. Nonetheless, I am coveting it:I want to be the best housemate, Mummy, it’s just not fair! I’m sure it earns me some cheese. Or the last cookie. Or the age 7-8 boys tank top with a dog on it from The White Company I spied today. 

Watch this space, a plan is coming and victory will be mine. 

Salute,

Little Red.

Coconut.

Today I decided to do something new. I decided to branch out, widen my horizons, get in touch with new souls and experiences...

I bought a coconut. 

Say hi. His name is Gary.

He likes watersports, crochet and long walks along the beach.

He has always wanted to pursue a career in music, but has been hindered by his lack of limbs.

Unfortunately for Gary, I don't like crochet. And I also am in possession of one of these.

TAAADAAAAA

Some delicious (slightly hairy) coconut milk

Some delicious (slightly unripe) coconut

and

One beautiful (very hairy) tealight holder. 

(Flammability Unknown)

Well, I definitely feel like I achieved something today. Win. Ten points to Gryffindor.

What was the last new thing you did?

See you soon bloggers,

Little Red.

3: Abba say Happy New Year

Greetings Bloggers, and Happy New Year!

I have to ask for forgiveness for neglecting you, I promise not to do it again. Pinky promise.

So, what’s new with me? Three things.

1.     I have been bereaved. Of the two rabbits that my flatmates smuggled into our halls, only one is now surviving. The other, dead as… a dead rabbit. Squished. Squashed. A dented demise. I shan’t beat about the bushy tail: Bella killed Pedro. (She sat on the plastic platform while Pedro was attempting to burrow beneath it. Our forensic analysis tells us from the lack of blood around the mouth it was likely a collapsed lung, or the destruction of a magic force-field). However, the amusing consequence of this is that the resident of Room B was unable to attend her date for the evening and the poor gentleman was sent away from our door with Pedro’s coffin under his arm with the task of finding somewhere other than the communal bins to dispose the body.

2.     Santa Baby spoiled me this year. These gifts include an electric blanket, a plastic showercap in the shape of a mouse, a knit-your-own-ninja kit, and (drum roll please hamster band!) my very own, brand spanking new purple sewing machine! I have yet to get it out or attempt to produce anything with it, I’m waiting for my trusted domestic goddess best friend to come round and break me in.

3.     I am now living in 2012! I had a Titantic themed new year, involving dressing up as various passengers and the iceburg, saving soft toys from imminent death in the icy carpet-sea, building structures out of sugar cubes, and, of course, classic karaoke from the 1910’s including ‘In da Club’, ‘My Humps’ and ‘Mama Mia’. We brought in the New Year with champagne, dancing and fireworks. By fireworks I mean we watched the spectacular fireworks above the London Eye on the television at the same time as watching our own ‘indoor’ fireworks (which were buy-one-get-one free as EU law changes have meant the most dangerous ones have had to be removed from the packet). Unfortunately, the expanding-poo effect and ensuing smog has meant we have made my mother’s boyfriend promise to never buy them again.

2: Reason 1.0 Why My Flatmates Are More Fabulous Than Me

From roast dinner to cupcakes to stew to cupcakes to macaroni cheese to cupcakes (they really love their cupcakes) there is scarcely a day that goes by without that the two ladies I live with don’t set themselves to producing culinary delights, grating off bits of their fingers to give that extra pizazz to pasta or violating various chickens with citrus fruit. Many a time we have sat round with some friends and enjoyed a proper meal with wine and matching cutlery, healthily betraying our student status.


 However, I, on the other hand, haven’t cooked a single cake since last July (lemon drizzle cake, I know you were wondering) and don’t cook anything that takes less than half an hour to prepare and cook. It’s not that I don’t like food: I love fresh Mediterranean cooking, especially cheeses, breads and salad. And it’s not that I can’t cook. (Well, I can chop vegetables and add sauces out of jars. So maybe not.) It’s really that I’m just too impatient and often don’t know where to start.                                                                                         

    I'm not happy about this situation. I feel inadequate. The WI will never recruit me at this rate. It’s time to bite the bullet and find some recipes. Watch this space!

1: Manscaping

Greetings Bloggers. I need your advice.

My boyfriend keeps pestering to let him recommence ‘manscaping’. Manscaping, a term he believes he has coined, involves pruning of the male pubic area to something more comparable to the uniform height of a suburban hedge.

Now, I do not confess to be any huge fan of hairy men. This boyfriend is the first to be particularly furry and I have learnt to adapt. It has its benefits (I suppose) and has lead to affectionate cringe-inducing nicknames of the bear variety.

However, said Bear recently announced to me that he was very proud of the fact that his chest hair now meets his stomach hair because it is “like two great civilisations coming together”, with the patch above his navel designated “the embassy”. The small patch of hair he has developed on his upper back has been outlawed, and various sanctions including plucking will soon be enforced. The growth of chest and facial hair is subject to much applause but anything ‘down-below’ is subject to restrictive grooming- surely this deferential treatment is, in the least, unfair?

Is it wrong for me to think this is completely bizarre- was I wrong to ban him from doing it? Perhaps it is my desire more rugged men but perhaps this is some innate warning system causing me to act before he turns to shaping himself to suit particular occasions (a Santa hat for Christmas? a loveheart for Valentines?) or, unspeakably, turning to the male version of vajazzling?!