That’s all folks…?

So, that’s it, I’m done.

Apologies for the very late post, but I was suffering from an awful bout of food poisoning yesterday (it must have been the cranberry juice that I drank on Saturday night.  Unless it was the ice…)

So, Friday was taken up with a surprise visit to Cadbury World (the Bestie knows me really rather well), but just before that, Darling Sister and The Bestie decided to attempt to give me heart failure (they tried the same thing last year – I’m beginning to spot a pattern emerging), by sneaking The Boy into the kitchen when I wasn’t looking, so I walked in to find him sitting at the table.  And I screamed.  Because I was surprised, not because he has a scary face or anything.  Whilst driving through Birmingham (Cadbury World is just outside it.  I think), I was told to put my cardigan over my head (The Bestie surprises me with a trip every year, and I always have to hide my face as soon as she sees a sign for where we’re going) – it’s a rather large black cardigan, so it looked like I was being kidnapped.  Which was nice. 

Highlights of the day included The Bestie creating domestic disharmony for the family in front – whilst waiting in a queue for the ride (very cool train ride thing, most probably aimed at 8 year olds), she took out the Dairy Milk bar that a nice Cadbury’s employee gave her, and, you know, started eating it.  The small child in front decided that he also wanted some chocolate, right at that very moment.  Not in 2 seconds, not 2 minutes ago, NOW.  His Dad thought that was fine, his Mum didn’t, as he had a drink for after the ride (I know, I didn’t understand how the two were similar either).  It was a bit funny (probably not so much for them).  Also, I discovered that the Cadbury family were Quakers, and they built swimming baths and things for their employees.  They were nice folks.

Then, on Saturday, The Boy took me for another birthday surprise – this one included a bus trip to Cambridge, and a small amount of shopping.  I was given an envelope with ‘Spending Money’ written on it, and was told that the money was for me to spend on whatever I wanted, as long as it was spent on Saturday – anything that I didn’t or couldn’t spend, would be put towards our ‘House Fund’.  I had great plans, thinking that I’d spend half the money, giving the rest to our savings.  I gave The Boy £13 back, which was not exactly what I’d had planned…but he seemed happy that I’d bought some pretty things (although he did look at me in the first shop we went in and ask if I was ok – I didn’t know what to do with myself, or where to start.  For example, I picked up a knee length skirt that looked like something my Gran used to wear, as I thought it was a pair of culottes.  Why it would be better if they were culottes, I have, literally, no idea).  I did, however, manage to buy a lovely cream jacket in a size 8.  I haven’t been working really hard at the gym or anything, it just didn’t have buttons or any need doing up in any way (and it was either that or a size 20). The Boy had also remembered that I mentioned  lovely restaurant called Browns about 4 months ago, and took me there for lunch.  I offered him some of my food, but by the time he wanted to take me up on the offer, it had all gone.  And he didn’t even mind.  He’s possibly the best boyfriend ever. 

Saturday night was taken up with a night out with my girlie chums, where there were some very special moments.  For example, I waxed lyrical for several minutes about the fact that toilet doors now have coat hooks on the back – I was wearing the  cream jacket over one of my pretty playsuits, and didn’t fancy putting it on the nasty, dingy floor when I went to the loo.  I didn’t realise that I was THAT excited about it…

Also, listening to people chatting each other up whilst standing at the bar is possibly the most awkward thing EVER.  Especially when one asks the other if they’re ‘just looking for fun’, and then puts both their thumbs up in a cheesy fashion.  CRINGE.  Twice.

All in all, it was a rather marvellous night (and not just because an ex-soap star who lives near the town was out.  On a related note, I felt really sorry for him.  There he was, out for a few drinks with his friends, and people kept bothering him.  A LOT) and was almost worth the photo that is currently hanging around on the internet which shows my control pants and fake tan stained bra in all their glory (I’m not entirely sure HOW my friend got that particular camera angle – I may suggest to her that she consider a paparazzi based career change), and the 2 day hang….I mean…food poisoning.  Almost.

Then, last night, I went to see The Boy, to watch the most recent Star Trek film.  I mean…um…insert your own cool film there.  And I stole his laptop to do some online shopping.  He looked a bit sad, and it made me think.  For the last 6 months, I’ve not had 1 eye on an online shop, or spent all weekend trawling around various towns and cities, for things that I don’t need, instead of paying attention to my brilliant friends and family.  So, you know, maybe I should carry on this blog, just to, you know, keep me in check…I’ll keep you posted.  (See what I did there?!)

I’d also just like to take a moment to say thank you very much for reading this – it’s really helped me through the pain! x (yep, that was a kiss, just for YOU.)


28 minutes to go…

So, at the start of writing this blog, there are a mere 28 minutes to go until I can shop again.  However, I’m not sure that I can.

As I’m sure that I’ve mentioned before, Darling Sister’s birthday falls the day before mine, so today, she, Lovely Mum and my good self went into Cambridge for a bit of shopping (I did not partake in any of the said shopping for myself.  Lovely Mum and Darling Sister very kindly didn’t buy me presents [apart from my beautiful playsuits] so I was allowed to choose a few things today.  The few things turned out to be;

3 x dresses (1 Dorothy Perkins one, that I had my eye on ages ago, and was in the sale.  Whoop, and indeed, whoop, 1 New Look one and 1 Primark one.  All lovely)

2 x cardies (both Primarni – or, if my bag from my lovely work colleagues is to be believed, Prada)

1 x shoes (pair – Primarni – brown peep toe ones  sound horrible, actually look very pretty)

And, what with there being 3 of us, and therefore 3 very different styles, we went into a LOT of shops.  I mean, really a lot.  We were walking around for 6 whole hours, no time to stop for lunch (we were SHOPPING!)

My feet still hurt.  I’d forgotten how labour intensive shopping could be (and I really don’t wish to be rude about myself, but it’s beyond me how I only started losing weight once I’d stopped shopping – I mean, I must have walked for miles further than me and The Boy walk on an average weekend.  Strange).

Also, I don’t get shops clothing sizes.  I can just about cope with the idea of different shops treating size 12s differently (Next, for example, employ vanity sizing, and cut their clothes a little more generously.  New Look do NOT.) but I really object to the same shop (Primark, I’m talking about you) having completely different sizing on the same item (long story short, I tried a dress on in 2 different prints – one oranges, which sounds horrible but looked nice, and one floral.  The floral one made it into my shopping bag, the oranges one wouldn’t even attempt to go over my chest.  But I’m not bitter).  It’s a bit of a pain in the bum.

Ah, why am I fibbing to you?  I know that you know that I know that we all know I’m going to be on as many sites as my browser allows by 00:00:01

But onto better things – Darling Sister had a lovely day, and I get to have a lovely day tomorrow.  I’m off on a mystery tour with the Bestie (the origin of all the cheesy puns we’ve been coming up with – my best one today was ‘how long until these start to grate’ – grated cheese, you see?!) and I’m very, very excited about it (last year, she took me to feed giraffes and look at lemurs at Africa Alive.  I wanted to live there, but the keepers said no.  Unreasonable.)

I’ll let you know how much cheese tasting is involved.  I may also start referring to her as Wallace.  I’ll be Gromit, as I’m the silent type…(plus, she looks better in green jumpers than I do.)

On another note, Happy Birthday Darling Sister, you’re the best and I love you gazillions! (And not just because you bought me something pretty – as I mentioned yesterday, I hardly ever like people for that reason alone.)

18 minutes….

Things that I have learned today….

Number 1;

The Welsh word for shopping is siopa (pronounced ‘shopa’) – many thanks to the Fabulous One for extending my vocabulary.

Number 2;

The last thing that I searched for in Google was ‘types of cheese’ (I’m not odd or anything, I’m just having a cheese-related ‘pun off’ with the Bestie.  I think I’m winning, after asking if we were ‘Stilt-on for Friday’.)

Number 3;

I work with some of the best people in the whole world.

It’s not that this is an entirely new realisation – in fact, quite often I’ll find myself thinking ‘oh, she’s nice’ or ‘he just did a really lovely thing for me’, but it was today that I realised that, as a group, they’re really rather wonderful.

As it’s Darling Sister’s birthday tomorrow, and mine on Friday, I’ve booked the next 2 days off work, for birthday related funnery.  Instead of whinging about this, they very nicely decorated my desk (thank you Jiminy), told me that the food that I’d made (sausage rolls and various cake related goods) was lovely (either they were lying to save my feelings, or they really did like it – either way, it was very nice of them) and they also bought me lots of very pretty presents (including a maxi dress that I’m itching to put on.  In fact, Itried it on, and I had to be told to take it off so that I didn’t ruin it.  It sort of took me back to being 6 and trying to wear my ‘best’ clothes whilst digging up rose bushes with Darling Sister and the Bestie).

I’m also not just saying that they’re nice because they bought me things (I hardly ever like people solely for that reason).  It was the effort that everyone went to – one of the girls (A Marvellous [nearly] Married) has obviously been listening to everything that I’ve said I liked for the last 6 months whilst reading magazines at lunchtime, as most of the items made their way into my Prada carrier bag (this was genius – a Primark bag, with ‘Prada’ written on pieces of paper and stuck to it – I may use it as my gym bag until it disintegrates), before going into town with another of the Lovely Girls to buy things (having done that during a lunch break, I know that it’s not pleasant).

People kept coming in to say Happy Birthday, which was lovely (I also got 2 birthday songs via email, which was just brilliant), and even though I felt very, very bad for making one of my work colleagues cry (with last night’s blog, I didn’t pinch her or anything), she also told me how much she enjoys my writing (as did several other people).

I felt very, very special, which hasn’t happened in a very  long time on my birthday in the workplace (or has possibly never happened, although my lovely Reception Girls used to buy me flowers, which was nice).  So, for those of you that do read my blog, thank you very much for a brilliant day, it was very much appreciated and meant a lot.  And please can you pass this on to those who don’t have access to email?  I mean, blog.  For those who don’t have access to my blog…


For Megan

I’ve been meaning to write this for a while, but I kept putting it off.  Leaving memories in the past, where they can’t hurt us might seem like a good idea, but I know that I won’t be able to make peace with myself, and with you, until I apologise for the way that I treated you.

Remember that time you broke down?  I kept urging you on, forcing you to keep going, until you couldn’t take it any more.  And even then, when it was obvious to everyone except me that it was unfair to keep going down that road, I refused to listen.  And then I shouted at you, called you stupid.  I feel dreadful about that now.

Especially when I think about the time I’d broken up with that boyfriend (you remember the one, the complete rotter who treated you as badly as he did me, always running you down and laughing about you with his friends), and you comforted me all the from Canterbury to Cambridge – you soothed me by playing my favourite songs, making sure that I got home safely, understanding when I wanted to go straight there without stopping at the services, even though you must have been incredibly thirsty (you seemed to be by the time we pulled up onto the driveway, grumbling as I switched off the ignition).

Or the time all of my clothes got stolen, and you felt as violated as I did.  We commiserated all the way back home, you rumbling on quietly as I whinged and wailed about my red jumper, my pink cardie, my full length coat (that I later discovered was meant to be ¾ length, but my short stature resulted in it scraping along the floor), even though you were the one left with a gaping hole in your life.

The time we got into that fight with the girl in the Fiat Punto by the Matalan roundabout, and I was all ready to shout at her for hurting you, then I saw the look on her face and wanted to give her a big hug.  Remember that?  We were apart for nearly 3 weeks, and I missed you every single day.

Or forcing you to take my friends out everywhere, even when you grumbled and complained about the early starts, the heavy burdens, and the overexcess of cheer.  And the breaking of your parcel shelf.  Sorry about that.

And I wasn’t there for you, on that last, interminable journey that you made, when cancer of the bodywork started to take over.  I just couldn’t face it, and left the burden of seeing you off to my Mum.  She called me afterwards you know, to let me know that you’d gone.  I’m not ashamed to admit that I had a tear in my eye, and I regret not being there for you now – sending you off to the scrap-yard seemingly without a second glance. 

For all of these things, I’m sorry.

I’ve met someone else now.  She’s called Sally.  I think that you’d like her.  She’s blue.  We’re still getting to know each other, and although I don’t feel the way I did with you, I think that I could grow to love her.  I think of you every day, and will try to learn from my mistakes.

This is for Megan, or ‘The Cheermobile’ if you will – the best car that ever was.

Second Time Lucky…

I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this before, but this isn’t actually the first time that I’ve attempted to go from New Year’s Day until my birthday without buying clothes.  Whilst I was in my second year at Uni, my boyfriend at the time bet me £100 that I couldn’t go the 6 and a half months between those dates without purchasing any clothing whatsoever.  Those of you that know me will be aware that I’m rather stubborn, so his telling me that I couldn’t do it just made me all the more determined.  I did the whole ‘buying lots of new things before the cut off date’ thing, saving them up for best, so that although they’d been bought months in advance, it still felt like I was weating something new.  Mainly because I was.

Soon enough, it was time to go back home for the Easter holidays.  So, feeling very organised, I packed my laptop, TV/Video combi thing (yep, I was at Uni that long ago) my DVD player and 6 entire trees worth of revision notes into the boot of my car the night before I was due to leave.  I then shoved 2 suitcases full of clothes onto one of the backseats, my dirty laundry on the front seat, ready for Lovely Mum to work her way through (she loved it. Honest.) and Timothy, hamster and friend, strapped in to the backseat not taken up with luggage, and drove over to The Ex’s (I didn’t call him that at the time.  Maybe I should have done).  Clambering out, Timothy under my arm, I looked up at his resigned face.  (The Ex’s, not Timothy’s.  Timothy never looked resigned – more inquisitive.)

‘Does the hamster have to come in?’

Yes, actually. 

Then, in bed later on, half asleep, I drowsily muttered something about taking my suitcases out of my car.  What I really meant was, would HE go and get my suitcases out of my car.  He declined, on the basis that the car was parked right outside his house, and we were already in bed.  

I’m fairly certain that you can guess where I’m going with this (and had probably worked it out by the second sentence of this entry).  All of my clothes got stolen.

Now, let me make it clear – I’m not blaming The Ex for what happened (God knows, I blame him for enough stuff, it’s hardly fair to blame him for something that wasn’t actually his fault).  The next morning, he went outside, whilst I busied myself watching daytime TV wrapped in a duvet, when there was a hammering at the front door.  There stood The Ex, shouting about how ‘they’ had broken into my car, and taken my suitcases.

On a side note – in these situations, why do people always refer to criminals as ‘they’?  I mean, do they actually know the people that have screwed them over?  And if so, why the heck are they talking about ‘them’ instead of kicking them in the shins?

Not only had the little buggers stolen my suitcases, my coat lying on the floor of the car, and The Ex’s coat (with MP3 player thoughtfully left in the right hand pocket), but they’d smashed one of the back windows, and gone through all of my dirty laundry.  Honestly, just writing about it now makes my skin crawl as much as it did when it first happened – thinking about people I don’t know, and will (hopefully) never meet, having seen more of my greying pants (it had been 4 months since I’d bought new ones at that point) than almost anyone I know is a pretty disturbing thought.  Bleurgh.

The weird thing is that they hadn’t even bothered going into my boot.  If they’re reading this;

1.  I hope that you fell over and one of my suitcases landed on your face

2. I hope that you’re gutted that whilst YOU may have my favourite H&M jumper, and whilst YOU may have made me cry for 2 months on and off (as I remembered more things that were stolen), YOU also missed out on at least an extra £1oo worth of stuff. Yeah.

When I say that I cried on and off for 2 months, I’m not even exaggerating.  I had a beautiful pink jumper from New Look that had been worn once, the red H&M jumper (that I was so upset about, Lovely Mum called H&M and begged them to find one, even though it was in stores 8 months before.  They couldn’t), the Ipswich shirt with Cooper 11 on the back from where my Dad played a charity match at Ipswich and bought me a replica shirt – for months, whenever I walked around Canterbury, I looked for someone wearing it, making up what I’d say to them before I stole the shirt back, but I never found them.  It’s probably for the best.

By the time I got home that day (with black bin bags artfully placed around the hole in my window and attached with masking tape), I was exhausted, and just wanted a hug from my Lovely Parents and Darling Sister, before going to bed.  But I had to go shopping, as I really, literally just had the clothes I came home in (and, you know, the dirty washing).  And I hated every second of it – I couldn’t find anything that I liked, and I remember Lovely Mum saying to Darling Sister,

‘No, she’s probably thinking about all the things that she’s lost instead of enjoying being able to shop again.’ 

Yes, yes I was.

And I didn’t get the £100, because technically I’d been shopping.  But The Ex did give me a £20 New Look voucher.  There’s a chance that he may have been feeling guilty. 

I could lay the blame for my shopping addiction solely at the door of the horrible, mean people that stole all my clothes, on the basis that I never want to be in that situation again – I always want to have SOMETHING to wear.  But I’m fairly sure that I’d be like this anyway.  Also, I have it on good authority that The Boy would always get up to get my suitcases out of the car.  He’s nice like that.

And that, my friends, is why you should always listen to the police/signs in car parks/your mother, when you’re told not to leave personal possessions on show.  It really is worth the extra 39 seconds of your time to move the stuff.  If nothing else, you’ll get more from your insurance company if the stuff’s in a locked boot.

4 days to go…

So, That’s Another Two Careers off the ‘Potentials’ List….

I fear that I may have turned into one of ‘those’ people.  You know, one of The Boy’s type of people.  Walkers.  I needed to pop into town yesterday (for various beautifying bits and pieces – don’t tell anyone that I’m still spending money on these things.  Especially not Jiminy – remember her?  She’s my work colleague who acts as my conscience, as I clearly don’t have one), and after much thought, I decided to park in the carpark furthest away from town (ok, so it’s not quite on a par with ‘let’s just march for the next 7 miles, then take it easy for the last 14, but considering I used to whinge at Uni if I had to walk to the shop 2 seconds down our very road, just to pick up some chocolate buttons, this is progress).  Except that my cunning plan didn’t work, as the carpark was full (well, it wasn’t, the free spaces were.  But the local council’s ridiculous idea to charge for parking is a rant for another day).  So I had to drive around for 10 minutes, finding somewhere far enough out for me to walk in.  I’ll be honest, it wasn’t exactly my best effort at reducing my personal carbon footprint.  But I did manage to walk into town (with a full bag of library books, might I add), so my smug face was firmly in place for at least…oh, 12 minutes.

*On a totally unrelated tangeant, I just tried to serenade The Boy with my own, adapted version of ‘She’s So Lovely’, changing the words to ‘He’s So Lovely’.  Sadly, I can’t sing, so I don’t think it was as endearing as I’d originally hoped.*

Where was I?  Oh yes, my smug face.  Well, as well as walking into town (from a residential street at least 4 minutes from the town centre no less, and a full 6 and a half minutes from the library), I also made my bed yesterday.  Yes, made made.  As in put up (I realised that it sounded like I was boasting about being able to change a pillowcase when I was talking to Lovely Mum yesterday and she looked a bit confused).  But I feel that I’ve left a suitable amount of time between Darling Sister moving out and my moving into her old room (when we ALL know, that if I’d had the choice, she would barely have left the driveway after a heartfelt and tearful goodbye before I was measuring her alcove and working out if that Ikea dressing table would fit in the gap where her ottoman used to be), and, as luck would have it, The Boy was in LA this week (he has the best job in the world.  Except for, you know, Kate Middleton), so there was plenty of time for me to move things.  Except, and I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, but making stuff is HARD.  You have to insert Screw C into Slot B, then attach Bolt G and use wrenches and Hex Keys and things (side note – I’m fairly certain that Hex Keys are, in fact, Allen/Allan/Alan Keys, but with a fancy alternative name).  And it hurt my fingers.  So I had a little rest.  An hour and a half later when I woke up, with my things still very much not moved, my smug look slid off my face.  On the plus side, half of my stuff is now in my new room, the matress is on my new bed, and I slept on it last night without it collapsing through the floor – hurrah!  And Ruby (my diva cat, who thinks that my room is actually her room, and she just lets me stay) has already found herself a spot, curled up at the bottom of the curtains.  So everyone’s happy.  And I have a new thing to spend money on – bedroom furniture, hurrah!  I wonder if I can convince The Boy to fund some of the purchases, as they’ll probably be moving with us when we get a house?  No, you’re right, it’s unlikely.

The other exciting thing that I did this weekend was driving all the way to Heathrow (Terminal 3, in case you were interested), to collect The Boy. All by my very self.  I managed to get all the way there without a problem, then got myself in a muddle in the carpark.  Amazing. People will park literally anywhere, expecting you to change the entire configuration of your car in order to get past (whilst I can twist myself into awkward positions to move around people, Sally is peculiarly unwilling to bend at the middle, just because some impatient so and so has decided to park in the middle of the through lane).  Then, some delightful soul (whom I heartily hope suffers a 10 hour delay, and then turbulence and an uncomfortable seat) left their trolley on a slope.  So it did what all wheeled things will do down a slope.  It slid.  Straight into the side of my car.  Luckily, I was driving, and only got a glancing blow, but I was still heartily hacked off.  Whilst waiting for The Boy to emerge from Arrivals (which, I was certain at one point, was going to be on Tuesday, they kept putting the expected arrival time back so much), a man who was standing right next to me (I really can’t stress how close he was standing to me – if I’m honest, he was invading my personal space a bit) turned to who I assume is his wife, and said ‘Wow, she’s even shorter than you!’.  I was tempted to pinch him (I was that close) but instead, maintained a dignified silence.  And bitched about him on Facebook.  After what seemed like a million years, The Boy’s plane landed, and we got lost on the way out.  I don’t want to say that it was his fault (because it wasn’t – I was the one who forgot which floor I’d parked my car on), but, you know, I’d gotten all the way there by myself with no problems…but he’s home now, and I can do my special Happy Dance (not when he’s looking though, that would be even worse than my singing). 

The Happy Dance will also be employed at intervals throughout the week, as I have only 5 days to go until I can shop for pretty clothes again!  And I have seen so very many, that it’s likely I’ll max out my credit and store cards, and the last 6 months will have been a waste of time.  Or, you never know – I might have learned something.  So, in honour of this being my last week of a recessionista (actually, that’s totally the wrong word.  It doesn’t even mean what I meant.  Let’s start again…) 

To commemorate the last week of my spending ban, I will be writing 1 blog post each and every single day.  To paraphrase (actually, to just repeat word for word) Tyres from ‘Spaced’ – You lucky, lucky people.  (Just for God’s sake don’t ask me to do the accent.  It will end in tears.  Mine of shame, yours from scornful laughter.) (If you don’t know who or what I’m talking about, Google it.  He’s brilliant.)

Oh, and the 2 careers in the title?  Chauffeur, and Furniture Maker/Putter Upper.  Or, ‘Carpenter’ if you will.

I’m not saying it’s wrong, but it’s certainly not right.

This weekend, The Boy reached the grand old age of 26, and to commemorate the occasion, I decided to have the red/black/general emo colour taken out of my hair, and have it returned to some semblance of a normal hue (actually, that’s a total lie – it’s just a coincidence that both things happened this weekend, but I really want to tell the story about having my hair done).

I decided to take Friday afternoon off work (after asking permission from various manager types.  Well, just the one manager type.  Mine), as getting the colour stripped out of your hair, especially when it’s as thick as mine is, takes a LONG time.  I also wanted to get some bits for The Boy’s birthday (as I spent pretty much all of last weekend with him, I hadn’t quite managed to finish my present purchasing, and work did insist on getting in the way this week), which I did quickly and easily.  You know something’s going to go wrong when the first part of your afternoon seemingly goes a bit too well…and you see 3 separate single magpies on your travels (those little buggers followed me everywhere).

So, I have some hair extensions that have been taking up valuable space under my desk for quite some time, and I thought that it would be nice if I could wear them on a night out the day after my birthday – I took those with me to the hairdressers, so that I could see if it was possible to have my hair dyed to match (yes, I know, people usually do it the other way around, but it’s always nice to be different).  Unfortunately, it transpires that when you’ve dyed your hair red, and your hair already has quite a bit of warmth in it, it’s probably not going to go a cool ash brown.  And very unfortunately, this wasn’t mentioned until around 4 hours after I’d walked into the salon (and it probably would have saved us all some time, and me some money, if it had been).

So, my hair was bleached, and lightened, and I was warned that my hair would look very, very orange.  Which it did (although it still wasn’t as bad as the time I dyed my hair red at Uni, and couldn’t afford to redo it, so by the time I came home for the Christmas holidays, Darling Sister took one look at me, chained me to a kitchen chair and raced to Boots as fast as she could, returning laden down with Garnier Nutrisse, conditioner and scissors).  Then a new dye was put on, many murmuring noises were made about how nice the hair was looking, and how it had taken really well, and a sense of hope and security stole over me.  Oh, what a mistake.  As my hair was being dried, it became clear that, if my hair hadn’t turned ginger, it certainly embodied one of ginger’s close relations – strawberry blonde, or flame orange perhaps.  Now, I’ve been going to the same hairdresser on and off for the last 8 years, they’re brilliant usually, and it had taken them over 4 hours to do this to my hair.  So I did what anyone would do – smiled sweetly at the mirror, made pleased, murmuring noises, and gave a nice tip.  And then cried all the way home.

That’s not to say that I don’t like ginger hair (some of my best friends are ginger).  It’s just that there is no way that I would have willingly paid £80 for it.  The particular shade that I was sporting as I left the salon was one that only Karen Gillan could pull off.  And (to paraphrase Chandler from Friends) I’ve met me, and I’m no Karen Gillan.  Every time I looked in the mirror on Friday, I wanted to cry.  Then The Boy had some bad news (his car is…well, I don’t want to go into it.  She’s been badly beaten up – luckily, he wasn’t driving, or indeed, in the car, at the time), and instead of being supportive and offering to go and kick people, all I could do was whinge about my hair.  (In my defence, each time I inadvertently caught sight of my reflection, I thought that my head was on fire.) 

After begging him to stop mentioning it, The Boy and I got through Friday night relatively easily.  It was his birthday on Saturday, and to make up for being a Bad Girlfriend, who is more interested in her hair than anything else (we can add shallow to my list of irritating personality traits), I took him to the Doctor Who Experience as part of his birthday present (I don’t want to ruin the surprise in case you decide to go, but there’s an interactive bit, where you act like the Doctor’s companion.  He refers to you as a ‘human sub-species – the shopper’.  See – this is why Matt Smith should marry me, he already knows me so well.  Moving on…), and the museum part of the exhibition has lots of clips of the show playing.  Apparently, the bit where David Tennant regenarates into Matt Smith and says the line ‘still not ginger’ was repeating on a loop, and did so about 6 times as we were standing near it, with The Boy praying that I wouldn’t overhear.  Luckily for him, by the time we’d got back out into the sunshine and he felt ready to mention it, I could see the funny side.  Ish.  Then a lady walked past me on the way back to the Tube, and was looking at me as if she knew me, and was going to say hello.  If this was you, I’m very sorry, but I don’t think that I know you.  At all. 

Darling Sister, The Boy, Lovely Mum and Lovely Stepdad kept telling me how much they loved my hair, although Darling Sister did admit that it wasn’t even, and had lots of different patches (I AM the girl that McFly sang about – I used to think that having 5 colours in your hair was cool.  It is not).  The Boy kept telling me that it was a cool colour.  I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ll be 26 in 2 weeks – I don’t want a cool hair colour, I want to look normal.  Darling Sister told me that it looks like Amy Childs’ (from The Only Way is Essex, if you were wondering) does when it’s fading.  Again, this is not the look that I was going for.

So, I bought an ash brown hair dye today.  And it’s turned my hair pretty much the colour it was on Friday morning.  Before I spent £80 that could have gone on shoes.  If you’re a teenager reading this, and you’re really, really hacked off because your parents won’t let you dye your hair, believe me, it’s for the best.  I’ve used up pretty much all of my whining priviledges for the next year, just on this one weekend.  Bad times. 

But I think that The Boy had a good birthday.  Mainly because it was the finale of Doctor Who last night.  For those of you who’ve seen it, who saw that coming?!  Well, The Boy did.  But still, isn’t Stephen Moffat good?  I want to be a writer on Doctor Who when I grow up…