More chuckle-fuel for my inability to be a grown up.

So, I recently had two phones stolen. Separate incidents. Within ten days. Admittedly, I use the word stolen very loosely. Misplaced and not returned is a little closer. Welcome to Jo'burg, I thought.

(Though, in fairness, if I dropped my phone in Croydon or Hackney or some other cracky borough of London I'm fairly sure not only would I not get my phone back, but a pirate-y looking hoody armed with a flick knife and those stupid eyebrows with lines shaved out of them - number of mobiles thieved, perhaps - would probably loudly mock me with it before sloping off. Hoodies don't run.)

My parents, upon me timidly confessing the whole debacle over Skype, are now wildly concerned for my mental health. I've been reduced to a four year old. Every time I say I'm going out somewhere I get a flurry of panicked messages stating that I MUST make sure I zip my bag up, I MUST be careful when going down minor slopes (more on that later), I MUST not get my phone out in public and I MUST make sure I don't lob it on the braai. Honestly, I'm waiting for my mother to ask if I've made sure I've gone to the loo before getting in the car and whether I remembered to brush my teeth this morning. In their defence, managing to steal/lose/chuck two phones in the space of ten days is insufferably stupid. I'm just grumbling as I'm very aware that this will be remembered FOREVER. My mother is an elephant. (A beautiful, long limbed, Tai Chi practising elephant but a never-forgetting elephant nonetheless.) She still cheerfully, with just the teeniest hint of malice, recites to others about the time that I brutally savaged her Sounds of the Sixties cd. *coughs* A DECADE AGO.

Yes, I scratched it.

But I was fourteen and it was very uncool to complain about lame, grown up things like using a cd as a coaster when the girls in your dorm borrowed your stuff. This, however, has been used as a reason to NOT let me do something on countless, frankly irrelevant times.

Lottie: May I please have seconds?

Mummy: Nope. You scratched my Sounds of the Sixties cd.

***

Lottie: Henry just catapulted himself into my bedroom, without knocking, and repeatedly fired at my head with his BB gun.

Mummy: Well, you did scratch my Sounds of the Sixties cd.

***

Lottie: I think I might go and get my hair done this weekend, actually.

Mummy: YOU SCRATCHED MY SOUNDS OF THE SIXTIES CD.

***

You get the point.

So I know I'm not going to hear the last of this for a l-o-n-g time. In my defence, it all stems from an innate clumsiness, as opposed to carelessness. I will fall over anything. I will drop things. I will accompany all of these little foibles with a noise that sounds as if my voice is lunging dramatically as it wobbles out of my throat. I have never been, nor will I be, dainty. I'm rather like an over excitable springer spaniel that falls over itself a lot. It was quite cheek-squeezing adorable when I was eleven, only now that I'm twenty four it's exasperating. Cue my second mobile phone steal (the first one was stolen by a ninja - I didn't even notice as I merrily la la la-ed along to my ipod, the cruelty of the situation totally missed by my scatty self) of the ten days, that from henceforth we shall NEVER AGAIN MENTION, where I managed to fall over the most pathetically small decline on the road you've ever seen and whack my knee, rip my favourite jeans, bash my feet and bleed all over my Havainas in the process. Why I decided to break my fall with my knee is totally beyond me but there you go. I dropped the phone but was far too intent on doing the "jump up" that people do when you fall in public.

Note: People must not be able to witness your hideous, red faced shame for longer than about six seconds.

Hobbling down the road I discovered I had deposited my replacement phone on the floor along with my dignity and, despite doing an impressive Frankenstein-like lope back up the road, I was too late. It had gone. *sniffs*

So my wonky knee is ugly reminder enough of my alarmingly frequent acts of astounding intelligence. People's looks of abject horror and disbelief are not welcome, thank you very much. Richard Curtis would find the whole thing utterly captivating and write a deliriously funny yet touching in all the right parts screenplay about me. So there.

Faddy diets killed my bank balance.

I've become a Jeremy Kyle episode. *wails*

You see, I never seem to have any money.

Fine. Slight exaggeration. Sometimes I have money. But it's for such a short amount of time that I can basically break the average month down to three days of skipping, flashing (steady) huge smiles at strangers, cooing at small children in supermarkets and saying YES to everything - juxtaposed with twenty-seven murderous days of walking around with a permanently dejected air, sighing dramatically, claiming found pennies from between my sofa cushions and scowling at other people's far more exciting, MONEY FILLED plans.

Other then the glaringly obvious fact that I happen to work in an industry that pays you in penny sweets and buttons, I tried to work out why this was the case. Why do I never seem to have any money? That's right.

Faddy diets.

Some girls do shoes, others do Touche Eclat. I do 'interesting' ingredients. 'Interesting' ingredients and an uncomfortable relationship with my wobbly bits, however, burn a nasty little hole in my pocket. Listen small, vampiric Scottish woman off the telly with extraordinarily vein-y hands and an unhealthy relationship with poo, I know I should be DITCHING THE CARRRBS but spaghetti is cheap. Ok? As is bread. Ditto potatoes. Do you know what's not cheap though? Essence of Pekingese mango skin or dittany of soya linseed rye bread. Oil from the back of the Neolamprologus Brichardi Kipili fish or nuts rich in Vitamin something-or-other delicately transported by trained parakeets. All just what I should be consuming four portions of before breakfast to intensely detoxify me and turn me into one of those shiny-toothed, glossy haired people who get photographed laughing as they eat their salad. Apparently. Diets with those sort of food types are cooked up by bored, thin people intent on tormenting others and are only followed by Jennifer Aniston, Megan Fox or Superwoman - all of whom have the money (I imagine being Superwoman would pay relatively well) and the mental (in?)stability to do so. But I'm in advertising, which quite often means you are in fact a total sucker for advertising. *nods somberly* It's silly, but pretty pictures, nice typography and the assurance that spending oodles on organic, hand reared, lovingly smothered in kisses, sung-to morsels retrieved from the bottom of some unreachable sea bed will be the best thing for your body since sliced bread (hmm, in this context that's more than a little ironic) I totally fall for it.

Ridiculous ingredient: I was hand crafted.

Me: Noooo.

Ridiculous ingredient: For reals. I was also lightly whipped and now nestle on something tousled and expensive and one of a kind.

Me: How exciting. I must have you. It'll make me all Nigella like if someone happens to rifle through my kitchen bin and finds your lovely, hypnotic wrapper.

Ridiculous ingredient: Well quite.

Just days after I'm back in the aisles wringing my hands as I gaze guiltily at the instant noodles for R6 - bargain - stocking up on tins of baked beans, wading through endless bowls of spaghetti, trying to decide what I can fashion out of an assortment of pickles and prunes and glaring at the offensive foods I gobbled in those three blissful days of dollar, that now taunt me prettily with their shiny packets and expensive price tags. I also have to battle with the knowledge that we have an entire cupboard in my office dedicated to crisps, biscuits, sweets and chocolate. Lunches are beginning to consist of crisp sandwiches without the bread (two can play at that game, Pret) and Quality streets. Gillian McKeith would have a fit.

So it seems like, until carrots have fancy labels on them and my inner faddy dieter moves out, I'm going to continue lurching from food joy - tra la la I'm bathing in food awesomeness - to food fail. Baked beans on toast is delicious. Baked beans on toast for twenty-seven days makes me want to walk in to Woolworths with a semi automatic.



* Oh and yes, the picture at the top bears absolutely no direct relevance to this post other then the fact that I like tacos (though I haven't had one in a-g-e-s) and I feel that said taco's sad little face resembles mine on my poor days. Besides, I have a frequent tendency to be tenuous and I only have three followers, so sod it.

Spanks. The final taboo?

I paid my first ever visit to a laundrette recently.

(No. I am not that lazy. I was staying with a friend who had put their washing machine into storage as he was moving down to Cape Town.)

So. Laundrette. I piled my clothes into a bag, lumped them through one of those whiplash inducing doors with a violent swing akin to a Venus Flytrap and gulped uncomfortably as I paid what seemed an awful lot for Macro-own-brand washing powder - not saying anything as only a true English person does. I was sifting through my clean laundry a few days later and noticed that something was missing. I wasn't even sure if I could prove it, either, as it was one of those places that neglects to write down what you handed in. (Apparently I went to a lucky dip dry cleaners.) What was worse, however, was that even if they had been clever enough to make a note of what I'd handed in, I'm not sure I could have gone back to ask after the missing item. What was it?

My spanks.

To the unassuming eye they are almost offensive ~ oyster coloured industrial sized underwear that promises to strap in even the most stubborn bulges ~ that you hoik right up to your bra. Bridget Jones knickers. Or possibly a small parachute if the occasion called for it.

I bought them as I was wearing an eye-wateringly tight dress for our big advertising awards, The Loeries, last October and I was too lazy to lay off the Sauvingnon Blanc and sneaky cheese scoffing. When I went to the till at Woolworths the cashier called her friend over so they could loudly mock my revolting choice in underwear and I shuffled, red faced, out of the door after giving up trying to explain it was for a special occasion (cue more cackling) and that I didn't usually wear a tent underneath my jeans. They're vile. But they're MAGIC. After hopping up and down with as much grace and dignity as I could muster (this was not a lot, sadly) I whipped my dress on and voila. The realisation of being able to wolf down food and drink as normal (I get depressed when I have to turn down canapes) gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling in my faux-flat stomach. Hooking up in said magic pants is not really an option, as you either have to brave hook up's face of horror as he lays eyes on your giant, flesh coloured panties or make a speedy dash to the bathroom first and take them off entirely, instantly morphing you into one of those people that goes out without wearing underwear. Like Britney. Truly, I only wear them if I'm wearing a skinny fit dress (this is rare: I tend to loaf around wearing leggings and oversized tops so I can continue to gobble food in the fashion that I'm accustomed) but I've formed a grudging admiration for them. I've even decided that they're actually vampy in an 80's Madonna meets Mad Men sort of way. *scrapes barrel*

But.

I still don't advertise that I'm wearing spanks. Why would you? It would be like marching through the streets brandishing a banner, so you could broadcast to the world that those creamy, caramel-y streaks in your hair were in fact done by Alessandro, last Thursday at 3, or that the delicious Mulberry tote you're parading to the envy of everyone else was actually acquired from a shady night market in Phuket next to knock off dvds. I'm not advocating lying for God's sake, just to be allowed to project a little white lie. Women should be entitled to a smidgen of mystery. So, tragically, my not-so-inner English has forbidden me from going back to the dry cleaners to ask after them. I say it's because it's too late, I don't have a slip to prove it, pre-Christmas rush means it's bound to be bursting with spanks blah blah blah - but I know it's because I'm too mortified to expose my little flesh-coloured lie to an unimpressed cashier with raised eyebrows and laughing eyes.

Festive Fuckery - Travelling 'hiccups'.

I learned two new things about me this holiday.

i) I am neither cool, calm nor collected in a 'situation'. In fact, I am a FLAPPER.

ii) My alcohol limit when air bound is significantly lower than normal. Stopping at, say, two bottles of rapidly necked wine is, in future, necessary in order to never again render my fellow passengers mute with horror as I snort-bark-squealed with laughter at children's films, swooned loudly at Javier Bardem and finally passed out in a drunken and no doubt snoring lump. Four bottles is greedy. Not festive.

These discoveries were borne out of England's inability to deal with snow. And we're talking inches here, not feet. Our green and pleasant was transformed into an icy tundra from as early as the end of November last year (hullo, Al Gore?) and subsequently morphed into a third world country. Buses ground to a halt, trains stopped running, the tube flopped over in pathetic defeat and more often then not people just stayed indoors. Typically British, we grumbled and sniped and moaned but similarly 'got on with it'. I, meanwhile, was basking in the sun over in the hot hemisphere, deliciously unaffected by the whole shambles aside from offering the occasional 'chin up' to friends and family who were losing small body parts to frost bite. I was due to fly back home for Christmas on the 20th of December. Plenty of time for the snow to melt, I thought. Bah humbug, said the weather.

So the 20th of December rolled around and I walked into work to be greeted by an ugly no-fly message on SAA's website.

BUT IT'S CHRISTMAS, I wailed. (Cancelling flights is not what Jesus would do.) The next flight I could get on was Christmas Eve. Well bollocks to that. The only reason I managed to get through the next few hours was a continuous flow of caffeine swiftly followed by large glasses of wine. Sneaking onto the website around lunchtime it appeared that they were flying as normal, after all. Hurrah, I cheered. (Or it could have been more of a woozy whoop as I crashed forwards into my desk by that point.) I immediately cheered up and began planning what order I was going to eat my Christmas food in, day dreaming about mulling any alcohol I could lay my hands on and how frequently I could eat cheese for 'pudding'. Happy days. By 4 o'clock the website said they were off again, the robotic lady voice on the phone said they were on and I was getting indigestion with the confusion of it all. I drove anxiously to the airport, dragging my ancient, 'at least no-one will steal it' bag behind me to be told that yes, my flight was cancelled. Sorry. They would know by 2pm the following day if they would fly or not and, in the meantime, it was best really to hang around until then. I looked at the air stewardess and for a split second imagined yanking her over coiffed 'do sharply downwards so her lipsticked mouth smashed into the desk.

And then I cried.

Crying, friends, is magical. It makes people UNCOMFORTABLE. And when people are UNCOMFORTABLE they tend to go out of their way to do anything and everything to make you stop crying. Her eye twitched and she swallowed nervously, brushing imaginary wrinkles off her blazer. Bingo.

So I totally got on a flight. The ONLY flight leaving the country for England. God bless that glorious, overly made-up air stewardess. I want to say I'm not proud but I sort of am. I didn't bump anyone else off, just took a seat that someone, in all the confusion, didn't pitch up for. I did hit a small child in the face with my handbag as I sprinted, red faced and panting, through the airport though. Did feel a smidge guilty about that and his subsequent wail but I was not missing that plane.

This is the part where I ignore the need for a refreshing glass of water and instead thirstily guzzle copious bottles of wine. I became quite loud. I chatted animatedly to my neighbour. I snorted with glee at the in-flight entertainment.

AND THEN I GOT GROPED.

God was clearly watching when I walloped that small child. Apparently my seemingly shy and retiring neighbour, a spotty and rather smelly Afrikaans youth on his first trip to the UK, thought that, though I was drunkenly snoring, my body was screaming STROKE ME. Dozily emerging from my wine induced coma to be greeted by a moist-palmed paw clutching at my arm was immensely sobering. However, I am English, which meant I was absolutely incapable of leaning over and telling him where to shove it. Instead I mock woke up in an overly exaggerated way, complete with disorientated/I just had a horrible nightmare noise. (I may have been a little drunk still.) He looked at me earnestly like a small puppy and I wondered how him and my arm could have formed such an intense relationship in such a short space of time, before giving him a wobbly smile (you know, the kind you reserve for drunk homeless men who lurch towards you on the tube shouting about the aliens in their head) and dragging my rug between us to form some kind of barrier. Needless to say the rest of my flight was pretty nightmarish as my premature hangover bashed me over the head and I simultaneously strained away from Gropey, tattooing the arm rest into my left hand side and cricking my neck.

Oh (ho ho) but it doesn't stop there. After landing, running away from Gropey, collecting my bag
and enjoying a wonderfully cliche-ridden Christmas holiday full of log fires, scrabble battles, crumbly stilton, snowy dog walks, endless bottles of Merlot and tangerine smelling fingers I made my way back to the station to get to the airport. What's that? The train's been cancelled last minute because of overhead line problems and I'll need to take a round-the-houses replacement train before connecting somewhere else only to be picked up by a train that will similarly be delayed meaning I have to leg it (a - gain) through London, followed by a bag that will surrender it's rickety wheels to a snowy pavement, meaning I arrive at the boarding gate nine minutes after closing and subsequently miss my flight home?

Oh fuck this.





*** Here's to a 2011 of smooth travelling and, if not, guardian angels in the form of garishly made up air stewardesses that melt when you cry and move mountains to get you on planes ***