- I have my hair cut and blow dried (with occasional highighting) every five or six weeks. After an hour and a half or so of chopping, faffing and industrial strength straightening in the salon, I come home and immediately wash and dry it all over again. Every. single. time. There was a slight change to the process the other day as I delayed the hairwashing to take a picture (for blogging purposes only, you understand) of my considerably shortened and flattened locks and eat some much needed lunch. 'Oh. Your hair looks very short. And very flat', remarked the very observant mister. Little does he know how much it cost to get it like that. Nor how close he came to wearing houmous and salad.
- We went to see Gone Girl at the cinema earlier this week. I remember in the lead up to the release of the film there was talk about a different ending to the one in the book. I've read it but can't for the life of me recall how it ended (and I can't check because my copy was dropped off at the charity shop a while ago). Actually, it's a wonder I remembered any of the story as these days, almost as soon as I've read the last sentence and closed a book, I can't tell you what it was about.
- No surprise, then, that I find it impossible to have more than one book on the go at the same time. I was kind of forced into trying recently when I was accidentally separated from the current read (it's written in the format of a very long letter to a one time friend with not much in the way of action) and had to start another. Of course, when I returned to the original book, I'd forgotten who was who (Ruth? Who she?) and had to re-read parts when I picked it up again, which took ages and meant that I ended up no further forward. Talk about one page forward, three chapters back. Sheesh.
- During the festivities, we had a discussion about eating (well, we were doing rather a lot of it). It turns out the others here share the habit of leaving the best bit on the plate to eat last. I do the opposite and go straight for what I consider the tastiest morsel. I mean, what if you're too full at the end to really savour what you've been saving?
- It seems I've never learned that you can't always assume, especially when you're not wearing your specs, that that stray peanut which you spot on the kitchen worktop and pop into your mouth really is a peanut and not a cat treat.
- You'll probably have gathered by now that the mister here isn't lavish with the compliments. We were in the middle of some meal or other a little while ago when he noticed my hands (huh, after all these years), which I'd be the first to admit are very veiny (and very unlike his). 'Ugh' he exclaimed, mid chew, 'it's like you're an alien or something'. Actually, they're my mother's hands (if you know what I mean). I happen to like them, veiny as they are, because they're just as I remember hers. Incidentally, I also have my dad's nose (which has been passed on to the Girlie though hers was enhanced when she was at primary school and a teacher dropped a chime bar on it during a music lesson). I'm happy with that, too (my nose, that is, not the chime bar incident). Regardless of what the mister says about it.
- The January sales haven't been too enticing though I did bag a set of cheap as chips bedding (not that we needed any more given the over filled state of the airing cupboard). The design is a range of tickets. It's probably just me but I look at some of those tickets and think bourbon biscuits. Edited to add: Homemade bourbons, of course.
