No-one would argue with my blogging deficiency but I think my newly created twitter might be the answer. Quick and to the point (can’t help but feel there is a life lesson to be learnt in that), I surely have no excuse to share, share and share some more!
I absolutely suck at keeping this blog updated and to make it worse I have no excuse to offer for my disregard. Not even a flimsy substandard one. Sorry!
A belated merry Christmas to you all, and to those that pay no mind to such distractions let us look forward to Thursday, in which case I wish you a happy new year in advance.
I have just returned from my winter get-away which was pleasant if a little short and it is all I can do to keep my mind off my next jaunts, which is planned for February should you wish to know. It seems I now live solely for vacations, bastard essay deadlines and shoes…it is with pleasure and such sweet satisfaction that I inform you that my shoe collection keeps growing. The latest additions to my collection include Rupert Sanderson, Nicholas Kirkwood and Courtney Crawford.
As much as I would love to ignore it, the credit crunch becomes more and more a part of my reality as the months pass, rather than an abstract fiscal crisis the ‘world at large’ faces. My shoe fund as a result has been greatly reduced; my heart breaks to state it but I am now on a self imposed limit of one pair a month! Seemingly I am not the only one as so many of you are now limiting yourself to monthly tryst rather than weekly ones…
My beautiful Nicholas Kirkwood's
As a footnote, I would like to use this opportunity to thank those that remembered my birthday - yes, some of us not only age but also own up to it - I really do think it sweet to be thought of on such a day, no matter how much I would rather ignore the occasion!
I think I would like to turn this into more of a photo-journal next year so I will give it some thought over the new year and dust off my ixus in preparation…
I realise that I have been rather slack in the updating department, in my defence I had this notion that no-one actually read my blog but it seems I was wrong because an Irish charmer soon pointed me right on this.
I am not sure about you but the summer has been a blur for me and no, I am not talking of the festival-centric THC induced blur of my younger years.
I mentioned wanting to purchase a car in my last entry, well I have now changed my mind and shall be spending a lot less money on a much smaller metal accessory (to those that have just thought “bike”, all I can say is have you not been paying attention!).
As I have always prided myself on being able to cater for most fetish, some could argue that I was taking it too far in this instance, but in my quest for esthetic perfection I am soon to be fitted with some ceramic braces. Yes, I did say braces, as in those metal things that go in your mouth.
I am not going to lie, I did worry that I would not be able to rock my impending new look and still maintain my status as a ‘deliciously and divinely fruity (think tart lemon cheescake) vixen’ but I can assure you that if anything it will raise my A-game (please don’t ask me what that means, I have been been listening to way too much Olympic commentary).
So, consider this my public service announcement: I am soon to be your favourite braces wearing companion and if you should find, upon meeting me, that I start lisping in the midst of weaving my wondrous magic, please be a dear and do not toy with me by throwing S laden words at me! And don’t worry if anyone/anything will be getting shredded it will be me going “ouch” rather than you…
Be afraid, be very afraid - yes, my driving test looms! Very excited I must say and not even the current petrol situation can abate my excitement. I have turned into an autophile (!) in the past month and I must admit that it has been tough going, what with all the new information to process. My brother works in insurance and what with insurance cost vs engine size to consider, I am finding that there is a world of difference between a 1.6 and a 1.8 engine!
On the plus side, it has been mentioned that being over 25 should help bring cost down a bit, so it seems when it comes to fine wine, car insurance and fabulous companions, maturity counts for something…
Summer officially starts today and the grey skies of London town makes it easier to deal with the fact that as much as I may want a MX-5, without the sun to go with it, an A3 is a lot more practical. I just need to convince myself that is just as sexy, because as we all know only too well, sex sells.
If you see it, and you want it, you can have it…
My intentions for the bank holiday w/e were nothing but good - be productive, cook at least once and don’t spend too much - and things were going swimmingly until I laid eyes on Emilie. There I was minding my own business, listing a few redundant items on ebay as you do, clearing out the old wardrobe, ready for the new season. Pretty soon I had amassed a non-pedestrian pile of corsets, latex and leather. Hoard in hand, I, int urn, piled into the bathroom to take pictures (I find that the bath is the BEST backdrop ever) and the stirling effort continued throughout the days as I uploaded, listed and priced to my hearts content.
One of my items was originally modelled by a well known fetish model and as it was worth mentioning in the listing I thought a picture or two wouldn’t hurt none, so I popped over to the source I had originally bought from and that is when I ran smack bang wallop into Emilie.
My brain stopped working and I couldn’t think straight. I was overwhelmed with desire. You know the feeling, when all you can think of is how to satiate the lust, the craving, the hunger…
There was only one thing for it; I had to have her. Consume her.
And the best thing was I could. She had her price and I had the means and that is the beauty of consumerism, regardless of market. And the market continues to thrive because you and I know that consuming one thing just arouses us to want more.
Have you ever been on a 2 week holiday to the tropics only to come back without a tan?! Ha, I know what you are thinking, it is impossible but alas no, it is indeed possible for this is the situation I have found myself in. For the first time ever I have gone on holiday only to come back paler than when I left. I should provide additional information at this point and the first is to admit that it was so hot in said location that I hid away at every opportunity, either indoors or in the relative comfort of my a/c hire car.
Yes, I was chicken and not even my wide brimmed hat - purchased at WOMAD on an equally hot British weekend - could provide the level of sun deflection required for heat stroke averting survival!
Anyhow, I am back at work tomorrow, without a tan, but thanks to facebook and the numerous holidays snaps recently uploaded I do not have to take along my boarding pass stub to convince colleagues that I really really have been away and not, God forbid, just skiving off for close to 2weeks watching Jeremy Kyle…
I managed to get through junior school without learning to swim and I must say it has not stopped me in my adult life amassing enough swimwear to kit out a Salinas concession. In fact, I am looking forward to sweating my life away in my latest acquisition (a bright orange stringy slip of a thing).
Same with bicycles as I still refer to those ancient metal spokey things. I remember a childhood friend and next door neighbour almost teaching me to ride once outside of our respective homes, but then I got called in for dinner and never resumed the lesson and tbh by the age of 12, as I was, I knew that somethings are just not meant to be - like my dream of owning a ripped to shreds light wash 501.
So what on earth possessed me, after reading an article in the Times on Tony Buzan’s language revolution, to purchase the Spanish edition is beyond me. I mean, if I have not needed a particular skill by my age I am not likely to have to call upon it, right?
Well, after my very first 30mins lesson I can report that it is not as scary as one would imagine. The mapping, or association of ‘red words’ to the English counterpart is not the easiest to establish but as long as I don’t get bored, I will persist with it. After all, it would be great to be able to ask for my vodka watermelon in Spanish as I lounge on my beach chair, as far away from the sea as possible for fear of drowning, in yet another new bikini!
It is a good thing that I do not provide incalls because I would have had to contend with a lot of walk-outs over the past couple of weeks. Simply put, my house is freezing - there is a problem with my boiler or pipes or something or the other and the system needs a chemical flush - now that I am but a day away from having the problem rectified I do wonder how and why I put up with it for so long. I think it most have something to do with the good ol‘ British reserve, for fear of coming across as a wuss or a complainer, we are prepared to put up with a host of inconveniences under the delusion that the onerous situation really is not THAT bad.
After weeks of enduring freezing temperatures indoors, I am beside myself with the thought of what having a warm bedroom will do for my long relegated pleasures and honestly no-one can blame me, after all if I wouldn’t let your cold hands near my Betsy Johnson silk panties there is no way I am putting up with my own probing cold fingers.
So, hurry up tomorrow and bring with you the reality of naked lounging - lord know I have missed Cassidey and Doc Johnson must be wondering if I gave her up for lent!
Living a double life is hard enough at the best of times but especially perilous when your laptop is the gateway to hades! There have been a couple of occasions since the birth of SJ that I have got myself in a tizz over what someone might have or not seen on my screen.
I now think the safest thing for it is to just have said machine switched off whenever I have guest/s round because my heart can’t take the angina murmur that threatens to envelope me when I consider what trials and tribulations being outed would bring. The repercussions, even in our liberated (!) age, are far too many to consider.
Broke the kitchen window. Left the house in a hurry on the way to meet V, realised a nanosecond after shutting the door that the key was on the ironing table. Oops. The scatty part of me wanted to carry on with the journey but the sensible aspect - TG - knocked on my darling neighbour’s door (note to self must remember to give her a spare key) and in my 4″ Pura Lopez climbed over her garden fence into mine, steadying myself on a paint pot or two, and emerged or should that be landed, triumphant in my own patch of wilderness.
Even as I tried the backdoor I knew I would find it locked. Double dang - the blasted door is permanently open bar today - there was only one thing for it. Scrambled around in the near darkness of my garden until I came upon something solid enough to attack my window with. Soon enough I had my hands through a small-ish hole and before you could say ‘Bob’ I was standing on the breakfast bar - actually I crouched, weary of putting my full weight on it.
In the cold light of a new day, as I sit in the front room with a slight breeze blowing through from said hole in the kitchen window, I kinda wished I hadn’t vandalised my lot. So, to google I turn. I need that window fixed and I need it now!