Eye, eye...

This is not me...

When I can be bothered (and have enough time) to do my eye make-up well – nothing too ambitious, just a slick of liquid eyeliner on the top lash – people treat me differently. Not that they generally run screaming or anything, but I've had better than normal service, no-questions-asked refunds, a freebie thrown in here and there, and stuff of that ilk.

It could be that on those days that I have the eye thing working, I'm generally in less of a rush, probably have on clothes not stained with food, am wearing something other than my somewhat too-tight TopShop jeans (bought before motherhood) that have literally worn through at the knee, and have bothered to do something with my hair other than shove it into a broken butterfly clip (yes, I know I am too old for such a thing, but at least it's not a scrunchie, OK?).

I spent today looking after my young daughter after a maddeningly rubbish night's sleep due to drinking one small bottle of cheap beer... I worked last night and I have been working all evening (proofreading a complicated legal magazine), too. Little L has a couple of molars breaking through, so has been calling out for attention and pain relief, poor thing. My eyes are baggy; I've rubbed them due to tiredness and the start of the hayfever season. The mascara (why did I bother? Am I completely mad?) has served to do nothing but enhance the dark half-moons beneath my eyes. Today was not a liquid eyeliner today. I hope tomorrow will be...

For those who wish to learn how best to perfect that upper line, such as the one pictured above, this YouTube demo might help. I use Chanel liquid eyeliner in black, which has a fine brush; I think it gives a cleaner line than a pencil. I remove any mistakes with the tip of a slightly moistened cotton bud.

How does my north-facing garden grow?

The back garden faces north. This means the plants that do thrive go a bit mad, like Katie Price when she discovered what silicone could do. They overshadow all the little plants I have ever planted as borders, which end up possibly feeling a bit like Katie's belly button, knees and feet: ignored (and rather small).

Anyway, the woman at Homebase told me what I could plant in a somewhat shady garden, which to be fair, does get sunshine, but not during the hottest part of the day. Her eyes lit up as she spoke. She looked slightly beyond me and smiled to herself, lost in the garden of her mind, even though she was stood near an A-road next to a drive-in McDonalds, breathing steam into the cold air as she watered thousands of plants.

So, I bought various pots of greenery, some with buds, then got home, read the instructions and realised that several of them were potential allergens and toxic if eaten. You try telling a two-year-old that she should try to eat some lettuce or other salad leaf and not the 10,000 other green leaves that she sees on a daily basis. The Homebase people, who were shockingly nice if misguided initially (and I am slightly appalled at myself for thinking they'd be arsey and glare at me), well, they were brilliantly helpful and let me exchange the plants for various items including seed potatoes (which look like potatoes, not seeds... hmmm).

After two trips and an aching back from carrying the stuff (who knew that everything to do with gardening is heavy and makes your back hurt, or is that just my age?) – I have planned where I am to put the plants that promise to grow in partial sunshine. I have also bought a long zinc planter where I'll stick some lily bulbs and clusters of forget-me-nots. Pictures will appear on this blog when it's done, but don't go holding your breath.

I am rather excited. 

I enjoy garden centres with a passion once reserved for Harvey Nicks. 

I am concerned about the drought. 

I am planning when I can harvest my maris piper and king edwards. 

I am, truly, middle-aged.

Edited to add: several readers have come upon this page by searching for plant suggestions for north facing gardens. These are some that I planted (but bear in mind, I'd have added hellebores if they weren't harmful, as well as lupins). So, I have forget-me-not, hebe, cornflower, vinca minor, peacock orchid (mainly in pots). There are stocks and ice plants in the garden, too. There's a hellebore in the sunny front garden – gorgeous – but only because L's not likely to be playing there...

Many varieties of clematis thrive in north-facing gardens – we have some established clematis and jasmine, all of which are lovely. Look for Alpines, as these usually fare well with a lack of sunlight. Veggie wise, I'm chitting some maris piper and king edward potatoes (this simply means leaving them in a cool, light place so their sprouty bits can lengthen, which makes them sturdier when planted out). These, too, are OK in partial sunlight.

Supermarket sweep

Why is it that, no matter how many people are behind you in the queue at a supermarket, the till operator usually moves at a ridiculous and unnecessary pace? What I want is reasonably carefully packed bags, with fridge and frozen stuff together, tins in another, bread and other squashable items in their own bag, etc etc. But what I get is a mish-mash of shopping that will take twice as long to unpack, based on how fast my hands can move. It's as though there is some penalty for leaving the goods on the conveyor belt for more than two seconds. 

The cashier can see that you are struggling to get it all packed while making sure your toddler doesn't fall out of their plastic seat (despite being strapped in); they watch as you fumble to open plastic bags (if like me, you frequently leave the four environmentally-friendly jute numbers in the boot of the car). But do they help? No. They. Just. Watch. And then you pay and can almost hear them drumming their mental fingers on your head as you search for a loyalty card (do they realise that loyalty means they have to be nice?)... and then there's my frenzied digging around for coupons for Aptamil toddler milk (which is bloody expensive but reassuring, and, yes, I did breastfeed my daughter for as long as we could manage when she was smaller, so don't even think about guilt-tripping me any more than I have been).

Anyway, Waitrose... well, they go  m u c h  m o r e  s l o w l y and, frankly, it makes the whole experience relatively enjoyable when I can afford to go there. It's a shame Tesco and Sainsbury's (30 tills and only ever six open, the bastards), don't take note. 

Erm, how old? (part three)

Heavens. I was asked for my ID again when trying to buy two bottle of Argentinian white wine. (This is the third time in six weeks; I was quizzed while buying Superglue at the weekend and had the wine situation a few weeks before that.)

I smiled as some of my cards fell out from my purse on to the floor. I didn't have anything with ID on it. The man looked closely at my eyes and smiled back with embarrassment. I said that this situation had happened previously and that it was very kind but I am 39, not 19. He smiled some more, almost shy. The queue built behind me. I think the people behind me thought my card had been refused or something as they shifted impatiently.

Eventually, he scanned the two bottles. I thanked him as he carried on looking at me as though I had just done cartwheels while swallowing fire and chuckled to myself as I walked back to my car.

Just how old are you?

I went to Homebase to buy some glue, a new vase to replace the one the wind blew over and shattered this morning, and a paint roller.

The vase and roller (plus some plain white plates that hadn't been on my list) were easy to find but I couldn't locate the glue. There didn't seem to be a glue section, nor was there a big 'ADHESIVES' banner hanging above any aisles.

So, I asked a Homebase man where the Superglue was and he literally looked me up and down as though I was insane. He frowned: "Hmm, are you over 18?"

I am 39.

Thirty-nine!! Hahahahaha.

I laughed, how I laughed. The man, perhaps taken aback by my manic cackling, took me to the glue area and left me there, still looking at me somewhat askance, probably imagining me later with my hoodies and dem, swigging cheap booze and, erm, copping a load of Superglue fumes. There was a fat man standing in front of most of the glue display. Squinting, I read from a distance to see which of the many types of glue I could use, reached in front of his massive belly and plucked a packet from the display. He continued to stand, motionless, mesmerised by the yellow tubes of Araldite, apparently.

I've been asked for ID in the past two months when buying wine but at least there you have to look 21. I cannot believe this man thought I was 17. It could be flattering, I guess, but I don't want to look younger than 18, thanks very much!

Anyway, the vase is in place, the glue was used to stick down M's pawprint motif on her bed (she had pulled it up and eaten a bit of it), and I just can't be bothered to paint today, so am listening to rock music while online shopping and intermittently cleaning the place.

I'll try to buy some wine later and see if the youth fairy's spell is still working.

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Listening to: Echo & The Bunnymen - The Killing Moon

How old are you?

The start of a very, very busy day was made sweeter by the woman in Tesco who asked me if I had any ID on me, as I had a bottle of cava in my mound of supermarket shopping (I had started the day especially early, as S and I had to collect a car from the garage and I had to give him a lift there).

I told her I am in my late 30s and the cashier exclaimed in surprise. She examined my shopping, saying that I obviously look after myself. She looked impressed at my fruit and vitamins. (There was cake, alcohol and crisps in there, too.)

It was funny. I cannot believe the cashier really thought I was under 18 – maybe she is a soul who likes to cheer folk up. But I shall retain the memory, in any case.

Old maid's knee?

I have to have my knee looked at today at the knee clinic. I'm quite glad that my car is an automatic so that I don't have to use my left leg at all. Instead it just stays there, tapping gently to the music that I pour through the speakers.

People have been scaring me with various tales of knee woe. One had an operation that took 18 months to heal; another had to have their knee drained. Drained?! And a third had to give up football (OK, so that was someone telling me about Paul Gascoigne.) And there are more tales, usually involving people's mothers. I am indeed old enough to be a mother, oh yes. But still. Also, they throw the names of conditions at me – old maid's knee, housemaid's knee and so on... one person kindly called it runner's knee, which sits more easily with me.

I am desperate to get the joint better. I need to run to keep feet [eh, typo, or what? I meant 'fit']. Kung fu is keeping me fairly fit, from what I can do, but being at half power isn't enough... My capacity for doing press-ups is increasing though, so that's good.

I will have to return the recently-purchased platform heels (12.5 cm), partly because they are a bit too high, but mainly because – shame – I opened another shoe box last night and found a pair that I bought pre-knee and hadn't been able to wear (and had forgotten about). They are absolutely gorgeous. Mmm. I will have to impress on the orthopaedic doctors how vital it is that I wear these new heels. I don't wear high heels often but I would like the option. There's only so many months a year that a girl can get away with Uggs (well, the NZ version of Uggs)... And, right... anyway... I can't wear them to the office. They'd never take me seriously again.

Retail therapy

Ah, the last bit of the working week was a bit pants. Without going into too many details, something went wrong (OK, so that's really quite crappy as far as details go...). But anyway, anyway, anyway, it was a bit iffy when I got the post and opened a letter, and I was rather peeved. My stomach slumped, my heart sank and my forehead crumpled. Ha, I've been through worse.

Still, I couldn't focus on work, as much as I tried. So, I took myself off in my car and headed to the local shops. The local shops are very nice indeed. Mmm, yes. And it was a weekday and not many people were out and about so I had shop assistants – entire departments' worth – to myself.

There they were, bringing me shoes, telling me how good they looked (and they did...). And I purchased said shoes. I did. I forgot, conveniently, that my knee is basically royally fucked, and I handed over my shiny card in exchange for a pair of shiny new platform shoes. And then, I thought it was time to go, because, yes, I did feel a bit better.

But obviously not better enough.

I found myself drawn into the third shop along from the shiny shoe place – a shop that normally never satisfies... went in, browsed, and saw a gorgeous skirt. Lovely. Unusual shape and tailoring. I picked up my size, went into the changing room and, well, it was just a formality really. I felt quite smug as it was wrapped in tissue paper, packaged and handed over. Ahh.

I drove home, feeling quite a bit better than I did when I had set out. I may take the shoes back if the doctor bans me from wearing heels but I will still have my lovely skirt...

The rest of the day was a bitty workwise but I managed to accomplish some necessary tasks and then went to kung fu and had a brilliant session, despite the knee problem. I wasn't up to full strength but it was fine as the instructor kept in mind the knee thing and I managed to do a fair bit. Endorphins are definitely the best therapy of all.

Kneed and the city

Kung fu has left me with an injured ligament in my knee. In fact, I have a proper sports injury: runner's knee. It hurts – a sharp, stabbing sensation – when I move in certain ways, and, as you can imagine, kung fu demands plenty of moves. The solution? Rub with tiger balm and rest. Argh.

I feel frustrated at yet again having something wrong with me that stops me from going for it, all guns blazing (well, fists). One of my classmates is up for a competition and I would have liked to have started training for the one after. Instead, I have to mainly do stuff that involves standing on the spot. It's driving me mad. Well, at least I had the chance to hit pads at the end of class.

I'm not a violent person. It's funny when people say: "Ooh, you do kung fu, you must be sooo violent." Er, no. It's not quite like that. We sure as heck don't go out as a mob, duffing up members of the public as we are so pumped up. Sure, some of us could do serious damage, but when you can, you tend to be able to keep a lid on it. You couldn't be any good at kung fu without learning self-control. Also, once you have taken a martial arts class – just one – you'll find the police will automatically assume that you mean business if you get into a fracas. Silly, but true.

But, having said that, it is deeply cathartic. When I've had a stressful day, or have been dealing with things that have been rather heavy (such as those that pertain to the reasons I have suffered from insomnia for so long), kung fu is brilliant. If you can do it properly... I was doing some fairly easy moves at the end of class but nevertheless felt a sharp pain – back to square one with the knee. Damn.

Anyway, I tried a couple of classes, which I found frustrating, and then came home, still not quite warm enough. S was at a football match, so I stuck a pizza in the oven, poured myself a glass of some award-winning chardonnay I'd bought from Marks and Spencer (now 20 per cent off all wines and spirits, if anyone's interested), and waited for Sex and the City to start on one of the satellite channels. Not the healthiest meal in the world. Oh well...


Ah, Sex and the City. I love it. I have said it before: it isn't worthy (and why on earth should it be?) and it sure isn't dull. It made me laugh and I coveted some of the clothes. I have no idea which series I was watching but I recalled parts of some of the episodes from seeing them years ago. Still, the lines were sharp. They won't appeal to everyone but for me and my friends the programme was a must-watch when it first came out, and I have fond memories of discussing what had happened, interlacing chat with stories from real life. We laughed and laughed, on the phone or at restaurant tables, inevitably with a glass of wine or mojito in our hands, as we chatted about the escapades of four fictitious women (as well as our own, much more sensible lives).

The combination of exercise and relaxing afterwards was a good one and I slept well until the alarm clock went off just over an hour early, the dratted thing. My leg aches today and I have a snuffly cold... if I had my way, I'd sit on the sofa and watch SATC all day. I could order the DVDs... Online shopping is such a temptation when you're working at home and can't walk around the shops. What's a girl to do?

Let them eat cake?

How can Selfridges justify charging £3.95 for a slice of cake*? They must just buy cake, probably from some cheap-as-chips supplier (judging by the taste), cut it into 20 pieces, and make an easy profit of about £70. Madness.

If the cake was orgasmic, then fine – I would happily pay £3.95 for a bit of cake that made me tingle. But this one was not moist enough (I expect my fork to slide through it with no effort), it had no cream with it to help make it edible. It was a total rip-off. My cake was chocolate and was horrible – I don't often find chocolate cake inedible. S had a sponge, which didn't even have a layer of real cream in it.

We sent them back and had them replaced with the same again. Yuk.

* I realise the choice to buy said cake is mine. But I didn't look at the price until I was at the till and it had been rung through. I didn't expect a small slice of cake to cost nearly four quid.

Pictures

I need to buy a new camera. It needs to be digital, small, not too expensive, reliable and easy to operate.

I'm thinking of purchasing a Canon, as I have always had good experiences with this make. But I am not sure... Weirdly, the man on the radio has just recommended a Canon camera to his co-presenter. I may take this as a sign. Mmm.

London: another kiss

I love London. Love, like you could love a person. It has its faults, benefits, beauty, ugliness, character, style, brittleness, warmth and can either bring you down or inspire you.

I know which bits of London inspire me, and, as a Londoner, I know them well. Their pavements and parks have the imprint of my heels at some molecular level. I go to them sometimes serendipitously because my bus takes me past – or to – them depending on where I am working. Other places involve a short or long drive at the weekend. And there is the part of London in which I live – it has pockets of beauty that may inspire me to buy a new camera soon, seeing as my current one no longer works. The formerly trusty Canon now takes pictures that are criminally underexposed, leaving me with the hint of an interesting photograph. I couldn't live in a concrete-dominated area with no trees, parks, waterways or space to breathe.

Last week, I had so much to do that I worked on Saturday, but I don't mind doing so now and again because there is always something to do in the evening: a sweet carrot. I went with two friends to watch a third friend take part in a comedy competition. S was still away, or he would definitely have come along. We used to go to live comedy frequently when we first met – The Comedy Store in the West End was a particular favourite, and we also went to smaller, more intimate venues around the capital. We've found a couple of places close enough to where we live that we can walk there and back, which means we can drink beer (or in my case, Guinness) while we watch. The comedy contest was a good night. We complained about the standard of some of the acts and sat back with surprised laughter when some of these fledgling acts managed to make the room chuckle in a good, rather than embarrassed manner.

The night before that, I went to the cinema – the film was good but the price to get in and the cost of popcorn these days is madness (something not-so-good about London, though this may just be the case with Odeon cinemas everywhere). On Sunday, having slept pretty badly (partly due to work stress, partly due to the pain in my rib), I drove to Kings Road, Chelsea, to wander with no agenda and no one to meet – exactly what I needed.

Chelsea is fantastic. Not just because it has shops, no, but it is not crowded and feels spacious for a main street, has little cafés where you need not spend more than a fiver on lunch, and is head and shoulders above its nearby cousin, Kensington High Street. Also, I discovered a road where you can park free on Sundays – a huge bonus that is going to remain secret.

I did buy a few clothes, one of which was a jacket that had an extra forty quid slashed off the price tag at the till, rendering it bargainous. Then, I had a slow lunch while I read a magazine and people-watched before going for a walk and then driving home. There was some traffic but I didn't mind too much – the route home was fairly scenic, and once on the main road, it was very quick.

Back at my castle, I flumped on to the warm sofa with M, the rabbit, by my side and watched a DVD. Maybe you can do similar things anywhere, but in London there is a lot of what I like on offer with little effort involved to enjoy it. Maybe it is that I know where to find what I like. This city is vast. Rivers, yes rivers, incredible history, a plethora of entertainment, wide green parks, good food, style, art, culture, views, and most of all? Home.

Hot cross buns

Mmm, yes. I saw hot cross buns in Sainsbury's two days ago.

Today I saw someone buying them. Surely the scent of pine needles, brandy butter and mince pies cannot have evaporated yet?

It's Christmas, be happy!

My supermarket visit today was not relaxing. Sometimes, when I am working at home and can get there early, it is fairly quiet when I arrive. On such occasions, there is time to read the labels and scan shelves. Weirdly for some, I enjoy doing this.

But today, the place was packed with people impatiently pushing trolleys down aisles populated by those who hadn't had the foresight to make a list and loitered annoyingly, oblivious to the dozen people stuck in their wake of indecision. I carried a basket and a small shopping list but managed to fill it so that I could only lift it if I used both of my kung fu-strengthened arms.

All the checkouts were open so I put my basket down behind a grey-haired woman who was buying a feast's worth of goods and remembered that I had forgotten to but the stuff you pour down the plughole to get the water to flow faster. In the minute I was gone, the feast-buyer still had plenty on the conveyor belt but a youngish woman had wheeled her trolley up. When I slipped in to where my basket was – in its legitimate place in the queue – she snapped: "You shouldn't do that!" And thus ensued a ridiculous conversation where this sad, lumpy woman, who looked as though she sucked lime for pleasure, kept on and on about it. How, oh, the world would end if everyone did that. And, oh, how it would stop global warming if I hadn't left my basket there for sixty seconds. (Almost.)

I told her to stop being so rude and added that I couldn't be bothered to speak to her. I was amazed that such a non-happening could arouse her pique. She really must have a life devoid of any real problems if she could spare the energy to act like such a silly fool over nothing. The most ironic part was when she said: "It's Christmas, be happy!" with a scowl on her face.

I shook my head in disbelief and she changed aisle. A lovely old man with sparkly eyes and a smile then unpacked his things behind me. The woman watched from the corner of her eyes as we enjoyed some banter and laughed.

* * *

This song sends shivers down my spine. It makes me cry, every time.

RIP SS's mum. RIP Kirsty MacColl.

I'm better than you...

I can be as competitive as the next person. But the person I am most competitive with is myself. Me.

However, I encounter people who are stupidly competitive in the context of friendships and it is terribly destructive. Like a shadow behind them that you cannot always see, you sometimes think this most unattractive trait has gone or was never there. But then, the light changes and it's there, sharp and dark.

I have one ex-friend who was idiotically competitive. She even said her new flat was in one part of London when it was in fact in another, less salubrious area. She was a miserable cow when she earned an OK wage, as long as it was one that was less than mine. She was irritated when I got engaged, wistful at my wedding and then pissed off when things got too much for her ego. They got to be too much for me, too, it has to be said.

* * *

What is it about some people that they have the manner and charm of a melted slug when 'serving' in shops? Why do they not go home and stick pins in their eyes, for surely that would make them happier? To the gnarled woman and the effete man in the small store I went in today: you are a disgrace. I will never buy anything in your store again but I may just go in tomorrow and try on 50 pairs of shoes just to make your grim little faces turn pink. Idiots.

People, people, everywhere, and not one stops to think

... or do they? They probably do. People.

It's funny, watching people Christmas shopping today, I wondered what it was all about, whether we are just bigger mice on bigger wheels. Signs said: 'Want it, Need it, Buy it'... And people, they bought and bought. It took an age to even get near the car park, let alone find a space. Why was I there? To buy some cards and a birthday gift. I could have waited until tomorrow and done that in my lunchtime. Ah, well.

Not many stopped to listen to the brass band playing (beautifully) in the store. They started with 'Joy to the World', then went through to my favourite carol, 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman', which makes me think of Dickensian Christmases.

On another note, I have fallen in love with Oxford. I had never been there until this weekend. The quadrangles with their perfect lawns, the tall yellow stone, the wood, the towers, the bells, took me back to dreams I had as a child, of spires, studying, silence and secret places. Christ Church was open to visitors – the hall was just lovely, with its huge Christmas tree, and the grounds near Merton College were bathed in tranquility. Utterly gorgeous.
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Listening to: Editors - The Racing Rats

The dress

Well, I went out and got a dress to wear for the festive parties I have agreed to attend. It was remarkably quiet in the shops – there were parking spaces and none of the crush I had expected.

I looked in several shops and eventually happened upon a dress I liked – a champagne-coloured, beautifully cut number in a heavy material with a criss cross of straps at the back. As much as I loved it, it couldn't imagine it surviving those occasions without getting splattered with wine or food. If they had had it in scarlet or black, I would have bought it immediately.

Anyway, it was getting colder so I stepped up my hunt and came across one of very few dresses that didn't look like a tunic/tent. It's a lined silk satin number with beads around the neck and falling into a drape around the bust, with the waist and skirt cut on the bias, ending above the knees. It's gorgeous, elegant and striking (the picture does it no justice), and when I tried it on, it managed to detract from my coldy eyes and tired pallor. It is now in my wardrobe, waiting...

I also bought merino wool tights and a thick-knit cream merino wool zip-up cardigan to wear in the office in which I am based – they just can't keep the temperature constant and I often sit there in three layers and a scarf. Not good. Anyway, all I need now is for the postman to bring me a cheque from two companies that haven't paid me for a while, and I shall rest easier knowing that when Mr Mastercard pops round again, he will be sent away satisfied.

Dresspiration

I am working – as some of you may know – on five assignments.

I therefore need some inspiration, some reason, some sort of carrot, to keep me going. For now, it will be this that enables me to shove my nose down on to the grindstone:


I am not even sure whether I really, really like it. I love the colour. Oooh, I adore deep red (the colour of wine)... Ooh.

Thing is, I can work out how much I have earned of the fee I'm charging (for one particular piece of work) in direct proportion to the dress. So far, I have paid for the waist down. Just the sleeves and bodice to go, then...

Update (three minutes later): actually, I've just realised that I have indeed already paid for the dress (in terms of work completed). Oh damn. Now what shall I use to spur me on? Shoes? Boots? I'm just too good, me...

Grrrr...

I need some of the above slipping down my throat. Damn this ban.

• My just-dried washing (which was hanging up indoors) has unexplained mud on it so I am having to do the bastards again.
• My car won't start – possibly due to a door being left ajar and a light draining the battery. Am awaiting an RAC man.
  
• Some of my plants are probably dead as they were mistaken for weeds. S was only trying to help – he didn't know they were freesias. He's put them back in the ground but a week had passed. Let's see.
• I am in a stinker of a mood – am sad and shattered. Where can I buy things to kick and punch?

Update:

• Oh, I miss rioja ever such a lot tonight. How I long for a large glass of dark, mellow, velvety, strong, red, fine wine... Mmm... Even that sound as the wine glugs from its bottle into a sparkling, curvaceous glass. *Shiver*
  
• I had to drive the car after it was started up by the RAC chap, who was very nice. I scored him as 'outstanding' on his little palm pilot survey. My drive took me to a place where I made permanent friends with a stunning pale yellow skirt.
  
• Had a chat with a woman in the queue of a coffee bar. She regaled me with tales of How Things Have Changed as she ordered and paid for her tea and carrot cake.
  
• In preparation for the arrival of the red iPod, I have come across albums I haven't listened to for a while, such as Portishead's Dummy. I miss listening to Strangers while drinking red wine and writing my novel.
  
• I am calmer. But I have been doing random kung fu moves at home (on S and his father), in the style of Kato in The Pink Panther. No one was hurt (I was careful. Not incompetent).

Because I'm worth it

After the day/weeks I've had of late, I felt I needed a new toy. This is not simply an indulgence. It is a necessity.

Obviously, it's good that I haven't just gone out and bought another pair of boots or shoes. Where would I put them, anyway? Indeed, there are several salient reasons:

• It is red (my favourite colour).
• It will be compatible with my iMac, which is not the case with my current MP3 player. Too complicated for words.
• It will enhance my commutes (many hours of my life...).
• It benefits charidee (I have to admit, ashamedly, that this is simply coincidental).