This is a blog about my pimples. Sexy, no? I wrote it while on holidays in Barcelona on September 27 last year. Oddly enough I currently have a matching one, in exactly the same part of my forehead. Except this September 27 I’m staying at my parents’ house in Newcastle. Grotesquely massive pimples in foreign countries aren’t so bad, because nobody knows you. (Though they’re a bugger in the happy snaps.) In my home town, I run the risk of exposing my bizarre hormonal surges to a whole host of people from my past and present. Fortunately the only place I intend to visit today is Best & Less. Me and my pimple should blend right in. I’m going to Best & Less because the Sprogs have gone all coy about wearing their uniforms with just daks underneath. Something about swinging from monkey bars and being mocked for having My Little Pony pictures on their undies. So I’m seeking scungies. Do you remember scungies? No idea why they had such a terrible name, but they were essential attire under my sport skirt in high school. An attractive bottle green, mine were.
A quick Google search reveals scungies do indeed still exist. They even have their own Facebook page, called “I can see your undies, no you can’t their scungies”. http://www.facebook.com/pages/I-can-see-your-undies-No-you-cant-theyre-SCUNGIES/286119899092
Ooops, I’ve gone right off topic. Anyway, here’s my blog from last year:
“I am at my most attractive when I’m travelling. My face assumes a lovely, glossy sheen in foreign climes. It erupts with lots of impressive second, third and fourth heads. The extra heads usually migrate to my chest and, if I’m feeling extra glamorous, my legs. I showcase these extra heads in short skirts purchased during slimmer times, paired with fashionably hairy calves. I accessorise with sneakers, socks and a floppy, tie-dyed hat sourced at Coffs Harbour markets on a previous stylish escape. The “natural” approach I take to my hair and make-up really shows too. It works particularly well the red nose and excess eye baggage acquired during the cold I’ve (inevitably) caught. Combine these assets with the holiday kilos I’ve gained by eating everything I can lay my hands on, plus everything the Sprogs have laid their hands on (then discarded after one bite while simultaneously making vomit faces) and you’ll get a clear picture of the enviable figure I cut when I stripped off in the change rooms of Zara, H&M, Desigual etc yesterday. Being an infamous shopaholic, I was determined not to leave Europe without making a purchase. But, sadly, Europe’s finest chain stores stocked nothing that suited this enviable physique of mine. I chose to put it down to their poor workmanship (rather than mine) and headed to the nearest health food store, where I spent a rewarding 10 minutes miming to the shop assistant my desire to buy psyllium husks for Husband in something smaller than a bucket-sized glass jar. And so I returned to our holiday apartment victorious, my (single) thrilling European purchase in hand.
LAST NIGHT’S MENU: Tapas smorgasbord at a place called Orio – all these yummy things piled on bread and secured with toothpicks. This is how it works: the waiter hands you a plate and you wander up to the bar to collect as many tidbits as you think you can gorge. Repeat over and over again. When you finally reach your limit, the waiter counts up your toothpicks and bills you accordingly (very trusting system, Sprog 1 wanted to know why you wouldn’t just pocket a few toothpicks and save yourself some dosh). Personal favourite thingie on a toothpick – squid ink sausage. Very scary to look at (Husband refused a nibble, coward) but totally yummy. And only 2 euros! Bargain.