Fast cars and funk

When I arrived at the office today Alun said, 'You look very smiley!'

'I've just driven here in Betty.'

He looked puzzled so I explained. 'I'm driving along and - clonk - the glove compartment falls open. I lean across and push it closed. Bink - the radio turns itself off; I turn it back on. Clonk, the glove compartment falls open; I push it closed. Bink, the radio turns itself off. Clonk, the glove compartment falls open. Is it any wonder I'm hysterical by the time I get to work?'

Ah, the joys of driving an old car.

* * * * * * * * * *

Hair appointment this afternoon. I arrive to be told that Mark has had to go home very sick. Lindsay does my hair instead. She is very enthusiastic. She chops and slices and thins. At the end she says, 'It's very versatile. Next time you're going somewhere funky, call in and we'll funk it up for you.'

She's confused me with someone who goes to funky places but I don't tell her; I just smile. I think about telling her I am going to Zac's tonight; that is about as funky as I get.

This service is temporarily out of order

I'm on my way to the hairdressers when I stop at a hole in the wall to get money out. A woman is front of me uses it then I step up. It says, 'Insert your card'; I do so.

It says, 'This machine is temporarily out of service.'

I say, 'Oh. Give me back my card then.'

It says, 'This machine is temporarily out of service.'

I press a variety of buttons; it says, 'This machine is ...'

I begin to squeak and hop from foot to foot. 'Eek, urh, ur!'

I look around for my fairy godmother or anyone who will tell me what to do now.

I start biting my nails and talking to myself simultaneously.

'Okay, now, calm down, think sensibly. Breathe. That's important. In, out, in out, that's better. Think, think.'

The hairdresser will have to wait for me; I will go straight to my bank and let them sort it out. What if my card pops out as soon as my back is turned? I walk away, looking over my shoulder.

At the bank I explain what has happened and they sit me down while they sort it out. The girl says she has to ask me some questions so I can prove I am who I say I am. 'Name? Address?'

So far so good.

'Account details?' (No, sorry.)

'What was the last transaction on your account?' (No idea. Last week maybe? 'For how much?' No idea.)

'Do you have an overdraft facility?' (No idea.)

In the end she decides that if I were a con artist I would be better prepared than this and does what has to be done.

I get to the hairdressers ten minutes late; they give me tea and a sit-down. I finally stop whimpering.

Lashings of custard

I am no longer a little fat badger!

I went to the hairdressers this afternoon and now I'm more like a little fat red squirrel.

Then I stopped in the market on the way back to get kebabs from the butchers and some veg for stir fry, providing us with a healthy and reasonably diety meal. If it hadn't been for the syrup sponge pudding we had for afters.

Well, I had to call into Tesco's and they had these little dinky pairs of puddings for about 69p - so you can see how small they must have been. Hardly more than a mouthful really. And surely not more than a few calories.

It would probably have been fine if I hadn't had 1/2 pint of custard with mine. (Younger Son didn't want custard so I had to eat it all.) But if you're having custard you've got to have lots. I can't stand it in restaurants when they serve custard with a pudding and it comes and there's hardly enough custard to cover a sixpence. It's got to drown the pudding. Mm-mmm.

So, back on the diet now. It's not going awfully well. According to the scales last Saturday, I had put on 4 lbs, for goodness sake. But I don't believe it. I suspect it of waging psychological war against me.

Like an egg without salt

Come February, Daughter will have been married four years (give or take a year - I'm never sure).

I made their wedding cake (but left the icing to a professional) and, as is traditional, kept one of the layers to use for the first christening. As the chance of that day coming anytime in the near future is as likely as England winning the 2007 rugby world cup, I decided it was time to make some space in the freezer and turn it into a Christmas cake.

Unfortunately, time being as elusive as it is, it's now going to be a New Year cake. I've removed the old icing and marzipan and replaced it with fresh marzipan and will do the icing tomorrow. And as Husband is the only person who likes Christmas/wedding cake, it will last long enough to double up as an Easter Cake too.

By the way, when I say, 'do the icing', I mean roll out the shop-bought fondant icing and lay it over the cake. I might see if I can find 2007 in candles - or something equally artistic and understated!

* * * * * * * * * *

Seeing Elsie's post, with the photo of her husband wearing the beard he grew at her request, reminded me that Husband has forgotten his intention/threat (depending on where you stand) to shave off his moustache over the Christmas holiday.

In the 32 years I've known him he's only once been without facial hair. That was over a Christmas and I said then, and I reminded him this time, that if he did it again I would divorce him.

There's an old Spanish proverb that says that kissing a man without a moustache is like eating an egg without salt. Guy de Maupassant describes it thus in The Mustache.

... he has shaved off his mustache. You cannot imagine, my dear Lucy, how it changes him! I no longer recognize him-by day or at night. If he did not let it grow again I think I should no longer love him; he looks so horrid like this.
In fact, a man without a mustache is no longer a man. I do not care much for a beard; it almost always makes a man look untidy. But a mustache, oh, a mustache is indispensable to a manly face. No, you would never believe how these little hair bristles on the upper lip are a relief to the eye and good in other ways. I have thought over the matter a great deal but hardly dare to write my thoughts. Words look so different on paper and the subject is so difficult, so delicate, so dangerous that it requires infinite skill to tackle it.
Well, when my husband appeared, shaven, I understood at once that I never could fall in love with a strolling actor nor a preacher, even if it were Father Didon, the most charming of all! Later when I was alone with him (my husband) it was worse still. Oh, my dear Lucy, never let yourself be kissed by a man without a mustache; their kisses have no flavor, none whatever! They no longer have the charm, the mellowness and the snap- yes, the snap--of a real kiss. The mustache is the spice.
Imagine placing to your lips a piece of dry--or moist--parchment. That is the kiss of the man without a mustache. It is not worth while.
Whence comes this charm of the mustache, will you tell me? Do I know myself? It tickles your face, you feel it approaching your mouth and it sends a little shiver through you down to the tips of your toes.
And on your neck! Have you ever felt a mustache on your neck? It intoxicates you, makes you feel creepy, goes to the tips of your fingers. You wriggle, shake your shoulders, toss back your head. You wish to get away and at the same time to remain there; it is delightful, but irritating. But how good it is!
A lip without a mustache is like a body without clothing; and one must wear clothes, very few, if you like, but still some clothing.

There's no need for me to say anything else.