JuniperBlue

I feel like a pie.

Bloated, lethargic, slow and with a sweet pastry crust with an astonishingly bad headache.  This is because I have spent the last week at my parents’ house, and we all know what happens when a girl on a mega-diet visits the homestead don’t we?  She eats like a ravenous goat!  Not just that, no no (it gets better) – yesterday I baked chocolate brownies.  Chocolate brownies in the sense that it is just one huge gooey, sticky chocolate brownie and I’ve eaten far too much of it.  It sits on a plate in the kitchen under a shroud of cling film, tormenting me in what I imagine to be a seductive French accent (think Olivier Martinez and you’re almost there) until I give in and have yet another slice.  I’m paying for this by feeling like a pie.  A horrible huge chocolate-filled pie.  All is not lost though, because tomorrow BeepBeep and I return south to the big city where I will leap willingly back onto the Dax Moy Elimination Diet bandwagon, be chastised by Mr Fox for my sugary weakness and exercise within an inch of my life before seeing my lovely doctor for a weigh-in in two/three weeks.  I haven’t lost thirty-three pounds only to put it all back on, you know, no matter how alluring another slice of chocolate brownie may be.

Hair stylist are bloody rude, aren’t they?  Armed with a pair of scissors and a range of dirty looks that would make Stacey Branning (née Slater) green with envy, one took a look at my hair last weekend and asked “when was the last time you had your hair cut?  Three years ago?”.  I kid you not, I almost walked out there and then (I would have, had my hair not been soaked after the pre-cut wash at the time.  It was a very cold day after all).  After I’d wished for the ground to open and swallow me, I presented to her my magazine clipping with a nice, wispy long-at-the-front-and-short-at-the-back-but-not-like-a-boy’s style that I wanted for myself, only for it to be folded (folded!) and placed on the shelf below the mirror in front of me and the hairdresser to describe how she had “a few ideas”.  She ummed and aahed and held up lengths of hair in front of my face and tied a ponytail before finally deciding on a chin length bob.  I’ll admit the haircut is nice, but to be honest anything would have been better than the shoulder-length mess I started with.  Whilst cutting, the woman couldn’t have appeared more disinterested if she’d tried, occassionally yawning and then disappearing into the back room for ten minutes at a time, before coming back and looking a bit puzzled before continuing with the cut.  I’m not a conversationalist when I get my hair done, I prefer to sit with a magazine and let the scissor-bearer get on with it, but since there were no magazines (or at least none being offered to me that particular day, not even when I asked for one) I made up shopping lists in my head and watched the other stylists behind me through the mirror whilst the woman snipped at my locks.  It won’t take a rocket scientist to realise I wasn’t impressed, and definitely won’t be going there again.  I would mention the name of the salon, but I don’t want to end up with their other explosion-in-Topshop-clothed stylists sending me comments saying “zomg we r teh best, ur hair was lyke a BUSHPIGS btw!1!!!”. 

I have the joys of a three hour train journey with a toddler to look forward to tomorrow afternoon.  My bags are filled with snacks, juice, crayons, toys and my mobile phone is fully charged should I need to phone my mother and scream for advice.  My plan is to feed him up just before we need to catch the train, so he’s all dozy and sleepy…  He’s a sneaky one though, probably lining up caffeine pills as I type and hiding them in his toys so he can be wide awake and in full torment mode.  Alright, maybe I’m exaggerating slightly.  Toddlers are terrifying creatures, though.