| 100 in 1000 |
- Spend a week up a mountain learning to ski
- Visit Karoline's place in Moravia
Hold a conversation in Czech (only)- Drink 500ml of each of the following beers:
PilsnerStaroprammen- Budvar
- Velke Popovice
- U Fleku
GambrinusKrusovice
Respond to at least one GOARN request (WHO and MSF are
also acceptable)Travel across the AtlanticReturn to South America- Read a book to, or with, an impressionably aged child
- Participate in one NanoWriMo Challenge and come within at least 10,000 words of the goal length
Have my nose pierced- Have my next tattoo drawn
Purchase the perfect jeans (x 2 pairs)- Attend a spin class 3 times a week for 8 consecutive weeks
- Bake Viv's cheesecake
Make David's casserole Make David's Chicken Cashew-nut StirfryInvite 4 people who don't know one another too well to dinner- Ride from Vienna to Venice on a motorbike (pillion acceptable, those less desirable)
- Attend a book group for at least two books
- Go on a choir weekend (learn and perform difficult piece in two/three days)
- Visit Madame Tussaud's (in London)
- Take an architecture appreciation course
Join an all-girl group and sing a soloPublish in a scientific journal (top two authors)Cook a duck or other 'waterfowl'. Locate the Al-Timimi's from Doha Veterinary PractiseHave a pedicureMaintain a Brazilian (ouch) for three months.Find a trustworthy Czech hairdresser- Treat my inner-6-year-old twice a week (at least)
- Do the liver-cleansing diet properly (12 weeks)
- Don't eat out for one month
Find a flat and flatmate- Purchase one Joseph sweater
- Purchase one of the following pairs of
designer shoes (they MUST also be COMFORTABLE, and be able to be worn with 4
different outfits and 2 types of occasion): Jimmy Choos, Manolo Blahniks,
Christian Louboutin (Ebay or 2nd hand are acceptable)
- Send 5 books to the booksphere and track them.
- Go hanggliding
- Read 10 'classic' books (from 1001 Books to Read before you Die)
Moll FlandersEverything is illuminatedMadam BovaryZen & the Art of Motorcycle MaintainanceCatch-22OdysseusOn the Road
- Run (non-stop!) for 5kms outside (preferably in a street race thingy)
- Send Christmas Cards on time
Make a collage/mural out of street lights on my wallBuy a bed, build it, and sleep soundly in itGo to AfricaHost an 'event' (classified as and when)Organise a 30th Birthday PartyWear a costume- Sing on stage
- Buy a painting that evokes memories of Prague (cannot involve queues!)
Learn a god-damned card game that stays in my memory (other than fish/snap)See sunrise. Be sober. Have woken for it. Excludes months Nov-Mar- Take a walk and flip coins at each intersection
Win something- Draft a will
- Take a roadtrip
Go to Italy already- Sea Kayak around Abel Tasman Park (NZ)
Get plantsTake a train to another Eastern European Destination (accession countries are acceptable) alone preferably.- Get UK to give me a provisional motorcyclists license and simultaneously get a 'card' license.
- Go SCUBA diving again - at least two dives lasting 30mins each.
Go to a dentist. *sigh*- Do a Czech Wine Trail. And live to tell the tale
- Make an 'outbreak emergency kit'.
- Go to bed prior to 11pm every night (inc weekends) for four consecutive weeks.
- Marvel over lack of tiredness
- Dine at a Gordon Ramsey restaurant (or Nobu)- preferably for free.
Bet on the nags- Do something for charity (applying and getting a 'red card' will count)
- Walk along the Champs Elysee
- Do 100 sit ups in a row
- Do 50 pressups (arms in tight)
- Make branston pickle (or nearest substitute)
- Cook something 'new' and 'adventurous' at least once a month
Find a mentorBe a mentorLearn what mentoring is all aboutMeet an online person in real lifeResist the flirt. Once. Just one night. It's okay if people don't immediately succumb to my natural charm. Really it is.Spend time at a spa (spa towns in the CR don't count)- Send a care package to someone
Get a Tata Bojs CD- Take a French/German/Dutch course and SPEAK THE DAMNED LANGUAGE WHEN I HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY EVEN THOUGH IT MAKES ME SOUND
LIKE AN IDIOT!
- Order new contact lenses.
Make a list of things I take with me when I pack for different occasions- Eat lobster. Prepared by someone else.
Back up the blogPut everything onto an external hard drive- Find a DDR mat and console and 'dance, I say dance!'�
- Go to the beach and lie on the warm sand. For an hour. (with sunscreen on, natch)
- Take and complete a course in either: Tango, Salsa or Flamenco
- Join the Municipal Library of Prague
- Move to another country
Go to a live concert of a band I actually like- Pay off debts (student loan excl.)
Send thank you cards for every gift I receive (other than the gift of happiness, blah blah blah).- Get an agent (literary or theatre)
- Go to a sports bar without cringing, by personal choice
- Ride a rollercoaster
- Hold a snake
Spend a day wandering around a museum (not art gallery!) |
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| Atmospheric pressure, and then some |
| Wednesday 31 January 2007 |
 The snow that fell last week has melted already. There aren’t buds on trees, but the weather is decidedly more spring than winter. Perhaps that’s why people are crushing all over the place. There are many definitions for the word ‘crush’, but it seems that changing this word into a verb has not reached the lexiconographers yet. Come on people, listen up.
"To crush on" = the archaic “to HAVE a crush upon”, or to have a brief infatuation with someone.
Personally, I’m a girl who likes to have a crush, I get lots done. There’s absolutely no reason to learn how the postal system works if not to use it in devious ways to ‘accidentally’ send something to the ‘wrong’ address, that of your crushee. When I have a crush, things like bpm mixing all of a sudden becomes vital, how can I possibly give my dearly be-infatuated a CD with all of his/mine/our favourite songs upon it unless I am sure they make sense together in a rhythmic AND musical manner? Not to mention the intepretation of all of the song titles, that they make a complete story. And don’t tell me that you haven’t done the “ARGH! I sent that message by accident, it was supposed to go to the person above you in my address book” sms, after sending them a lascivious message – completely on purpose. Crushes remind you that you’re alive! There’s a REASON to get up in the morning (maybe I’ll see them on the street…), and put make up on (I’d better look good when we accidentally bump into one another). Your boundaries start becoming larger (I’ve never been down this street before, but since he lives in this suburb, I’d better explore it thoroughly) and your stomach feels smaller (I couldn’t possibly eat that mint, in case he smiles and my mouth is too full to smile back). Your sleep is ruined (I shall not move a muscle while I sleep so that my face is unlined and unpuffy tomorrow morning) but your eyes sparkle like you’ve been snorting cocaine (it’s the zealous look). But the best thing about crushes, is the way that they affect your behaviour, that is, what you do when you are physically near the object of your desire.
I am a researcher, so I investigated. My methods were plying friends with drinks, then asking them sensitive questions. Results indicates that we do the following:
- prodding,
- wrestling with,
- flicking pencils at,
- swearing in front of,
- stalking,
- making noises (I have yet to investigate what type of noises, further research required) and;
- biting.
It’s barely more mature than pulling hair and giving dead arms (the halcyon days of my primary school crush). There’s one more thing that I’ve been accused of doing. Apparently, I command all of the molecules between myself and my intended.
Which is why I’ve never been able to say, “Er, what do you mean?” when a good friend has called me on it. To the point where now, they just say, “so how’s the crush on [name here] going?” Annoyingly obvious, not to mention, who wants to go out with someone knowing that you bullied them into the situation by using your superpower of ‘molecule command’? Labels: Memories, Navel Gazing, Observations on Life |
posted by Nomes @ Wednesday, January 31, 2007   |
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| Chivalry is dead |
| Tuesday 30 January 2007 |
 There are one or two things that our non-european brethren could do with learning from the European boys. Haircuts and Eurotrashpop aside, I have always had far better escorts amongst the Europeans.
And no, I’m not talking about paying for services here.
I mean: accompanying someone whilst perambulating in the same direction for the same purpose or common goal.
Walking alongside someone.
My most recent long-term consorts (as opposed to escorts!) were awful at it. One would walk too slowly, turning a simple “pop down to the dairy” into a “stop-and-smell-the-flowers-and-discourse-about-things” episode.
Pleasant if you’re both retired, but when you have to go just to get some sour cream in order to finish cooking the meal you’ve made, it’s less than desirable.
The other would walk 10 paces ahead, seemingly disavowing any knowledge of my existence, and I don’t think it was in case we suddenly came across a field of landmines.
Both had had some sort of contact with a regimental environment (the NZ Army – a noun I mentioned to a Serbian guy at the weekend which caused him to dissolve into paroxysms of giggles and look with incredulity at me while saying, “you have an ARMY!?” *sigh*) and when absolutely mandatory (as in, I was throwing a hissy fit) both were actually quite good at doing the ‘arm linked’ thing (there HAS to be more proper phrase for it somewhere).
However, males from NZ and Australia that I have met, who haven’t ‘benefited’ from some institutionalisation in their past have not had the wherewithal, ability or desire to walk in such a manner.
I’m all for emancipation, but really, it’s a whole lot more friendly amongst friends, especially when you’ve known each other for 10years now.
Compare those boys with the European boys, who not only walk alongside you, but instantly offer an arm to this, (not-always-a-)LAYdeee!, and you can see who I’d turn to if I needed a champion, can’t you?
TA!Labels: Rant |
| posted by Nomes @ Tuesday, January 30, 2007 |
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| Streets of London |
| Thursday 25 January 2007 |
 Okay, okay, stop with the clamouring already.
Admittedly, one e-mail does not a clamour make, however, the admonition above is a method of making myself look popular. Did it work?
I went to London some time ago. It was nothing more than a shopping trip. While there, I managed to overload my poor bag (let alone my back) with more than 25kgs worth of goodies (mostly of a food nature, though I will admit to having been left in a Boots-coma for about 2hours on Saturday morning. I’m not sure what happened, but it felt good.
Saturday afternoon was spent desultorily wandering around the dregs of the January sales. I could speak to people!!! It was a novel experience. I picked up the nearest thing to me and tapped some helpful person (dressed in black, with a name badge) on the shoulder just so I could ask for “this” in size 14. No, 16. And how about a beige? Oh, no, make that a black.
It was marvellous in ways I can’t even begin to effervesce.
(there was another word, but lord knows my vocab chip is blinking again)
I did decide, however, that I have to stay in Prague for longer (!) to learn my “lesson”. The queues still upset me to the point where I only spent £20 on clothes. Yes. Pathetic isn’t it? Gone are the days when I would happily chuck one bad paycheck after another. Oh no…hang on…it just about IS my paycheck.
We save the world, yet get no recognition for it. You bastards.
After a trip home and a quick smart change (quick, into smart – follow people, follow!) I was off out again to meet M. M gave me a mission. Since I’ve already reached double O status (work on an avian influenza mission got that one sorted PDQ) the terms were easy, straightforward, and topple many an evil dictator.
If, that is, an evil dictator was, for instance, sitting in the uppermost reaches of the Vaudeville theatre, and leaned too far out of his chair to look at the performers climbed up the scaffolding on the stage, and accidentally toppled.
Thankfully, that didn’t happen, and instead Stomp was brilliant. The guy’s were droolworthy (thanks to M, who managed to find us seats that didn’t require oxygen) with their arms/shoulders (good LORD, I pine for the human anatomy) and the rhythms so, rhythmic (think these through Nomes, what have I told you?). I haven’t been involved in so much audience participation since I was last a pantomime. I think I was 6. Our Saturday night crowd refused to let the poor (exhausted and sweaty) players off the stage, we clamoured, we stomped our feet, we clapped our red-raw hands (percussion instrument of choice, for us in the gloom).
After the show was the after-party…(according to a song, which I now have earwormed into my head) which was spent at a bar/club in Convent Garden somewhere (names, places, all sketchy). After throwing M into the clutches of an 18 year old Keira Knightley look alike (“go over there!” - 10s delay - “oh my god…that was quick…what ARE the texture of her tonsils then, M?!” – I swear to god I’ve never seen anyone work so fast with such success. Even ME!!!) I then congratulated half of the party on their stunning costumes (1930’s) had my picture taken with Charlie Chaplin (birthday boy) including the typical “kiss on the cheek from a gorgeous stranger” photo (er, the gorgeous stranger being me – sheesh!) pose, did the whole “I liked that song, but not the one before that” signed communication thing with the DJ and then continued to freak out at the fact I was in a room filled with straight people.
Until two of the girls from the 1930’s party started snogging – then I felt much more at home.
Ralph Macchio (as he would be now, not as he was then) grabbed me for a spin on the floor. We spun. Then I ran off (read: scampered) to get free lollipops from the lovely lady in the girls loo and vodka from the lovely ladies at the bar.
I downed a few vodkas along to an inner chorus line of “feel the fear and do it anyway!” and “look Nomes, you’re in a city in which you don’t live, noone will know….” And “good lord, what happened to maneater Nomes?” and “I hope that when I blog this, my parents pretend not to read this one as well!”.
Hi. My name’ Naomi, and I’m terrified of guys.
I danced. We snogged. I got tonsillitis. ‘Nuff said.
M hauled me away from the Albanian (I travel to London and end up with an Albanian!?) when the lights came up (wise move, WISE move!) and we ran for the N175927. Well, a night bus anyway.
About a hundred hours later (and many thoughts along the lines of “hold it in, dear god, please hold it in” telepathically delivered to the swaying who had full stomachs of liquor) I got to the flat. And slept in – deliciously.
Yes, you CAN sleep deliciously. I did. So much so that the car alarm that went off across the road failed to alert me to the fact that my brothers bike was being stolen.
Hi. My name’s Naomi, and I’m oblivious. (Dad, you are FORBIDDEN to comment)
Following a long sojourn around a supermarket larger than a city (Sainsbury’s, how do we love thee? Let me count the ways!) I took myself via tram, ferry, hovercraft, tube, bus and bike to the airport to go back to Prague.
I thought I’d managed to avoid the check-in-blues. Ha ha ha ha! My mistake. I must’ve been in some sort of time warp or trans-european jetlag. They hit the next day. On the bus.
We LOVE tears on the bus. Welcome home.
Thanks to here. You people need to buy me a camera!Labels: Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Thursday, January 25, 2007 |
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| Racedogs |
| Wednesday 24 January 2007 |
 In a country where everyone smokes, its no wonder that the women stay whippet thin. The face shapes are much more interesting and varied from the flat-faced, wide cheekboned gorgeousness of the Czech features, here people have points *pointy features dance*. But explain me this (a lovely little Czechlish phrase for you): in a country where a meal is not complete without meat stuffed with meat, followed by unpasteurised cheese…HOW!?!? I shall bottle their metabolic rate and sell it for millions. We got ‘evaluated’ today. Our lectures that is. I feel as though I’ve been gold-starred because they liked lecture where I, specifically, talked about them. I should remember this for future encounters with people. You mean, NOT talk about me? But I’m the centre of the universe… On the flipside – I can’t contact the adorable Marko (with whom I attended Doha College back in the day) because I have no idea where the hell I am. Literally. My suggestions for where to meet would be either the flat I’m living in or the office I work in. Unfortunately, not being able to read/pronounce Cyrillic, I can only explain that the two are not very far apart – but you have to get to each in a very roundabout way – and are close to a big white building. Helpful no? My social life dwindles… In a country where everyone smokes, its no wonder that the women stay whippet thin. The face shapes are much more interesting and varied from the flat-faced, wide cheekboned gorgeousness of the Czech features, here people have points *pointy features dance*. But explain me this (a lovely little Czechlish phrase for you): in a country where a meal is not complete without meat stuffed with meat, followed by unpasteurised cheese…HOW!?!? I shall bottle their metabolic rate and sell it for millions. We got ‘evaluated’ today. Our lectures that is. I feel as though I’ve been gold-starred because they liked lecture where I, specifically, talked about them. I should remember this for future encounters with people. You mean, NOT talk about me? But I’m the centre of the universe… On the flipside – I can’t contact the adorable Marko (with whom I attended Doha College back in the day) because I have no idea where the hell I am. Literally. My suggestions for where to meet would be either the flat I’m living in or the office I work in. Unfortunately, not being able to read/pronounce Cyrillic, I can only explain that "the two are not very far apart – but you have to get to each in a very roundabout way – and are close to a big white building." Helpful no? My social life dwindles… P.S. Am stealing pictures on account of not having camera: this one's from here
Labels: Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Wednesday, January 24, 2007 |
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| Eye contact |
| Tuesday 23 January 2007 |
I avoid it. It’s something to do with my natural aversion to actually relate to someone (a crowd, now that’s fine, it’s a performance, not a conversation) but individually? ARGH!!! I’d rather crawl under a rock and hide.
(Apparently, this may be costing me big time on the relationship stakes)
And being here, where eye contact was forbidden for so many years (or rather, if you maintained it, perhaps you were a spy, or a criminal depending on which side you were perceived to be on, and thereafter thrown in a gulag to rot) means that I can hide out just that little bit longer.
I don’t have to engage; I can stare at people (that’s TOTALLY different), but I never have to meet their eyes and develop rapport. When I’m sick of people staring at me, I can stare into their eyes with a “yeah? What of it?!” expression that they shy away from reasonably quickly (after checking to see how long you’ll hold it, it really IS like being at school again).
However, there are some times when I actively seek eye contact. Say, for instance, after a one hour debate in a language that sort of resembles one I’m supposed to be learning – but isn’t the same – about methods and standards when sending data, in a room full of smokers sufficient to cause me to sing the “stop, drop and roll” campaign song under my breath, which is about the tastiest thing in the room, since I haven’t ingested anything solid for the last 20hours, and my brain is swimming in the Coca-cola I’ve been drinking to stay alive – oh – and because there’s no loo roll, I’ve just used eucalyptus scented tissues (um, THAT was interesting).
That’s when I’m desperate for ANYONE’S eye contact – so I can give them the “get me the hell out of here because if we don’t go soon, my lungs will collapse and I’ll faint and fall to an area of the room where I can breathe easier, but I’ll make the team look like idiots” look.
It’s all in the eyebrow.
**picture stolen with grateful non-permission from here.Labels: Navel Gazing, Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Tuesday, January 23, 2007 |
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| Beograd |
| Monday 22 January 2007 |
Good Lord, I actually have to work this week!
Here in sunny Belgrade, where they reckon it's about to hit -13oC on Thursday (yeah, whatever!), the panelaks are the same as in Prague, the people speak really good English, the cars are a variety of recognisable and unrecognisable brands, and the words are written in Russian and our alphabet (what alphabet do we use anyway?).
Wish me luck.Labels: Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Monday, January 22, 2007 |
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| TradiSHun! |
| Tuesday 16 January 2007 |
Growing up (and I mean that as figuratively as possible), we used 24hr clocks. Always. If it didn’t have hands, it could count to 23. (I had hands, even BEFORE I could count to 23). I’m not sure whether it was Dad’s father’s army career (“mess is at 1700, boy!”, “shine those shoes. I said: SHINE THOSE SHOES”*) or whether it was the perpetual motion of my Mum’s family (“hmm, it’s Tuesday, she must be in Tajikistan, which is 7hours behind, carry the two…it’s 0340!”) that lead to the 24hr thing but as soon as I was old enough to warrant my own alarm clock (Six?) I was gifted with a glowing red LED 24hr radio alarm clock.
It blared Coming Home by Dire Straits each morning as I warmed my socks in front of my heater, waiting to hear if there had been any movement on the Theresa Cormack case.
The joy of having a 24 hour clock is that each hour, there’s a double. And you get “points” for noticing these and crowing loudly about it. Twice a day, there’s the opportunity to crow even louder: either 01:23 or 12:34 wins you even MORE points. I only just managed to restrain myself from txting my brother “it’s 10:10!!!” when I woke up in his flat on Sunday.
Tell me about your (crazy)family traditions**. *Before we head out to dinner, Dad can often be found in the laundry, with newspaper spread over the washing machine, and the shoe cleaning kit: scrubbing at shoes vigorously with black nugget whilst simultaneously reading the newspaper. Ahh, memories.
**For the love of whoever-it-is-you-call-upon-in-these-situations, distract me from the moronic incompetance of the telebanking operators for Česka Spořitelna, PLEASE.
Labels: Memories, Rant |
| posted by Nomes @ Tuesday, January 16, 2007 |
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| Deserted |
| Friday 12 January 2007 |
Airports, like hospitals, are filled with the detritus of human emotion.
Tiredness sweeps through behind those tired cleaning carts, resolutely unaffected by the stench of caffeine in the same way as the long-haul traveller. Amidst the empty terminals, workers wander past the ghost residues of leather breifcase carting businessmen, weekend tourists; the stale stench of beer burps reminding them that they live in a city filled with touring stag parties of a weekend. And in this peace, the peace special to a deserted airport, you can almost seek through the haze of zealously sprayed designer perfumes, through to a small scent of hope. Hope that the person you most want to see will be there on the other side of those doors when you get out*, hope that the family are still okay this weekend, that your bags will be out in time for you to make your daughters musical performance tonight, the hope that your lover will throw their arms around you, hope that this weekend will be okay, hope that she'll say yes while you're in this beautiful city, hope that your father is alright in hospital.
All of that hope eddies and swirls around the squeaky soles of the security guards in a deserted airport.
I just hope my flight will finally leave soon. With me on it, no less! (But since I can see it out the window, with people disembarking, things are looking promising)
*and in light of my current phobia about airport doorways, will be either in a prearranged spot, or will make a move as soon as you get through the door, so that you're not caught in that slightly red-carpet-esque/papparazi haze of 'waiters stares' as you scan the crowd from left to right, with your heart constricting in your throat and your face a sweaty, greasy sheen from sharing recycled air with dozens of unclean people.Labels: Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Friday, January 12, 2007 |
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| Bright Lights... |
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 Am taking off this weekend for a grocery run. Seriously.
The list includes (but is not limited to):
- cheese (number 3 or 4),
- bacon,
- Crunchy Nut Cornflakes,
- teabags,
- Stargate Season 9,
- steamed puddings and
- flour.
Yes, really.
But most importantly, I'll be chilling with my bro tonight (late) after taking two trains to his place, and then hanging with a friend (ex-archnemesis - you know the type) to see Stomp and grab food.
And MOST importantly. I'll be getting myself a decent soy latte. I salivate in anticipation. |
| posted by Nomes @ Friday, January 12, 2007 |
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| Okno |
| Thursday 11 January 2007 |
 My eyes are what I like to call muddy pond coloured. They’re kind of hazel, kind of brown, kind of murky. I’d wear either green or amber coloured contact lenses, but I’d never actually change the bizarre colour of them – even if it were an option - because they’re doing that of their own accord.
In 1996, I was (good Lord, that’s over 10 years ago!) diagnosed with (I can’t quite get over time passing, can you?) “Fuchs heterochromatin iritis*”. Apparently, this is misnomer, as it has nothing to do with iritis (inflammation of the iris). However, the heterochromatin bit IS correct. As I age, my left eye will lose it’s brown pigmentation. The opthamologist never mentioned what the brown would change to (I’m hoping sparkly silver, but occasionally doubts creep in), but I’ve got something to look forward to.
Currently, when I cry, my eyes look blue. Additional indicators of recent lachrymose behaviour are googly-frog-alien eyes. This worsens with age; time was when I could cry my little heart out into my pillows, finish, blow my nose and then continue with everyday life.
Not so now.
Now, if I cry on Monday, someone who sees me on Wednesday asks me if I’m alright.
But I must be doing SOMEthing right, because one of the other woman who works in my corridor came into the office today, said “Dobrý den” to me, did a double take and said, “You. Are beautiful.”
And THAT, made my day.
(Because yes, I AM shallow. Now stop expecting otherwise.)
*a term that SHOULD be searchable, yet does not return results on any of the four engines tested. Perhaps he was making it up and I'll have muddy pond coloured eyes forever!? |
| posted by Nomes @ Thursday, January 11, 2007 |
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| Christmas is…. |
| Wednesday 10 January 2007 |
Having friends/family visit
To-ing and fro-ing to their place from mine, rendering mine a virtually uninhabited shell decorated with empty boxes and bags, MUCH dirty cutlery (but how!?) and dirty cups and glasses. Duvets dragged half onto the floor optional.
The search for ingredients
How is it possible for shops to run out of pineapple rings, brown sugar (that isn’t truly brown sugar anyway) and glace cherries? We’ve since discovered the latter next to the jam section. Silly old us!
The search for tinsel
"I've got tinsel by aisle three, no!!!! Someone's stolen it, you?"
"There's a tug of tinsel going on out here, check the flower shop near our house would you?"
The Christmas Tree Nazi
"No, not like that. You put those baubles over there, then - no - " dramatic sigh, "look, for heaven's sake people, it goes like this...."
The cooking
“okay, if you take this roasting pan and use it for 45mins, by the time it cools – Adam, what’s the thermoculpabilitythingamebob for painted aluminium? – then we’ll be ready to use it to catch all the fat from the goose which’ll be lying on the rack above…”
The eating
(silence)
The clearing up afterwards
“um, Emma, are you seriously mopping the floor with knickers?”
The entertainment
Courtesy of orgasmatron – only lost for part of the evening
"Yes, I promise, it’ll be a blast, and kill two birds with one stone."
The drama
“But, but, WHY!|?!?!?”
The loss
“Nope, I didn’t take your scarf out…I think…”
The DVD’S
Little Britain season 1, Extras season 1, Nighthawks, Good Night & Good Luck, The Proposition, X-Men III: The Last Stand, Cars…
(I'd like to say I was kidding, but I'm not. Seriously - we got through all that on Boxing Day! Impressed? Or just a little scared?)
The Sandwiches
“I’ve got, mustard, cheese, ham, butter on white toast – you?”
The hygiene
‘hmm, it’s seven o’clock in the evening on Boxing Day. I suppose I could wash my face, but I’m still not having a shower!’
The hats, makeup, accessories and theme:
Russian pimps and prostitutes!! |
| posted by Nomes @ Wednesday, January 10, 2007 |
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| Trouble in Paradise |
| Tuesday 9 January 2007 |
Ooops, I mean Prague.
Still finding it hard to relocate my voice. Because I'm being creative in different ways. None of which involve a four-poster, so don't get any undergarments twisted.
Consequently: I shall answer the totally existential question below.
If you were to audition for Grease, what Grease song would you sing at your audition?
"Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee" as if you needed to ask.
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| posted by Nomes @ Tuesday, January 09, 2007 |
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| Very, very berry! |
| Friday 5 January 2007 |
“Nothing very, very good or very, very bad ever lasts for very, very long” And since my very, very good blogging has taken a very, very bad turn for the slack recently, you can assume that I’ll be back before very, very long. So hang tight, my pretties. |
| posted by Nomes @ Friday, January 05, 2007 |
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