Early bird!
Yes, me. Yours truly was awake and leaving the house this morning at 8.30 a.m, and no, I didn't dream it, I did it.
The best bit is, for all you mean sods who are probably smirking right now at the thought of my grim boat at having to go through such a flipping trauma - was that I realised when I got to my destination that I did not in fact have to be there until 11.45. :-(
Rather than risk coming home and crashing out only to miss the second attempt, which has been done on many occasion, I decided to mooch around the area for the morning doing a few bits and pieces, and infact ended up having quite a productive day. There is summit to be said for getting up before lunchtime, a la Rock and Roll stylie....
The best bits of the day have actually been the bits after getting back home, where I played with Lulu who was hiding in a paper bag til which she ended up ripping into little pieces.
All this followed by a hot bath and a lazy two hour stint back in the pit reading some steamy lesbian erotic fiction. And a wee bit written by blokes which wasn't nearly so imaginitive.
I had a lovely girly moment yesterday when picking up the above mentioned material - believe it or not, from none other than a supermarket shelf in Ladbroke Grove. I walked past the magazine department and noticed two fairly attractive girls of about my age getting rather flustered whilst tussling madly trying to get a peep at something with the slogans "The magazine that turns women on" and "The Uk's hottest women's magazine...." peeping out provocatively from above a silver cellophane wrap on it's cover.
Swiftly scanning the endless rows of airbrushed glamour girls scattered across the front pages of endless erm, "male interest" magazines, I realised that the only thing on the shelves aimed at women were either boring old television guides, celebrity gossip story rags, desperate diet ideas, get a new haircut and look like blah de blah crap, how to keep your man, how to fake your way to looking good, and masses of stuff on how to spend all your money on a load of feel good shit that you most probably don't have either the figure or the bank balance for. Ah, and then lets not forget the "dream bride" wedding stuff or new baby mags.....yipeeee!
What all a load of old crap.
The stuffy old cack on offer is just not in the slightest bit interesting to me. I don't think most of that stuff actually reflects the interests of a young, single and openminded chick living in these times. Alright, well maybe a tiny proportion of it, but for f***'s sake - being glamorous is, or I think SHOULD be, a very personal thing. Not something that is dictated by what "Victoria Beckham" wore last friday to go shopping in, or what some stupid amazingly rich sad old trollop that runs Vogue tells me is right. I'm no fashion victim. And I don't want to look like everybody else, as I'm sure most girls don't. Or I'd like to hope that they don't. I don't want anybody telling what to eat, buy or look like. And no, I don't want a f***ing spokesperson who sings in a manufactured pop band and relies on shagging footballers to remain in the papers. Nor shall I follow the example of a washed out old model junkie rockstar fluffer who has a profile as big as God and absolutely nothing to say that is of any relevance at all to anybody.
As you have probably gathered I rarely buy magazines at all. I buy the paper, but lets face it, the state of the world isn't exactly an inspiring or relaxing read for your spare time.
Anyway, there it was. The promise of something a little bit different was chucked in my trolley without a second glance. (Apart from a swift lift of the eyebrows and a cheeky smirk at the other two girls, who laughed out loud and followed suit....) The "magazine that turns women on" did not have page after page of shoes or handbags or celebrity news in it, in fact none at all. It was just an up to date, informative, saucy little magazine that had a bit of sexy girls stuff and some photos in it. Funny it's the first.
Right. I'm hungry now, time to shut up and eat. XXXX
