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Very, very not cool: my beloved sunglasses refuse to stay repaired. They only cost $29.95 at a pharmacy while on holiday almost four years ago. They've lasted this long, and I suppose it's only fair they want to retire now. I wouldn't mind a new pair, but all I can find are those ridiculously trendy throwbacks to the 70s which resemble dinner plates.
I have just this minute eaten two chocolate gingernut fingers and proceeded to check my mail and the latest photos from Flickr contacts
- all without first washing my hands!
Who would have thought, when once I promised that no foodish fingers should ever touch these pristine white keys.
I went to the gym today for the first time since I'm-not-about-to-tell. At first I thought it was going to be enough of a workout just attempting to get into my trackpants again, but it all went shockingly well.
I am not deceived. I will know the true damage tomorrow!
If this is the only way I can eat and still be happy, however, then I'm glad to do it, because, you see, Anthony Bourdain has been making me very, very hungry lately.
I am absolutely going to bed in the next fifteen minutes. I have shadows under my eyes. Anymore of these late nights and they will surely turn into deep, dark circles which no eye cream in the world can cure!
Why must every evening always present a whole host of things that are far more interesting to do than sleep?
Things to look up on Wikipedia. One more chapter to read. Something to eat. A new website to explore. Music to rearrange in my iTunes. A quick game of Trivial Pursuit or Monopoly. Old photos to look at. A sudden urge to tidy my room. Anything but sleep!
I have noticed about the workplace gossip/sensationalist that, as their story unfolds, so too, certain changes occur:
1. Nonchalant glance round to check for additional listeners.
2. Posture change adopted to face audience if Yes to 1.
3. Raising of the voice.
4. Stupidly impossible exaggerations.
5. Self-quoted wittiness, eg. "Then I said [insert here poorly modified line from Friends]".
6. More eye-darting to see if we are rapt and/or laughing.
It is at the precise moment of 5 that I like to put my headphones on and enjoy immensely the look of disappointment on their faces.
I sort of belong to a book club. Which is to say, I've done the reading but not yet managed to make it to an actual meet.
I was invited to join by Elo, a very lovely girl at work, during my first week. This was before I became aware of the cynic's view of book clubs: stay-at-home mothers trying to avoid baby-brain and/or single women hoping to meet men by reading vaguely intellectual, thinly disguised chick lit together.
Elo assures me that the club is only a ragtag collection of English lit graduates who miss looking for and having heated debates about symbolism where none exists. It is also girls-only, so there will be no guy-scoping disrupting the frantic search for anything scandalously autobiographical within the text.
Anyway, even if the cynic's view were true, what does it matter? Reading is reading. And reading is fun. Especially with other people. We meet for afternoon tea on Sundays, either at someone's place or at a cafe. Which means - it's just dawned on me - that there's bound to be cake sooner or later. I just hope it's a lemon syrup one.
So, I've got about 330 pages left to read by the end of the month. Not usually such an arduous task, except that I am momentarily but seriously distracted by The Annotated Alice (so good), Lolita, and a stack of delicious mysteries.
