Face Facts

Since the need to get up and go into an office each day has been removed from my equation I wouldn't say my beauty routine has exactly slipped.  

Rather, it has braked, skidded and veered amazingly off the nicely polished highway.

 
Being a bit of a transvestite make-up junkie I promised myself that for at least 6 months I would wear less makeup and take better care of my skin.  

Sooo... I did the first one.  

Here's an example of the daily cosmetic armoury I had to choose from before:

  

And that's not even all of it.

And before any of that went on my face I used all of these:

I guess you could say I have now pared back somewhat, what with not having to put on the 'morning mask' for a while.  I'm sure there's something psychological in there somewhere.  And although I still have access to a staggering amount of warpaint, I only now have the inclination, not to mention energy, to reach for these:

With a bitta this first:

God bless the new cheap and cheerful, fuss-free toilette.  

Now if you'll excuse me I need to go doll-up and see a machine about a wash.  

Foam Hacking Scandal

So lately Rory has taken to banging soft toys against his face.  Really hard.  

Methinks he is trying to alleviate some gum discomfort at the moment, but I also think he likes to show off those two chubby, grabby things he's discovered at the end of each arm that can search out, terrorise and destroy anything with a foam face.  

Each morning I approach his cot with some trepidation.  

The scene of carnage usually consists of my son going "urghff, urghff, urghff" as Paddington Bear lies face down, Moe the giraffe looks on as a helpless bent-knecked witness and Cousin Jai's knitted tiny teddy tries to make a headfirst escape through the bars.       

I call an urgent meeting to discuss Rory's conduct.  Things go well, although he only promises to get his ducks in a row if he can eat them later.      

Creative or Domestic?

I decided to revisit an earlier floral scribble with some heavier paints and must say I do like the result.  I am loving autumnal red-brown right now, on anything.  I mean, apparently it's still summer here but let's not kid ourselves.

Okay, it still looks a bit crap but it's the colours I like. It looks much better in real life if I'm honest.

Also I recently found an old art deco pendant languishing at the bottom of one of my many, many, many keepsake boxes.  I decided to plonk it on a silver chain, and to quote my nephew, I "felt happy in my body" for doing it:  

Afternoon Delight:

I have absolutely no shame in saying I cannot wait for Jersey Shore Season 4.  

Seeing Paulie D and Vinnie in their 'Italia' gear makes me cackle with unbridled excitement.  Yes I am 38 years of age and should know better.

Did I watch Geordie Shore as well?  You bet your Nelly.

Arachnofreakinphobia

Well it looks like the summer season is finally hotting up, thank the lord.  I know it when I walk out my front door and am immediately knocked sideways by the smell of Farmfoods beef burgers being singed on disposable barbecues.  That, and the sound of tinny Top 40 tunes being blared out of countless Argos boomboxes, patio-side.  But when the menfolk around these parts start taking the top half of their tracksuits off, you know it's summer for sure.  

Well, we have to enjoy the heatwave while we can.  After all, the next black cloud is never too far away.  And with all this mad mugginess comes the onset of another antisocial beast:  

Please note I have only used a drawing. Obviously a picture of a real spider would come to life, jump through the screen and bite you on the face.

  

During summer I suffer from the worst arachnophobia imaginable.

I never used to be this bad.  I grew up in scorching Australian summers and with a father who flatly refused to move the eight-legged chancers whenever they set up camp on the walls of our house each December, like unwelcome Christmas guests.  We even named every spider "Brownie".  So over the course of many summers and many different spiders, we always pretended it was one and the same "Brownie" who had come back to stay with us for the holidays.  In a way I respect my dad for saying no to spider stomping, although I do wish he at least put them outside.  Everyone knows there's nothing worse than going to sleep knowing exactly where a spider is on the wall, making a mental note, then waking up to a blank wall.   

I grew up well-aquainted with bending my legs like pipecleaners to avoid the huntsman lurking behind the toilet door, I am aquainted with walking down dark tree-lined streets at night and stumbling into wolf-spider webs, I even used to pick up and play with daddy long legs' when I was bored.  

These days I am terrified.  I don't even live in a hot country anymore.  Usually in Scotland the spiders start out fingernail-sized around May time, become coin-sized by July, then by August/September they morph into small tarantulas.  Just like that.  I say 'usually' because this year they seem to have skipped the formalities of growing slowly - so scaredy cats like me can get used to them - and gone straight to tarantula size from nothing.     

A pretty big tegenaria (Google it, I dare you, it'll jump through the screen!) has recently set up its HQ beside my late mother-in-law's front door.  The first time I clap eyes on the thing it moves like lightning around the corner and into the alcove, its slick spindly legs still poking out.  Boak.  In order to get past it I actually run and do a long jump over the door threshold.

*The rule is that if you need to get past a spider then only doing so at great speed will prevent it from leaping up from a corner or off a wall and directly onto your face.  All arachnophobes know this* 

In a cold sweat and with hand to forehead I order my other half to "deal with it".  Spiders don't bother him a jot.  He doesn't go out of his way to play with them or anything, but once I manage to drop an upturned glass on one and run away screaming, he will quietly and quickly take it to its rightful place OUTSIDE.  He assures me he will do the same with this one.  

Three days later I am walking down the same hallway in a maxi-dress, confident that my swishyness won't pick up any unwanted passengers.  Then in a terror-filled instant I discover the spider is still there, bouncing up and down on it's very same webby front porch and mocking me.  

With an asthmatic wheeze I wrap the skirt of my dress around my legs as tightly as it will go and opt for a hop, skip and jump combo to get past it.  

As I later try to murder Scott for lying to me he laughs, "Oh, that must be its mate."  

Ha ha ha, he laughs.  Like it aint no thing.  

"But there's going to be hundreds of them, everywhere," he says.  "Not just there, but in this house too.  It's summer?  Der."  

Fair point.  I have been silenced for now.

This morning I saw one in the reflection of the bath panel, hiding behind a stack of magazines near the toilet.  Quite symbolically I threw a book at it.  

Bullseye.  

Sorry Brownie.