Do blondes have more fun?

I’ve spent over five hours in the hairdressers and I am about to discover if the Bardots of this world really get to have more fun than the rest of us. I went to the hairdressers this morning looking for a trim and ended up coming out with a complete restyle, having cut my hair short and gone from natural chocolate to ice blonde. I keep looking in the mirror trying to recognise the image reflected back at me. There is a vague sense of familiarity as I look into her brown eyes that stare back at me with even greater intensity, but still she remains a blonde haired stranger, which is exactly what I was hoping for, a new me. Maybe it’s the effect of stereotyping but already I feel the expectation to be smart, serious and sensible has just been lifted. Now it’s time to have some fun!

Gym bunny meets yogi bear

I gave my first yoga class this morning. After tumbling down the stairs and spending weeks in plaster I thought I would have lost my nerve by now, but it all went fine. In fact everyone who came seemed to really enjoy it, and it gave me such a buzz I cannot wait to teach again.

My foot still hurts but I managed to get through it okay so I have planned another class for this week. This time it will be in the evening and hopefully it will attract more men. This morning I had two retirees, four housewives, and  four gym bunnies, thats 10 women in total but only one man who let after only 15 minutes. When I asked him later if there was a problem, he admitted that it was too physical for him, he expected it to be relaxing! This was a protein guzzling 130kg lump of pure muscle telling me this!

Like most men in my gym he seemed to be under the impression that yoga is for softies. Apparently it’s not challenging enough for the egotistical heavyweights who hoist the equivalent of my bodyweight in each arm then complain that they cannot undo their shoelaces because their back hurts! So I have now decided to make it my mission to convert their way of thinking towards respecting their body, rather than abusing it for the sake of vanity. However I suspect I have my work cut out for me!

Missing screws

My friend sent me an email with details of the house. It’s a ruin in need of a bulldozer, not a renovation. I thought they wanted me to perhaps chose some new tiles or pick colours for paint but this is more like an archeological dig. I have no idea what I have let myself in for or why even they thought I might be suited to the job. The closest I have ever come to construction is putting together a flatpack which now that I think of it, is still missing some screws.

Holiday Rock

courtesy freedigitalphotos.net

I’ve been doing some research. According to wikipedia, Malta is a 300 sq.m minuscule chunk of rock, or more accurately several rocks because it consists of four islands in total, with no hills and no rivers. Sandwiched between Sicily, Libya Gibraltar, Alexandria and Istanbul, it is a speck of great importance nonetheless. It’s strategic position in the middle of a landlocked sea meant that throughout history someone always wanted to either claim it, or bomb it. Other less interesting facts include some megalithic temples, reputed to be the oldest freestanding manmade structures on the planet, a love for fried rabbit, fireworks and festivals, and the most recent attraction, ‘bendy buses!!’

courtesy freedigitalphotos.net

This one I have to admit provoked my curiosity, so I looked up some news reports to find out more. I discovered it is only a few years since the antiquated, diesel spluttering leyland buses which had ferried locals and tourists around the island for decades, were replaced by extra long, concertina style buses from Britain. Deemed unsuitable for narrow streets, the British were only too glad to see the back of them. Now it appears they are doing more damage on this tiny island than World War II, tearing up footpaths and knocking sides off ancient historical buildings.

Still, I was dissatisfied with this mundane geographical and historical account of Malta, so I decided to look elsewhere for some further information on the more important aspects of travel, such as nightlife, beachlife, food and drink.

So later today I called into to a local travel agency, one of the few that have managed to survive cyber extinction, and picked up some brochures. Under the pretence of booking a package holiday I casually mentioned Malta to the agent. Strangely she didn’t seem all that enthusiastic about what the brochure claimed is a ‘charming jewel in the Mediterranean.’ She commented that it was a bit ‘mature’ for me, meaning it’s more like a giant retirement home in the sun. Apparently a lot of Brits migrate there for winter or retire there permanently. Not only is it warmer but I assume the cost of living is considerably cheaper than the UK , especially once you take into account the savings on heating, cough syrup, flu injections and thermal underwear.

It may sound ungrateful but you would think my friends could have picked a more interesting place to inherit property. I’m already having second thoughts.

Finding my Feet

I have a job, well not really a job its actually more like a working holiday. Friends of mine are off to Australia for a year and want me to look after a house they inherited a few years ago. It’s on some tiny island in the mediterranean I have only ever heard being mentioned in the Eurovision. All I remember was a bald guy in tight shiny trousers and a white shirt V- cut to the navel, stepping out for Malta. Then came the usual uproar from his supporters, all six of them, waving flags with red crosses.

courtesy freedigitalphotos.net

Anyway, apparently this house is in need of repair so they asked me if I might be interested in overseeing the renovations for a month or two. I can only imagine what kind of condition it could be in but I’m so bored and fed up now I think I’d agree to anything that gets me out of here. Having my leg in plaster for the past few weeks has really brought it home to me how redundant I feel.

The life of Riley is not as much fun as I anticipated, even champagne doesn’t taste as bubbly anymore …or maybe it’s just that by the time I am finished chasing the cork on crutches, it has gone flat!

courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net

Sticking to the knitting

It’s almost three weeks now since I fell down the stairs and my nerves are fraying as well as my temper. I keep forgetting to take my crutches with me and then when I really need them I have to spend half the morning hunting for them. I have ruined several shirts while hopping around trying to balance my dinner and I am totally fed up with having to wipe coffee off the floor because I keep spilling it. Whats more I feel like a prisoner in my own home as I still cannot drive, and my friends have abandoned me so sick are they of listening to me moaning.

I’ve become so despondent I’ve resorted to knitting! While looking for my crutches one morning, I found a half completed sweater and some left over wool from a project I started years ago. It was one of those moments of madness during a time when I was insanely in love (insane being the operative word) and must have been engaging in some sort of ridiculous role play as a wife. That was until the day I came home to find my potential husband wearing my underwear, which would have been okay if it weren’t accompanied by a long sexy auburn wig and full makeup. Naturally the high-neck wifey looking, half completed sweater was chucked in the end of the wardrobe while I traded in my ridiculous notions of marriage for some exotic games of my own.

Anyway I have decided to transform what was going to be a boring sweater into a creative masterpiece by cutting out the moth holes and stitching around them in contrasting wool, that way they look intentional. Hopefully this will amuse me until I can find a more suitable distraction, preferably one that doesn’t wear mascara and lipgloss.

An idle mind…descends into madness

It’s fine to decide you are going to put your feet up but its an entirely different matter when you are forced to do it! Sitting here looking over the top of my laptop at a slab of plaster is certainly not my idea of fun. I’m so bored I’ve started to develop symptoms of psychosis, talking to myself and reinventing the events of last week so that instead of tumbling down the stairs, I arrive safely at the bottom take some painkillers and return to bed. I’ve even begun to think about why we think about these things, or why we even bother trying trying to reinvent history knowing full well that we cannot. Perhaps its a distraction from having to face the consequences of our own stupidity?

courtesy freedigitalimages.net

And when I’m not thinking about thinking, I’m staring at the clock trying to mentally adjust the speed of the hands so that the day might pass more quickly. It is spiteful and stubborn however, going ever more slowly the more I stare at it. If time is a man-made construct then surely I can hurry it along?

With little else to do all day and no possibility of getting my foot into a shoe for several weeks, I’m on my way to becoming a raving eccentric. As a source of mental amusement I’ve started to compile a list of pros and cons for having my foot in plaster. Here’s what I have come up with so far: It’s a pretty good insulator from from the cold, makes a convenient substitute for sticky notes and reduces sock washing by 50%. However it’s exhausting having to drag it around all day, taking a bath has become something of an acrobatic feat requiring great skill and endurance, (although with one leg propped up on the side of the bath it does bring to attention any stray hairs missed by the razor!). As for sex, forget wrapping your legs around someone in the bedroom, or in any other location for that matter, it’s virtually impossible without knocking them out along with lopping the bedpost (not that I’ve yet had the opportunity to test this hypothesis).

Worst of all is that you cannot escape the insincere sympathy from friends who would love to be laid up at home rather than working. When they come to visit, they thrust you with bunch of wilting flowers from the local fuel station and talk to your foot as if it didn’t even belong to you.

No wonder I’m showing signs of psychosis!