Generally I like a fair number to most of the people whom I meet. Of the other people I meet, if I don’t get a vibe from them I am still prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt.
Once in a blue moon I meet someone who makes my spine prickle with active dislike. An innate primordial need to be kind and accepting makes me feel a bit ashamed of this and I will try hard to overcome my gut instinct. This is usually a mistake. Even this girl at primary school with me in Paisley who had been to voice coaching lessons and insistently on correcting my pronunciation of ‘toilet‘. “It’s turrlet” she’d announce loudly. “No it’s no” I would say back “It’s toil-let“. “It is too turlett” she snapped back “my electrocution teacher told me so“. This exchange started a feud that lasted until we got to secondary and a dislike of short, freckled, pigtail wearing majorette types.
In my final year at university I met this bird who I could cheerfully have throttled ab initio. She had spent her summer holiday before the term started in the United States and had come back with a posh Edinburgh version of a Sheena Easton accent. She sat behind me in class and scribbled furiously during lectures for subjects that I was having huge trouble understanding let alone trying to compile contemporaneous notes for. Worst of all, she had two armfuls of jangly bangles. The stainless steel ones you used to be able to pick up from stores in the seventies 10 for 2 quid. The ones my gran used to present me with regularly. The ones I used to love wearing until 1990. With her relentless scrawling and clinking this lassie completely put me off bangles for years. Until this week in fact.
This morning I rolled my eyes when I read Fox in Flats Style Dare for the week:
- Keep your own ‘arm party’ pumping for 7 days straight.
- Tell us all about it as you go.
Pile on a plethora of bracelets, bangles, watches and chains.
Day 1 – Amethyst for Healing my Smashed Thumb
On Saturday I jumped out of my friend’s car after teaching yoga to avoid a bus ramming her up the arse outside Padstow station. Slamming the door and waving a cheery goodbye I realised that I’d managed to bounce the car door off my right thumb in the process.
It looks a lot better today than it did yesterday or the day before:
My son wandered in this morning while I was trying to ignore thoughts of when the nail is going to fall off.
“I want to pick your clothes Mummy’ he says, opening my mirror wardrobe with alacrity and rather too much velocity.
This should be interesting (I thought).
“Will this work?” he asks himself, picking out my turquoise leather vest and an orange short shirt dress. I raise an eyebrow. “Hmm, maybe not” he answers himself.
“Ok Mum, here you go” he says laying stuff out on the bed like an experienced high end ladies wear retail assistant. “I want you to wear these necklaces and the green shoes because those go“.
And the end result? Not bad – although we couldn’t find that many bangles.
Not sure that the green heels worked with the turquoise but no one looked at me funny. That makes a change round here lemme tell you.
Next up – my husband’s theory on hit men, mudras and thumbs.