Winter Fashions

This morning sees a blanket of snow across the WithaY estates, and prompts the question "Which of my many, many hats is most appropriate for venturing forth into the cold?"

Readers, I have thoughfully taken some photos of the various options.  The various options which happen to be at hand, I mean.  There are many other hats stashed in cupboards and in boxes under the bed which I can't be arsed to dig out.  Maybe another time, when I am very bored. 

1)  Sensible fleece headgear.  With earflaps.  Can be flung in the washing machine if, for example, a spaniel should happen to get hold of it and run around a muddy garden with it for a bit. 

Option 1 - Flaps down. 

And Option 2 - Flaps up.

Mmmmm. Versatile.  Also, does not blow off in the wind, thanks to sensible string-and-pulley system to strap it tightly under your chin(s).


2)  Less sensible velvet hat with huge bow on the front.  Warm and slightly bohemian, rubbish in the wet.

I like this one very much, although it does make old ladies shy away from me in fear, and dodgy buskers shout sexually-harrassing compliments at me.  Mind you, I am used to old ladies and dodgy buskers commenting freely on my appearance.  It seems to happen a lot. 

Hey, it's all good. 

3)  New woolly scarf/hat combination that Mr WithaY very kindly bought for me yesterday.  Apparently one of his colleagues' daughters (keep up) sometimes travels to India to fetch back locally-made goods to sell in the UK, to help support the villages where they are made. 

I think. 

Anyway.  It's green and very soft, and I am already rather taken with it.

It does make me look a bit like an extra from Lord of the Rings, though.  I'm too tall to be a hobbit, so maybe an elf who's let herself go a bit?

See?  You can imagine the pointy ears under there.  I could be one of the elves that has been asked to stand at the back and not say anything during the crowd scenes.

"Just keep quiet, and try not to embarrass Elrond.  Again.  And lay off the lembas."

4)  The Moose Hat.  We bought this in America this summer, in Maine.  Boothbay Harbor to be exact.  Ahh, happy memories.  Mr WithaY refused to wear it again after the first modelling session we had after purchase.  Shame on him, I say. 

It's surprisingly warm under there. 

Also, I like how my nose makes it look like he's sticking his tongue out.

I love winter. 

Oh yes - if it snows enough, we plan more snow animals.  Watch this space.

Bags of style

Overheard on the train recently:

Elderly male hippy:  I was looking at a magazine the other day.  What was it called, now?

Elderly male non-hippy:  (not entirely seriously) Tatler?

Elderly male hippy:  No.  Not that.  LK?  GK?  PQ?  Something like that?

Elderly male non-hippy:  Don't know.  (Interested now) What was it about?

Elderly male hippy:  (After a deep-thinking pause)  GQ!  That was it!  GQ.  Fashion. But for MEN!

Elderly male non-hippy:  (Appalled)  For men?  MEN?  (shakes his head)  Naaaah.  Really?  Fashion?

Thery stare at each other, aghast at the thought.

Elderly male hippy (some time later)  They had bags.  For men.  Page after page after page. Of bags.  For men.  Just...bags.

I was tempted to stay on the train all the way to Exeter, just to eavesdrop. 

Observations on travel

1)  London cabbies love to listen to talk radio.  They love it.  Football, politics, recipes, world news; it's all good, dawg. 

Know why? 

So they can then retail that information to their passengers over the course of the day.  It's like instant conversation magic dust...sprinkle some into a cab and there will be some conversation.  The cabbie I met yesterday, however, wins the award for Telling Me Something That Will Give Me Nightmares.  Outright.

Cabbie:  (as we pass some roadworks) Lots of building work going on in the City at the moment, love.  Lots.

Me:  (dicking about with my phone, not really listening) Oh yes?

Cabbie:  Yeerrrrrs.  They've been demolishing this big building.  Right in the City.  Right in the middle.  Can't use dynamite on it though.  Too many buildings around.  Too crowded.

Me:  No?  Tsk tsk tsk.

Cabbie:  (warming to his theme)  Yeah...know what they used to demolish it?  Instead of dynamite?

Me:  Um.  No.  (expectant pause)  What? 

Cabbie:  A giant machine that ATE it.  Like a huge dinosaur, with HUGE jaws.  Just ate all the way down the building till it was gone.  (Makes "giant machine eating a building" gestures with both hands - luckily we are stopped at a traffic light for this.)

Me:  (Listening properly now)  What?  A machine that eats buildings?  That sounds terrifying!

Cabbie:  Yeah, like a giant dinosaur.  The pressure in those jaws must be immense.  Immense.  Can you imagine?  Eating the whole building, concrete, steel, the lot.

Me: (imagining all too clearly)  Christ, yes.

So thanks for that, Mr steel-jaw dinosaur man. 

2)  Many people are no respectors of an injured woman's slowness.  I am trying to walk further now, but I am still struggling, particularly at the end of the day when my ankle has swollen up like a fleshy grapefruit, and I am limping like some sort of unconvincing ham actor auditioning for the Hunchback of Notre Dame.  And, I have discovered, when you are limping along slowly, for example across the concourse at Waterloo Station, heading for your train, people are really rude. 

Bastards! 

So far this week I have been tutted at, jostled and asked to "step aside please" to allow a fat sweaty man with too many bags to waddle down the platform three steps ahead of me.  I had the last laugh, however.  Being a wily long-term commuter, I simply hopped onto the other end of the carriage he was aiming for and made my way quickly to the prime spot in the middle, leaving him to take the scabby seat by the door where everyone whacks you with their luggage as they come in and out.  Ha.

3)  People have no idea how to dress for the weather at the moment.  Today, for example, I have seen people wearing the following:

flipflops
shorts
t shirts
overcoats
fleecy jackets
jeans
opaque woollen tights
scarves
summer dresses
formal suits
sarongs

Many of the people wearing those outfits were also carrying umbrellas.  Either the weather or our fashion sense is playing cruel tricks on us. 

Tomorrow is a work at home day for me.  I intend to listen to Planet Rock, limp around the house as slowly as I please, and wear pyjamas all day. 

Take that, society.

Little things

Today I have been mostly fed up, and slightly weepy, but that might be because I have woken up at 0530 for the last few days, and it is a pain in the arse, frankly, being this tired.

Was in London today, but lacked the energy to walk anywhere. I only managed to drag my weary carcass across Westminster Bridge before catching the Tube this morning, and then copped out and got the Tube all the way back to Waterloo this evening.

Remembering that there is very little actual food in the house, I decided to call into the supermarket before I came home. In my head, this meant that I would eat a proper supper tonight and have food in the house tomorrow so I can eat sensibly during the day.

I fantasised about picking up a hot roasted chicken and some fresh salad, maybe with some fresh pineapple afterwards. However, at 8pm on a Tuesday night, the supermarket has sold all the hot chickens, cleaned the rotisserie, and is trying to flog off the rock hard baguettes to groups of young Scouse squaddies.

It is not interested in providing a well-chosen and dainty evening repast to a woman who has been travelling for fucking hours.

Supper this evening actually consisted of 2 Scotch eggs, a handful of little tiny cherry tomatoes, and a big glass of flat fizzy water with some lemongrass squash in it. I am waiting for a knock on the door from Jamie Oliver and the food police as I type.

Anyhoo, I was mooching around the place with my little hand basket, biting my lip and feeling sorry for myself, composing a sad, sad blog post in my head about how cruel everything is, and how unbearable, and how awful and lonely, and how much I hate my life. I was in some danger of going emo.

I rounded a corner into the MEAT aisle, and there in front of me was a large, rotund chap dressed in the height of West Wiltshire chic.

He had on a pair of baggy blue tracksuit bottoms, or possibly overalls, tucked into workboots liberally splattered with crud. His huge saggy torso was encased in an ancient, equally saggy, green sweatshirt, also crud-encrusted. Topping off the ensemble was a jaunty black woollen hat, looking much like the teat of a baby's bottle, perched high on his head, emphasising his red cheeks and shiny jowls.

I sighed heavily, thinking how terrible life is when you are faced with such things.

As I dragged myself past him, possibly swinging my arms like Kevin the Teenager, I heard the opening bars of "Oi've got a braaan new comboin aaaarvester". I shook my head, clearly overtired and imagining Wurzels songs in the middle of the supermarket.

But no. Mr West Wiltshire Fashion reached into the pocket of his trousers, pulled out his mobile, and answered it with a huge grin on his face, after letting the Wurzels get almost all the way through the first verse.

It made me laugh out loud, just as soon as I got round the corner, and suddenly life felt less like a hideous struggle.

Other news: Mr WithaY called from his windswept hostel in the remote Welsh countryside, which was lovely. I am missing him very much, and plan to hide his passport when he comes home, just in case. And possibly all his trousers.