It’s all India Knight’s fault.She recommended Lord and Berry’s eye kohl in her Sunday Times column and like the product lemming I am, I ordered it. She praised how deep black it is, and easy to apply.
It’s not in pencil form but comes in a lipstick case.
The other night I went to the theatre with a friend to see ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’ being slaughtered by a cast of British hammers. When the end was thankfully nigh I reached into my bag found my lipstick and applied it in the dark.
The lights came up and my friend turned to me, raised her eyebrows and said “What the F**k?” I nodded and said “Totally” thinking she was referring to the stoopid interpretation of the play. Outside the theatre we air kissed and went our separate ways.
On the bus home I was thinking to myself that I must be looking mighty fine in the hair, face and clothes departments because I got a lot of looks, and second looks from my fellow passengers.
Mr Anna May was asleep when I got in so I made a cup of Horlicks watched Celebrity Big Brother for the first time and thought Kellie Maloney was Lorraine Kelly’s grandma. Then it was lights off downstairs and up to the bathroom to do the teeth and hair brushing and face wash routine.
I am still laughing at what I saw in the mirror. In the theatre I hadn’t applied my fuschia pink lippy, instead I had slathered my lips in creamy black kohl.
It’s that time of the decade – Mr Anna May needs a new pair of Sandals for our upcoming mini break in the Midlands. The ones he has been wearing for nine and a half years have splayed out like kippers.
He won’t shop for anything at all, so the way we roll is that he describes what it is he wants and I go get them for him – either online or in person.
What do you think was the man’s number one requirement for a pair of summer sandals ? Mine would be lightweight, or cool, or colourful, or stylish, or maybe strappy.
Mr Anna May wanted his sandals to be waterproof.
Do you see what I am dealing with?
If you have been wondering where I have got to over the past three weeks I can tell you – I have been everywhere. Well, in every London borough at least.
My daughter, hoping to buy her first home, used a spreadsheet to identify where it’s cheap in London and then hauled me along to do a recce in her chosen hotspots. My other job, other than riding shotgun, was to buy the coffee and muffins.
So after hundreds of miles driving, six parking tickets and nine congestion charge payments I am now in a position to tell you where is cheap to buy in London…….. Ready? Steady? Da Da Da…..NOWHERE.
In London and surrounds even the cheap flats aren’t, and other than learning that sad news we have discovered that this city is stuffed with fruitloops selling their properties.
There was a man who showed us around his poxy flat wearing only his boxers and holding a bottle of baby oil. There was a chap who french kissed his Siamese cat for our delectation and delight and a woman who got her chichuaua to pee on command into a milk saucepan.
We’ve been in bedrooms that reeked of rubber, kitchens where cockroaches where having a party on the gas hob and seen knock offs of Tracey Emins unmade bed everywhere from Enfield to Earlsfield.
The search goes on….
Wot a tennis week.
Tuesday I was super lucky to have a ticket for Wimbledon and, other than the great tennis, I enjoyed watching Katherine Jenkin’s make up. I think she must have put her face in a kiln and fired it because the woman sat in the royal box under the glaring sun for several hours and nothing – eyeshadow, liner, lipstick, blusher – shifted.
Kyrgios the 19 year old Australian wildcard rocked upon Centre Court with his pink headphones and sparkling earring and played at such a pace it was as though he only had the court for half an hour, like down the local park. It was so thrilling to see him boot Nadal’s very pretty ass out of the tournament that we clean forgot to eat our coconut mushrooms.
Wednesday Raonic stuffed poor Kyrgios, so I backed him as the overall winner.
And then 48 hours later Raonic walks out onto Centre Court to meet Roger Federer in the semis like he’s a Zombie with a tennis racquet. His 150mph serve deserted him and he played a baseline game so dull that all I could think about what was gel he uses to keep his Tin-Tin style hairdo in place. It didn’t move. I wasn’t moved, and judging by the lack of ooohs and aaaahs from the 15,000 people on Centre Court, they weren’t either.
I have booked my seat on Centre Sofa for Sunday and want Federer the ole bloke of tennis to win because he has two sets of twins. And my snack of choice will be cherries and Waitrose Almond Viennese biscuits.
And in more sports news: my family dog is currently holding hot ticket Brazil in our Family World Cup Sweepstake. We have all approached him offering either to buy him out, or buy a share in his team, but he is staying mutt on the subject.
Tis the season to be terrified. Moths are back.
Late last night I was in the bath reading when momentarily everything went dark and I thought the bulb in the ceiling light had blown. But no. A moth as big as your average chicken drumstick and with wings the size of a sheet of loo paper was circling overhead.
I abandoned the bath, and my kindle, my iphone, my moisturiser, my Revitalash (for making my eyeslashes longer, it works) – all that I hold dear at bedtime and galloped out of the room dripping wet and naked banging the door shut behind me.
This morning the moth dropped into the sink where my husband was stood shaving. He said he almost cut his throat in fright when he saw the size of it. Now he’s scared too, and all hope is lost.
Went to see ‘The Pajama Game’ at the Shaftesbury Theatre yesterday. I was so excited to go because I am a musicalaholic and the show got a lot of 5 star reviews in the national press.
My excitement vamooshed fast thanks to the flimsy story that took at least 40 minutes too long to tell. I spent most of the night wishing I was at home in my own pajamas in front of the telly.
Michael Xavier, who was a swoonalong as Captain Von Trapp in last year’s Sound of Music at the Regents Park Open Air Theatre, brought to mind a singing, dancing, snogging plank as Sid, the male lead.
And Joanna Riding the female love interest is gorgeous but hair, make up and costume did a sterling job of making her look like Popeye.
The rest of the cast, bar Gary Wilmot who did a lot of over energetic winking and grinning, seemed tired and ready for their own pajamas and cocoa.
They turned up, they sang, they danced, they jollied – but still I’d only give this thin story 3 out of 10. The show had more smarm than charm.
I had a cup of tea in John Lewis Oxford Street today and my daughter, who was my shopping escort, remarked that everyone looked like me. I glanced around for the all gorgeous hip hop happening people, but could only see grey haired, cardiganned ladies sat behind their teapots.
On my feet were a pair of sad sandals that feel like cotton wool to wear, but their looks suggest I must have given up on life. I bought them for walking in and they work great for that, but they should come with a matching blindfold. By way of an apology to the universe for strapping these uglies onto my feet I painted my toenails a funky shade of green. Another daughter looked down at my feet and asked “So why have you painted your nails the colour of snot?”
I went for a post tea wee in the ‘Accessible’ (new term for disabled) toilet which is very fancy schmancy and has an automated lock operated by a hand wave. The red light flashes when it is closed and stays solid when it is open.
Halfway through my bodily function I noticed the light had stopped flashing – and the door automatically opened. I waved frantically to try and reactivate the locking system.
On the other side of the disobedient door stood a silver haired lady in a peach coloured cardigan who looked almost as shocked as me. But not for long, in the blink of an eye she span around, stretched her arms out and called over her shoulder “It’s OK! I’ve got it, lovey!” and protected my modesty until I was in a position to tap her on the shoulder and thank her.
“You’re welcome lovey” she answered and then, “Where did you get your sandals? I love them!”
I went to see Dirty Rotten Scoundrels at the Savoy Theatre last night. I think it was good, but got so distracted by the couple in front of me swapping saliva that I’m not sure.
How is it possible to snog for one hour and forty five minutes solid? AND they were thirty-somethings, judging by the fine lines around her eyes, his receding hairline and their high end office attire.
The woman had quite a short tongue and the man an especially deep ear canal. But still, by pressing her face against the side of his head, she managed to get deep down in there and give his eardrum a good licking. Plus they were noisy – oooing, aaaahing and oooohing.
I complained about them to my husband in the interval and he said I was a misery gut, adding “Ahhh, It’s sweet, they’re in love!”
I asked him whether we were in love. He nervously swallowed a big scoopful of his honey and ginger £5 a tub ice cream and said “Of course” . So I puckered up, leant in and said “Let’s get to it, then” but he refused – saying in a very righteous tone that a packed theatre was no place for tonsil tennis.
And surprise surprise, deep ears and short tongue didn’t return for the second half. My guess is that they didn’t go to get an ice cream, they got a room.
So we went to see Bakersfield Mist at the Duchess Theatre yesterday, Kathleen Turner growls her way through the script magnificently – and it was a terrific half evening out.
The play started at 7.30 and we were back out on the street at 8.50. Unless we made a mistake and left at the interval it was a brief encounter with the formidable Hollywood star.
Before the show started I went to the loo and joined Mr Anna May who was already seated. I saw that he gallantly flicked my seat down so my bum could settle into it. What I didn’t see was that he let go as I turned round and began my descent.
To cut a bum story short I ended up with my back against the upturned seat, my arms jammed to my sides and sitting on my hunkers. It raised the biggest laugh of the night in the Circle.
My husband and the man in the seat next to me ended up doing Working on the Chain Gang moves and grunts to get me out of the hole I was in.
Revenge was sweet. As we were early enough to eat I ordered a takeaway and the waiter on the ‘phone told me I had to ask for 98 when we arrived to pick it up.
My husband offered to go into the restaurant and pick it up and I told him he had to ask for number 69.
I’m ready for the boo-hisses on this - but I was unmoved by Olivia Colman’s bashful, eversoumblewomannextdoor schtick at last night’s BAFTAs.
In fact, watching this experienced and acclaimed actress splutter all over her winner’s statuette last night made me cringe.
Worse still she started her speech with the word ‘Sorry’. Sorry for what? Earning a ton of money, having her dreams come true and that rarest thing - being in full employment in the acting profession?
Olivia has had plenty of time to catch up with her success and needs to woman up on awards nights and, as I used to say to my children when they were little, say thank you nicely.
ps: Actor Horn Haggis, I apologise I was mumbling, that would be Sean Harris got the Jamaica Inn sound engineers off the hook last night with his meandering, incoherent and often inaudible thank you speech to BAFTA. And what was he wearing? He must have wandered into a tailor and mumbled ‘black tie’ , but they obviously heard bowling alley.