Actually, its been a dull day all round today. Pissing with rain since the second I got up so no chance of going and doing something holidayish with the kids.
Took the opportunity to clean the house up a bit as it was starting to look like one of those houses you see in C4 documentaries about crazy old people who keep their own wee in plastic bottles and have stacks of newspapers going back to the Crimean War. The kids were helping in a pretty good way, fetching and carrying and generally being helpfully helpful. After lunch I sent them off to have a bit of a crack at their bedrooms while I went and had a crack at my own�.which was far far worse. After 45 minutes or so, they�d both got their rooms to some vestige of respectability, while I was still peeling fossilised tissues off the carpet and emptying bottles of weewondering quite how many pairs of stupid glittery knickers I�d actually got through since the last time I cleaned my bedroom up (even at a rate of two pairs/day � one for work and one for play � I reckoned it must have been February 1983). How can one woman HAVE so many pairs of knickers? Do they breed? Do bits fall off them in the night (answer: YES, the bloody floor was covered in sequins, glitter and strangely shaped bits of ribbon and metal) and re-group, in an amoebic reproduction kind of way? Anyway, there were WAY too many undergarments on the floor for any kind of room other than Janet Reger�s stockroom�.or perhaps a whorehouse laundry.
Reorganised the shoe cupboards with the help of wee Treacle and then sent her downstairs to unload the washing machine before having a hideous moment of realisation and rushing down after her and practically shoving her out of the way and onto a different job so I could save a few things from the furnace-like heat of the tumble dryer.
Seriously, it was only that I didn�t want her to load the tumbler by herself, nothing at all to do with having to hide the open crotch knickers with attached tutu and the quarter cup bra which had been whizzing around in the soapy suds with the more regular outfits, just moments before. I don�t want my baby to know that, when she�s away at Shagnasty�s, mummie spends time looking like Dark Knight Tinkerbell.
I also found several bottles of perfume, which may or may not have been given to me by my mother. One of them was Estee Lauder Spellbound, which looks like golden syrup and smells�well�.I just couldn�t bring myself to sniff it. Here�s why:
Some years ago, I was lucky enough to score tickets to see Siouxsie and the Banshees at ChavVille Gaumont. I went with the other members of the band I was singing with at the time ( I wouldn�t have been allowed to go otherwise � they were all around 18, I was a 15 year old schoolgirl). It was around the time of the Once Upon a Time album so I knew I�d be able to sing along to every word as it would just be all the hits, no album track wailing dirge �fillers� and I was positively bursting with glee to find Robert Smith guesting on guitar.
Naturally we had crap seats, so the band were just tiny dots of black waaaaaay down there at the front. Between me and the band were thousands of black leather-clad, leaping, swearing, drunk, punks Goths and rockers. I had my hair in a ten-foot-tall beehive and was wearing a cocktail dress. I edged forwards, row by row, to get a better view. Sometimes I was rudely barged about, sometimes my little feet weren�t actually touching the floor at all as I was buffeted this way and that by the pogo-ing throng.
It wasn�t until I�d battled my way to the very front of the mosh pit that I realised that Siouxsie, in her infinite wisdom, had eschewed the normal gig-wear for someone whose act included a lot of crouching, crawling, hi-stepping and stomping about, ie the wearing of knickers, for the less normal gig-wear for someone whose act etc etc, by NOT wearing any knickers.
Consequently, Spellbound only makes me think of Siouxsie Sioux�s sweaty naked minge.
And, lovely tho she undoubtedly is, its not really something I want to be dabbing behind my ears. If its OK with you, love, I wont be �following the footsteps of THAT rag-doll dance�, anywhen soon.
At this juncture I should point out that I accept that there ARE stage acts where the wearing of knickers is positively discouraged, but in a provincial theatre, infront of an audience of spiky haired teens (and one 15year old girl, dressed somewhat incongruously, as a 1950�s film starlet *ahem*), whilst belting out �Christine, the strawberry girl, Christine, banana-split lady� with accompanying actions, probably isn�t one of them.
Writing all that made me feel nostalgic. Here�s some Siouxsie:
Oh, and is there a reason there�s a big piece of cheese on Aaron�s desk going warm, sweaty and soft?
Later
s
x
PS smashthegas dared me to use some text that he SMS�d me by mistake in this entry. Hopefully, I have slipped it in so seamlessly that you wont have noticed..
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