Boobies, boobies, boobies. And music.

2014-02-02, 11:01 p.m.
I need to stop buying spectacles from the pound shop. Theyre giving me a headache. If it wasn�t for the fact that they are crusted with diamante, I would probably have thrown them in the bin by now, but better blind or crippled with migraine than un-glamorous, what?

Latest news is that I�ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out if I still have a job in September. Actually, I�ll have to wait until Tuesday as Im not at work tomorrow � Im off to see the Clinical Psychologist who�s going to talk �restructured boobs and why I want them� with me. At least, I think that�s what we�re going to be talking about, although Im kind of hoping that she doesn�t lead the questioning with �why do you want your boobs chopped about with even more?�, because I have a feeling �because I just do� isn�t going to be the answer theyre looking for.

Its hard to put into words why I want it done � I know its not going to turn back time; Im not going to suddenly not have had cancer, or be 18 again. I can look at my body reasonably objectively and I can see all the bad things Ive done to it over the years (and all the bad things that chemotherapy and surgery and premature menopause and stress have done to it on my behalf) and how they are writ large in skin tone and lumpy bits and squelchy bits and bits that are best covered up with clothes and bits that aren�t going to get any better regardless of how many sit ups I do or how many glasses of water I drink or how many potions I slather on myself and, aside from occasionally catching sight of my mother looking back at me in the mirror when Im expecting to see fabulous glittery ME, Im kind of OK with how I look. Nobody shrieks and runs when they see me in the street � not that Ive noticed, anyways!

But the boob thing. *sigh* It�s a tricky one.

I think part of the trouble is, I don�t know what�s the �right� answer. If I say �it�s the first thing I notice when I look in the mirror�, does that mark me out as a self-obsessed nut job? Does �Im kind of OK with it� mean �I don�t really need to get anything done, dismiss me out of hand�. If I say �I don�t feel sexy�, will it elicit the response �that�s because you aren�t. Youre a middle aged woman. Sexy is not for deluded old trouts like you�. If she says that last one, is it ok to punch her in the face?

Oh, and what do I do if (like the Counsellor from the cancer charity) she is the sort of woman who has never EVER EVER in the history of mascara and marabou mules, had a glamorous day in her whole life, and tries to convert me to her hellish �new normal�, where women can twirl their moustaches and wear crimplene trousers that finish above the ankle bone and look pityingly at us poor, shallow souls who want sequins and dangly earrings and CLEAVAGES and stamp a giant P for �pointless� on our heads? Actually, if they made that into a sort of satiny sash, with the P picked out in crystals, Id probably be OK with wearing it.

Ach. Its all too difficult.

Other things that are difficult include calculating how long it is before I go on holiday. I cant believe how pathetically excited I am about this and how I have already started buying sandals and looking at swimsuits and quizzing L about whether he�d rather have a Panama hat or a straw trilby, since a Fedora would clearly be too much. WHY, dear diaryland, am I getting so squealy and out of control over a fortnight�s worth of frying my delicate English skin to the consistency of a pork scratching and having to put toilet paper in a little bin in the bathroom because, despite the ancient Greeks getting a handle on philosophy and sculpture and poetry and all kinds of clever shizzle, the modern Corfiot hasn�t actually managed to work out how to manufacture a toilet that can cope with�umm�flushing. Seriously, their plumbing is shocking! Even in swanky restaurants and bars, the rest rooms are not somewhere you would want to�err�rest and they generally smell of other people�s poo. *shudder*

Despite the trepidatious nature of the next 24 hours or so, its actually been quite a nice weekend. Relations between L and I have, over the last couple of weeks, been on a knife edge (with said knife edge nearly being against the drunken shit-head�s throat once or twice), but words have been said and stock has been taken and advice appears to have been heeded and we�ve had a really nice couple of days. Stayed in on Friday night (unheard of!), watched a bit of telly, had a few drinks, then yesterday we got up kin dof late but went out anyway as it wasn�t raining and I felt compelled to do ::something::. We drove down to Hamble, and walked along the waterfront for a bit but it was proper cold so we scuttled back up the hill and went in a pub for a bit of a warm up and some stupidly expensive lunch (2 sandwiches, a pint and a coffee which I suspect was instant - �18).

L wanted to watch the football in the afternoon so we took the car back home and got the bus into Chigley so he could go and watch it on the big screen in one of the pubs. I went for a wander round the shops (bought some sandals, natch! And, paradoxically, a furry hat) and got back to the pub just as our team scored! Yay! At least, that was what I discovered they were cheering for, after realising it wasn�t just a particularly enthusiastic greeting for a woman with some shopping, going into a pub. The pub was packed, and so a bit smelly � the scent of sweat and that weird metallic tang of �blue collar work clothes�. A mix of putty and engine oil and paint and glue and all the other crap that you wipe off your hands if you do a dirty job for a living. I quite like that smell, it�s the smell of graft. My dad used to smell of printer�s ink when he came home from work and for years after he retired, the smell of newspapers reminded me of being a little kid and dad getting home after the Saturday sports pages were printed, grumpy at having had to work til late (during the week it was a morning paper � it was only on Saturdays that there was a late edition).

People who work in offices don�t smell of �materials�. They smell of cologne. And despair.

We were going to go to the cinema last night (Wolf of Wall Street) but the football finished at 5ish and the film wasn�t on til 7 and we�d already been out for lunch and we (I!) didn�t fancy shelling out for another meal. In the end we just went home, I cooked a prawn chow mein and we watched the DVD of Rush that I bought for L. It was good, especially for people of our sort of age who can remember the whole James Hunt/Niki Lauda rivalry from when it actually happened. Yeh, good film. Watch it.

Ended up going to the workies for lasties and then came home and thrashed out a few new tunes for our repertoire (Pharrell Williams �Happy� and One Republic �Counting Stars�). Even though we were a bit wasted by the time we did that, we could still remember them both this morning which is always a bonus. Some nights we�ve done some fantastic things with tunes while we�ve been in our cups (or worse!) and then cant remember a bloody thing of what we played when we�ve come back to the songs in the morning. Haha.

Oooh, bit of music news. L�s band has a gig supporting Paul Carrack at the end of March which, if my sources are correct, is already sold out. Cool huh? Im not a massive Paul Carrack fan but hey, its still kind of cool. Wonder if he will remember that he met L at a thing they were both doing for Radio Leicester about 12 years ago. I remember L was so freaked out about meeting him (and about being on the radio) that he talked complete bollocks in the interview and then played, live, one of the most complicated tracks he�s ever written, at about twice its usual speed out of sheer terror. Haha, dozy twat.

Speaking of dozy twats, he�s just come in (quiz night in the workies � YUK. I fucking hate quizzes) so I�ll have to go now. Not because he doesn�t want me to do this or anything weird like that, but just because he never stops talking and its too hard to type when I have to keep stopping to tell him to shut up.

Later
S
X

PS My mum�s coming with me to the Clin Psych tomorrow. That�s enough to make ANYBODY look crazy (�Im here to discuss this very important, serious, adult, medical procedure and its after-effects on my psyche. And I brung my mummie along too�)




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