Not sure anyone remembers (or cares about) the boots that defined my life's philosophy.
In a nutshell, I went to incredible pains to hunt down a pair of boots I fell in love with some years ago, when on holiday in the UK. I had little success, despite combing every outlet of Office (shoe store) that I could find over the course of my visit and being told nonsensical tales by shop assistants throughout. Turns out when I got home to Dubai, KY had a pair of said boots that didn't fit her particularly well, which she then gave me. All in all, this experience made me think of the larger picture meaning of life and I concluded that if things are meant for you, they'll find you.
Turns out the boots hurt like sin and I am shortly about to donate them to Jamila who will give them a kind and loving home, so I had to wonder what this meant for my earlier philosophical conclusion. Surely if something is meant for you, you shouldn't have to give it up? Having given this some thought (and I really did), I worked out my other life's philosophy, which is that (although if things are meant for you, they'll find you) sometimes things aren't meant for you after all, no matter how much you wish they were and perhaps there's no way to learn that but to have them, love them and still lose them.
No wonder women love shoes - they teach you so much about life.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Bring me a real challenge
In an attempt to start the long, doubtless painful process of fitting back into my clothes, I waddled along to the gym last night and, among other things, had a stint on the Power Plate - a fairly strange contraption which vibrates under your feet as you go about the business of doing lunges, squats, push-ups and other unpleasant sounding (and feeling) exercises.
Have to admit I'm not convinced how much I believe in this vibrating muscle theory, having studied for years at the school of thought which dictates that if it isn't hideous, it can't be good for you. Other lessons I learned during that time include 'if it tastes like crap it's probably low calorie' and 'those shoes may make your feet bleed but they look great'.
Still, if it's good enough for Madonna, it must be good enough for me, right? Now all I need is a red string bracelet, a career in show business, an adopted child that technically has a parent and Guy Ritchie. Easy.
4 days to Bruce!
Have to admit I'm not convinced how much I believe in this vibrating muscle theory, having studied for years at the school of thought which dictates that if it isn't hideous, it can't be good for you. Other lessons I learned during that time include 'if it tastes like crap it's probably low calorie' and 'those shoes may make your feet bleed but they look great'.
Still, if it's good enough for Madonna, it must be good enough for me, right? Now all I need is a red string bracelet, a career in show business, an adopted child that technically has a parent and Guy Ritchie. Easy.
4 days to Bruce!
Monday, June 02, 2008
Down Under in Sarf London
Following a reminder from KY that I was not averse to his music I trotted along to a Pete Murray gig the other night. Pete Murray being some sort of all-Australian homespun hero musician guy, the crowd consisted of some 3000 Australians who all knew the words to the songs, (a few of whom did bad shuffling dancing in my personal space) me and Rachel.
The Carling Brixton Academy is an odd sort of place, with Greco-Roman stylings in a part of London that surely not so long ago would have Elvis crooning songs about the plight of the underprivileged. But a great concert venue nonetheless, despite their odd security policies. Upon arriving, we were asked to show the security guards our handbags, which implied a nice sense of sartorial interest so I obliged. When the security folk asked if I had a gun, I did think it was a bit more direct than any other questions I'd been asked recently, but I admired their directness so I answered their question frankly and forthrightly in the negative. (Did seem a rather odd question either way you look at it really - either they was being careful of everyone, as Australian rock singers were likely to attract the pistol-packing troublemaker element (a fact I don't believe to be backed up by any significant or credible statistics) or she felt I looked likely to be a member of said p-p'ing t.m element and likely to incite violence at the slightest provocation. Which is surely on par with the airport worker who checked my flip flops for shoe bombs, when it comes to racial stereotyping?)
Anyway, turns out they were asking if I had any GUM - which struck me as an even stranger security precaution than not letting us taking bottlecaps into the Chris Rock performance at the O2 a week earlier. However, as I was in Brixton and already living life as far on the edge as I have done since my early 20s, I was in a devilish mood - I told them I didn't, even though I did. Bwa-ha-ha!
Fortunately Pete Murray was very, very good, so I forgave him the following:
-A hairstyle that made him look like a character out of some of the classic British 70s sitcoms
-A t-shirt and waistcoat combo straight out of Jason Priestley's Beverly Hills 90210 collection circa 1992
-Back up musicians who have clearly been to Rockstar Behaviour 101 and were keen to enact every cliche they'd ever studied
The rest of the weekend passed in a blur of nothingness and bad TV - which, the older I get, gets closer and closer to my idea of perfection.
The Carling Brixton Academy is an odd sort of place, with Greco-Roman stylings in a part of London that surely not so long ago would have Elvis crooning songs about the plight of the underprivileged. But a great concert venue nonetheless, despite their odd security policies. Upon arriving, we were asked to show the security guards our handbags, which implied a nice sense of sartorial interest so I obliged. When the security folk asked if I had a gun, I did think it was a bit more direct than any other questions I'd been asked recently, but I admired their directness so I answered their question frankly and forthrightly in the negative. (Did seem a rather odd question either way you look at it really - either they was being careful of everyone, as Australian rock singers were likely to attract the pistol-packing troublemaker element (a fact I don't believe to be backed up by any significant or credible statistics) or she felt I looked likely to be a member of said p-p'ing t.m element and likely to incite violence at the slightest provocation. Which is surely on par with the airport worker who checked my flip flops for shoe bombs, when it comes to racial stereotyping?)
Anyway, turns out they were asking if I had any GUM - which struck me as an even stranger security precaution than not letting us taking bottlecaps into the Chris Rock performance at the O2 a week earlier. However, as I was in Brixton and already living life as far on the edge as I have done since my early 20s, I was in a devilish mood - I told them I didn't, even though I did. Bwa-ha-ha!
Fortunately Pete Murray was very, very good, so I forgave him the following:
-A hairstyle that made him look like a character out of some of the classic British 70s sitcoms
-A t-shirt and waistcoat combo straight out of Jason Priestley's Beverly Hills 90210 collection circa 1992
-Back up musicians who have clearly been to Rockstar Behaviour 101 and were keen to enact every cliche they'd ever studied
The rest of the weekend passed in a blur of nothingness and bad TV - which, the older I get, gets closer and closer to my idea of perfection.
Catching up
Well, it's been too long and I've long since forgotten what I've been up to in the last few months so suffice it to say, I moved house, I turned 28, my favourite won American Idol and that's all I have to say about that.
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