Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Hips on Tour

Today is my fabulous friend Susan's birthday and to celebrate we went for brunch. Just me, her and her Abercrombie and Fitch paper carrier bag - the one with the half naked hunk on the front who is probably, bless him, half our age but who brightened our morning no end. After all, what woman wouldn't want some man candy on her arm for her birthday?
After devouring a massive plate of pancakes with bacon and maple syrup, followed by a Mars Bar krispie slice and two lattes, I was pretty stuffed. Happy, but stuffed.
Off I waddled to a physio appointment for my back, neck and shoulders (many hours spent hunched over a computer means I am a tad on the Quasimodo side).
"Hmmmm....." the physio said as I lay, beached whale like, on the table. "Your right hip is very, very inflamed, did you twist it by any chance?"
"No," I said. "Not unless I pulled something reaching for the remote control."
"That's odd," she replied, puzzled.
And then it came to me.
I hadn't twisted anything: the pancakes, bacon, maple syrup, Mars Bar krispie and two lattes from brunch had simply bypassed my digestive system and gone straight to my right hip, where they nestled comfortably among the sizeable acres of flesh already enjoying a little R&R in that area.
"Ahhhhhh," they probably sighed as they settled in, "home sweet home."

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

No Nibbling Allowed

I went to a lovely "drinks and nibbles do" last night with a group of Irish booksellers, courtesy of Penguin Ireland. I was looking forward to it very much (a rare night out? yay!) and, to begin with, all went swimmingly.
There I was dolled up, nibbling on divine food and sipping champers (yes, really). It was just like a scene from Sex and the City, except I didn't have a designer handbag and I wasn't wearing couture.
The only fly in the ointment, if there was one, was the poor waiter. Every time he arrived with a new platter of food for us to enjoy, he looked like he was going to have a heart attack with the stress of trying to figure out where to put it. At one point I found myself volunteering to balance a platter on my knees just to calm him down. It didn't seem to occur to him to simply take some of the empty plates away to make some space.
Anyway, I excused myself to go to the loo (which was miles and miles away of course and meant a lot of wobbling on heels I hadn't worn in ages, but I tried not to mind because after all I was a gal about town for the night and the little things don't bother us).
When I eventually got there I did that quick check in the mirror, you know the one to make sure all the makeup hadn't slid off my face.
And that's when I noticed it. Something was winking back at me under the (frankly, very unbecoming) fluorescent lights. Something green.
In a flash, my Sex and the City fantasy came crashing down around my ears.
It was a gherkin. There was a large piece of gherkin lodged firmly between my two front teeth and there was no possible way people hadn't spotted it. I had been chatting to everyone with half a vegetable patch in my gnashers.
Bloggers, I almost locked myself in the cubicle with the utter mortification.
And so the moral of that story is - when you go to a drinks and nibbles reception do not, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, think you can actually eat anything.