Having had a spring clean of my room I hitched up my big girl panties to go to the place I hate the most… the tip. I think the hatred comes from living with the Physics Geek who would make me feel like such a useless wuss whenever we had to go there that I’ve built up an intolerance of the place and turn into a useless lump within fifty feet of the place. I loaded up the boot with the bags and a broken bookshelf and headed over, so far so good. In fact it continued to be so far so good until in the spirit of the Olympic legacy I launched the final bag at the skip with such gusto (I may have let out a shotput style grunt) that I lost my mind for a millisecond too long and watched my car keys sail out of my hand with the bag in a perfect arc and land in the far corner of the skip with a loud CLANG.

Oh feck.

So of course the cool air of “I come here all the time and know my tip shit” evaporated and I had to wail at the nearest man to get a ladder and get them out for me whilst everyone looked on as my big girl panties metaphorically slid down round my ankles. Tip man was very lovely and tried his hardest to convince me that it happens all the time and I shouldn’t feel bad…

I didn’t feel bad, just a bit stupid. This stupidity ramped up another notch when I later sneezed so loudly and thus scared myself so much I punched myself rather hard right in the nose before going on to ask “Was there a Henry II? I know there was a Henry VIII but what about a II?” much to the amusement of my house mate who looked at me like I’d just arrived from Mars.

None of these can be described as being my finest moment, I’m sure. What has been quite fine has been getting some time to do some serious writing and some serious thinking, both of which were most needed. What wasn’t needed was watching a You Tube tutorial from someone who barely spoke English on how to cut your own fringe before deciding in my infinite wisdom to give it a bash myself. She had a well lit bathroom and proper hairdressing scissors, I had a badly lit mirror in the dining room and some kitchen scissors which may or may not have been clean. (I know, I know, what was I thinking and I can’t even claim to have been drunk at the time!)

The technique was so simple that anyone could follow it, so I did. With my fingers crossed (not literally) I held my breath, twisted, and snipped, giving myself a fringe that was the same length as my nose and therefore completely impractical. I held my breath again, twisted again, and snipped again. A little better but still a ‘better door than a window’ so to speak. Third time lucky? Envisioning myself ending up with a one inch fringe I decided the third cut would be my last… Thankfully I nailed it and ended up with a ‘shaggy could be construed to be sexy in the right light with one eye closed and two beers in your system but might get annoying and oh boy I’ve given myself a head shaking tic to get the hair out of my eyes already’ fringe.


Still, at least it covers up the eyebrows that I plucked to death at the start of the week…


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