Can someone please tell me, why do you sometimes wake up with the imprints of your pillow in your face but not always? It only seems to happen when I am sleeping deep. The alarm goes off and I feel like I have been pulled back from another time zone, it's only then that I have pillow marks in my face, never when I wake up from rosy dreams. Why is that?
Anyway, that is what happened to me on Monday morning, I woke up with the pillow imprinted on my face. That rather set the tone for the rest of the week. Basically, everything I tried to achieve this week went to pots.
For example, my new washing machine was delivered on Monday and I installed it with the help of the landlord’s maintenance guy. I was over the moon to, at last, have the luxury of owning a washing machine. I did a test run that resulted in a washing machine half full of water; the blooming thing didn't work properly. I called the shop and they will send someone to fix it next week! Now the machine is standing in my kitchen with a single red light on, like an evil eye, reminding me that I need to practice to be patient!
I had a car boot sale outside my house, in the front garden. I thought it would be a great way to get rid of some old junk and get a tan in the same time, in other words to kill two birds with one stone. However, I only sold for £5!
While I was standing there, enjoying the sun, suddenly police cars appeared from everywhere and blocked the street. Apparently, they did a raid at the house across the street, which is some sort halfway house for young men that are being rehabilitated back to society after jail or rehab, not sure which. After the raid, two police officers turned their attention to me and walked up to my little stand. I thought they were going to arrest me for selling without a licence or something. In my head, I saw myself being transported away in the police van. My imagination takes the better of me sometimes! They just had a look at the things I sold and said that my little boot sale was a great idea and good for the community spirit.
On Saturday, I went to Southwark Park to celebrate the Swedish Midsummer with about hundred other Swedes. Most people in the park must have wondered what the heck was going on when the peace in the park suddenly was disturbed by a bunch of women dressed in blue and yellow dresses and flowers in the hair carrying a pole decorated with flowers, accompanied by musicians playing violins. The women put the pole in the ground and people started to dance around whilst singing songs in Swedish. I was moved to tears and felt positively homesick. Deep inside of me there is a Swedish Viking heart pounding proudly over the Swedish culture. However, I was more focused on the hot dogs and the strawberry cake than the dancing. I always say that you need to get your priorities right!
Finally, I got a prescription for my support stockings and I rushed to the pharmacy to collect them. Silly enough, I was totally unprepared for the measuring that was required.
My pharmacist is a young, good locking Asian chap and as he showed me in to a small private room, it dawned on me that I would have to get undressed in front of him. The fact that he was so obviously embarrassed, made me feel even more awkward.
I was dressed in tights and a very tight skirt and I struggled to get the skirt up and still keep my dignity. He had to measure my thigh right up to my groin and at that point, I felt I was getting far too close to my pharmacist for my liking! It also made me feel very fat, old, ugly and unshaven.
After 72 hours, I picked up the stockings and the next day I tried the horrid things on. What I talk about here are beige support stockings that are going all the way up to the groin and looks like something Miss Marple would wear. The little suckers where so tight that I almost got a haemorrhage pulling them up. I even had to put the fan on to stop me from sweating too much. When I was done, all the fat from my ankle up to my groin was stored somewhere above my bum and around the groin I was left with flapping bits of the stockings that I had nowhere to put so they just hanged there. The stockings worked as a push-up bra for my bum, it never been so perky!
I managed to walk down to Ritzy café in Brixton, with my perky ass, to meet a friend for a coffee but half way through I had to go to the loo and take the damn thing off. How the hell am I supposed to wear these things every day?
The whole experience made me feel very old indeed. That combined with losing a lot of weight, which has resulted in excess empty skin, has left me completely body conscious. So when I went to the Lido I couldn’t enjoy it because all I could think about was my varicose veins, bingo arms and empty sagging bags on the inside of my tights. The fact that my tankini is too big, did not improve the feeling. Neither did the four gorgeous young girls on the blanket next to mine. I feel like I am way past the best before date. I really struggled to feel grateful that at last there was a warm enough summer day to be spent at the poolside.
I have resolved to the fact that I should stay away from clubbing for a while just to get that thrown out the window when I saw The Harder They Come at the Wimbledon Theatre with the girls. We all sang along to Voice FM in the car on the way home and I decided that I definitely will go out dancing next weekend.
