Officially, at least, I've failed quite a few of my missions so far. But only because of the deadlines.
I'm keeping an open mind about the deadline bit, and so should you, because I work to deadline every day at work. And although that's not an excuse in itself, those of you who also work to deadlines probably know that you can't always run to deadline with everything. Or you have burn-out. Breakdowns. And then if you're in America, you get your gun and head to the nearest college. (Sorry America.) If you're in London, you drink till you fall over, get thrown out of the house by your partner, then lie in the courtyard of your apartment block, sobbing loudly in the rain until about 3am, like one of our neighbours did the other night. And it's precisely because we are in London and are confronted every day by news of knifings, that we didn't go down and comfort him, because he's quite a scary character – especially when he's sobbing. Instead, the Buckwell and I dug out some earplugs and went back to sleep. We would have thrown down a camping tarpaulin for him to make a makeshift bivouac, but because we are in London no one knows how to make bivouacs, so we didn't see the point. You need to grow up in New Zealand, with 1 1/2 acres of native bush - then you get really good at making bivouacs out of native ferns and sticks and things. Not much of that in London.
Anyway, so I haven't made most of the deadlines. But I'm being flexible about that. I have not managed to do 200 hula hoop revolutions, for example. But I've got to 137, so if I just keep it up, I'll get there. Trouble is, the novelty has already worn off...
As for the pet mission, that's coming along nicely. We have been contacted by the Celia Hammond cat rescue centre, who want to give us a mum with kittens to foster. However, we're selling the flat and would rather have an offer under our belts before sticking an adorable mum with kittens, plus undoubtedly stinky litter tray in the spare room.
The yoga mission is not quite dead in the water, but it's sinking fast.
The tango mission is still in there with a fighting chance, although Signor Cossu has introduced the idea of Lindy Hop, which sounds much more fun, although far less sexy.
So bear with me, I'll get there. Eventually.
Wednesday, 22 August 2007
Sunday, 12 August 2007
Mini-mission 011: Hoop-la
It's a rainy Sunday in London, so today's itinerary of lying in the park reading and trying to tan my legs has been washed out. The Buckwell wants to go to an exhibition at the RCA, but I can't be bothered to walk into central London. However I still feel like doing something active. Luckily I bought a hula hoop on Friday. It was £1.
I defy anyone to be in a bad mood while carrying a peppermint-striped hula hoop home from work. Likewise, to be grumpy while hula-hooping, or especially watching someone hula-hoop after a few glasses of wine. The Buckwell has practically been in hysterics over the past 2 days as he watches me try to regain my hula hoop skills of circa 1985.
I have now set myself a mini-mission - to reach 200 revolutions in one hooping session, by the end of the week. I'm averaging about 20 at the moment, so it could be an entertaining week for those neighbours who can see across into our lounge window. (No way am I taking this thing outside.)
Where mission was conceived: Tapley House, in the lounge
Likelihood of success: Do-able, although I may sustain an abdominal strain
Mission deadline: 15 August
I defy anyone to be in a bad mood while carrying a peppermint-striped hula hoop home from work. Likewise, to be grumpy while hula-hooping, or especially watching someone hula-hoop after a few glasses of wine. The Buckwell has practically been in hysterics over the past 2 days as he watches me try to regain my hula hoop skills of circa 1985.
I have now set myself a mini-mission - to reach 200 revolutions in one hooping session, by the end of the week. I'm averaging about 20 at the moment, so it could be an entertaining week for those neighbours who can see across into our lounge window. (No way am I taking this thing outside.)
Where mission was conceived: Tapley House, in the lounge
Likelihood of success: Do-able, although I may sustain an abdominal strain
Mission deadline: 15 August
Saturday, 11 August 2007
Mission 010: Legs akimbo
If you're a skin health professional or my mother, you should stop reading this now. Especially if you are my mother.
OK, Mum, I know you're still reading, but don't worry, what I'm about to divulge is not rude or anything. It's just not healthy. I know this, and so you don't need to tell me. So please, not a word. Not even a tiny, teeny little email. I know.
Living in England has encouraged me to adopt some terribly unhealthy practices when it comes to the sun. Last weekend I lay out in the sun at a festival, between 11 and 1 WITHOUT SUNBLOCK. And I got burnt. Normally it's rare for me to get very burnt, unless I'm somewhere like Greece, Italy, Oman, Barbados, Australia or New Zealand. In all these places I've been sunburnt at some time, usually because my sunscreen has been sweated off/swum off/ wiped off. But in England I don't usually apply sunscreen, because... well, because I'm in England, of course, stoopid!
Anyway, stoopid me got completely toasted on the back of my neck and my shoulders. They are now itchy and peeling. Nice. My arms went brown and so did my feet. They are not peeling and they look good, even if my skin is 10 years older blah blah de blah. But the parts of my legs that were exposed to the sun – that is to say, the bits from my knees to my ankles – they didn't do anything at all. They gained no colour, not even a subtle drop of vanilla essence.
When I was small I remember looking at my mother's legs with disbelief. 'Mum, your legs are sooo white! With stubble! Yuck! MY legs are NEVER going to be that white!' Then I would run off to look at my horse books and practise learning to ride – in my head.
I don't recall my mother ever saying something back. Perhaps she said, 'We'll wait and see, shall we?' And now she has been waiting for this moment for oh, around 25 years. The moment when I will finally admit, 'My legs are white - no, practically blue – and I can't make them go brown!'
It's been several years now since I put sunscreen on my legs. (Apart from in Barbados after they unexpectedly got burnt.) Normally, their bluish-white sheen reflects as much sun as a 50+ sunscreen, and it's effective all day long. Sometimes, I'll put on fake tan to fool my legs into thinking that they are eminently tannable, but it appears that even with fake tan,they are not. My legs shed the fake tan within a day and my legs remain stoically pure in their antarctic glory.
I can no longer deny the fact that I have my mother's skin on my legs. Combined with my father's solid rugby-player calves, this is sobering on even a good day. So considering that I have a bit of a makeover theme going on with my latest missions, I'm going to keep running with it, if you'll excuse the leggy pun. My latest mission is to tan my legs - a real tan that will remain for at least 2 weeks. See, I told you it wasn't healthy. But nor are white legs very sexy, especially when they are as sturdy and heavily muscled as mine. I want sexy, tanned legs. Or as close to them as I can get. I know I can count on the Buckwell to back me up on this one.
Photo coming soon.
Where mission was conceived: In the shower with razor in hand
Idea-fuelling beverage: Water from the shower head
Likelihood of success: The chances are slim, but the reward would be sweet
Mission deadline: 15 September
OK, Mum, I know you're still reading, but don't worry, what I'm about to divulge is not rude or anything. It's just not healthy. I know this, and so you don't need to tell me. So please, not a word. Not even a tiny, teeny little email. I know.
Living in England has encouraged me to adopt some terribly unhealthy practices when it comes to the sun. Last weekend I lay out in the sun at a festival, between 11 and 1 WITHOUT SUNBLOCK. And I got burnt. Normally it's rare for me to get very burnt, unless I'm somewhere like Greece, Italy, Oman, Barbados, Australia or New Zealand. In all these places I've been sunburnt at some time, usually because my sunscreen has been sweated off/swum off/ wiped off. But in England I don't usually apply sunscreen, because... well, because I'm in England, of course, stoopid!
Anyway, stoopid me got completely toasted on the back of my neck and my shoulders. They are now itchy and peeling. Nice. My arms went brown and so did my feet. They are not peeling and they look good, even if my skin is 10 years older blah blah de blah. But the parts of my legs that were exposed to the sun – that is to say, the bits from my knees to my ankles – they didn't do anything at all. They gained no colour, not even a subtle drop of vanilla essence.
When I was small I remember looking at my mother's legs with disbelief. 'Mum, your legs are sooo white! With stubble! Yuck! MY legs are NEVER going to be that white!' Then I would run off to look at my horse books and practise learning to ride – in my head.
I don't recall my mother ever saying something back. Perhaps she said, 'We'll wait and see, shall we?' And now she has been waiting for this moment for oh, around 25 years. The moment when I will finally admit, 'My legs are white - no, practically blue – and I can't make them go brown!'
It's been several years now since I put sunscreen on my legs. (Apart from in Barbados after they unexpectedly got burnt.) Normally, their bluish-white sheen reflects as much sun as a 50+ sunscreen, and it's effective all day long. Sometimes, I'll put on fake tan to fool my legs into thinking that they are eminently tannable, but it appears that even with fake tan,they are not. My legs shed the fake tan within a day and my legs remain stoically pure in their antarctic glory.
I can no longer deny the fact that I have my mother's skin on my legs. Combined with my father's solid rugby-player calves, this is sobering on even a good day. So considering that I have a bit of a makeover theme going on with my latest missions, I'm going to keep running with it, if you'll excuse the leggy pun. My latest mission is to tan my legs - a real tan that will remain for at least 2 weeks. See, I told you it wasn't healthy. But nor are white legs very sexy, especially when they are as sturdy and heavily muscled as mine. I want sexy, tanned legs. Or as close to them as I can get. I know I can count on the Buckwell to back me up on this one.
Photo coming soon.
Where mission was conceived: In the shower with razor in hand
Idea-fuelling beverage: Water from the shower head
Likelihood of success: The chances are slim, but the reward would be sweet
Mission deadline: 15 September
Friday, 10 August 2007
Mission 009 - Line up, line up
I'm fighting a losing battle. It's not one I ever expected to win; it's just that I didn't think I'd be overcome quite so quickly.
I've been plucking out my grey hairs for a few years now, ever since I saw the first three standing up straight in my crown one morning, like prairie dog sentries scouting for new territory. Of course, I whipped them out at the time, but it was too late. They'd passed the word on to my other follicles, and since then I've been discovering them at increasing intervals. Just now I found a small battalion hiding out behind my right ear. Some of them were quite long, so I can only assume that they have settled in. And undoubtedly, they have reinforcements. It is probably my greyest hour. Yet even though they are fighting me with great strength and fierceness, I won't give up. I will fight them with Boots or Clairol Simply Natural Dark Ebony, I will fight them with the tweezers, I will fight them in the bathroom mirror and the bedroom, I will never surrender. Well not for a while anyway, until there is over 10% coverage, then I may consider it.
But before you get the wrong idea - this fight is not my new mission. There's a side effect that I've noticed, and it's getting worse. When I see a grey hair and attempt to catch it with the tweezers, my eyes roll upwards and my forehead furrows slightly in concentration. Slowly but surely, my forehead is getting more and more lined, in the exact same pattern as my grey-hair-catching expression. I already have lines between my brows from sneezing. That I have to live with. But grey-hair-catching lines are downright embarrassing. So now I have a conundrum. Grey hair, or grey-hair-catching lines? Well, obviously 'neither' is the correct answer here, but more hair dye is not the solution.
So my new mission is to embark upon a course of forehead treatment to ease my lines.
Now, I've ruled out Botox straight away. Because I'm allergic to so much stuff that if I was to Botox my lines, I'm sure I'd end up with a swollen lump the size of a guinea pig on my forehead. Not the subtle look that I'm after. So I've narrowed it down to a natural filler or acupuncture. I'll tell you how it goes. And in the meantime, I'm going to keep pulling out my grey hairs when I see them and dying them as well, because I'm not going to let them win that easily.
Where mission was conceived: In front of the bedroom mirror
Idea-fuelling beverage: White tea
Likelihood of success: 80% likely, 20% chance I'll baulk at the cost
Mission deadline: 30 September
I've been plucking out my grey hairs for a few years now, ever since I saw the first three standing up straight in my crown one morning, like prairie dog sentries scouting for new territory. Of course, I whipped them out at the time, but it was too late. They'd passed the word on to my other follicles, and since then I've been discovering them at increasing intervals. Just now I found a small battalion hiding out behind my right ear. Some of them were quite long, so I can only assume that they have settled in. And undoubtedly, they have reinforcements. It is probably my greyest hour. Yet even though they are fighting me with great strength and fierceness, I won't give up. I will fight them with Boots or Clairol Simply Natural Dark Ebony, I will fight them with the tweezers, I will fight them in the bathroom mirror and the bedroom, I will never surrender. Well not for a while anyway, until there is over 10% coverage, then I may consider it.
But before you get the wrong idea - this fight is not my new mission. There's a side effect that I've noticed, and it's getting worse. When I see a grey hair and attempt to catch it with the tweezers, my eyes roll upwards and my forehead furrows slightly in concentration. Slowly but surely, my forehead is getting more and more lined, in the exact same pattern as my grey-hair-catching expression. I already have lines between my brows from sneezing. That I have to live with. But grey-hair-catching lines are downright embarrassing. So now I have a conundrum. Grey hair, or grey-hair-catching lines? Well, obviously 'neither' is the correct answer here, but more hair dye is not the solution.
So my new mission is to embark upon a course of forehead treatment to ease my lines.
Now, I've ruled out Botox straight away. Because I'm allergic to so much stuff that if I was to Botox my lines, I'm sure I'd end up with a swollen lump the size of a guinea pig on my forehead. Not the subtle look that I'm after. So I've narrowed it down to a natural filler or acupuncture. I'll tell you how it goes. And in the meantime, I'm going to keep pulling out my grey hairs when I see them and dying them as well, because I'm not going to let them win that easily.
Where mission was conceived: In front of the bedroom mirror
Idea-fuelling beverage: White tea
Likelihood of success: 80% likely, 20% chance I'll baulk at the cost
Mission deadline: 30 September
Thursday, 9 August 2007
Mission 008: Woolly valley
So here we are again. Hi. Um...I know that i should really be giving you a mission update about my unfinished missions, but actually, there's not a lot to report (and I'm a bit embarrassed about that), so let's leave it there for now, shall we? I'll update you later. Promise.
Anyway, you didn't really want to know about old missions, did you? Here's my new one:
I am going to get a haircut.
Wow. Stunned you with that one, didn't I? I know it sounds pretty risky compared to the others, but bear with me. I haven't had a haircut since December. In New Zealand. That's 8 months of ever-increasing, woolly mammoth-like tresses that always need to be tied back because they are no longer a style. I'm not quite sure how I managed to let them get to that state. Actually, I do. It's called 'DIY on the flat every weekend and working 1 1/2 hours out of London so I get home too late for late night appointments'. It's a very effective way to let yourself go without even realising it.
Now I need to go in for some follicle maintenance. Perhaps a bit of a mainicure and a pedicure too. I did my eyebrows in the bath last night, so at least I can see again. Other than that, I'm beginning to look far too much like a vegan academic. Wiry style-less hair, tick. Chewed fingernails, tick. Comfy cardie, tick. Comfy shoes, tick. Grey hair allowed the free run of my head. No, not quite. There's still time for me. Just.
The only problem I can now forsee is that I don't know what hairdresser to go to. I used to go to a great guy in Hackney who had the guts to tell me when I couldn't take a style. I like a hairdresser who's prepared to tell you how it is. 'Here's a photograph of Cate Blanchett (in elegant Prada and Costume National ballet pumps). Can you please do my hair like that?'
' No, your hair won't do that – and you won't find that your sturdy NZ rugby-player's calves will ever look like that, either, luv. Let's aim for this picture of Kathy Bates instead, shall we?'
But I can't go back to that hairdresser because I haven't been for ages, and he'll wonder where I've been in the meantime - why I deserted him for a bland chain salon with shiny posters and pimply assistants with hoop earrings sweeping up the clippings. Even though I didn't - and nor do I want to – which is even more embarrassing, because now my hair's so bad I couldn't possibly go to a hairdresser I know.
So anyway, I think you'll allow me the liberty of not updating you on my other missions. Because as you can tell, this one's terribly important indeed.
Where mission was conceived: Work again
Idea-fuelling beverage: Dr Stuart's 'Wild Nettle tea' (As it says on the packet, 'Time for a spring clean.')
Likelihood of success: 100% certain
Mission deadline: 24 August
Anyway, you didn't really want to know about old missions, did you? Here's my new one:
I am going to get a haircut.
Wow. Stunned you with that one, didn't I? I know it sounds pretty risky compared to the others, but bear with me. I haven't had a haircut since December. In New Zealand. That's 8 months of ever-increasing, woolly mammoth-like tresses that always need to be tied back because they are no longer a style. I'm not quite sure how I managed to let them get to that state. Actually, I do. It's called 'DIY on the flat every weekend and working 1 1/2 hours out of London so I get home too late for late night appointments'. It's a very effective way to let yourself go without even realising it.
Now I need to go in for some follicle maintenance. Perhaps a bit of a mainicure and a pedicure too. I did my eyebrows in the bath last night, so at least I can see again. Other than that, I'm beginning to look far too much like a vegan academic. Wiry style-less hair, tick. Chewed fingernails, tick. Comfy cardie, tick. Comfy shoes, tick. Grey hair allowed the free run of my head. No, not quite. There's still time for me. Just.
The only problem I can now forsee is that I don't know what hairdresser to go to. I used to go to a great guy in Hackney who had the guts to tell me when I couldn't take a style. I like a hairdresser who's prepared to tell you how it is. 'Here's a photograph of Cate Blanchett (in elegant Prada and Costume National ballet pumps). Can you please do my hair like that?'
' No, your hair won't do that – and you won't find that your sturdy NZ rugby-player's calves will ever look like that, either, luv. Let's aim for this picture of Kathy Bates instead, shall we?'
But I can't go back to that hairdresser because I haven't been for ages, and he'll wonder where I've been in the meantime - why I deserted him for a bland chain salon with shiny posters and pimply assistants with hoop earrings sweeping up the clippings. Even though I didn't - and nor do I want to – which is even more embarrassing, because now my hair's so bad I couldn't possibly go to a hairdresser I know.
So anyway, I think you'll allow me the liberty of not updating you on my other missions. Because as you can tell, this one's terribly important indeed.
Where mission was conceived: Work again
Idea-fuelling beverage: Dr Stuart's 'Wild Nettle tea' (As it says on the packet, 'Time for a spring clean.')
Likelihood of success: 100% certain
Mission deadline: 24 August
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