Mission 012 - Clocking on

I think we all know that I'm supposed to be writing an essay instead of doing a new post. Well, we do now.
My essay is already late, and here I am procrastinating. I am stupendously talented at procrastination, a talent which I believe is common to many famous writers. Or do I just want to believe that my procrastination makes my success as a writer imminent? Somehow I don't think it works like that.
Anyway, it means that I am late for many things, because I put things off until they absolutely must be done. That goes for almost everything. It even included my own wedding, where I booked the registrar about 3 weeks beforehand, so I had to take the only one available. At the wedding, said registrar sank her glass of Champagne in a flash, then nicked someone else's for a chaser. She was also seen swigging from a hip flask before the ceremony.
What can I say - if I'd chosen earlier I may have gotten someone sober, but I'm sure they would not have provided those cherished comedy moments.
However, not all my procrastination leads to comedy. My morning 'I can't bear to drag myself away from my pillow, I think I'll just give it another 5 minutes,' leads me to be, on average, half an hour late to work every day. (This has been the case for most of my working life.) Of course, I stay there late, and I'm not very productive in the morning anyway (poor excuse, I know), but wouldn't it be nice if I turned up when everyone else does for a change?
So from tomorrow, my new mission is: to be on time for work for at least a week. Oh dear; my heart sank when I wrote those words. It means leaving the house at 7:40am. It really is not my cup of tea, but if I can do that, it's a step towards becoming less of a procrastinator. And then I'll be more on track to finish writing my book.
But first I need to write an essay.

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

Mission 007 -failure

Oh hell. I have absolutely no self-control. I have failed Mission 007 'to stop eating sweets' miserably. It was the M&S extra-chocolately caramels that did it, combined with a dull day at work. If that's all it takes...
However, on a lighter note, the new toilet system should be being installed today, which will mean that it's out of the study (where it has been lingering in bits) and hanging on the wall looking, um...pristine, hopefully. Wow. So instead of using a 70 year-old loo to pass my waste, I will be soiling a brand new set of porcelain. Wonder who will get to use it first, the Buckwell or me?
See, I told you earlier that I have an exciting life.

Mission 007: Sweet and sour

Well, today I don't really have much to say about anything. My bi-polar moods seem to be getting the better of me. Earlier I was practically ecstatic about the fact that I had posted a Mr Hudson and the Library video on Facebook, and I even took the liberty of stealing Lady Barron's new German word 'fabelhaft,' to indicate how I was feeling.
Now I'm staring out at the clouds steaming ominously across the Crawley sky up towards London (just in time to dump their cargo on the punters knocking off early on a Friday), and I can feel the corners of my mouth creeping downwards. It reminds me of those old women you see on New York buses heading downtown from the Upper West Side, with their perfectly coiffured hair (untouchable), navy Hush Puppies and red lipstick that looks freshly applied, but which is already sliding into the set creases of their permanently disaproving lips. Down, down, down. Their husbands are dead, they have cats called Alfie and Mittens, they huff if a teenager brushes against their arm and their handbags are never without a fresh tissue. Yes, I can feel it happening. I'm becoming one of them, and it's starting with my lips.
I think it's time for chocolate. Mmm. Yes, I thought you'd agree. More Rolos? I had some earlier, just after lunch, which helps explain my super high. And this low too.
So no. Actually, stop right there. Don't you go leading me astray with just one of your more-ish-looking Champagne truffle chocolates that you brought back from Bruges. Because this mission, you see, is all about no sweets. And not only no chocolate, but none of those M&S white-chocolate coated strawberries (which incidentally, I think they've discontinued), no Rolos, no Polos and no chocolate-coated caramels (one of which whipped out one of the Buckwell's fillings out the other evening, cheeky devil). I am going to stop eating sweets and see if it helps my moods.
No confectionary at all for... um, till the end of the month! Lucky it's a weekend, so at least I can have alcohol. Whew.
Where mission was conceived: Aaaaaaastral Towerrrrrrs
Type of location: Workplace
Idea-fuelling beverage: Not a drop of anything
Likelihood of success: Yeah, maybe, perhaps
Mission deadline: now till Tues 31 July

Mission 003

My nose has been offended.
At lunchtime today I marched (okay, was driven by Lady C) off to Homebase to get some plants for the soon to be balcony planting, intended as a townie nod to the rambling wildflower gardens currently in vogue. I picked up two each of gypsophilia and aster daisies, thinking that they'd add a splash of pretty English countryside to the balcony of our hulking 1930s building.
I got them back to the office and sat them by my desk. All was well in the garden of Astral Towers. But before too long I got a whiff of feet. Not mine. Not Mr Samuels. And not Lady C's, although she was the first suspect as her shoes were ones with lots of little holes in them. A mild inkling rumbled in my brain, and I bent down and took a sniff of the plants.
The asters smelt of ripe toes. The gypsophilia smelt like rank Stilton. Together, they were Death.
There is an estate agent coming tomorrow to value the flat before it goes on the market...and his first impression is going to be a ratty English countryside balcony that smells of long dead feet.
I must get some new plants for the balcony. And next time I must smell them before I buy them.

Where mission was conceived: 2nd floor, Astral Towers
Type of location: Workplace
Idea-fuelling beverage: Pure life-giving, odourless water
Estimated increase in quality of life I expect from the completed mission: Significant
Likelihood of success: It will happen or I will have to cut my nose off
Mission deadline: Sunday 8 July.