Egg

A certain Miss confided (if telling everyone over lunch can be thought of as confiding) that she often pops in a vibra-egg before heading out for the day.

At this point, I must interrupt myself and admit that I am not entirely au courant on the varieties of inanimate objects available to insert in one's orifices. However, from the subsequent details shared (Alas! If only it were possible to Janola one's brain) everyone present became experts in vibra-egg specifications. I tentatively Googled it later, and a website primly and unhelpfully described the item simply as "Most valuable treasure for women." Hence, I have started (I think wittily) referring to Mr Smith's wallet as my 'vibra-egg.' He is not amused.

Where was I? Oh yes. Thus, the Miss gaily spends many a day with her egg installed. The thought persisted that perhaps the egg was a present and unwelcome guest, and this rather put me off my creme brulee.

"Ugh," I murmured, "I'm sure it can't be good for one's bits to be in an eternal state of stimulation," but most of the ladies seemed rather impressed.

As I fear a sudden run of sales of vibra-eggs in Auckland, one fervently hopes their users pelvic-floor muscles are up to the job. The consequences otherwise don't bear thinking about.

Crisis

Please excuse me while I have a personal crisis. Again. I had a similar one this time last year.

With boring regularity, as soon as the winter season starts shuffling off, with the reminder of time passing, another year grinding to an unsatisfactory close, I start to think – what have I done? The answer is always 'very little,' and I give myself a stern talking to, about how it is time to do something with one's life, apart from the bare minimum.

The years of my life are not recalled by any grand moments or great achievements, but by where I went, and what I bought. I can think to myself, "Oh yes, 2003. I went to Mexico." To some that may sound quite good, and it is, but it is no great feat to travel. When I said I wanted to do something bold with my life, a friend suggested I go sky-diving. I said that, in theory anyway, a comatose person could be strapped to a parachute and pushed out of a plane, and my idea of 'bold' would have to be something beyond the capabilities of the unconscious. But what? There is a great burden to ambition without talent.

The smallness of one’s life seems a little claustrophobic at times, but I suspect I would feel like this no matter what I was doing.

Parsley

In between bouts of sunshine and hail yesterday, I noticed beds of parsley in Aotea Square.



Makes me think of my dear Grandfather, who used to grumble about Grandmother's ranks of roses, as he thought it not worth planting unless it could be eaten (I think living through a few world wars makes one funny in the head. Grandmother - I believe - made rose-petal jam one year to shut him up).

I find it a curious choice of plant for the inner-city, although the local homeless contingent will be pleased to have a ready supply of garnish to accompany their a la bin meals.

Advice

A dear reader and fellow blogger, G-Man, has emailed me with a problem. The full, unabridged letter is available on his site, so do go read it. Below is a brief synopsis:

G-Man goes to pub, and is introduced to a scantily-clad girl who likes pole-dancing and communicates only in nasal grunts and table-banging.

The aforementioned gentleman is then introduced to another girl. She seems nice, but knows nothing about rugby. She only wants to be friends. G-Man replies he doesn’t want to be friends. Nice-girl has since texted him forty-eight times in a desperate plea for coffee. Nice-girl has friend ring up and scream abuse.

Mr G-Man concludes, "What's up with that? What the hell is wrong with these people? How can I get them to just leave me alone?"

Dear G-Man,

What a tragic tale of woe!

Once upon a time, Mr Smith and I had been invited to a party that neither of us were especially inclined to attend. I fussed and bothered over how to politely disentangle ourselves from the obligation – worrying that the excuses I came up with were weak, or unbelievable. Then Mr Smith came home.

"I ran into Mr X today," he said (Mr X being the host of the party in question).
"Oh no," I cried, "Did he ask if we were going to the party?"
"Yes," replied Mr Smith.
"What did you tell him?"
"I said we didn’t want to go."
I gasped. "You didn't! What did he say?"
Mr Smith shrugged. "He said 'no worries,' and that was it."

I have always admired the directness of men's language – while women will couch their sentiments in a frenzy of obtuse ambiguities, men will say a cheery "fuck off!" and be done with it. Such a very efficient and tidy way of going about life. Unfortunately for men, this directness is not a language women generally appreciate or comprehend. While you, G-man, were very frank and honest to the women in question – they did not understand what you were saying.

Thus – the question remains – how to get clueless limpets to bugger off and leave a man to drink beer and watch rugby in peace? I would suggest the following:

1. Paint a dreary picture of your prospects. Say, "Could I borrow a couple of hundred? Dole-day isn’t until Wednesday, and I need to pay the board at my hostel… I'll pay it back when I get a job. Actually, can you make it five hundred? The lads and I are off to a strip-club tonight, and I haven’t had a lap-dance in ages."

2. Perhaps they see you as playing hard to get. Ring Nice-girl, and propose marriage. Tell her that she’s the girl of your dreams, and that your mother has booked the reception hall already, and needs her to come over next Wednesday to pick centre-pieces and napkin designs. This could back-fire, I suppose, but would be interesting to try.

3. You should so have asked the table-banger for her number. Without the ability to think or communicate in a human language, she would never bother you with questions such as "What are you thinking?" or pointless arguments about whether you think she is fat.

Hope I have been of some help,

Cheers,
Mrs Smith

Notes

Well, I am back. I left to have a respite from the bleak days of winter, and was satisfied that I left Auckland in a howling storm of thunder and lightning last Monday, and returned to the same yesterday. However, while I was away, the weather was apparently marvellous! Summer-like, I am told, and sufficient for dining outdoors at the viaduct. I am peeved. My sojourn was – given its purpose – an utter waste of time and money.

Also, my nose got a bit sun-burnt, and has turned a shade of brown that does not quite match the rest of my face. It is not a good look.

Voters on my poll seem to be, overall, on La Saunders' team. However, I shall declare both ladies joint-winners, in my gratitude for providing a bloody good laugh. More of the same, please.

Girlfight

Well! It appears Fashion Week ain't over 'til the fat lady sings (or throws a glass of wine).

The Eighties is definitely back in style! We have the clothes, the models, now Dynasty-style girlfights. Normally I wouldn’t approve of such unfettered hurly-burly, but given the high-profile nature of the participants, I have obviously missed out on a hot new trend. I fully expect fashionistas and society mavens to be throwing glasses of wine and punches at every opportunity from now on. The sign of a successful party will be the number of guests who go home with blackened eyes and bleeding noses. How utterly thrilling!

So kids, whose team jersey are you wearing?


I have turned off the restriction of one vote per person, so feel free to cheat and fight dirty.

I am off somewhere fabulous for the week. I'll be back next Monday, so occupy yourselves with the poll until then.

Harsh

My goodness! Now there are some interesting questions!

Fashion Finale

Having spotted Chloe's fur sleeves, Kate cried, "Right on!" and with a few deft snips, she cut the sleeves off her mum’s old rabbit fur coat.

Left - Chloe, Right - Kate Sylvester
Has Eighties revivalism gone too far? We have the leggings, the shapeless silhouettes, the fluoro palette – now the models? Brigette Berger and Geeling Ng were wheeled out of the Withered Rose Home for Aged Models but should have been promptly wheeled back in again.

However, Lorraine Downes and Rachel Hunter still scrub up very nicely, although the curtain call came a bit too soon for La Hunter, who had to rush from the shower, in nothing but a towel and unshaved legs.

Scrub up nicely
I went to the public day on Friday, despite the shame of not having any leggings or satin circus tents to wear. I bought a Kagi cocktail ring at the designer garage sale – reduced from $480 to $95! Although, when I got home, I noticed that two of the pave diamantes had fallen out, which was mildly depressing.

I got to see a couple of current season fashion shows. The Lucie Boshier event was fun, although I was faint with altitude sickness, with my seat being 8,000 feet above sea level. There were familiar faces amongst the models, but with deep-vein thrombosis setting in, the only name I could recall was Amanda Peebles. My god, her breasts! Astonishing they were. I hope they are not couture, because I would like to get a pair just the same. There were a few technical difficulties with the music – but who cares about such things in Boshier-land! Here, women are beautiful sylphs in maximalist multi-hued polyester, with diamante-studded eye-lids and perky breasts, who look like they do nothing all day but eat cupcakes, have loads of sex, and bathe in champagne, possibly loads of sex while bathing in champagne. One of the models even stopped mid-way down the cat-walk to pash a handsome young man in the front-row.

Next up was Annah Stretton. Stretton-land is a more sober environment, populated by pale private-school girls as icy as the blue-grey palette. No cupcakes and sex here. In Stretton-land, the models are en-route to a polo-match in rosette-laden silks, where they would coolly fend off the Trust-Fund Charlie’s grabby hands, strangle him with their multitudinous ropes of pearls, and stow the body in the back of daddy’s Range Rover before going off to stamp in divots and pat the ponies. One of the girls, however, had an alarming gait, that made a few front-row people giggle. One wondered if she had a wooden leg, or a stone in her hoof. Another looked so thin and tired, one thought she should be promptly returned to the stable and given a big bucket of oats. I was close enough this time to confirm that yes! Models do get cellulite, although in a pretty, pleated organza kind of way.