Wig Wham Bam...

Well, this week I did something I've certainly never done before. No, not swimming with dolphins (although I'd like to one day); not skydiving from a hot air balloon (can't say I've ever really thought about that one) and not even finally sitting through the whole Lord of The Rings Trilogy (I managed half an hour of part one and fell asleep, and have never attempted again). No. This was neither exciting nor daredevil, but it was something I wouldn't care to repeat. Namely, having a domestic with The Other Half over a grey wig in the middle of a fancy dress shop. I kid you not.

On Monday, we went shopping for some bits and pieces (namely a wig for him) for the imminent TedFest party we're attending. Since he is going as old Father Jack, a quick bit of research on t'interweb told us we probably wouldn't get a Father Jack-specific wig, but something along the lines of a mad scientist/Beetlejuice-looking grey wig would do, especially as we could do the finishing touches to the costume ourselves to make everything more Jack-esque. So, off to the shopping centre we trotted to have a trying on session in every costume shop we could find. And by god, it was trying.

Tensions started to fray when we kept having to go backwards and forwards between different shops to compare wigs. Which pretty much all looked (and cost) the same. I'm not sure what The Other Half had a picture of in his head - I'm guessing he was looking for a packet labelled 'Father Jack wig', which I calmly explained several times over we were never going to find and we'd just have to get something as close as we could. Then the argument started when I found a Beetlejuice grey wig - which ok, didn't look exactly like Jack's hair, but we could trim it and it would be ideal. Apparently not good enough, despite the fact that nobody except our friends would see this, and nobody would care anyway if it wasn't an EXACT replica of Jack's mangy locks as they all knew who he was supposed to be going as.

It continued. The Beetlejuice wig just wasn't going to cut it as the picture on the front showed that the scalp of the wig was grey, when it should have been pink. This is when I lost it, there and then in the wig shop with a comedy polystyrene brick in one hand and a giant fake priest's cross in the other. The staff were so bemused by this weird couple shouting at each other over the colour of a wig's scalp that I left the shop and went off to buy a cup off coffee. On my return, I found a sheepish-looking Other Half with a bag in his hand. Turns out, he'd tried on the flamin' wig after I stormed out, only to find that the scalp was in fact pink, not grey. And it did look rather Father Jack-like after all.

I have no words.

I have to go powder my nose…

How could I forget to mention my celebrity-stalking excitement?! (Let me just clarify: I didn’t really stalk anyone, she just happened to run into me once or twice. I’m not that much of a loon. And hush, before you retort.) This is the story I will be telling everyone until I die, I’m sure. I’ve already bored everyone at work with it and *blush* emailed the Heat Online ‘Spotted’ column. That’ll be me buying Heat magazine for the next couple of weeks to see if I made it in, then.

Anyhoo, after the plane journey from hell (it wasn’t too bad to be honest, but I only caught about an hour’s uncomfortable doze as the spotlight above me was broken. So, in a pitch black cabin, there was me sitting there like an utter mentalist highlighted with what felt like the main beam headlights of someone’s car) I was feeling pretty rough and trundled through departures to the EU line in passport control. Who should be in the US citizens queue to my left? Only Uma blimmin’ Thurman plus her children and nanny! I had to do a triple-take to confirm; but I’m happy to report that even in my bedraggled state and feeling pretty crumpled after the flight – my hair was in better nick than hers.

After standing next to her at baggage claim (coincidentally, I assure you) whilst pulling my moth-eaten little suitcase off the belt as her stacks of Louis Vuitton matching luggage were loaded onto a trolley, I then nipped to the loo in departures – and who should come in with her munchkins (two extremely cute blonde mini Ethan Hawkes)? I was silently giggling to myself in the stall next door as all three of them took turns to relieve themselves of all the free airline orange juice – then composed myself enough to go back out and exclaim to my confused Other Half that I’d ‘just heard Uma Thurman wee!’

A splendid end to a tremendous ten days. I'll never see Pulp Fiction in the same light again. (‘I said god damn! God damn..!’)

Nuclear cocktails and red hair...

You can't beat a good cocktail. Especially half-price ones on a Thursday night. Which is the conclusion myself and some gal pals reached this week when we took our twenty-something nostalgia out in our kitten heels to the former haunt of our seventeen-year-old-selves. They'd cut the cocktail menu in half since we were last there (or were we now just old enough to know what we liked to drink instead of working our way down the whole menu?) but we still managed to quaff our way through several bizarrely-titled tipples.

It would have been rude not to have twice as many since they were half price anyway, was our philosophy. So, after several Caribbean Romances; Total Knock-Outs; a few of that old staple - Sex on the Beach; and a one whose name I forget but was a rather strange radioactive-glowing-green Incredible Hulk colour, we consequently spent the night cackling in the corner like the Witches of Eastwick reminiscing about the ridiculous fashions we used to sport in the very same bar almost a decade previous, planning to take a trip together and generally having a good old gossip about things I couldn't possibly repeat. Friday morning I woke up - mercifully still on holiday - with a headache only fizzy tablets can cure and thirst like no other.

Still, I had an appointment to keep and since my hair has taken on a life of its own and turned into rabbit-hutch hay over the past few weeks, I wasn't about to miss it. Plus I fancied a change of colour. My hair's been the colour of stringy dull rat tails for too long. Wasn't sure what yet, perhaps inspiration would hit me in the stylist's chair. It did. Not only am I very pleased that the straw-like quality has disappeared, but the length has been halved and I now have a swept fringe. Plus I'm chestnutty-red. And don't have to get up specially an hour earlier in the mornings now to wash and straighten my tresses. Anything that gives me an extra hour in bed is fine by me.

Maybe I should rename this 'the indecisive musings of a blasé partial-redhead?' Not so catchy? Yeah, well, it'll probably wash out soon anyway.

Shake, rattle and norimaki rolls...

I'm on holiday from work this week. It's great. I don't have to worry about staying up late on a school night and dragging myself in the next morning to face my colleagues, looking like Wurzel Gummidge's lesser known sister crossed with the corpse bride, oh no. (For those of you who don't remember Wurzel Gummidge, he was a scarecrow. And quite a freaky one at that.) I'm just frightening my Other Half with that guise on a daily basis instead of my co-workers. Being a lady of leisure has many fringe benefits. There's the lie-ins, time to potter and the knowledge that you can go anywhere and do anything (or not - but it's nice to have the option).

Going out during the day and laughing and pointing at people who have to work is near the top of the list of pluses, though. But so is going out to eat. Oh yes, lunch somewhere lovely without having to plumb for a Boots Meal Deal, and without looking at the clock on your phone every two minutes and wondering if you have time to finish and make it back in time for the weekly team meeting. Which is why my good self and The Other Half decided upon a leisurely meander around town in the sunshine followed by some sushi. And I'll stop you there - that's not a euphemism. Sadly, the world and his dog were conspiring against us.

Mishap #1 - no parking spaces. Not a major issue, but we got dizzy going round and round the multi-storey. Mishap #2 - when we did finally find a space, the heavens opened as we left the car. I did not plan ahead and bring a brolly. Mishap #3 - umbrella-less, my hair began to frizz and both our jeans were soaked up to the flamin' knee. Mishap #4 - long queue at sushi place. Seems a lot of people had the same idea as us to avoid said rain. Mishap #5 - chef warfare. This is the one we really couldn't have planned for. A heated argument erupts in the open-plan kitchen. A plate of norimaki rolls crashes to the floor. Something whizzes past our heads. Then we feel the dreaded splat. We look at each other. Two waitresses look at us with open jaws. Both of us resemble abstract expressionist artists let loose in the studio. Except the canvas was our shirts and the paint was hoi-sin sauce.

Maybe this is my karma because I laugh and point at people who have to go to work. Anyway. I'm off to wash the gloop off my already rain-sodden jeans. Think I might have been better off at work today. And I definitely need to sort my hair out.