Saturday, 28 August 2010
Most women I know buy clothes on a weekly basis. Friends tell me they’ve found such a great skirt and terrific boots in that shop and last week they bought a great whatever where ever. Of course they always look terrific and very fashionable, while I’m usually in jeans and a T-shirt or in my riding gear. Next to them I feel even more frumpy than I already am. But since I’m up to my knees in horse poo most of the day (I just love to exaggerate now and again; actually it's up to my ankles) there is no point in me being fashionable. That’s my excuse anyway. Because I really don’t like shopping for clothes.
It’s not something I’ve inherited, because every time I have a conversation with my mother (or to be accurate; every time my mother talks to me), she tells me she has bought this and that, preferably on sale. “20% off, couldn’t leave it hanging there. Have to buy something to go with it now.” Which will be her goal in life for the week after.
I have no goals in life. And if I did, they would certainly not include shopping for a skirt that will go with a shirt. No way José!
So, I have brought the frequency of shopping for clothes back to twice a year and only when in dire need.
Yesterday was one of those occasions. I didn’t feel fat (see? I am a real woman.). Always a plus point when one needs clothes. So I felt up to the task before me. I wanted to buy two pairs of good jeans, a couple of shirts perhaps and a long woollen cardigan. Definitely a long woollen cardigan.
The first clothes shop I encountered after parking the car looked promising so I went in. In no time I had scored a pair of dark jeans that fitted well (the question is, will they turn out to be good jeans, because sometimes jeans for some reason have a Jekyll and Hyde personality. One moment they fit perfectly well and the next moment they will either be too small or too large. I have the feeling these new jeans will be too large, but we’ll see. Or is it just me who sometimes ends up with Jekyll and Hyde jeans?)
Anyway, then I saw an interesting pair of grey trousers. A nice design with fun back pockets and some lovely details. Not exactly what I was looking for, but they looked like jeans, only grey and very in vogue. So they fitted the bill more or less. But would they fit me?
They did. And I thought they looked good on me.
Then I obviously needed something to go with the grey trousers. I found a long sleeved sort of T-shirt with a subtle print that went wonderfully with the grey trousers. And also with the jeans. But then again almost anything goes with jeans.
This was a promising start to the shopping trip. Would they perhaps have that long cardigan for me too? I browsed through what was on offer. Rails full of all sorts of garments. I picked out a very finely knitted long woollen cardigan with two obscure flaps hanging from the back. Hmm. Puzzling. Nice sleeves though (narrow up to the elbows and above that wider and sort of gathered together on the side). But the flaps were just weird. I tried it on and examined the result in the mirror. Hmm. Not sure. Strange flaps.
A woman emerged from the fitting cubicle next to mine. She looked at ‘my’ cardigan and asked the sales woman if she had another one of those (pointing at the one I was wearing) for her to try on. I considered it a good sign and decided to buy the cardigan too.
What else could they have for me?
Again I browsed through the merchandise. Interesting looking shirt. I plucked the hanger from the rail. Hmm. No. Wasn’t quite ít. I put the hanger back on the rail. The garment dropped to the floor. I picked it up and tried to put it back on the hanger, but I couldn’t figure out which hole was the right one to drape over the hanger. It was exactly as wide on one side as on the other and the sleeves were coming somewhere from the middle. The only clue I could find was a label at which I decided would be the top of the shirt. Strange shirt.
I couldn’t find anything else that appealed to me enough to try it on, so I decided to pay for the two trousers, the T-shirt and the cardigan.
Since I was on a roll, I went further on my quest to find some decent Autumn/Winter clothes.
I went into a couple of other shops that had nothing that appealed to me, until I came to a shop I had been in before. Last year, when I was on the hunt for Summer clothes in fact. Nice clothes, but horrible staff. The pushy sort, who like everything you try on. “Looks gorgeous on you. Could have been made for you. It’s my favourite too.” That sort of sales talk. Since trying on clothes is not my favourite pastime (did I mention that already?), I’m usually in the right state of mind to answer back with: “you would say that wouldn’t you. You want to sell it to me. Do you work on commission? Have you bought one of these yourself? Does it look as good on you as it does on me?” Usually I’m quite a friendly person. It’s just that the longer my shopping trip lasts, the longer my toes will grow.
But still, I was on a mission and I liked their collection, so I just had to take the sales women into the bargain.
I found a nice long woollen cardigan, also grey, but made of thicker wool. Almost exactly what I had in mind when I started looking for it. And a fun striped long sleeved T-shirt that would go great with the other stuff I had already bought and with the newly found cardigan too. So I disappeared into a cubicle and tried both on. When I stepped out to criticize the outfit, I was immediately stalked by one of the sales bitches. “Gorgeous cardigan that is, isn’t it? It looks so good on you. I love that cardigan. And the shirt is so nice isn’t it? (not waiting for an answer) They just ‘fly’ from the store. It looks lovely with that cardigan blablabla”.
I raised my eyebrows as high as they would go and just looked at her.
It worked. She closed her mouth and took a couple of steps back. (Do you think I frightened her?)
Anyway, I decided to go for both garments and found another shirt, this time with a little bling on it, in the last shop I went into and then I went home.
“I’m pooped”, I sighed to hubs. He shrugged his shoulders and said something like: “pfff, you only went shopping for clothes. How tiring can it be?”
So I started thinking what the difference between ‘female and male’ clothes shopping is.
You see, women have to decide: “Do I want trousers, a skirt or a dress? Do I want casual or not. What colour looks good on me? What colour do I want? Do I need something to go with it? Do I have the right shoes for this outfit? Does it make my butt look fat? Does this flatter me in the right places?” And more of those dilemmas.
Now, I can only go with hubs’s shopping habits, but I think male shopping goes something like this:
Man enters shop he always goes to, sales person knows him and says: ah, Mr. Soandso. Is it that time of the year again? Haha.”
Man says: “Yes it is”.
Sales person says: ”Well, what can I do for you this time.”
Man says: “I’d like two of these (points at trousers he’s wearing), this size, different colours. Three shirts to go with them and a jumper or maybe two.” Or he says: “I need a suit.”
Sales person rummages through the collection, picks out a few things, man tries them on. It fits, he pays. Simple.
No difficult garments with long purposeless flaps, no shirts that have confusing top/bottom issues, no shoes problem, no fat butt, or if fat butt… who cares.
And still, hubs does not like shopping for clothes either. I don’t understand.
Friday, 27 August 2010
I feel she would be making everyone sit up and take notice of the Pakistan flood victims and that we wouldn't all be allowed to carry on hoping that someone else would lend them a bucket .
She knew , better than anyone , how to make us HELP .
Wednesday, 25 August 2010
Sunday, 22 August 2010
Go HERE to see where the ten strange words originated this time, and maybe then write your own story?
Saturday, 21 August 2010
Surreal or what?
Next door to Valley's End is another small town where a lot of strange people live. The Welsh Marches are like that, characterful, colourful and some areas you could call downright weird. We have beautiful scenery, housing used to be quite cheap; it isn't any more, if any of you are tempted by what I am about to describe, but tolerance and a live-and-let-live attitude are still valued highly.
One day I will write a post on the many colourful characters calling this area home. Let's call the town BC, and, for now, let me tell you this little tale.:
There is a pub which has, for years, turned a blind eye to the consumption of certain substances other than alcohol on the premises. it still does, allegedly. In fact, I was told, that on a summer's evening, when doors and windows were open, if one inhaled deeply, one could feel a pleasant sensation just by walking past. I also understand that hardier types used hardier substances, all freely available. Allegedly.
Those of you unfortunate enough not to be living in the scepter'd isle (Great Britain) might not know that smoking was banned in public places some years ago, I forget exactly when.
One day a customer in this particular pub lit up a cigarette. The landlord immediately shouted at him to extinguish it, pointing to the 'No Smoking' sign above the bar, saying, "Do you want to get me into trouble with the law? There's a smoking ban and I'll thank you not to smoke cigarettes in here".
I understand, other substances do not fall under this jurisdiction. Allegedly.
This tale is hearsay, pure and simple. You never know who might be reading Fridge Soup.
Friday, 20 August 2010
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
I was told that a little bug gets under the bark and wriggles around. When the tree sheds it's bark (do all Eucalyptus shed their bark? I can't recall) it reveals the path the bug took - as though someone has scribbled on it! What a great name for a tree - maybe we should adopt it as the Patron Tree of Writers ... or think of more imaginative names for the trees we have?
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
Go nuts, learn Dutch
Our word for bicycle is ‘fiets’
Nothing in Dutch is ‘niets’
Something in Dutch is ‘iets’
And ‘straten’ in English are streets
A kiss is a ‘kus’ or a ‘zoen’
Money is ‘geld’ or even ‘poen’
Brave can be ‘dapper’ or ‘koen’
The man on the ‘maan’ is the man on the moon
Some of our words though are somewhat alike
For instance a dike or a dyke is a ‘dijk’
Although a dyke could also be ‘pot’
But if she likes men, she is not
And my ‘knie’ is your knee
(A difficult walk that will certainly be)
But you have to say ‘Knie’ and not knee without K
I know, it is hard. ‘Het valt nog niet mee.’
You’ve noticed a rhyme scheme is not part of this post
Somewhere along the way it got totally lost
And if you read that out loud, it won’t even rhyme
Some people consider that almost a crime
But I’m not a poet or ‘dichter’ you see
You can’t expect more of someone simple like me.
P.S. It may say below that this was posted by jinksy, which I guess is true, but I assure you the brains behind the whole thing belong to Carolina.
Friday, 13 August 2010
Every time I hear the phrase 'can't miss it' when given directions to a house on a suburban street my heart sinks.
Whose dozen steps? a giant's , a midget's ? Half the front doors in the street are red, most of them have a small front garden. I count at least four metal gates and the only cats I can see are the ones stalking the road for sparrows.
Please, could I have a flag flying or a loudhailer calling me? It would save me first driving up and down your street, then doing the same on foot, having had to park the car miles away.
Thursday, 12 August 2010
" A young man was arrested on Monday evening for throwing eggs out of a third floor window in the middle of town .
He later apologised , saying he'd intended to hit a friend but had hit people sitting on a cafe terrace instead . "
You can see how it might happen ......
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
Dire Warning- Part The First
If your girdle starts to wobble
while he spouts a lot of twaddle,
then greet the morn with joy
and do not spurn
a boy whose shy advances
soon burn with ardent glances
designed to make a maiden
blush to peach
though her heart remains
securely out of reach.
Dire Warning- Part The Second
Let silk and tulle enticed him,
promise of a frisson splice him
as surely as a hatchet splices logs;
think of it as kissing lots of frogs
before you find a Prince you can engage
and trap just like a sparrow in a cage.
With a feather touch that lingers
from the tip of gentle fingers,
make him glow with white hot passion
in the best time honoured fashion
till he falls, a willing victim, in your trap,
as you snuggle ever closer on his lap.
Then a ruby trickle leaves the pouting lip,
while greedily from out his veins you sip
as daintily as if from out a cup,
though this tea is not one normal people sup...
till finally you toss him in the hall
to lie, a compact heap, where he may fall.
For him, his sweet rose bud will never flower;
he has reached his unexpected final hour.
There will be no rude awakening
for the fatal kiss has taken him
to heights no human ever likes to scale-
and that my friends, concludes my grisley tale!
Sunday, 8 August 2010
Who knew that those erstwhile solid (stolid) Danes view traffic rules with a downright Mediterranean attitude?
Saturday, 7 August 2010
"Not always , no. "
"Not even oneways ? "
(Kinder Eggs are little chocolate eggs with tiny tacky "surprises" inside . Irresistible when you're three.... even , I have to admit , when one's slightly older than three. )
Friday, 6 August 2010
Even after all this time, I am still astonished by French insouciance when it comes to the use of public space.
The postman only grudgingly interrupted his extended conversation with the driver of the grey car because the car behind me got tired of waiting and finally honked at him. He got out to deliver his mail and eventually drove off, but not before he and the Dutchman in the red car had a lengthy exchange about their respective rights to the road, with a few nationalistic slurs thrown in.
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
As we seem to be continuing to delve into matters normally restricted to the privacy of the smallest room, I decided there would never be a better time to add this to the mix:
Taking the piss
Her morning urine
she pours still steaming
on the compost heap.
Around the garden
like eyelids opening.
The neighbours believe
she is a witch.