An Easter ramble
I had a good old-fashioned stream-of -consciousness, girls-only type chat with J yesterday. I was in the bath, and sent her a text lamenting the fact that #2, whilst gazing adoringly up at me (after bounding onto our bed to wake us up – well, it was 10am) announced that the little blonde hairs on my top lip were ‘sparkling’ in the sunshine. Not good. So, against my better judgment it was out with the Immac. One word of caution: don’t try this at home. Ten minutes later and in the place of my ‘sparkling’ facial hair, I was sporting a rather fetching (and very sore) bright red comedy moustache, which refused to die down until lunchtime. Hubby was unimpressed: ‘God, I hope it doesn’t grow back black and bristly’. Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.
When we’d finally stopped laughing, we also got to talking about hairdressers (J was on the way home from a visit to hers). ‘Why’, she said, ‘do they insist on giving me ‘volume’?’ I agree. I like my hair flat. It’s gravity, for goodness’ sake. And, as J pointed out, if she ‘wanted to look like Sonic the Hedgehog’, she would have asked. Every bloody hairdresser I know insists on trying to ‘bouffe’ you up like Princess Diana in her glorious flicked-back eighties heyday. My stupid, baby hair is fine and straight and all it wants to do it lie down – why can’t they just let it be?! Anyhoo – enough rambling. I’m off to slow roast my Easter leg of lamb. I guess this shouldn’t sit well with me when I am currently surrounded by lush green fields liberally sprinkled with lots of little spring lambs, gambolling happily around their mummies (oh and they sleep in the little nooks and crannies around the roots of the trees – cute!). I’ll try and get you a picture, but, hey, I’m not a veggie, I’m a realist. Also, it might not be trendy, but I’m afraid we all like our lamb meltingly falling off the bone and not pink and still looking like it might bound back off into the meadow. So there. (Ooh, I’m in one of those moods this morning).
