At times when I daydream about winning the lottery, I make a mental list of what I would do with the dosh.
In some cases “mental” is an extremely apt word to use. There’s the convertible sports car that I rather like – but in Scotland would that lever to drop the top be used very often? I have also added surgery to rid myself of the unslightly wobble of flesh, known to most as a double chin. Oh, to be able to pose for a photograph without trying to hide this appendage, or to not have my children laugh at me as I attempt exercises to eliminate aforementioned atrocity. Then I look at photographs of people who have voluntarily gone under the surgeon’s knife to laughable results and I return to sticking my tongue out whilst waiting at traffic lights.
Last week photographs of Renee Zellwegger appeared. Now she has obviously had some sort of surgery on her physog, and the reaction has been widespread. Whilst she doesn’t exactly look hideous, she does look a heck of a different. I really can’t work out what she has had done, and I have studied the pictures very closely, as she doesn’t look like the same gal who I have seen in many films.
I mean when you see Melanie Griffiths these days, she still looks like Melanie Griffiths, only as though seeing her in one of those fairground funny mirror tents. And as for the once gorgeous Meg Ryan (younger readers, please refer to When Harry Met Sally), just consider the mess that she is now; it is as though she has been crossed with some sort of alien life form. What on earth would it take to make one of the most lusted after ladies in the world stuff her lips with some sort of foreign body? And did she actually pay the bill for that work, because if that had been a kitchen rather than a face no cheque would have left my wallet.
Plastic surgeons can do wonderful work rebuilding faces of those who had had dreadful accidents.
To have been attacked, whether in civilian or army life, and left looking like an exhibit in a freak show must be an appalling legacy so to those people it really is a life-saver. But for insecure folk who think that having a flat chest, thin lips or a wrinkled brow will make their friends like them more it sure isn’t the answer.
I can’t pass judgement as I also know of people who have had a little nip or tuck, or indeed both, and have been thrilled with the results. And I am sure that there are numerous public figures who we admire who have succumbed to a bit of carefully administered botox or filler.
But I guess I’m just too much of a coward. I’d worry that it all goes so very wrong and I have to run away to the circus. I mean, clowns seriously freak me out.
Booking our break risks seeing the spouse hit snapping point
Booking a break to Italy should be a happy experience. But not for him outdoors.
Choosing a car rental company is not an experience that is good for his health. It used to be the daily insurance rate that they slap on to the fee just as you are picking up the keys, with dire consequences of financial ruin if you don’t sign on the dotted line. He resolved this by taking out some special insurance policy.
Last summer we used Hertz, who at Bologna airport supplied us with a car covered in scratches and dents and, for no additional cost, an oil leak. When we returned it a tad late (long story; we blame Ryanair) they then charged him a day’s rental.
You might be able to imagine the outrage, but I have to live with it. He vowed never to book with them again.
Last week, when booking our flights, he found a great deal for our long weekend and the exceptional rate led him to press the button and book. The confirmation duly arrived and he read the small print, as he’s like that, only to discover this firm is a subsidiary of Hertz. So much for vows – I just hope that the “til death do us part” holds a bit stronger.
Hubby better have a grasp of Italians’ lingo
Taking of Italy, I’ll be expecting my husband to be blathering like a local when we arrive in May.
For years he has been talking about learning the lingo. First, I bought him a CD set but he didn’t get past lesson one in the car stereo and I lost count of the times I found him asleep with the book on the same page as the previous occasion.
Now he’s going to conversational classes at Edinburgh University, no less, and has been so inspired that we even went to see an Italian film called Human Capital at the Filmhouse, after which he claimed he had hardly needed to look at the subtitles.
So when arrive, I shall be expecting to hear conversations that I don’t understand at all. Whether the Italians do is another matter.
I can fight flab.. but not fat cat’s
I have a fat cat. And I don’t mean that she works for RBS. Following an operation to prevent her from producing more kittens, Rita the mouse eater has put on a huge amount of weight.
I can’t find diet cat biscuits and, unlike a dog, I can’t take her out for long walks. To be honest she’s becoming so very heavy that even picking her up in order to chuck her into the garden might be doing damage to my back.
Short of installing a giant hamster wheel with a packet of Dreamies just outwith her reach, I’m running out of ideas.