Got (Mini) Milk?

Today, something terrible happened to me.

Something that shook me to my very core.

I went to buy a Mini Milk ice cream from my local corner shop, and they didn’t have any.

What kind of shop doesn’t sell Mini Milks?

Instead, I was offered a poor-mans alternative; an ice lolly with popping candy at the very tip.

Ice LOLLY. Not ice CREAM. An ice lolly, as in, frozen flavoured water. Frozen water that came with a 35p price tag. I’m sure Mini Milks used to be 10p, and you got a bit of your recommended daily allowance of calcium thrown in as well.

It was a terrible disappointment.

I mean, to be fair to the ice lolly (and to the man in the shop who suggested it), it was actually quite nice. But that’s not the point – I wanted my Mini Milk.

I can’t help but feel that my Mini Milk aggression can be somewhat attributed to the fact that I’ve given up bread in the run up to my holidays. I don’t think I have ever wanted a cheese sandwich more than I do right now.

In the weeks since Matt has gone, I have turned into a cheese and chutney sandwich beast. They are all I want to eat. So, in an effort to shed a few pounds before I go away, I thought it would be a good idea to give up bread. What a mistake. I didn’t realise how much I ate! It also doesn’t help that just before I decided I was going to quit bread, Matt had a huge box of chutney delivered to me (what a swine. He’s like an evil chutney dealer, tempting me back to the sordid bread side).

Now I have four jars of chutney looking at me every time I open the cupboard. My only consolation is that once I do get to France, I am going to eat bread and cheese until it comes out of my ears. I’ll have a bread and cheese party, and it will be amazing.

In the meantime though, it looks like I’ll be taking out my bread cravings on the man from the local shop.

SuperDRUG

I am poor.

And do you know why?

Superdrug.  I am addicted to Superdrug.

This week I have mostly been… spending a lot of money in a chemist. On rubbish. And not even earning any Boots points (I know Superdrug have a new loyalty card but it’s just not the same).

Already I’ve brought an eyebrow waxing kit, two boxes of normal waxing strips, one lip stain (to replace one that I brought two weeks ago and thought I’d binned by accident. I hadn’t. Now I have two) that does nothing but emphasis how small my lips are, and a strange yellow nail varnish. The last two times I’ve been in, I’ve spent £30. Which is a lot to spend in a chemist.

The worst of it though, is the fact that I have sustained an injury from all of my goodies. (Writing this down now I feel like I could have a claim for one of those dodgy personal injury claim people who advertise on The Jeremy Kyle Show.) I decided to buy the eyebrow waxing kit because I have a teeny tiny bit of a uni-brow (read: large unruly eyebrows that need regular maintenance).

My mom tries to convince me that this isn’t a bad thing, because “it’s a small price to pay for your dark eyes” but we all know the truth. No-one wants to walk around with one long eyebrow. 

Usually I pluck them, but I thought I’d give waxing a go.  I had been toying with the idea of going to a salon, but as I’ve spent all of my money in Superdrug lately, I thought I’d spend a bit more in there when I saw some strips for £1.50. 
Now I know why they were only £1.50 – it was like trying to wax with a bit of sellotape, but with less 'stick'.

Most people would have probably given up when the bits of sellotape failed to rip out any hairs. But I’d got it into my head that my eyebrows were fuzzy and needed to be sorted out RIGHT NOW. So, I cut up the normal waxing strips I’d brought and used them.

I now have severe waxing burns in between my eyes. On both eyebrows.

And, because I’m currently growing out my fringe, I have no way to hide the damage. So, now I’m stuck with a red blotch in between my eyes that I can’t cover up with a fringe or with makeup. Plus, Matt’s home in two days and I Iook like I have a really bad skin condition.

So, this week’s lesson? Never, ever try and wax your eyebrows with a normal waxing strip.

Maybe I can bring the uni-brow back…

Hello

My boyfriend has left me.

Gone.

After seven years together, he has had the cheek to move to another country and leave me all alone.

I mean, he didn’t really have much say in the matter, but still – how dare he leave me all alone! How selfish of him to go and chase his dreams and leave me behind.

So, whilst he has skipped off to Switzerland for the next 18 months to work at CERN (Where Brian Cox, the cutie scientist who did those TV programmes works, dontcha know) to try and find some particles or something, I’ve found myself with a lot of extra time on my hands. 

He’s been gone for two months now, and there are only so many weekends that I can stay in bed and watch TV without the worry of eventually getting bed sores. So, after been persuaded by a few friends, I have decided to write a blog about the mostly boring, but sometimes exciting, things that I get up to (I can feel your excitement already!)

Last weekend, my gorgeous friend Mel had a stall at the Stratford Vintage Fair and so I went along with a couple of other friends to coo loudly over Mel’s goodies and persuade some strangers to buy some stuff. The fair was so much fun and there was some beautiful things for sale (obviously Mel’s stuffed owls and key rings were the highlight though!) I brought a little card to send to Matt in Switzerland and my friend Rachel B brought a few bits of jewellery.

Once the fair had ended, we decided to go across the river, where there was a little festival going on. After having a quick mooch of all the stalls (and watching Rachel being force fed an olive by an overzealous stall holder) we went and sat down to watch the band that had started to play. They were really good (not good enough that I’ve remembered their name though, whoops!) but it was the dancing that was going down in front of the stage that really stole the show.

Being a fully-fledged member of the big-boob crew, I know the importance of a good bra. You don’t want you boobs to be whacking you in the face every time you move. Apparently, bra’s are yet to be embraced by the fair women of Stratford, judging by the ample-bosomed ladies that were dancing on Sunday.  There were boobs everywhere! And not just sedentary boobs, hanging still. 


No no no, these ones had lives of their own and were moving as if independent from the bodies of the ladies who had failed to look after them appropriately. There was one “pair” that moved around in two separate circles, whilst the lady to whom they belonged jumped up and down. They were mesmerising to the point of being hypnotic and neither me nor my friends could concentrate on anything else (we’re not boob-perves or anything, but it’s hard not to stare when there’s a boob dance happening right in front of your face!)

So, the lesson that was learnt last week? Always keep your jugs under control.

Oh, and if you want to take a look at the adorable things Mel was selling at the vintage fair, click here.