Not, obviously fuck a bus, that would be twisted.
No, so I went into town today to spend vast sums of money and be astoundingly girly. I spent vast sums of money having my hair cut… and having a conditioning thing done. I have no idea what the nourishing conditioning thing was, but it involved me feeling (a) very femme, and (b) like a movie character as I sat reading Marie Claire under a steam thing. Yes, that’s right, I’ve no idea what the thing is called. But it’s a steam thing. What’s worse is that I found several interesting and entertaining articles in Marie Claire (checks her temperature). Anyway, femmyness over, my hair was reduced in length, again, so it should go a bit more spikey.
So I headed out and searched for prezzies for the illustrious Jakob; who, I’m told, in his third year of existance seeks a Microphone. Not a good, high quality one you understand. Just ‘cos he likes singing at things, so I got him one, & some colouring books. I also picked up something which my friend Kate had been on a quest for. It is alledged, by her, that in the States thoughts are allowed to dance, unfettered, unrestricted by the rules of the feint margin upon the pages of their notebooks.
It turned out that here, being a more restrained, regulated sort of country, all our notebooks carry within them the power of the feint ruled with margin darkness. She railed against this restriction upon the freedom of her thoughts to roam, eventually capitulating only when she had searched the length and breadth of the globe Bristol.
Today, unwary as I was, I stumbled into some den of iniquity, some place of heinous miscreancy where such dubious commodities were available to the imprudent and the irresponsible. However, knowing the depth of Kates desire I purchased for her one of the afforementioned artifacts and carried to her abode, much to her joy.
So, err, yes, I bought her a journal with blank pages. And then I began my second quest of the day, to find knickers to go with the basque I own. Knickers that would both appear to be revealing and either cover plain knickers, or alternatively not really be revealing in themselves. Or to find velvet hotpants. Why? Because my (nice) basque (as opposed to the cheap and nasty basque) is, well, it’s got knickers with it which are somewhat unsuitable for roaming the streets of London; and so it was that I decided to roam the streets of Bristol in search of something that if not matching the mesh / velvet basque would be close enough for the Rocky Horror Show.
Sadly I failed. I think it’s the longest time in my life I’ve spent hunting for underwear, I’d not really realised how picky I was about it. Anyway, to cut a long and unexciting story short in which I visit a large number of shops and stare dejectedly at a large amount of lingerie; I found a new basque substantially discounted in Debenhams (70% off) and a close-enough-as-will-do pair of knickers under which I can wear my black haynes ones (no, not as in the car manuals).
So that was cool, and in the end cost me 12 quid. I just hope it all fits. I was in a hurry by this stage… because I was meant to be getting my, err, um, eyebrows done… yeah. Um. So much for the end of the femmy stuff. Yeah, I headed back to the car, and this is where the title comes in. I didn’t take my camera with me, and all day I kept spotting fantastic abandoned places, fantastic shots, and no fracking camera. Walking through an area undergoing more redevelopment I noticed an ex-pub which had the potential for some lovely shots (just as a side note, frustratingly the floor of the shop-o-crap which contained, I think, an earlyish valve TV set (I only ever saw the back, the shop was never open – but had some woman marketing crap outside it, and I kept thinking I should ask her about it)has gone, and although some stuff appears to have descended into what was, presumably, the basement; it looks like it was largely cleared. Meh.) I was being frustrated with myself for not bringing the camera and promptly attempted to walk under a bus, which lead to me shouting ‘fuck’ and sprinting out of the way. I really must not do that again. It would hurt.
Anyway, I survived, made it to Subway for lunch and writing more to Rachel, made it on time to Wish, had my eyebrows done. Came home, baked cakes for work (last day on this ward tomorrow); made rhubarb crumble to take round to Nikki and Kates; went round there and watched ‘The Real Davinci Code’ which was dead interesting, but I’m now too tired to write anything coherant about. And now I’m going to bed.
