Waxing Guilty....

So having had a fabulous rant about the evil demented beauticians who have decided to take a sicky and so can't sort out the aesthetic disaster that is me, I now have to grovel, eat humble pie and generally say sorry.

So they still can't give me an appointment but they are sending me two spa day passes to make up for ruining my holiday (and possibly my life, who knows what could have happened if the appointment had been met.) So now, I feel slightly guilty, faintly chirpier and less afraid of crossing their threshold again.

Horrible thought has just occurred. What if this is a double bluff? They are luring me in with a free pass in order to drown me in the whirlpool and melt the remains away in the wax bucket? The ultimate revenge for the irritated and irritating customer. Aaaargh.

Revenge of the Welsh Yeti

So, I failed miserably to write a blog yesterday. You could argue that this was a good thing as it meant that I actually did rather a large amount of work and ticked off all the pre holiday panic list by four o'clock.

So now here I am with my living earnt for today and only my Victorian bathing suit to pack for my holiday. I should be a leprechaun of happiness but instead I feel rather worried and depressed. I hate that.

What is truly cross making is that the reason for this misery is that the Beauty Salon who were charged with the responsibility of stripping away the last of my winter coat and buffing me up to look gorgeous for my holiday rang this morning and CANCELLED ME!!!!! How could they. I was relying on them transform me from the Welsh Yeti to something akin to Catherine Zeta Jones before she became Mrs Smug Douglas. I feel robbed, cheated and victimised all at once and all the joys of the imminent Easy Jet jaunt to sun, sand and a lot of Rose has leached away. Damn them.

They didn't even seem to appreciate the appalling nature of what they had done. In fact they seemed to think I was over reacting when I cried down the phone and then threatened to hunt them down with my hairy yeti legs. Now I have the additional worry that I can never book any sort of treatment there again as theywill think I am deranged and will torture me with hotter than normal wax and dulcet comments about incipient moustaches and the fact that they aren't magicians and can only work with what they are given. Bitches.

So now my holiday is ruined. It is going to take a lot of Rose and possibly a caftan to cover up the disaster and rescue anything from this debacle.

Running to the grave.

So, one million brownie points for me. I went running all on my own last night. For at least a hundred miles I think (well, maybe a mile). Now I am probably going to die. I think my knees will never work again and one of my thighs feels as though it has been injected with plaster of paris, that has set to a rock solid and immovable rigidity. The good news is that apparently I do have muscles, as they all hurt.

The upside to this imminent death is that it was one of those ravishingly beautiful evenings. I was running up by a lake in the mountains. It is surrounded by forest and the moorland and the light had that 10 million pixel clarity to it that you usually see in the wilds of Montana where no car has ever sullied the air with exhaust fumes. It was beautiful. Well, until I ran through a swarm of insects and couldn't see anymore thanks to the fact that I had inhaled half of them, and the rescue teams were trying to break into my asophogus through my eyeballs.

Who said exercise wasn't exciting?

What to do with £50 million?

I had supper with friends on Saturday night - yes, I do have friends. During the second bottle of wine the question of unlimited riches came up, as it likes to. How would you change your life? What would you keep? What would you hire mercenaries to get rid of permanently?

It's an interesting question. There are two ways to answer it. Apply the £50 million to your existing life, or choose to ditch said life entirely and start all over again. I tend to go for the former. I mean most of my more realistic daydreams are based on what might actually be possible, rather than fantasy island stuff. As I don't buy lottery tickets (I rely on finding the winning lottery ticket that some poor sod has dropped!), the chances of this kind of money ever being available to change my life are pretty slim. Consequently my sudden riches daydreams take the form of wanting to change all the carpet in the house, have somebody to iron all my sheets for me and someone to do the mowing. I can't quite get my head around an amount of money that would enable me to have new sheets everyday for the rest of my life.

I also get faintly squirmy at the idea of what I would do everyday if I really didn't have to work ever again. I mean, as you know I am not married, or even dating anyone so how would a single girl pass a lifetime of non financially motivated time????? I'll have to think about it.

Wasted Weekend, in all the wrong ways.

I am in shock. I have just had an entire weekend where I didn't have to go anywhere or do anything. This is rare for me. I seem to be in my car more than my house and frequently expect to get a council tax bill for a second home. This weekend was the exception. Typically it was repellent weather all weekend. I can't really complain about the whole water situation - at least it means I acutally have some of the vital stuff. I've run out before and the charm of going to the pond with a bucket wears pretty thin after about four minutes.

The last time that it happened I had friends coming to stay from London. Now they already think that Wales is a backwater which probably needs innoculations and a passport to go to. I'm not sure whether they were resigned or astonished when they rang to ask if they could bring anything and I casually said that 8 litres of bottled water could be good. That night, their son was bathed in Evian in the kitchen sink..... The joys of country life.

So, there I was with a free weekend stretching out in front of me like an American Highway (without the bill boards and fast food of course). And what did I do? Pretty much stopped at the first layby, unpacked my tupperware and watched the world go by without achieving much of anything other than a massive calorie intake and a refusal to get wet on Saturday or blown away on Sunday. Pretty perfect really.

Unfortunately, as with all good things, there is a side effect. Guilt. There were all sorts of things I should have got done with those endless hours of playtime. None of it remotely playful. Tackled the wood heap that needs to be stacked so that it can dry in time for the winter, which is probably only a month away knowing this country. Battled with the voracious goosegrass that is taking over the entire garden. I am expecting it to make its way into the house for breakfast soon. Weeded the vegetable patch, where I can't see the vegetables for the miscellany of other plantlife that has made itself at home in that particular 8 square metres of ground. Written all my thank you letters, painted the doors of the house, which I have been promising myself I would do for the last seven months. That is just the highlights of my never ending list. I did none of them. Hence combination pleasure / pain result for the weekend.

Having written that, I am now worried that my life is tragically dull. Should my weekend not have been filled with Sex and the City style dramas? Brief love affairs, Cosmopolitans and Manolo whatever they are called? Ok, so this is Wales, the best I can hope for is a gossip at the bottom gate with the four hundred year old farmer, endless cups of coffee, and a new pair of Wellingtons, but you know what I mean. I've never been a Carrie style girl, and I love my life, but there are moments when you set out your list of chores and realise that things aren't ever going to turn out the way you expected. Life isn't a box of chocolates, it's a freezer in need of defrosting, and a box of paperwork that I haven't any interest in dealing with.