Skinnys and Scottie

I’m so glad that yesterday’s post managed to convert one of my ‘most cleverest’ friends to the joys of The Apprentice. I have rather foolishly agreed to meet said friend in the pub this evening for a pint, at 9pm. Anyone spot the scheduling error…..yes, it’s tonight’s episode! So I now propose we sack off the pub, get takeaway and wine and watch it, and bitch. Jonathan? Dan? Are you with me? Or are you sitting in Zuma wondering where the hell I am?! I suppose only time will tell. Don’t forget Anita and Stev are away, and we really ought to trash the flat at least once in her absence*.

Today I’m feeling rather pleased with myself, I oughtn’t really, as I’m still snotty and headachey and I don’t think I even need to mention that Lindsey and I are still homeless and my weekends are being booked up one by one as I type, so I’m not sure if I’ll ever really move (not helped by inept estate agents not being able to deliver on simple guidelines such as ‘2 bedrooms’ or budget : “hey Ali, I’ve this great studio apartment in Wapping, right up your straza, for only £350 a week”. No no No). So why the smugness then you might ask? Because I have just been to Gap, sent by heaven to the curvy women of the world, for my latest fix of skinny jeans. Introduced to the fashion world by the likes of La Moss and worn with either pumps, or tucked into lovely boots (flat ones look better I think). Also worn with tunic type long floaty tops over skinny jeans, perhaps with a big chunky pendant. Sorry I disgress.

For anyone who loves these as I do will understand, ‘skinny’ is a misnomer. These jeans are not only for skinny people and are sold up to size 16 here, there and everywhere. They also look great on larger bottomed girls and are a celebration of our wobbles and jiggles. The only thing that really needs to be skinny to manage to get these jeans on are your ankles, and unless you suffer from hyper water retention, you’re away.

Anyway, back to Gap. Gap tend to oversize all their clothes, so a size 12 girl, such as myself, might find herself buying size 10, or 8 at a push and rejoicing internally (and externally by telling everyone, doing ‘lunges’ to make the label pop out “oh, my size 8 jeans label, how terribly and embarrassingly rotten”). Today, was even better, there must have been a labelling mix up as I managed to squeeze my arse into a size 6, granted with some degree of muffintopism.

Me in my jeans




I know all this is ridiculous, nonsense, matters not to anyone, bears no reflection on me as a person, or my happiness, is terribly vain, self centred, and shallow, but it gave me a little brief period of joy and heel-clickery. And even though I know I’ll never ever be a size 6 and nor would I want to be as it would surely be the demise of my bosoms and arse, it felt temporarily good. In the same way it would if I ever by mistake put on a DD bra and filled the cups and some, and that’s something which isn’t going to happen until I’m 6 months pregnant at least. Actually, it might happen if I ingest my own body weight in chocolate as my slammers are always the first to expand at the same rate as my arse, followed closely by my thighs.


Anyway, so enough of that rambling. It’s Easter weekend soon, didn’t you know? And so I’m sure we all have marvellous plans of fun new things we’re going to do. I for one am choosing to spend my weekend in bonnie wee Scotland, Aberdeenshire to be precise, and a lovely castle, to be even more precise.

18 of us have dug deep and forked out just over £3k for the privilege of staying regal stylee at Lockleyhead Castle, somewhere in the middle of nowhere. This is a proper turrets and flags affair with a grand table with seats 20 and is so long, I’ll need my specs to even see who’s at the other end. Why? Because it’s Steve’s 30th birthday and what better than a castle to make a boy feels special and loved.

Logistically of course, said castle is a nightmare. Well, getting people on the same BA flight, hiring 4 people carriers, splitting people into transit groups and cooking groups, eating preference groups, cleaning groups and activity groups and groups of groups and subcategories of groups and well, groups for the sheer hell of it, it seems.

Why? Because a disproportionate number of our ‘group’ (for want of a better word) are primary school teachers. And frustrated ones at that. This is all the more complicated as we are now grown ups and this means the addition of baby x2 and dog x 1.

I am in the ‘blue team’ alongside Steve, Mac and Janice and Neil and Nicky. I have been informed that this means we are responsible for feeding the castle on Sunday. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. We have a budget of £20 per person (per day), which means we have almost £400 for a day’s food. Sounds a lot doesn’t it?

Not only that but we must serve dinner at, or before 7pm, to allow for the mum’s to join us before the rug-rats go to bed. We are also responsible for the washing up and tidying of the castle on that day. I reckon we ought to just sod it and pay a chef and a cleaner to come in for the day and cook for us all, whilst we put our feet up and laugh retrospectively at all the other’s slaving in the kitchen on Friday and Saturday, and I intend to put this to my team in due course. We might even have enough left over for a stripper. I’ll let you know.

Either way we fly on Friday morning and I fully intend to make the most of the gorgeous landscape, lots of fresh air, walking, pony trekking, gully jumping, pot-holing and perhaps a spot of xtreme abseiling, intermingled with whiskey appreciation and dog walking. Ah, the joys of being a grown up.

*only joking Anita