Literatea

It’s official.

I’m a grown up now. As of last month I now have a bank account, and today, o glorious, happy day, I have a car. All at the age of 25. I think I’m a bit of a late developer.

If you didn’t realise, I’m getting married. I am also moving from South East London to North West London (where my fiance lives). Which means no more Nelly doing all sorts of publicity, fighting with CorelDraw, guillotining bits of paper and folding anything that comes in A4 size in the manner of a Blue Peter presenter as the current job ends when June ends. I think this is causing my very dear colleagues, well, if not hysterics, certainly dismay due to a week of outreach coming up which requires masses of the stuff. Publicity, I mean. To the point where when I suggested that my phone would be switched off during my honeymoon (which coincides with the run up to the week) one of the v.d.c.’s felt shocked enough to suggest that they might want to get hold of me. I’m sure you can imagine me clutching my sides, hooting with laughter as I type.

People. Honestly.

On the dangers of makeup counters

A girl loves a bit of makeup. Or at least, this one does. So Saturday came along and after we’d picked our wedding rings up, I dragged my fiance into Debenhams and straight to one of the counters (not wishing to malign said counter or ladies working there I won’t mention exactly which it was). “Can I help?” the obviously helpful young lady asked as two others decided in their boredom to scrutinise the rest of the proceedings. “Oh lovely, thank you” I said hopefully, “I’d like to take a look at your highlighter and liquid blusher please”. The well-made up y.l. decided to do the highlighter first. Then came the blusher, the very thing I’d desperately desired in order to make me a beautiful English Rose and eternally happy. Slap! Went the liquid. The girl’s eyes widened. “Whoops!” said she, proceeding to rub the cheeks vigorously. “Does it last long?” “Oh yes!” gushed she, “you could scrub and scrub and it won’t come off! Er…not that you’d need to, ah, scrub as such.” Out came the mirror. In place of the English Rose was a first-time skier who’d forgotten her sunscreen. I’m sure I don’t need to mention that I grabbed my belongings, grabbed my fiance and hot footed it out of there as quickly as possible. Perhaps she was having a bad day.