We might need a whole new label, 'Tram encounters'. No, don't get too excited, this one was merely ridiculous.
I am on tram, reading a book that is making me laugh, but also feel bitterly jealous as the author is only 26, the bastard, and his book is funny and clever and rude. A man sits down next to me. He is moderately cute. Black, late twenties, nice face. No, I told you, don't get excited. He is a sleazy chancer.
Opposite me a pretty girl in her late teens is doing Sudoku puzzles. He leans over to her.
"Euh, excusez moi?"
She looks up, half apprehensive, half stabby. I wonder if she is English.
"What is that, you're doing?"
She holds up her Sudoku book questioningly.
"But, what is it? Because, I'm doing a finance course, but I'm not very good at numbers. I wondered if this would help"
She explains, kindly, patiently the principle of Sudoku. Not English then. He asks lots of imbecile questions (do I add them up, where do I get it, is there only one answer, where do I get it, will it help my maths). He is still going strong when we get to my stop, so I squeeze past. It transpires he's getting off too. He looks at me. I am carrying a motorcycle helmet.
"Oh! I thought it was a baby!"
"No. It would have had to be a very tiny baby" (he is worse than our neighbour who thinks Fingers is a girl, and my rollerblades are a dog).
I head off down the road, past the kebaborama shop and the bars d'ecureuils.
"Are you a styliste?"
Eh? What makes you think that baby helmet Sudoku man? The stylish way my hem is coming down? The coffee stain on my jacket? Or the gaping hole in my shoe? I try not to laugh too openly.
"No. I'm a lawyer". I find this is usually quite off-putting. Sadly, not here.
"Aha! You can defend me!"
Urgh. "No. I can't. I am trying to give up being a lawyer for Lent".
"Are you French?"
"You don't have a Belgian accent"
Thank Nathan for that. "I'm English"
"Ah! Une anglaise!" he looks disturbingly animated.
"I am going this way". I point to one of the 800 pharmacies on the street "For my diseases. Byee"
"Can I have your number?"
Aaaah! Flee, flee the crazy optimist!
Continued adventures in cellulite
I have just composed the most ridiculous email of my life in an attempt to blag free cellulite pants, as showcased, apparently, by Lorraine Kelly. The pants are the brain child of renowned and not even SLIGHTLY fictitious plastic surgeon Professore Marco Gasparotti. Their pseudo science is most pleasing. Check it out:
"At the best we can also suppose an effect on lipolysis of modulated elastocompression; it would be the consequence of a minor staunching of the interstitial liquids and so of an easier reaching of lipolitic hormones (thyroid-catecolamine…) from the vessel bed directly to the adipociti.
It follows that the sheath operates on the etiopatogenesis of the pannicolopatia fibroedematosclerotica, also called cellulites, that is nothing else but a "Modification of the adipose connective tissue due to a reduced lymphatic and venous microcirculation in the subcutaneous area, with oedema and consequent constriction of the adipociti for the increase of interstitial liquid of the intercellular fibrous septa".
Is this not poetic? This hymn to hope and stupidity?
Also, one of the layers of the pants is called "3D Wave" and is made of silver ions and pixies. I want these pants like I have never wanted anything before. I want the loooong version that goes down to your ankles. I would never take them off. I guarantee, here, before all of you and Nathan, that I will do a full photo post if I can persuade Professor Gasparotti to send me some. Before and After. And During.
My email read:
"Dear Professor Gasparotti,
I have a weblog read by many women and having recently posted a piece on cellulite, your very interesting product was brought to my attention. I would be very keen to test the pants (ideally the long Elite model) and will give you an honest write up.
Do let me know if you are able to provide me with samples.
I will let you know if I ever hear back.
This is all I have for you today. I am still in my pyjamas and have had a crème caramel, a café liegois and a packet of mini eggs for breakfast/lunch (the distinction was a little fluid) and I have watched a baby panda sneeze (yeah, ok, I am very backwards, you all knew about the baby panda years ago) about eight hundred times. It is half past six in the evening. I think we can declare my home working day a resounding success. M would be proud.