The mole people

I love watching people. Maybe that's why I don't get to go out much but we're an absolutely fascinating species. Here's the latest in my string of observations as I strive to be 'edgy'.

It's summertime and although the temperature sometimes drops into the range of a warm winter's day, there's been a bit more sunshine and blue sky. Enter sunglasses and skirts.

You can almost hear the whisper of the mass donning of sunshades across London as the sun eases out from behind a cloud and everything from Guccis and Prada to Mickey Mouse get whipped out of bags and briskly pushed into place. Yes, Londoners must need those shades after living in gloom for ten months, the sunlight burns I tell you.

Then there's the skirts. I haven't seen all that much denim, I'm assuming tiny denim skirts are for winter and flouncy peasant skirts for spring. It's a melange of frills and dreamy layers walking along High Street, accompanied by Monroe-esque shocks as vagrant gusts of wind tease and torment, much to the amusement of most things male.

But what I don't really get is with the debut of pretty skirts follows the airing of some of the ugliest shoes I've ever seen. Ugg boots don't go with anything and if you're going to get so sweetly dolled up, don't put on a pair of manly hobnailed sandals that an entire cow died to make. Most importantly though, get a pedicure - nine months is pointy boots does nothing for feet.

Okay I'm done being prissy. You see, I'll pretend I know some stuff about people and kooky fashion because I know little about movies, and, as it was kindly pointed out the other day, even less about football.

Otherwise I can feel my ass expand. I've been sitting here all day playing FM. My eyes are going to fall out.

Call of the wild

I got up nice and early under the pretense of being ultra productive to squeeze in half an hour of FM and to check that my tagboard hadn't turned into a minefield over night before we had to leave for Southampton.

Unfortunately that half an hour was quickly given over to looking for my railcard (at Hsiang's) and my pen drive (also at Hsiang's) which meant I was stressing by about 9.00am in dicussion with Weng about when it would be a polite time to call and wake him (Hsiang) up.

So we made it ahead of schedule and I'm on location (for a change) in his comp lab waiting for him to track down his supervisor who seems to be fully contactable by email but seems to live in an office on the 13th floor of another dimension.

Southampton: where everybody knows everyone else and there's too much fresh air.

Ten days and counting until its back to the pigeonpooped streets of London.

You put the curl inside of my world

I get the feeling that some readers who come to this site already have it in their minds that anything I write is insulting or designed to cause offense, that they look for hidden meanings, enjoy reading between the lines, and then get all worked up about it.

I bet some people think this post is directed at them... but is it, really? Haha, how twisted. Think about that for a while.

It seems that some people also think I should stop analyzing people. What is it called, hmm, oh right, holding an opinion. So maybe I should stick to safer topics like um, movies, music, and pop culture? Maybe I should write yet another review on Return of the Sith or how hot Denise Keller is (Rudy's got total rights to that project btw). But then again, maybe someone'll read way into the post and accuse me of using Cinderella's evil stepmother as a metaphor for their own godforsaken life.

It's hard to please. No wonder Tish just goes with pictures, and Evan rhymes until you start thinking in prose too. Clever.