M’iphone, m’ilove

Sad, isn’t it? How much I love my phone? (Or, as you may have surmised from the title, m’iphone as I like to call it…) I love it, I love, love, love it. In a slightly wrong way, tbh. It’s like a man when you think about it, m’iphone shares my bed every night (I can dream), it brings me untold amounts of joy (some men can, I’m sure) and it lets me down just at the wrong time (damn battery life/signal issues/[insert gripe here]). Anyway…

I know it’s only metal and smooth, beautiful glass but think of the vast amount of complexity held within it’s delightfully compact body (veering into slightly kinky waters)…the mind boggles. There is a huge amount of software, algorithms, research, blahblahblah, in each iphone…but let’s face it, I mainly love it because it allows me to carry my addictions with me, music (yes, crappy pop included), twitter, facebook (this addiction is getting less and less, I must say), google reader and the hilarious “Texts From Last Night” (so disgusting, so hilarious, who are these people?!).

I will admit that I preferred (slightly) the more curved body of my previous iphone 3G, this coupled with the fact that the back of the thing is now covered with gorgeous, oh-so-breakable/scratchable glass means I was a bit eager to make sure it was protected.

I dondered off to etsy.com (as is my wont from time to time) and looked for iphone cases (meh, I tend to dislike these, what’s the point in owning something so pretty just to put it in a chunky case?) And then I found these from TopDecal, a fab and slightly quirky Snow White decal for back of the phone…see how Snow White gently cups the apple symbol? I likes it! So I ordered it without regard for my bank account (heinously low funds people, heinous. Also, I just like that word…heinous, hehe)…Ahem, where was I? Oh yeah, I ordered it. It shall protect and be pretty…what more can a girl ask for? Well, let me tell you, I then saw that they offer a 50 per cent refund on orders if you recommend their store on your blog and lo! a blog post was born!

Yes, some of you may feel dirty and used that I made you read this just so I could get moolah back, but um, hey, I’ve been living in Scotland for three years now and their slightly tight ways (said with love, Scottish people who may be reading this, said with love) are rubbing off on me…



Sunday, Sunday, just turns out that way…

For years, as is only right and proper I think, I worked Sundays. Sundays, Mondays, all days in which I would be paid and could then survive another week in uni…I say survive, evidently I am in a dramatic mood this morning, I was never horrendously badly off in uni, there was always enough for some wine or a night out or a DVD. Or chocolate. This would then be followed by pasta and sauce or some such bland meal for the week, which was (and is, tbh) completely fine with me—I haven’t yet remembered that I am supposed to be an adult and shouldn’t blow all my cash on having fun. Some day, presumably I will have to learn this horrible lesson.

Anyway, through the horrible, evil accessories shop (shall remain nameless), the call centre, the shoe shop, the other call centre (for about five months the final two ran concurrently) I worked Sundays. Loads of them. Then I got my current, best, most beloved job (in the subject I actually studied and did a Masters in, whoop!) and lo! Sunday was free. A lifetime (see what I mean about the drama…) of Sundays stretched ahead of me like a beautiful sea of laziness.

So I always appreciate this day, even if I waste it completely by being hungover (*cough* not often, obviously). I used to dedicate my Sunday to coffee and the papers but my to-be-read pile has built to epic proportions and is, thus, more pressing.

So here is my perfect Sunday…a lie-in, chat, phonecall from parents (11am on the dot), music (starts loudly, gets more chilled as the afternoon goes on), reading, arranging *playlists on m’iphone, pondering, dondering, wandering and milling…not necessarily in that order. We also have a running tradition of my flatmate forcing me to look at her feet…long story…

*Playing at the moment K’naan’s Bang Bang which has caught my music bone good and proper (this exists, right?).

In which I do not review *“Eat Pray Love”…

I refuse to blog about “Eat Pray Love”. Refuse. I mean, I tend to review movies shoddily but I feel if I got started on such a travesty of a movie this could turn into the longest, most curse-filled blog post in the history of the world. No exaggeration. If I were to review it though, some of the words I might mention are “bullshit”, “pop psychology” and “shutupshutupshutupshutUPJulia!!”

Ahem. Anyway, what have I been up to since I was last with you? I’ve been working like a maniac on my last book of the year (has anyone else noticed how quickly time is flying, btw? It is 11 weeks until Christmas eve…), it’s an excellent book with an extremely knowledgeable author, which is always good, but my, oh my, turnaround times are getting tight.

This brings me on to secret time. We all know what secret time is, right? Time built in between when we say something needs to be done and when it actually needs to be done. When I first started my job I thought (because I am good at deadlines, I like them, I respect them, sometimes I even cuddle them as I go to sleep at night) that everyone would play ball, write their article, update their section, submit their copy on the due date…I was not fool enough to think things would ever be submitted before time, just on time. Ahahahahaaaaaa….

So that was a learning curve. Now that I’ve been doing it for a while, I have learned who needs extra time to submit/correct/reply to a fricking email once in a while (arggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhh), and it all works quite nicely. I have no point to make with this, just that secret time can be very handy and that over time, you learn. I’m deep man, deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

Also, because this would be nothing without a whinge:

I don’t feel well, I’m stressed and tired and everyone is talking about Christmas and I haven’t booked flights yet home yet, I need to figure out my remaining holiday time, I can’t muster the energy to put on make up…despite not having the energy, my overwhelming sense of shame/shiny shiny face demands that I must put it on prior to leaving the house. Damn the shame, damn it to hell.

* Also, does the completely feckless disregard for punctuation in this movie title annoy anyone else? Just me? No? Yes? Yes, it is, isn’t it?