Whatever, ring finger. I didn't like you anyway.

I've been having more and more orders for Kindle 4 covers so last night I decided it was high time to fashion myself a Ghetto Kindle 4* out of several layers of heavy card and cellotape. So there I was, minding my own business, cutting card with my craft knife. And then disaster strikes: the knife slips and shears the side of my finger clean off. Just when I was about to make it big as an International Hand Model**. Faced with the dilemma of what to do with the semi-finger on the floor (if we had a composter the decision would be obvious), Steven and I threw it in the bin. Friend Sarah: I'm telling you right now that if you are called to the refuse facility on official police business because someone has found a portion of a finger, don't be alarmed. We hot-footed it up to our local A&E, only to find it was closed because the genteel folk of North Edinburgh don't get up to shenanigans after 9pm. Home again, I roused retired-pharmacist neighbour and made him clean and dress it.

Once the local folk were allowed to injure themselves again (9am this morning), we made it back to A&E for some judgement and chastisement for not trekking it across the city last night to the open hospital, casual prodding of open wounds, and a less-than-lovingly administered tetanus shot***. But the worst thing, they made me get a divorce:

Okay, so technically they made me drag two wedding rings over a swollen mess. But it looks like I've had a divorce. So other than the pain and risk of infection, I now have to contend with people hitting on me all day long****.

To cut a long story short, I'm finding out all the things my left ring finger used to do without protesting. Turns out it's quite a lot, particularly as the ring finger tends to tag along with whatever the other fingers want to do. I am continuing to work, but my pace has slowed a bit due to Minding the Finger. Everyone who ordered before the weekend will be shipped tomorrow morning (they actually turned the light off as I stepped into the post office tonight because my finger took one minute too long packaging things up). Orders that came in over the weekend will be completed and sent within a couple of days.

*Ghetto Kindle: all the dimensions of a real Kindle but none of the content.
** Not technically true although I'm pretty sure scouts have been checking out all the tutes with my hands in them.
*** Big mo-fo bruise already.
****Because in my mind that probably happened a lot when I used to be single.

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The Amazing Psychedelic Holiday Experience

This is what going on holiday looks like when you're five. Or thirty one, pulling an all-nighter because you had twenty eight things on your To Do list and we're off to the airport at 3:30AM anyway. I am so efficient, people, you have never seen anything like it. Everyone else is getting up in half and hour, and here I am doing stuff. Amazing.

For those of you who follow the blog for the express purpose of finding out when we're away so you can burgle us, do not even bother. Reasons why:

1. Queen of the over-packers. There is nothing left to steal, not even my new epilator.
2. We live in a flat, in a building full of geriatrics. They are always around, they never sleep and they're nosy as hell. Before you even get the first load of random, worthless detritus out of our house, there will be a passive aggressive note about you co-signed by the chairman of our building.
3. Google Analytics: You think you're so clever but searching 'when can I burgle Kitschy Coo' shows up in my analytics and now I have your IP address so you're basically already in big trouble.
   
4. Two words: Friend Sarah. Not only is she a policeman with keys to our house and instructions to hang out here, our house is within her actual beat. She is so bad-ass that she already knows about your nefarious plans and has instigated a covert sting operation to catch you as soon as you are within 100m of our property.

Catch you on the other side...

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We need to move house

I've mentioned before that 72.7% of our building is populated by geriatrics. This can be a good thing, say if you need a stand-in for professional photographer to take your picture in the back garden. Or you're suffering from a deficiency of small talk. But it can be bad, because they are around a lot and are likely to witness all sorts of things perpetrated by your children. Remember when Jamie pressed his wee man against the window at our nemesis neighbour? Well, he later died. Probably unrelated, but it can't be underestimated how dangerous children can be.

Scene: Our front car park. A convergence of generations.
Elderly neighbour: Why, hello there!
Me: Hello.
Maia: Hello, man.
Me: This is John. He lives upstairs from us.
Elderly neighbour: My goodness, what a big girl you are now! You're not a baby anymore!
Maia: When I was a baby, I drank milk out of mummy's boobies.
Elderly neighbour: --
Me: Well. Okay. We best be going.

See? Dangerous.

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Advice from a supermodel

I've watched a lot of America's Next Top Model in my time. I used to think that it was just frippery, but since I've become the supermodel of my own blog I've realised it's actually heaps educational. Many a Not a day goes by without someone emailing me to ask how I've become such a successful supermodel of my own blog. Well, now I'll tell you as I walk you through two of my new tunics.

• Choose your photographer carefully. I've tested a geriatric neighbour and my childminder with good results: But my go-to photographer is always my husband. I make him take so many shots that when the brief is 'smile benignly', I nail it. And, the massive height difference between us means that he's always looking down on me and this really helps me look like I've got feet that are so small I shouldn't be able to stand upright. Again, editorial. That's some pretty edgy stuff to have non-functional feet.
• Staging photos. It always helps to have a good backdrop for modelling. Unfortunately it rains all the freaking time here in Scotland so you can't always take your pictures outside without getting pneumonia and dying. Inside shots are trickier, but not insurmountable. My friend Nic recommends standing on a table if there's clutter and debris, but if you're really good at Photoshop like me you can just crop everything out of your photo. Like the fridge. But don't go too over-zealous, because sometimes a prop like a light switch makes it more editorial.
• Styling. I recommend tying your hair back, it hides the fact that you've been drenched no less than six times today and have the hair to prove it and to be honest it's probably time for a haircut again anyway really accentuates your bone structure. Feck it, just crop your head out in Photoshop (see above):
• Have your finger on the pulse fashion-wise. Everyone has leggings these days. I've had mine for one whole day. But what I have that you don't, is an octopus tunic: You'll not see one of those on the runaways of Paris or Rome. At least not until next season.

All that aside, what do you think of my tunics? I didn't add a back tie to the Andalucia one so it's very smocky, but the octopus one has a tie because it looked like a muumuu without one. And the world's probably not ready for an octopus muumuu.

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So I bit the bullet, and didn't even break my teeth

So lots of people have been asking if I make adult coats. And now I do:


I drafted this last night and it actually sewed up perfectly. Including the armholes, God is obviously smiling down on me after yesterday's post. I made an retiree take these pictures. He's doesn't think I'm weird at all.


And the 'I'm a coward and always were black side'. You can see better from this picture that it's an asymmetrical collar coat.


I was kinda shocked how long adult arms are. Being a body dysmorphic, it's too big but I think it's still wearable. What do you think?

a. Wear it outside the house, with impunity!
b. Wear it outside the house, on the way to the asylum.
c. Wear it inside the house, when no one else is around.

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Let the mortification continue...

Jamie has a real thing right now for the concept of 'best friends'. Narry an hour goes by without a 'Who your best friend?', 'Who Grandma best friend?' or 'Who that man best friend?'. As in the stranger we can barely see across the road. The little man himself has several best friends which change capriciously depending on which way the wind is blowing, or most likely who is in his physical locality at that specific moment in time.

Not content with trying to pimp me out to inappropriate people, Jamie is also now offering a friendship service. Maybe he read my post last week about being socially awkward. Any time I converse with anyone, be it the gas man, a shopkeeper, an elderly neighbour... I'm interrupted with first, 'What's its name?' Jamie can remember that we bought him an ice cream, one time only, two years ago from a specific shop. He remembers the driving directions to get to the airport. But he can't ever remember names. Or for that matter, personal pronouns. It's always 'What's its name? or 'What's it called?'. Cringe.

So then, as I either ignore him (if I myself don't know what 'it' is called), or say 'You know Sheila, she lives upstairs.' or 'You know the man in the shop, we come here everyday' he then launches into the dreaded question, 'She / He your best friend?'. This is of course, a no-win situation. To say, 'Yes, this shopkeeper is my best friend' or 'Yes, the retiree that lives upstairs is my best friend' has the more-than likely outcome of advertising me as Amanda-No-Mates to all and sundry. But 'No, they're not my best friend' seems a bit harsh. The shopkeeper is only new to this country and Sheila is a pensioner, so perhaps I'm their best friend.

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Jamie: the angel of retribution

First of all, let me say that I hope no one feels threatened by my photo doctoring skills. It's taken me a long time to get this good at Paint.

Okay, now that's out of the way, let me tell you a bit about our housing situation. We live in the ground floor flat in a eleven flat building, where 75% of the other residents are elderly. Most are nice and bestow my kids with grandparent-esque affection. Some are bored and pick on us for wont of better things to do, by posting anonymous notes in the communal areas like the one below.

It's annoying, I take more care with the buggy than they do with their zimmer frames, and if I want to cry when they're watching Antiques Roadshow, it's my prerogative . There is one particular man who is actually openly unpleasant, he never says 'Hi' when Jamie says hello to him, he lets the door close in our face rather than hold it open for us. Everyone needs a nemesis and he is ours.

Jamie's current mantra is 'I do it myself', which is mostly good but has some interesting consequences. Like the fact he spends most of his time naked from the waist down. He must 'do it himself' when he goes to the toilet, and putting trousers back on is also a 'do it myself' scenario, but way down at the bottom of his to-do list. So the other day, he was sitting in the windowsill sans trousers (as you do) when our nemesis shuffled through the garden on his way to do evil deeds elsewhere. Jamie spied him as he neared the window (and as his enthusiasm is inversely proportional to others' enthusiasm for him), excitedly stood up and started banging on the window shouting 'Hello man!' Jamie's wee man was pressed up against the glass, at exactly head height, no more than two feet away as the man turned to see what the clamour was. He visibly blanched as I snatched Jamie out of the window. I'm still awaiting a visit from the police and Social Services, or an exclusive in The Sun with, "Young man breaks stereotype and flashes at old man!"

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