Lately I've been trying to look like less of a slob. My current style is best summarised as Slum Chic. It's high time I stopped being so lazy and tried to look more presentable. Some people say women let themselves go after they get married, but I can hardly let go when I wasn't holding on in the first place!

My first tentative step in this campaign was to get my eyelashes tinted. Beauty editors are always gushing about how all you need is mascara and lipgloss and you're ready to take on the world! But mascara seems like such a bloody palaver. It takes so long to apply, and I poke my eyeballs with the mascara wand every freaking time. I figured I could just get my Invisible Redhead Lashes tinted, that way it would look like I was putting in an effort without me actually having to put in an effort.

So I returned to the House of Wax. I thought the procedure would involve some very small paintbrushes, and some tiny fairy-like creatures sitting on my cheekbones, delicately tinting me one lash at a time. What actually happens is that they put Vaseline around your eyes, slap on some cotton wool blobs, tell you to close your eyes then uncermoniously swish on the dye. Then they repeat, DO NOT OPEN YOUR EYES under any circumstances.

Of course this was my cue to completely freak out and imagine the dye seeping into my retinas.

And then freak out some more when my Waxtress said, "Okay, I'll just do your eyebrows while we wait."

Do my eyebrows now!? My usual reaction to having small hairs ripped from my brow is to spring up in alarm and scream "Bastard!", with EYES WIDE OPEN. So now she tells me I'm supposed to lay very still so she can torture me with hot wax while there are potentially blinding chemicals tiptoeing round the edge of my eyeballs?

"Are you okay?" came the gentle voice after the first brow was done.

"Fine!" I increased my death grip on the table.

"I was just making sure, since your nostrils are kind of flaring rapidly..."

"Fine!"

Riiiiiiiiiip!

"You're all done!" she mopped my flaming brow with tea-tree gel. "I just need to get some cotton balls to wipe off the eyelash tint, I'll be right back."

"Fine!"

How long does it take to find a fucking COTTON BALL!? It must have been twenty million minutes, at least. I swear I could feel the dye crawling up my eyelashes and peering over the rim. I couldn't believe it, robbed of my vision right in the middle of the World Cup! I wondered if I would get the hang of Braille. Would I get a chocolate brown lab for a Guide dog or a traditional yellow one? Would it really matter?

It was so dark. So cold. And I really needed to blink. Should I cry for help? Should I strike out with my leg and kick over that bamboo screen to get attention? Or maybe the Waxtress was actually lurking there, behind the screen and laughing very quietly at my predicament.

I was just about to bellow, "I KNOW YOU'RE OUT THERE, BITCH!" when I finally heard her singsong tones. "Sorry about that! Here I am."

She swabbed away then finally I was free . My breathing returned to normal only when I could successfully count all my fingers and read BANK OF SCOTLAND on the ten pound note I handed over to her.

The finished effect was nice, but I'm not sure the thirty seconds saved each morning is worth the trauma. I tell you, if they employed the Hot Wax/Lash Tint Torture Combo at Guantanamo Bay, I would have squealed like a piggy.

Now that has to be the worst entry title of all time. But it's summer, at least it has been for the past couple of days. My brain is fried so I will be back shortly with all these half-finished entries ready for public consumption!

Killer Sheep of Wanlockhead

LAST FRIDAY, 5PM 
Gareth collects hire car for the big camping trip. We'd booked a Vauxhall Corsa Or Similiar on the internet, it turned out to be a Nissan Micra in an embarassing pastel shade, designed to appeal to old ladies who want their motor to match their blue rinse.

SATURDAY, 11AM 
Check weather forecast on the BBC. Here is an approximation:

SHAUNA:   Hmmm.
GARETH:   Do you think we should still go camping?
S:   Looks a little bit cloudy.
G:   Looks a little bit Scotland.
S:   Well... I'm sure we can handle a bit of water!
G:   Of course we can!

12PM 
Quick trip to supermarket to pick up a disposable barbeque.

1PM 
Finally leave supermarket after wading through aisles full of mothers screaming, "JORDAN! I'LL NO TELL YA AGAIN! YER NO GETTIN' SWEETIES!".

We head north.

3.15PM 
Essential ice cream stop at Tyndrum. It's the last place to get ice cream for bazillions of miles. THE LAST!

3.30PM 
S:   Ooh. Ominous.

4PM 
Arrive at Glen Etive. We unimaginatively decamp at the same spot as last year. It's a nice big flat bit surrounded by a stream with no other people in sight. There's a chunky stepping stone path over the water that seperates the camp from the car.

G:   Right, we've got exactly one hour to get everything over and put the tent up before the forecasted rain.
S:   Allez!

4.05PM 
Rain arrives early.

4.30PM 
Tent erected after much swearing. Our fingers are red and numb. Our jeans are drenched and cling unpleasantly to our thighs like icy toddlers.

4.31PM 
Retire to tent to sulk.

5.15PM 
Legend has it that Avon Skin-So-Soft moisturiser spray is used by Royal Marines to ward off Scotland's notorious midges, the teeny tiny biting insects that are on a perpetual mission to destroy any human enjoyment of the brief summer.

There's a sudden break in the rain, so we slather ourselves in the stuff and seize our chance to crank up the disposable barbeque. A cloud of midges descends immediately.

G:   ARRGH! This Avon stuff is BULLSHIT!
S:   But they're not biting us! Sure there's millions of them in your face and up your nose but they're not biting! It's a miracle!

5.30PM 
The sky starts to spit again, just as the vegetarian sausages hit the grill. We huddle around, trying to figure if it's better to keep your head down and get a faceful of charcoal fumes, or heads up for a mouthful of midges.

5.45PM 
I rearrange the sausages with a fork. They look juicy and brown, which is remarkable for pretend meat cooked on a cardboard box filled with charcoal. You can hear the raindrops sizzle on the plate.
S:   Almost done! Fetch the sauce and rolls. We're going to eat our meal outside if it kills us!

5.50PM 
Rain.
S:   This tent is going to stink of pretend meat all night long.

6PM 
Wild, crazy, tent-rattling rain.
G:   Got any jokes?
S:   Nup. Do you?
G:   No.
S:   I could tell the Stevie Wonder one again. What did Stevie Wonder say when he got a cheese grater for his birthday?
G & S:   It was the best book he'd ever read!

6.20PM  
G:   So this was all your idea, wasn't it?
S:   Oh YES. I had the brilliant idea that after sleeping on a crappy futon on the loungeroom floor for the past week while the Mothership visited, we should go camping and sleep a night ON THE GROUND.
G:   Ahh, you're always having great ideas!
S:   Even better, I thought we should go camping on the day of the women's Wimbledon final, the World Cup play-off AND the season finale of Doctor Who!
G:   Genius!

6.30PM 
S:   I'm just going to close my eyes for a minute.
G:   Me too.

9.30PM  
We awake from a surprisingly deep sleep.
S:   It's stopped raining!
G:   Quick! Let's go outside and make a cuppa.

10.15 PM 
The kettle boils just as the last of the sun is sucked from the sky. Stupid camp stove that unlights itself. We barely have time to add the milk before it starts to rain aaagain. We retreat to our quarters.

10.30PM 
S:   Know any ghost stories?
G:   No.
S:   Oh.

10.35PM 
Zzzzzzzz.

[Then it rains all bloody night.]

SUNDAY, 8AM
Arise to find our dainty wee creek has swollen considerably. As in, completely drowning the stepping stone path. We are now stranded on an island.
S:  Camping RULES!

8.10AM 
Midges swoop as we dismantle the tent.
G:   Why are those little bastards up so early?
S:   We forgot the Skin So Soft!
G:   Arrgh! My eyes!
S:   Arrgh! My ears!

8.30AM 
I volunteer to carry our stuff across the water. My shoes were best sacrificed as they were old and crap and Gareth was driving home, which would be most unpleasant in wet boots.

The water is knee-deep and icy cold. Right on cue, the rain cranks up again.

8.50AM 
S:   Righto! I'm going to chuck my shoes over to you! Put them on and keep your Docs dry!
G:   Okay!
S:   Are you ready? I'm going to throw them now!
G:   Yes!
S:   Are you sure you're ready? I'm chucking them now! Get ready! Here they come!

[PLOP!]

S:   D'oh.

10.30AM 
We drive through Glen Coe then down the coast to Oban where we stop for a traditional Scottish breakfast of chips and brown sauce. Which seemed nutritionally sound compared to the gigantor deep-fried haggi.

MONDAY, TUESDAY, WEDNESDAY, THURSDAY, FRIDAY: 
My midge bites swell into giant, festering, itchy sores so I spend the week surreptitiously rubbing my flaming limbs against furniture until I fork out for some antihistamine cream. Remember kids, Avon WORKS!

...

drookit
(droo·kit) Dialect, chiefly Scot ~adj.
1. drenched, soaked through.

Just so you know, comrades... I can SEE the words you type into that search box there on the left. Lately there's been a few names that are real blasts from the past, and it's amusing to see people searching for themselves.

And which of my former Australian bosses keeps searching for "boss"? I never had a boss I didn't like, so you won't find any bitchin' here!

Anyway people. There's no need to lurk. Say hello. Leave a comment! Write an email!

I am still the approachable clod you once knew.

After the initial shock of the Zizou Head-Butt comes sadness, speculation and much furtive lip-reading. Perhaps we'll never know what really happened, but I hope the man himself speaks out soon.

My head says, violence bad! My heart says, violence perhaps understandable if what's alleged to be said was said! And then another, rather primal part of me aligns with this unique perspective from Heather of This Fish, in which she admits to finding Zidane's headbutt just a wee bit of a turn on:

"I turned back to the TV just in time to catch the immediate aftermath. A man's eyes were on fire and everything in his face screamed, 'Merde! I am one angry Frenchman!'

And that's when I fell a in love.

The announcers started jabbering, as I waited for a recap. And then they showed it again. I sat in stunned silence. And by the third time... well, holy moly, I think I became pregnant by an instant replay."

Now before you leave outraged comments, just pretend for a moment that you had no knowledge of football or the context of the incident whatsoever, and you looked at the move purely as a display of manly biffo. Heather may just have something there. The sheer, decisive forcefulness of that butt is exhilarating and holds a certain animalistic appeal.

I don't wish to speculate as to who said what or who's right or wrong in this situation; I'll let the journalists scrap over that one like Scottish seagulls on a packet of hot chips. Instead let us pause and reflect on one thing of which we can be certain: Zizou is a handsome bloke. It's in the smile, the frown, the skillz, the eyes with shades of light and dark; the perpetually sweaty shaven head.

Actually it's really got a lot to do with the shaven head. He did nothing for me when he still had locks!

L: Non.   R: Oui!

This reminds me that I am lucky enough to actually be married to a lad with a shaved head.

One time we were flipping through an old photo album and Gareth was sighing wistfully at his locks of yesteryear. But he just looked all wrong to me! I much prefer his current do, even though he says I can hardly call it a do if he has no choice in the matter.

We have a photo from Wedding Part III displayed on a bookcase. I think it's a bit cheesy when people splash their own mugs all over the house, but my mate Peita gave us a beautiful frame and it's just the one picture, high up on the shelf. Recently our friend Maggie was sitting on the opposite side of the room, squinting up at it.

"Shauna," she said in puzzled tones, "Why do you have a photo of the Pope?"

"The Pope?"

"Aye! Over there on the shelf. The Pope. You're standing right beside him!"

"The Pope?"

"Yes. The Old Pope, not the German one." She leaned forward in her chair. "Are you... are you feeding him cake?"

"Nooo!" I cackled, "That's Gareth! At our wedding!"

"No way." She ran over the bookcase. "It is too! You know, he really looks like the Pope from over there. It looks like he's got one of those wee white Pope hats on."

"That's not a hat," said Gareth, "It's just the AUSTRALIAN SUN shining on my baldy heid!"

One should never blog while overly emotional but I am going to press on, regardless of how mortified I will be tomorrow and how moronic you will all think me.

Firstly, hearty congratulations to the Italians!

Secondly, WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING ZIZOU?!

I truly thought the stupidest sporting thing I would see today would be Roger Federer's custom-made white blazer at Wimbledon. The Rog had been buttering my muffin since four years ago today, when he endeared himself to me with his tears upon winning the title for the first time. But when he stepped onto the court two weeks ago looking like a bartender on a P&O cruise ship, the fire in my loins faded significantly. There's no excuse for that sort of thing, unless you're auditioning for James Bond. But to be honest, my eye had already wandered by then, as I'd gone World Cup Mental and completely fallen for the lovely eyes, baldy head and twinkle toes of Zinedine Zidane.

How shite then, that the undisputed winner of today's Stupid Award turned out to be Zidane himself, with that horrible headbutting of Marco Materazzi during extra time. I have never been so... fucking... gutted. Yes, I have been an unashamed bandwagon-hopper with the World Cup. Gareth always finds it hilarious how swiftly I become so passionately obsessed with sporting events, but this one was particularly all-consuming. So to see Zidane's sparkling career finish in such a moment of madness was utterly devastating. Why did you do that? Why did it have to end this way? I alternately screamed at the telly and tried not to bawl.

Dudes. To see someone you idolise do something so crazy is gobsmackingly impossible to comprehend. It was like Valentino Rossi had reached over and slashed someone's tyre in the middle of a MotoGP, or Adam Gilchrist had pulled up a stump and poked a batsman up the arse for a laugh; or Thom Yorke gatecrashed a Coldplay show and whacked Chris Martin over the head with a 20 kilo bag of Fair Trade coffee. Oh hang on, that last one's just my secret fantasy.

It is just such a rubbish ending to a tournament of ups and downs and downs. Though I may finally understand the offside rule, it still feels like all I gained from five weeks of football is a paler complexion, a crushing sense of disillusionment and slightly larger arse.

Rafael Nadal: outplayed; and outdressed by both Federer
AND some little boy with his top button done up.

On Tuesday we got the train into Edinburgh.

"So that woman with the keys, does she always have to open and close the doors?"

"The conductor? Yes, that's her job."

"Does she have to open and close the doors at every station?"

"Yes, every station."

"What about in the event of an emergency?"

"!!!??"

"Does she still have to open and close the doors then?"

"Umm... I imagine so. Unless she was indisposed by the emergency. Actually, I DON'T KNOW."

"Well she's the only one with the keys."

"Mum, have you noticed that you always manage to think of the absolute WORST case scenario in every situation?"

She peered out across the water for a long minute. "Wow, you're right! I do do that, don't I?"

This morning we said some teary goodbyes as she embarked on the London leg of her Tour de Offspring. The flat seems rather quiet and dull now; I shall write more when I recover. Meanwhile Gareth is back to his normal routine, ie. running over to me at regular intervals and farting in all-too close proximity. When I protest he just says, "It's been four days. FOUR DAYS!"

The Mothership is in orbit!

She's due to touch down here tomorrow. She'll come bearing Cherry Ripes, Cadbury Top Deck, John West Passionfruit in a tin and other Australian essentials. Not to mention her lovely company.

That is, if she ever bloody arrives.

She sent me a text Wednesday morning UK time, saying she was at Canberra Airport about to begin her journey. She was due in Glasgow just over 24 hours later, BUT I HAVE NOT HEARD FROM HER SINCE.

Now that sentence is unnecessarily dramatic. You see, she is travelling with her fella. What do you call it when you're fifty years old and you have a man in your life? Your partner? Your companion? Your devoted love slave?

Anyway, she has a fella and he lives around the corner from her in Goulburn, but he's actually originally from Scotland (Clearly we have some sort of genetic kilt fetish). Their overseas jaunt is to begin in Glasgow where they will visit her fella's family for a few days, then tomorrow they come here to Chez SHAG*, then they're off to London to see Rhiannon before nicking off to Europe for three weeks on some sort of Contiki For The Middle Aged tour.

Since I've read no reports of major air disasters, I can safely assume they made it to Glasgow. But it's been over 48 hours and The Mothership has STILL not called nor texted to confirm her arrival. I have tried calling her mobile and her fella's mobile but they're switched off. This is most likely due to fears she'll be charged £450 just for switching it on in a foreign country. I am not so much concerned for her wellbeing but bloody pissed off at her infuriating double standards! If I'd not confirmed my presence as as we arrived in Australia, she would have had a herd of sniffer dogs and helicopters on the case within five minutes!

MOTHERSHIP! You are so GROUNDED young lady!

They're probably having a wild old time in Glasgow. But what I'm really wanting here is an ETA for tomorrow. How long do I have left to clean underneath the oven? How long do I have to polish the doorhandles, to comb the hairs of the carpets, to scrub every individual rung of the venetian blinds with a toothbrush, to make sure I am wearing a bra? I want to be ready for inspection, you know.

UPDATE:  All is well. Turns out their phone don't work in the UK and they had some trouble figuring out how to call my number without an international code. Hehe. The cleaning is also progressing nicely.

* SHAG = the collective noun for SHauna And Gareth, as devised by Jane and Rory.