Oh, petal


Just talking to a mate who complained of flagging energy over the last couple of months. A general lack of zip and zing, she said, which she has found puzzling and troublesome. Being a good friend, as I so notably am, I was able to furnish her with a solution drawn from my own experience not half an hour earlier. Go to a salon and get yerself threaded for the first time. Dear Christ, the pain infused me with so much zip and zing it was all I could do not to grab the hapless therapist by the throat and shake her like a weasel. Ow! OW!

This process came highly recommended although in terms I couldn’t understand (Better than waxing they say, and no, I’ve never tried that either), and since I live in a mixed area – ‘Produce of more than one country’ you might say – there are a lot of salons that cater for the grooming needs of Pakistani, Indian, African and West Indian ladies. Those women are all clearly battle hardened. Or I’m a disaster area when it comes to mild discomfort (Jesus it hurt). Still, she went at it with gusto, stopping only to hand me a tissue halfway through for my streaming eyes, and it was all over in less than five really horrible, horrible minutes.

The hen party went very well, by the way. We hit a slight navigational snag when it appeared that the driver preferred to use directions downloaded from the RAC rather than a map. I don’t get that. Directions are notoriously subjective at the best of times, and in this case they were also unhelpful to the point of idiocy. ‘At the sixth roundabout, take the second left’. The sixth? The sixth? Who the yellow rubbery chickstix is able to keep count of roundabouts beyond two or three? Thus it was that we found ourselves on the M25, with the sun on the wrong side of the car and an air of alarm in the back seat. Signs for Sevenoaks and Dartford appeared. Hmm. Où se trouve Berkshire, eh? Still, we set ourselves right, burned back the way we came and arrived 90 minutes late and in theory too late for the flower arranging lesson. However, la dame des fleurs was a charmer and stayed to teach the lesson all over again.

It was only afterwards that Rowena admitted to utter confusion when we’d arrived. She’d assumed that ‘flower arranging’ was some sort of code to hide the real event from the bride and had been half-expecting some muscle Mary dressed as a copper to leap out of the shrubbery. I did think she looked a bit baffled when told she needed a bold bloom in the middle to anchor her structure.


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