I did wake up at a reasonable hour today. I did not have a bath. I woke up. I called my mum. I made coffee. I had rye bed and cheese, with marmite.
My friend came round and we went to get our nails done. Two things: as we wandered through my locale, she commented on what a high concentration of nail bars there are in the area. There are. I don’t know why. There’s probably a reason.
We went to my favourite one, which has ALL THE COLOURS and wonderful service, and amazing yummy mummy people watching. The yummy mummy community probably accounts for the concentration of nail bars, thinking about it.
Today: purple shellac. Shellac is revolutionary for me. In the old days, pre-gel manicures, I used to get my nails done, then ruin the finish within an hour – it’s to do with walking sticks, and wobbly walks, and generic cack-handedness. But I used to do them anyway, and actually, back in the day, when I had more hand-eye co-ordination and more time, I used to paint them myself, double colours. The left hand always looked better than the right, because my right hand is stronger, so nails it paints look less like a four year old has been let loose with crayons.
At a wedding, with chipped nails, a woman who was far more beautiful and elegant than me told me I should investigate shellac, which is indestructible.
I did. It really is. I now wear shellac more often than I should.
Yesterday, a friend called me decadent. I don’t know why.