Opposite me is a 30 something man, clean shaven, wearing designer sports wear, dripping silver chains and a deaths head or similar ring on every finger (and for all I know, every toe) the striking thing about him though is the permanently inked artwork all over the visable parts of his body and the implants in his forehead.
He has really gone all out with the tatts, he has a heart tattooed on his head, not a heart shape mind you, this is ( as far as my limited knowledge of anatomy is aware) a real human heart. Down either side of his neck is a thick black spiderweb spiraling down to his shoulders complete with a funnelweb rearing up ready to strike.
His forehead has a series of really big lumps under the skin giving him the appearance of having a really bad case of acne.
He has some smaller lumps where his eyebrows should be and they are tattooed over with little blue circles.
When he smiles ( which doesn't look like it happens often) his teeth are all filed to a point. His hands and arms are so inked up I can't see any skin.
He has accessorised with a small female companion who's foray into the world of body art hasn't reached the heights of her beloved as yet but I think she can't be far behind.
Now, all of us conservative little officeworkers are sitting there on the train minding our own business when these two stomp downstairs and sit facing us all. We all look up (as you do when someone makes a big noise) to be confronted with two pairs of hostile eyes staring out of these freak's faces. To the last man we all quickly averted our eyes and got back to quietly doing what we all do. I have my impeniterable shades on and so feel quite safe in pretending to be asleep whilst checking these two out thouroughly (hence my ability to descibe them reasonably well) and let me tell you, they are facinating.
Tatt man is so agressive and really paranoid about people staring at him (go figure) every time he catches anyone looking at him or the accessory he points at them and mimicks firing a gun at them. He also gave one poor man a heart attack as he was moving his leg away from tatt man, as he looked up (expecting a smile of thanks no doubt) tatt man said, in an incredibly menacing voice " what the f@!/' are you staring at" poor bugger nearly wet himself and got off 2 stops later.
What on earth these two rejects expected I'm not sure, surely they get stared at wherever they go? You can't help it. Tatt man's behaviour is so over the top for someone who must attract both positive and negative attention. Why do that to yourself if you don't like people looking at you? And let's face it, if it's a blue you're looking for a peak hour train isn't the place you are going to find a worthy opponant.
Accessory is trying to calm him down but he seems to be pumped up on adrenaline or testoserone or steroids or all three.
Most people within a two seat radius have moved. There is the odd person who, like me, trusts that he is all bluster and that he won't start ripping out seats and throwing them out of the windows (and probably secretly hoping that he will, how cool would that be). It's interesting to watch him work himself up actually. He is deliberately taking offense at people just being in his presence. The more he acts up the more people stare at him and the more he acts up. Imagine living with a powder keg like that. What he doesn't realise is that no one even sees the tattoos now, they can only see the idiot underneath them.
Monday, 13 July 2009
Monday, 6 April 2009
Indulgence
This has nothing to do with traveling on the train but I thought I must tell you about the weekend we had in Bowral just before Christmas.
However I warn you, do not read further if you are adverse to reading about people succumbing to gluttony, participating in pressing of the flesh of the most mysterious kind, self indulgently wallowing in luxurious surroundings and, damn it, bragging about it!!!
My best friend and her husband took me and mine to Bowral, to a place called Milton Park for some much earned and looked forward to pampering. I had no idea what she had planned. This is my account:
.
Oh my Lord what a place, our garden rooms were adjoining and through the French doors we were treated to a view of the biggest fountain (aside from the one in Hyde Park) that I have seen in a while and manicured lawns, formal gardens and massive oak and pine trees. Our large rooms consisted of a king sized bed covered in about 20 pillows and white linen, a plasma TV, huge bath, and a couple of comfy lounge chairs looking out at the garden and fountain. We could throw open the doors and step out onto a little stone stoop, then have a leisurely stroll around the garden or have a cup of tea whilst sitting in a really comfy chair gazing nonchalantly at the pleasant surrounds and taking deep breaths of the softly scented country air (which I did do, twice).
AND once ensconced, who cares how much it costs – this is better than drugs (not that I would know of course, I’m just guessing).
At 2pm, after the four of us had been lolling all over the bed and drinking the champagne that I had thoughtfully provided; we got a phone call telling us that we had an appointment at the spa in ½ an hour. An eyebrow cocked at Mez got me nothing but an eyebrow cocked right back so I had to just sit there wondering what the hell she had cooked up for us.
A HOT ROCK MASSAGE!!!! Is what! You know, I never really thought about how unpampered I was until that first hot rock hit my solar plexus. Any coherent thought just passed out of my mind as I gave myself up to the utter decadence of a full body hot rock.
The worst nightmare of a 48 year old, unsophisticated, fat earth mother is baring the said 48 year old, unsophisticated, faaaaaaaaaat carcass to an unsuspecting masseuse. One expects them to recoil in horror and revulsion or worse apply a fixed smile on their chops and suffer through this insult to the aesthetic symmetry of the human body. I’m not sure what is worse really, them touching me or me looking at them touching me. Anyway, at first I was in seven kinds of humiliation lying on my back, naked but for a pair of paper knickers on a skinny little table, barely covered by a towel that, frankly, was hardly bigger than a hand towel, waiting for God knows what (because Mez didn’t tell me). In fact my imagination was running wild by this time and I was lying there thinking all kinds of self depreciating thoughts like: ‘I hope she doesn’t mind pummelling cottage cheese’ or ‘OMG both my boobs are under my armpits’ or ‘I hope she has a big enough egg slice on the fork lift that has to turn me over’ or ‘I’m overflowing off this darn ironing board’ or ‘ I hope this bloody ironing board has reinforced legs’ or ‘ I hope her workers comp insurance covers being struck blind by the corpulent, waxen body before her’. I was left alone with my thoughts for so long that I thought she had probably taken a fast butchers through a hidden peep hole and was on her way back to Germany quicker than I can put on 3 kilos.
Then Amanda walked in.
Amanda was not a small girl, in fact: she was almost as tall as Paul. So now I’m intimidated and humiliated and about as relaxed as a hungry cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting bird. I was fantasizing about the most painful death I could possibly inflict on Mez, when Amanda placed a piping hot towel over my feet, a moderately cooler one over my eyes and two hot rocks on my stomach and then proceeded to massage my right foot and leg with warm scented oil and a hot rock. By the time she got to my knee I was well and truly in seventh heaven and was profusely apologising mentally to my Best Friend. Some are not impressed by a hot rock massage but I was, I loved every agonisingly embarrassing moment of it. Throughout the whole procedure I had a lovely warm towel covering my eyes (so that I couldn’t see her pi**ing herself laughing and taking photos to upload onto the web with all the appropriate captions) which made the procedure a lot less personal and a lot more relaxing.
I wont even go into the hilariousness or hideousness of trying to roll over on a table about as wide as a fence paling or of the mounds of relaxed flesh flying all over the place as I settled back down on my stomach (think stone thrown in pool of still water).
The other side was even more pleasurable, especially my shoulders and neck. I actually fell asleep I know this because I woke myself up snoring twice (you know, once you are embarrassed enough it just doesn’t matter anymore)(although if I had farted I would have had to get the hell out of there).
After the massage, she gave me a facial – also a wonderful experience (warm green teabags on eyes mmmmmmmm). By the time it was all over and I was back out in the dressing room 2 ½ hours had passed and I was feelin’ mellow.
Mez came out at the same time as me and after we had both stopped laughing at each of our experiences and appearances we went out and waited for the boys.
Next: a swim in the pool. A heated indoor pool no less. Set in a pavilion ringed by massive trees and ferns, tiled to within an inch of its life, big fluffy soft white towels on tap and the pool – oh the pool. Warm, all of us creating an oil slick from the massage oil (heeee sorry Mr pool cleaner) but then, that kept us afloat, no need to work at staying on top of the water.
A hot shower and a rest was in order as we were exhausted from all our exertions, hmmmmm lying on king sized monster soft bed. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.
We were awakened at 6.30pm by a reminder that we had a dinner reservation in the restaurant. Thank goodness I had packed glad rags.
Dinner was a gastronomical delight although the dinner plates were a little disconcerting. I noticed that the plates were one and the same as the slate tiles that they were re-doing the roof on the main building with. Not a bad concept actually, I just hope they washed them properly. Each course was accentuated by a small intervention of sorbet or soup or smoked salmon with a lemon infusion or petit fours or a superb local wine. Just add that to the blubber would you – thanks so much.
We went back to our rooms after dinner, had a cuppa and fell into a deep dreamless sleep until about 7am when we backed up for a full breakfast. I can never get my Bircher Muesli to taste that good. And the eggs, bacon, tomatoes…………….
The clincher to all this was, of course, that Mez and Chris paid for the whole thing. I still cant sleep properly when I think how much it would have cost them and it outshone a picnic by 100,000 watts. We tried to pay for our bit but Mez had beaten us to the post by pre paying for everything before we had even set foot on the premises. I can’t tell you how much it meant to us that Mez and Chris had planned our whole weekend, every detail was attended too, so much thought had gone into it.
We had such a good time that all four of us have decided to go back again this year, same time, same rooms and please God, same massage.
However I warn you, do not read further if you are adverse to reading about people succumbing to gluttony, participating in pressing of the flesh of the most mysterious kind, self indulgently wallowing in luxurious surroundings and, damn it, bragging about it!!!
My best friend and her husband took me and mine to Bowral, to a place called Milton Park for some much earned and looked forward to pampering. I had no idea what she had planned. This is my account:
.
Oh my Lord what a place, our garden rooms were adjoining and through the French doors we were treated to a view of the biggest fountain (aside from the one in Hyde Park) that I have seen in a while and manicured lawns, formal gardens and massive oak and pine trees. Our large rooms consisted of a king sized bed covered in about 20 pillows and white linen, a plasma TV, huge bath, and a couple of comfy lounge chairs looking out at the garden and fountain. We could throw open the doors and step out onto a little stone stoop, then have a leisurely stroll around the garden or have a cup of tea whilst sitting in a really comfy chair gazing nonchalantly at the pleasant surrounds and taking deep breaths of the softly scented country air (which I did do, twice).
AND once ensconced, who cares how much it costs – this is better than drugs (not that I would know of course, I’m just guessing).
At 2pm, after the four of us had been lolling all over the bed and drinking the champagne that I had thoughtfully provided; we got a phone call telling us that we had an appointment at the spa in ½ an hour. An eyebrow cocked at Mez got me nothing but an eyebrow cocked right back so I had to just sit there wondering what the hell she had cooked up for us.
A HOT ROCK MASSAGE!!!! Is what! You know, I never really thought about how unpampered I was until that first hot rock hit my solar plexus. Any coherent thought just passed out of my mind as I gave myself up to the utter decadence of a full body hot rock.
The worst nightmare of a 48 year old, unsophisticated, fat earth mother is baring the said 48 year old, unsophisticated, faaaaaaaaaat carcass to an unsuspecting masseuse. One expects them to recoil in horror and revulsion or worse apply a fixed smile on their chops and suffer through this insult to the aesthetic symmetry of the human body. I’m not sure what is worse really, them touching me or me looking at them touching me. Anyway, at first I was in seven kinds of humiliation lying on my back, naked but for a pair of paper knickers on a skinny little table, barely covered by a towel that, frankly, was hardly bigger than a hand towel, waiting for God knows what (because Mez didn’t tell me). In fact my imagination was running wild by this time and I was lying there thinking all kinds of self depreciating thoughts like: ‘I hope she doesn’t mind pummelling cottage cheese’ or ‘OMG both my boobs are under my armpits’ or ‘I hope she has a big enough egg slice on the fork lift that has to turn me over’ or ‘I’m overflowing off this darn ironing board’ or ‘ I hope this bloody ironing board has reinforced legs’ or ‘ I hope her workers comp insurance covers being struck blind by the corpulent, waxen body before her’. I was left alone with my thoughts for so long that I thought she had probably taken a fast butchers through a hidden peep hole and was on her way back to Germany quicker than I can put on 3 kilos.
Then Amanda walked in.
Amanda was not a small girl, in fact: she was almost as tall as Paul. So now I’m intimidated and humiliated and about as relaxed as a hungry cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting bird. I was fantasizing about the most painful death I could possibly inflict on Mez, when Amanda placed a piping hot towel over my feet, a moderately cooler one over my eyes and two hot rocks on my stomach and then proceeded to massage my right foot and leg with warm scented oil and a hot rock. By the time she got to my knee I was well and truly in seventh heaven and was profusely apologising mentally to my Best Friend. Some are not impressed by a hot rock massage but I was, I loved every agonisingly embarrassing moment of it. Throughout the whole procedure I had a lovely warm towel covering my eyes (so that I couldn’t see her pi**ing herself laughing and taking photos to upload onto the web with all the appropriate captions) which made the procedure a lot less personal and a lot more relaxing.
I wont even go into the hilariousness or hideousness of trying to roll over on a table about as wide as a fence paling or of the mounds of relaxed flesh flying all over the place as I settled back down on my stomach (think stone thrown in pool of still water).
The other side was even more pleasurable, especially my shoulders and neck. I actually fell asleep I know this because I woke myself up snoring twice (you know, once you are embarrassed enough it just doesn’t matter anymore)(although if I had farted I would have had to get the hell out of there).
After the massage, she gave me a facial – also a wonderful experience (warm green teabags on eyes mmmmmmmm). By the time it was all over and I was back out in the dressing room 2 ½ hours had passed and I was feelin’ mellow.
Mez came out at the same time as me and after we had both stopped laughing at each of our experiences and appearances we went out and waited for the boys.
Next: a swim in the pool. A heated indoor pool no less. Set in a pavilion ringed by massive trees and ferns, tiled to within an inch of its life, big fluffy soft white towels on tap and the pool – oh the pool. Warm, all of us creating an oil slick from the massage oil (heeee sorry Mr pool cleaner) but then, that kept us afloat, no need to work at staying on top of the water.
A hot shower and a rest was in order as we were exhausted from all our exertions, hmmmmm lying on king sized monster soft bed. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.
We were awakened at 6.30pm by a reminder that we had a dinner reservation in the restaurant. Thank goodness I had packed glad rags.
Dinner was a gastronomical delight although the dinner plates were a little disconcerting. I noticed that the plates were one and the same as the slate tiles that they were re-doing the roof on the main building with. Not a bad concept actually, I just hope they washed them properly. Each course was accentuated by a small intervention of sorbet or soup or smoked salmon with a lemon infusion or petit fours or a superb local wine. Just add that to the blubber would you – thanks so much.
We went back to our rooms after dinner, had a cuppa and fell into a deep dreamless sleep until about 7am when we backed up for a full breakfast. I can never get my Bircher Muesli to taste that good. And the eggs, bacon, tomatoes…………….
The clincher to all this was, of course, that Mez and Chris paid for the whole thing. I still cant sleep properly when I think how much it would have cost them and it outshone a picnic by 100,000 watts. We tried to pay for our bit but Mez had beaten us to the post by pre paying for everything before we had even set foot on the premises. I can’t tell you how much it meant to us that Mez and Chris had planned our whole weekend, every detail was attended too, so much thought had gone into it.
We had such a good time that all four of us have decided to go back again this year, same time, same rooms and please God, same massage.
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