7.9.04

Many people have been asking whether I've managed to obtain the telephone number to my flat. I have indeed, and thank you very much for asking (I didn't think it would be the most exciting topic of conversation, you see). A saying that I tend to live by more and more these days is 'If you want things done, do it yourself', and the telephone number situation is of no exception. I gave up on my landlord and rang BT myself. What took six e-mails was resolved in a minute flat, and that's the way it ought to be.

Long weekends are rarely long enough, but I managed to get a few things done. We went to the CNE on Sunday with C, which was quite a decent day, although I now have a rather obvious scoop-necked tan line on my chest. I was reminded of how much I love petting farms (I wanted to take the plump white goose home with me) and winning cute little toys in the midway. We won four: Oscar the Grouch (complete with rubbish bin), Cooooooooookie Monster, and an adorable little duck and piglet. Now is the time to remind me that I'm 21, and not seven, as this post suggests.

Upon clearing out my closet last night, I stumbled upon 36 issues of old Cosmopolitan magazines that I'd smuggled into my bookbag during junior high. In retrospect I do not know why I read so many Cosmopolitans back then - that could be why I have such a warped female mind nowadays - as they really were poorly written and utter rubbish. Loo material, perhaps, but nothing more. I suppose the allure of those magazines was more to do with the fact that mummy and daddy would not have approved very much of them, but the only reaction I got from Mum last night was a roll of the eyes. Flipping through an issue last night, I did find an incredibly delicious full-page photograph of Tobey Maguire circa August 2001. Yummy.

L'Esthete @ 17:16