saigonsays

That I even have a fruit bowl, is the first admission I’ll make on this rather “forgive me Father” Sabbath day journal entry…

Forgive me, for I appear to have rather over-embraced my inner ‘Metrosexual’ wannabe, released as it was yesterday like some kind of bottled up camp genie, deliriously happy at the prospect of all the indulgences available, given I was home alone for the weekend.

The early hours of yesterday began with feet firmly (despite the number of drinks I’d had that evening) wedged into hetro-man world.  I was in town, out with a mate from my football team.  All the raw ingredients for a “boy’s Friday night” were in play: games of pool, booze; sports talk; rock music – life was uncomplicated.

You’ll imagine my surprise then (or some won’t, as it would seem many of you clearly “outed” me as a metro-man many years back) when in a moment of mild panic yesterday evening, I briefly took stock of my day’s activities, which included the following:

• Walking a neighbour’s dog, dressed as I was in sporty lycra and carrying a take-away macchiato coffee
• Buying a purple scooter (albeit for my daughter however, carrying it under-arm out of the shop in my lycra, I did cut a mean ‘look’)
• Ate a crepe for breakfast
• Bought salad and pumpkin from a new local French épicerie (the salad was to go with the quiche – oh yes, that’s QUICHE – which I was having for lunch, and the pumpkin is so I can do a “practice” risotto today for a meal I want to cook on Christmas Eve – yes, that’s PRACTICE cooking)
• Had a street-shave
• Had a 90 minute facial (an “age reducing” one – courtesy of a voucher given to me by my friend whose dog I am walking)
• Had a 90 minute massage
• Bought a salt grinder (this can’t be the first time I have bought either salt or a grinder, but it felt significant nonetheless)
• Booked in an appointment with a curtain maker for next week (am doing some refurbs in my apartment…come to think of it, even the word “refurb” in the same sentence as “apartment” qualifies me for yet more metro points)
• Stocked up on oranges and limes to make festive cocktails
• Re-arranged the Christmas lights in my apartment, and bought ribbon (honestly, I really did buy ribbon) to hang up my Christmas cards.

After this painfully illuminating audit and reflection, I duly made a dash for the pub, to find Steve and Jamie (reliable drinking comrades) in time for Liverpool FC, and their kick-off against Cardiff City.  At which point I rather over compensated for the turn of events that day, cramming in the “man talk” at breakneck speed.

Thankfully, the evening ended at 1am on my balcony, with Jamie and I and a bottle of Jim Bean, listening to The Cult and Nirvana and being wistful about the year 1991.  Phew.   A close shave…

Speaking of which, I have just been dutifully informed by my good friend Claude, in ‘SoCal’ (Southern California: the land where organic has taken over Christianity as the No. 1 religion) that, in fact, eyebrow waxing is the only true mark of the metro-man.

Eyebrow waxing seems off the chart, even in my most metro of metrosexual moments.

But…never say never.

In any case, I now realise that the source of such metro behaviour may also stem from living with two daughters, caught on camera last week playing with an early Christmas hairdressing playset (note the snazzy tool pouch accessory worn professionally by Florence, and Martha’s nonchalant day-dreamy stare, already the mark of someone at ease with the art of being pampered!)

Happy Christmas to you all wherever you are and, whatever your plans for 2014, make sure you take Claude’s sage advice for the New Year, passed on to me in between her sips of organic herbal tea: “It’s quite simple advice Tim, you either go big, or you go home”.

I’m off to walk the dog.