My Fascinating Camel Toe Resolution Process With Nike

As likers of my Facebook page will be acutely aware, this week I have had a problem of the camel toe variety. And first world problems are totes still problems, are they not, babeses?? The point is, is that they are.

So despite being an incrediblé busy single mum, struggling gracefully but mahusively to keep home and raise irritants sans helper, I needed to address this issue with Nike as a matter of urgency. It was interfering with my chi quite badly and I am certain that even corporate giants have hearts, and therefore thusly do not like to cause anyone pain unknowingly, particularly a customer as highly valued as myself.

The first stage of addressment of the camel toe problem re my recent purchase of workout leggings (as they’re American, they call them “training pants”, but that sounds like something to do with the toileting of toddlers, hence raises a degree of discomfort for me) was to fill out an online form. I explained that my issue simply could not be accommodated by an online form. What followed was an abso lovely exchange with a gentleman called Mo, and rather than paraphrase, I will post it in full below for your perusal. I know, dear readers, that you will find it riveting, but as always, there is no need to thank me.

[Unless you feel overcome with gratitude, in which case, go for it! I v much believe in freedom of expression – partic for those who want to say nice stuff. Otherwise, not so v much…]

 

 

Nike 1

 

So this was my mail:

Nike 2.1

Continued…

Nike 2.2

 

And these were the attachments:

 

CT issue

My dismay is all too evident

 

Lulu no CT

A Lulu tag on leggings I have since purchased at her Covent Garden shop. Wait… £118?! I didn’t see that! The things a Syrian refugee could do with £118!! Hashtag GUILT! (Just because it’s Canadian doesn’t make it right.)

 

And thusly came Mo’s sweet response:

Nike 3

 

Hencely the upshot is that I will be running to Oxford Circus at the earliest possible opportunity, labia-a’flailing, in order to present myself and the training pants for Inspection.

I shall keep you abreast of my progress, fear not.

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The Hellish Hells of Relocation

I am desperately sorry for neglecting you, dear readers. It has been suuuuuuuch a busy time. I’ve had to do so many dull things related to the move, not least finishing the insurance inventory for the shipment. Counting clothes (and, on a separate not, what happened to the Counting Crows?) takes an increbibé long time! Apparently, I own 325 pairs of shorts, and for the sake of precision I wanted to sub-categorise each type of garment, so I didn’t just put “Shorts x 325”. No. I sub-categorised into Hot Pants, Elegant Shorts, Resort Wear Shorts, Boho Glamour Shorts, Long-Ish Shorts, Short-Ish Shorts (excluding hot pants), and Tiny Shorts (also at the exclusion of any of the afore-mentioned categories).

I did this with all my other clothes, accessories, and shoes too. I have hardly slept for days. And at the same time, I’ve had a whole ton of other stuff to do. I’ve needed to liaise with the dreaded relocation agency re booking into serviced accommodation next week; AND I’ve been finalising our last-minute Asia trips before we return to miserable weather. So next month we’re going to Langkawi – staying at the Four, of course – and then to a fabulous birthday party in Phuket. It’s for one of my Expaterati Girlies who I haven’t seen for yonks, and it promises to be quite fabulous, as she herself is beyond fabulous. It’s a shame that the irritants are coming (not to mention Don), but the help will have moved on by then. We lose her in a couple of weeks. There’s another thing that’s been v stressful: constantly speaking to her potential new employers and having to be all Nice. The first few times, I told them about my suspicions that she has some sort of online business which involves her wearing racy undergarments, but then I realised that was just causing me to have to speak to more annoying people, so I stopped.

Angel’s flight back home to Oz is all booked, thanks to moi. Why can’t a sixteen (almost seventeen!) year-old woman book her own flight? Since when did human beings take so long to grow up?? Ridic. I mean, I out-sourced it to my remote assistant in the Philippines, but that still involved sending an email.

I’ve also been doing some high-value shoppage, as a means of obtaining cash. Handbags and such. I acquired a divine one last week from the Burbster. The point of my endeavour is to buy things and then sell them on in order to build up my cash reserves, but the Burb one in particular, I’m not sure I can bear to part with… Perhaps I’ll keep it. Surely just one can’t hurt.

I’ve been Skyping with Mummy lately because I will need her help with the irritants if we are definitely returning to the UK. Yes, I’ve had to be the grown-up there and swallow my pride about her terrible treatment of me last Christmas. Honestly, how much can one person take?! Even a person as highly resourceful and resilient as me. At least Froo Froo dog is taking all this in her stride. She seems to be oblivious to what’s going on. She’s happier than she has ever been, in fact. How dreadfully sad that her life is about to be utterly changed without her having any control or say in the matter, but I suppose it’s a saving grace that she is blissfully unaware. Oh, to be a dog!

Speaking of dogs, before I get back to my busy tedium I will share with you that I have scheduled my confrontation with Liz for the end of this week. I can hardly contain my excitement. You will love it, dear readers, and I promise not to spare you any of the gruesome details.

FullSizeRender

How could I part with this beauty, babeses??

What To Do When…

…there are compromising images of another Expaterati “Lady” on your husband’s iCloud. (I wanted to put that as the whole post title, but it was just too long – argh! – and I couldn’t get hold of my friend who writes punchy innuendo-laden headlines for a nasty UK newspaper.)

As you will note from last week’s shocking revelation, I found some rather disgusting photos of Liz on Don’s iCloud. There is no point in addressing the matter with Don, because it is clearly an error, but given that I am not one to rest wanly on my laurels, I have taken prompt action. This may well happen to you also, and I therefore wanted to give you the benefit of my expert knowledge on the subject, gained by bitter experience.

1.I kept one well ok, maybe a few, of the pictures of Liz. You never know when you might need that filthy stuff.

2. I had a photo shoot, so that I could get some beautiful tasteful photos, to show the world what a real woman should look like. I had to do a bit of a blur job myself because, unlike Liz, I don’t want my flesh all over the internet. Have you seen the internet lately?! Stuff can really get around.

3. I have jetted off to London to plunder the Spring collections of Alex McQueen RIP, Vic Beckham, et al. Singapore shopping is way fab, but for British designers, I would advise that you go directly to the scene of the crime. After a lovely, irritant-free flight during which I drank champagne and watched Gone Girl again, twice, (that film just mystifies me!! One day I’ll understand it, if I watch it enough times), I got to Heathrow before dawn, and headed straight to Mayfair, to hook up with some of my London Queens*. They’d all come from their early gym sessions, and ditched work for the morning, just to have breakfast with little ole moi. Love yous, babeses, XOX!!

Then off to the shops we went, and I got a few amazebobs pieces. Nailed it, and it was only Day One. I rock at shopping, I really do.

 

What a real woman should look like, babeses

What a real woman should look like, babeses

 

 

* I TOTES love that song, London Queen!! It’s just me all over. I’ve bought some tix to see Charli XCX in Singers in April, and I haven’t released details yet, but I’ll be inviting one lucky reader to join me and my Expaterati girlies on an awesome night out. Yup!! Watch this space!!!

 

 

 

 

What Fresh Hell is This?!

I have had to take some time off from being able to share my fabulous life with you, dear readers, because I contracted a classic Singaporean treat: Mycoplasma. Chalk that up (next to the smoke from Sumatra) under “things no one tells you before you move here”.

Luckily though, the shopping is good, and there are a lot of v cool restaurants around Club Street, so that cancels the other stuff out.

Anyway, my whole body became like a block of splintered wood, and it is only today that my fingers have recovered from the stiffness and aching enough to be able to type. Even now, I can barely raise my pretty head to look at the screen (the illness hasn’t affected my hair though, which is still looking keratin-lovely). It has been murder, I tell you. Poor me. I didn’t deserve this! Get well messages gratefully appreciated.

It would also help with my recovery if you would please have a look at the Join the Parteee! page. Thanks, beautifuls : )