SUITS FOR THE TRACK

It’s pouring rain and the only place I want to be is curled up on my bed in my trackies and buried in a stack of pillows.

Such is my fascination with tracksuit pants, and possibly more to the point, my anti-fascination with my work today, that I’ve been driven to conduct a little research on my favourite garment.

Wikipedia’s definition is as follows:

 

Sweatpants are an informal variety of soft trousers intended for comfort or athletic purposes. In the UK they are varyingly known as track suit bottoms or the more informal jogging bottoms. In Australia and New Zealand they are known as trackies, track (or tracksuit) pants.

By this wonderful definition, I could rock up to work in my trackies and, if questioned, I could say "I am wearing my soft trousers today".

 

Exclaim This

Five minutes into my commute to work this morning my car's dashboard decided to light up a little picture of an exclamation mark.

I am SORRY, but whoever thought up that little gem must have been short on a few cells. What does one do, mid-drive no less, with the myriad of useful information that is presented with such a sign?

"What does it meeean?", my brain scrambled. 

"Am I out of oil, am I driving on three wheels? Are my brakes working, has the engine fallen out? Is the alternator shot, is my wiper fluid low?!"

HELP A GIRL OUT.

So, safety first, whilst nudging my way along the peak-hour traffic I pried the car's manual from the glove box and indexed and leafed my way to the section entitled "Effing Useless Dashboard Signals and Their Meanings". Apparently, an exclamation mark on the dashboard denotes low brake fluid levels. But of course!

I absolutely refuse to believe that this knowledge is shared by the rest of the population, bar me.

The manual implied that I should make contact with my friendly Mitsubishi dealer as soon as possible and had the nerve to suggest I should steer my vehicle to the side of the road and fire-up my hazards, post-haste, in fact.

"Listen here, Manual", thought I. "I've had time to locate and decipher you and my brakes still seem to be working. There's not a chance in hell I'll be pulling to the side of the road. Fob off".

Like seatbelt signs in aeroplanes and screaming house alarms, all annoying signals, I'm afraid, are almost certain to be ignored until if and when any tangible element of danger presents itself. Having said that, whilst the consequence of ignoring an aeroplane seatbelt signal could be the connection of one's head to one fuselage, and the result of ignoring a house alarm could be someone else's crap being knocked off (who cares), a small part of me does fear that ignoring the brake fluid indicator could result in me driving into a Mack Truck, or, over a cliff and into a canyon, if I were starring in an 80s film at the time.

Low and behold, whilst lost in my daydreams the exclamation mark grew weary and returned to his home in the dark recesses of the dashboard.

I'd say that's a problem fought and a problem solved. Jolly good.

Serendipity and Kate Middleton

What did we think of the Royal Wedding? Are we sick of talking about it? I'm not.

I freaking loved it. This had nothing to do with the fact that I watched in my trackies with the company of takeaway Chinese (and a few other humans, whatevs).

In the run-up to the wedding, many a male deemed it necessary to poo-poo the pending nuptials and boisterously proclaim their plans to snob their lady-friends and hog the “good TV” to watch the footy instead of the wedding. I must say, it did amuse me so when a certain male realised that the wedding was playing on all channels except SBS. And that there was no footy. Roflcopter.

There was excitement and nerves from my corner of the lounge that not even a spring roll could extinguish. Puke if you will, but when Will and Harry's car rolled around the corner, and when Kate stepped into her car, oooooh, there were goosebumps aplenty!

For the boys. From Lydia Leath

I loved Kate’s dress. I thought her bouquet was a little limp though. I very, very much appreciated the Princes’ uniforms. Wowzers.

But if you want to know what I really thought, and I’m sure you really, really do – you can't get much more truthful than the text messages exchanged between this gal and her pal.

Here's the cream of the crop:

Beep Beep

I’m so excited. Do you reckon you will cry, for no apparent reason?

I’m not keen on the plastic fold-out chairs at the back of the church.

Apparently Harry is having a party in his own nightclub after. I want in.

I would do anything to get in. I want in so bad. This is torture.

Oh no, where's your hair Will?

Will needs a mic. I can’t hear what he is talking to the guests about.

I hope they hook up at the royal disco.

Not a fan of the mini-vans! How embarrassing!

I would be so cheesed off if I had to go in it. Everyone else gets Bat Mobiles and they get a seri bus.

WTF is that blue hat?

And the blue dress. What a mess. We need walky talkies.

Camilla looks like a sack of shit. She never smiles. Bring back Di.

Her wave is wrong. Too fierce.

Elton, you fat sludge.

You would be so embarrassed sitting next to Elton.

Look at the nun's shoes.

Kate's brother is taking this reading very seriously.

Maybe he’s practicing for an audition. This bit’s boring and no one is smiling.

Hahahahaha, did you see that horse bolt off?

Hahahaha, yep. The camera quickly went off it.

Hahaha, did you see the horse shit?

And we wonder why we're not princesses.