28 JUNE 2005. TUESDAY. 08:34PM.
One cannot help but feel narcissistic in a David Jones changing room. I can seriously live in one of those. It's huge, roomy, the lighting makes your skin glow like you're reflecting light, and the mirrors... where do i even begin? Every time i go in there, i am usually carrying in a pair of sass and bide jeans, thankfully most of the time leaving with none. I know my nails need repainting, don't worry by the end of the week, they all chip off anyway. Cheap polish, i never indulge in paint. I was having a conversation with my friend back home over the weekend. She recently sold her debt-free soul and became a home-owner and somehow i convinced her (unintentionally) an oven is an essential item in the kitchen. So she informs me on sunday that she's going out to buy one 'cos i said so and therefore i'm bound by the unspoken friend's code book to cook for her whenever i'm back in the country. Now, i have trouble comprehending this .... in the last 18 years of friendship, has she forgotten i never once cooked a sumptious meal in her presence? What in the world made her think i have suddenly turned into a good cook, and one who bakes too? Oh well, marthastewart.com here i come.
