Well, it's official. 'Chez moi' has become 'chez nous' as my Beloved has moved his stuff over and settled into his new 'pad'.
The previously austere pool room has been converted into a spiffing bedsit cum office cum studio cum bar cum ... pool room. A little bit of imagination, ingenuity and a small quantity of bailing wire has transformed the space out of all recognition - assisted also by an eclectic collection of art, bits of costume and various props. I particularly like the traffic lights and the honey bear head sitting on top of the TV but am concerned about the 'head box' into which (supposedly) knives and arrows are inserted without any damage to the occupant. Hmmmm.
Of course there are a number of exceptional side benefits to the new arrangements, not least of which is the elimination of all that pesky travelling time and the hassle of making assignations. Other perks need not be mentioned in this forum ...
Oh, and just in case you were wondering, my Beloved does have house access privileges. For the moment ... (just kidding!)
Tuesday, 11 November 2008
Thursday, 6 November 2008
Home Invastion
I was blissfully slumbering away last night when I was rudely awoken at about 4.00am by the most HIDEOUS sounds coming from the living room.
There was a great screeching and warbling, followed by banging and crashing and then more screeching and hissing. Naturally I leapt out of my nice warm bed to see who or what was strangling Fang and turned the light on to a scene out of "Attack of the Killer Kitties" (I'm sure there is such a film, and if there isn't, there should be!).
The upstart cat from the other side of the back fence who has, on occasion, risked life and limb to have a bit of a wander around my back yard had decided to investigate what was on the other side of the cat flap.
What he found was an 8.2kg monster prepared to defend hearth and home to the bitter end. Fang - large at the best of times - had puffed herself up with indignation and was about the same size and shape as a black, furry beach ball. With teeth.
Poor kitty from next door had, by this stage, figured out that curiosity was likely to get him killed, so was making every attempt to find a way out. Not very successfully and pursued, at this point, by both Butch and Fang intent on revenge for this outrage.
I, meanwhile, am trying to get all the doors open as far as possible while avoiding being an incidental casualty of WWIII. There were cats going everywhere! Over the furniture, up the screen door, over the kitchen bench, into the laundry (whoops - dead end) and out again - in the process knocking over the neatly stacked empty bottles and cans like so many skittles.
The poor traumatised beast from next door finally found his way to feedom and dashed off into the night (hopefully) never to return.
Butch and Fang - the home invader gone - resumed their nomal sizes and looked at me as if to say "Well, what are you standing around here for? Let's get back to bed." Which we were all very pleased to do.
It makes me realise, though, that their less than enthusiastic reaction to the introduction of wee Q as a regular household guest is as NOTHING compared to what might have happened if my Beloved had brought round another cat. They've been positively genial in comparison ...
There was a great screeching and warbling, followed by banging and crashing and then more screeching and hissing. Naturally I leapt out of my nice warm bed to see who or what was strangling Fang and turned the light on to a scene out of "Attack of the Killer Kitties" (I'm sure there is such a film, and if there isn't, there should be!).
The upstart cat from the other side of the back fence who has, on occasion, risked life and limb to have a bit of a wander around my back yard had decided to investigate what was on the other side of the cat flap.
What he found was an 8.2kg monster prepared to defend hearth and home to the bitter end. Fang - large at the best of times - had puffed herself up with indignation and was about the same size and shape as a black, furry beach ball. With teeth.
Poor kitty from next door had, by this stage, figured out that curiosity was likely to get him killed, so was making every attempt to find a way out. Not very successfully and pursued, at this point, by both Butch and Fang intent on revenge for this outrage.
I, meanwhile, am trying to get all the doors open as far as possible while avoiding being an incidental casualty of WWIII. There were cats going everywhere! Over the furniture, up the screen door, over the kitchen bench, into the laundry (whoops - dead end) and out again - in the process knocking over the neatly stacked empty bottles and cans like so many skittles.
The poor traumatised beast from next door finally found his way to feedom and dashed off into the night (hopefully) never to return.
Butch and Fang - the home invader gone - resumed their nomal sizes and looked at me as if to say "Well, what are you standing around here for? Let's get back to bed." Which we were all very pleased to do.
It makes me realise, though, that their less than enthusiastic reaction to the introduction of wee Q as a regular household guest is as NOTHING compared to what might have happened if my Beloved had brought round another cat. They've been positively genial in comparison ...
Saturday, 1 November 2008
... and a Goat in a Pe-e-ar Tree
Over the last several months, my Beloved has been dealing with his own production number, working on a joint Australian/Uzbekistani feature film, "Kimbung Jim Jams". Being the 'man on the ground' in our fair city he's been responsible for all the pre-production and organisation that goes into putting a film together.
This is a difficult enough task without the added complication of overseas producers that keep on changing their minds and driving us out of ours ...
The first challenge was the script which finally arrived ... in Uzbekistani. Not useful. An english translation eventually followed which revealed just a couple of small issues ... like locations that were not on the location list, characters not on the cast list, about a zillion extras, $20,000 in cash being dropped from a great height for the purposes of a dream sequence, and a goldfish required to jump out of its bowl on cue and perform a death defying leap into a drain.
Well, not so death defying actually ...
So for several weeks it was a matter of finding locations, taking pictures of them and sending them through to Uzbekistan. Same deal with actors and extras - take some footage, convert to streaming file and email to Uzbekistan where, after an inevitable delay of hours, days or even weeks (Uzbeki time seems to vary somewhat from ours) would come approval/rejection and another 'to do' list.
"How's it going?" I would ask with trepidation.
"Pear shaped" would be the invariable reply as some additional ludicrous request arrived via email.
My favourite moment was the weekend before shooting commenced and we discovered that a fairly significant character had not been cast. Message to my Beloved - "we have three possible candidates, could you please film auditions and send to us by 5.00pm today". No matter that the Parental Body and two of their friends were coming over for lunch - we just invited the auditionees to come to chez moi and perform in front of the assembled guests! Actually, it added some interest to lunch and we got to see 3 quite embarrassed chappies doing their own unique version of Punjab Hip Hop. What fun!
The first day of shooting finally arrived and my Beloved was off at some ridiculously early hour of the morning (having grunted once or twice in my general direction - his version of "Good morning, darling") to tackle the multi-national cast and crew, keep things on track and generally try to avoid anyone killing themselves or others.
This turned out to be a difficult task.
The culture clash became apparent immediately, with the Uzbekistani contingent showing a complete disregard for rules, regulations, health and safety issues ... and timelines. What was already a tight schedule over 5 days became a nightmare of 14, 16 and 18 hour shoots, no sleep and endless arguments between the Director and anyone who'd care to listen. Obviously the protocol in Uzbekistan is to do whatever you want with a bribe to the appropriate personages to smooth it over. Not how we do things in dear old Adelaide, however.
My Beloved became the "Mr No." of the production.
"No, you cannot climb onto that roof without safety gear."
"No, you cannot take a camera into the middle of a busy road withoout a permit, traffic cones and the police."
"No, you cannot fire a gun on set."
"No, we are not going to buy 20 identical goldfish so you can throw them down the drain one by one until you get the right shot."
We discovered that the word "Nazi", even when mumbled under the breath and in Uzbekistani still sounds like an insult. Added to all these problems was an Uzbekistani caterer who had an uncanny knack of disappearing whenever he was needed and leaving the delicious (not) Uzbekistani cuisine he'd whipped up in a hot van for several hours. Four cases of food poisoning reported so far ...
At last it was over, however, and the wrap was celebrated with the delightful Australian crew members and a late night trip to the local karaoke bar - scene of Arizaphale's recent triumph (hem hem).
However, it appears that my career as a part-time, unpaid production assistant is far from over. Once he's finished standing in for [CENSORED] on [CENSORED] it'll be straight back into pre-production for a TV pilot and even larger bi-national feature film next year. Can't wait!
PS - why the Goat, you ask? Literal translation of Kimbung Jim Jams from Uzbekistani.
PPS - no goldfish were harmed in the making of this movie.
Thursday, 30 October 2008
Production Numbers
My goodness! Has it really been this long since my last post? Apologies, dear reader!
Since last I wrote, life seems to have been a series of production numbers one way or another so I'll fill you in on what's been happening over the next few posts.
Those of you reading my dear Arizaphale's blog would already be aware of one of them, being the sad damage done to my back in the line of duty!
One would not necessarily expect working in Charity to be hazardous to one's health, but alas this can be the case. Not only is there the virtual jostling for position with other, less worthy causes for the philanthropic dollar in a manner reminiscent of ye olde school tuck shop, there are the physical risks of putting on a function.
We do these all the time and the physical dangers vary with each event. At our May film night the major risks were getting high on the glue fumes coming from the 1,200 glitter coated goody bags being assembled in the office, and being trodden on in the crush of femininity rushing the seats for the premier of "Sex and the City". For the Ball there were the dangers of tripping over the hundred or so auction items and 65 cases of wine littered around our already disgracefully untidy offices and, on the night, breaking an ankle while trying to boogie in 4 inch heels.
A week or so ago we had a different challenge with our annual walkathon - herding about 150 people and a dozen or so dogs in varying degrees of costume (the dogs, not the people) through the registration area, past the face painter, down the beach, around the water station, back to the starting point, over to the sausage sizzle and home. This, in itself, presented no great difficulty. It was the carting of various supplies that proved the problem.
After all, a T-shirt by itself is not a particularly heavy item, but when you have 200 of them in 4 large boxes that have to be manouvered into the car for transport together with 500 hats and all the other paraphernalia required for such an event it can get a little tricky. My downfall was a container filled with water bottles. Having conveniently placed handles on either side, I suggested to a co-worker that we could pick up an end each and see if we could transport it to the waiting boot.
With the traditional "1, 2, 3 ..." I lifted ... and she didn't. Actually we both heard the 'pop' sound that (I discovered later) represented the tearing of a ligament and my immediate thought was "Oh shit, this is going to be bad". It was.
Ice on the back for almost two days had no impact whatsoever, movement was limited to a slow and painful stagger leaning on whatever was available, lying down was fine but turning over or getting up practically impossible and as for going to the loo ... yikes!
At the time, my Beloved was busy with a production number of his own (more of this later), working 16 - 18 hour days and not generally able to be of much assistance. Thank goodness for Arizaphale who, in true Bestie fashion, dropped everything to come over and fetch, carry and do anything else required. A doctor was called, drugs acquired and the process of "rest it until it gets better" commenced.
Somehow I don't think this "rest it" advice extended to herding people and dogs up and down beaches but when Charity calls, one must do one's duty ...
Since last I wrote, life seems to have been a series of production numbers one way or another so I'll fill you in on what's been happening over the next few posts.
Those of you reading my dear Arizaphale's blog would already be aware of one of them, being the sad damage done to my back in the line of duty!
One would not necessarily expect working in Charity to be hazardous to one's health, but alas this can be the case. Not only is there the virtual jostling for position with other, less worthy causes for the philanthropic dollar in a manner reminiscent of ye olde school tuck shop, there are the physical risks of putting on a function.
We do these all the time and the physical dangers vary with each event. At our May film night the major risks were getting high on the glue fumes coming from the 1,200 glitter coated goody bags being assembled in the office, and being trodden on in the crush of femininity rushing the seats for the premier of "Sex and the City". For the Ball there were the dangers of tripping over the hundred or so auction items and 65 cases of wine littered around our already disgracefully untidy offices and, on the night, breaking an ankle while trying to boogie in 4 inch heels.
A week or so ago we had a different challenge with our annual walkathon - herding about 150 people and a dozen or so dogs in varying degrees of costume (the dogs, not the people) through the registration area, past the face painter, down the beach, around the water station, back to the starting point, over to the sausage sizzle and home. This, in itself, presented no great difficulty. It was the carting of various supplies that proved the problem.
After all, a T-shirt by itself is not a particularly heavy item, but when you have 200 of them in 4 large boxes that have to be manouvered into the car for transport together with 500 hats and all the other paraphernalia required for such an event it can get a little tricky. My downfall was a container filled with water bottles. Having conveniently placed handles on either side, I suggested to a co-worker that we could pick up an end each and see if we could transport it to the waiting boot.
With the traditional "1, 2, 3 ..." I lifted ... and she didn't. Actually we both heard the 'pop' sound that (I discovered later) represented the tearing of a ligament and my immediate thought was "Oh shit, this is going to be bad". It was.
Ice on the back for almost two days had no impact whatsoever, movement was limited to a slow and painful stagger leaning on whatever was available, lying down was fine but turning over or getting up practically impossible and as for going to the loo ... yikes!
At the time, my Beloved was busy with a production number of his own (more of this later), working 16 - 18 hour days and not generally able to be of much assistance. Thank goodness for Arizaphale who, in true Bestie fashion, dropped everything to come over and fetch, carry and do anything else required. A doctor was called, drugs acquired and the process of "rest it until it gets better" commenced.
Somehow I don't think this "rest it" advice extended to herding people and dogs up and down beaches but when Charity calls, one must do one's duty ...
Friday, 3 October 2008
Karaoke Queen
My dear Bestie, Arizaphale, is a paragon of virtue. She is a wonderful mother, understanding step-mum, supportive wife, great teacher and fabulous friend. She is a non-smoker and responsible drinker, active participant in her church and reliable taxi service for all and sundry.
Which is why it's so much fun to be with her when she goes on a bender.
This does not happen often. There needs to be a special combination of circumstances for there to be any chance of an "Arizaphale Behaving Badly" evening, but such was the state of affairs on Wednesday. Baby Angel in Sydney. Husband in KI. No school in the morning. Friends who know the location of a karaoke bar.
The evening started calmly enough. My Beloved cooked us a lovely meal, we discussed current events, the world financial crisis and other erudite matters and then decided to pop out for a nightcap at the local pub. No problem.
My Beloved, having had an early start on the [CENSORED] was just about to suggest heading home and popping on a movie when Arizaphale came out with the fateful words "How about we go and have a sing?"
And so we set out to the local karoke bar on the understanding that it would be one drink and one song. Famous last words.
When we arrived at the venue at something after 10pm we were the only patrons there. We ordered a drink and proceeded to browse through the 'playlist' of around 582,532 available songs. Not an easy task and one requiring the reinforcement of another round of drinks.
My Beloved got things rolling with a couple of his 'standards' and, sick of waiting for either of us to make up our minds, just picked out something for us to sing as a duet which we dutifully did. I wish I could remember what it was, but in any case we didn't make a bad job of it and it certainly got the ball rolling.
And what a roll it was!
Arizaphale with microphone in hand suddenly became a woman possessed, choosing song after song for our listening pleasure. And when she wasn't singing, she was dancing. And when not dancing ... well, it was time for another round after all and singing and dancing is thirsty work.
The venue started to fill up, providing a more extensive audience but also some competition for 'mike time'. There are certain rules of etiquette at a karoke bar - firstly, one must always clap politely at the end of a song, no matter how well or how dreadfully it has been performed. While Arizaphale did this with (sometimes) unwarranted enthusiasm, she became somewhat less able to abide by certain of the other conventions as the evening wore on.
It is, for example, poor form to run around the room giving notes to other singers on how they might improve their performance. It is also not generally acceptable to provide back-up vocals to complete strangers if not invited. This was explained gently to her by my Beloved, but at one point I thought she would have to be forcibly restrained.
In between Arizaphale's virtuoso performances, my Beloved found another few songs to add to his repertoire (and a couple not to), we girls harmonised delightfully on something that had a lot of 'La's" in it, and I managed a stirling rendition of "Toucha Toucha Touch Me", ably backed up the other two.
A fine time was being had by all. At around 1.30am, and conscious that while it might not be a school night for Arizaphale it was for me, my Beloved managed to shepherd us both out of the club and within about 3 feet of a waiting cab, but it was not to be. As if by magic, Arizaphale disappeared back inside and the next thing we heard was her dulcet tones belting out "Mustang Sally".
At this point I became resigned to hanging in there for the duration, and ordered another round... She was just having too much of a good time to drag away, and after all, she doesn't get to do it often.
So it was with very bleary eyes that I hauled myself to work the next day after what can only be described as a short nap. Just the day to catch up with my filing.
And Arizaphale? Her text message next day said it all. "Thanx 4 a gr8 nite, but do not take me there ever again!!!:-)". Until next time ...
Which is why it's so much fun to be with her when she goes on a bender.
This does not happen often. There needs to be a special combination of circumstances for there to be any chance of an "Arizaphale Behaving Badly" evening, but such was the state of affairs on Wednesday. Baby Angel in Sydney. Husband in KI. No school in the morning. Friends who know the location of a karaoke bar.
The evening started calmly enough. My Beloved cooked us a lovely meal, we discussed current events, the world financial crisis and other erudite matters and then decided to pop out for a nightcap at the local pub. No problem.
My Beloved, having had an early start on the [CENSORED] was just about to suggest heading home and popping on a movie when Arizaphale came out with the fateful words "How about we go and have a sing?"
And so we set out to the local karoke bar on the understanding that it would be one drink and one song. Famous last words.
When we arrived at the venue at something after 10pm we were the only patrons there. We ordered a drink and proceeded to browse through the 'playlist' of around 582,532 available songs. Not an easy task and one requiring the reinforcement of another round of drinks.
My Beloved got things rolling with a couple of his 'standards' and, sick of waiting for either of us to make up our minds, just picked out something for us to sing as a duet which we dutifully did. I wish I could remember what it was, but in any case we didn't make a bad job of it and it certainly got the ball rolling.
And what a roll it was!
Arizaphale with microphone in hand suddenly became a woman possessed, choosing song after song for our listening pleasure. And when she wasn't singing, she was dancing. And when not dancing ... well, it was time for another round after all and singing and dancing is thirsty work.
The venue started to fill up, providing a more extensive audience but also some competition for 'mike time'. There are certain rules of etiquette at a karoke bar - firstly, one must always clap politely at the end of a song, no matter how well or how dreadfully it has been performed. While Arizaphale did this with (sometimes) unwarranted enthusiasm, she became somewhat less able to abide by certain of the other conventions as the evening wore on.
It is, for example, poor form to run around the room giving notes to other singers on how they might improve their performance. It is also not generally acceptable to provide back-up vocals to complete strangers if not invited. This was explained gently to her by my Beloved, but at one point I thought she would have to be forcibly restrained.
In between Arizaphale's virtuoso performances, my Beloved found another few songs to add to his repertoire (and a couple not to), we girls harmonised delightfully on something that had a lot of 'La's" in it, and I managed a stirling rendition of "Toucha Toucha Touch Me", ably backed up the other two.
A fine time was being had by all. At around 1.30am, and conscious that while it might not be a school night for Arizaphale it was for me, my Beloved managed to shepherd us both out of the club and within about 3 feet of a waiting cab, but it was not to be. As if by magic, Arizaphale disappeared back inside and the next thing we heard was her dulcet tones belting out "Mustang Sally".
At this point I became resigned to hanging in there for the duration, and ordered another round... She was just having too much of a good time to drag away, and after all, she doesn't get to do it often.
So it was with very bleary eyes that I hauled myself to work the next day after what can only be described as a short nap. Just the day to catch up with my filing.
And Arizaphale? Her text message next day said it all. "Thanx 4 a gr8 nite, but do not take me there ever again!!!:-)". Until next time ...
Tuesday, 30 September 2008
An Update for All!
Well, today has been a very exciting day! My beloved has recently be hired by acclaimed director [CENSORED] to take part in a [CENSORED] as the [CENSORED] for international celebrity [CENSORED].
Imagine my vicarious excitement as he went off today for a preliminary meeting with [CENSORED]! They had a great chat about the [CENSORED] and where it would be [CENSORED]. Turns out [CENSORED] is a great guy and it looks like they will get on very well on the [CENSORED].
He has his first day on the [CENSORED] tomorrow at various [CENSORED] around Adelaide. Fortunately, our fears about having to [CENSORED] and not [CENSORED] for the [CENSORED] have proved to be unfounded. So it should be a great [CENSORED] and fantastic experience for him.
So stay tuned for the next exciting instalment of my Beloved on the [CENSORED] as he [CENSORED] a major [CENSORED] in the company of [CENSORED] and various other [CENSORED].
I love being able to share good news!
Imagine my vicarious excitement as he went off today for a preliminary meeting with [CENSORED]! They had a great chat about the [CENSORED] and where it would be [CENSORED]. Turns out [CENSORED] is a great guy and it looks like they will get on very well on the [CENSORED].
He has his first day on the [CENSORED] tomorrow at various [CENSORED] around Adelaide. Fortunately, our fears about having to [CENSORED] and not [CENSORED] for the [CENSORED] have proved to be unfounded. So it should be a great [CENSORED] and fantastic experience for him.
So stay tuned for the next exciting instalment of my Beloved on the [CENSORED] as he [CENSORED] a major [CENSORED] in the company of [CENSORED] and various other [CENSORED].
I love being able to share good news!
Saturday, 27 September 2008
Feeling blue ...
"Why is it" I enquired of my Beloved as we were driving along this morning "that Q appears to be turning blue?"
We both looked at the little dog who had, indeed, acquired several blue markings not common in a Jack Russel in the 30 seconds since we left the house.
My Beloved rummaged around in the back seat for a moment and retrieved the offending item - a blue pen that had obviously sprung a leak. "But it looks OK" said I, taking the article and inspecting it a little more closely. Not closely enough, it appeared, as I passed it back only to find blue ink all over my hands.
The pen was chucked out the window, thank goodness, but the damage had been done. Suddenly it appeared that there was blue everywhere. My hand was covered in it - then I found that it had leaked onto the arm rest causing more havoc. From the arm rest it had transferred to the other hand, my arm and to my (inevitably) white shirt.
"Bugger" said I, as I tried to remove the bulk of the damp ink with a convenient Wet One, achieving only a smearing effect that seemed to make it go even further.
My Beloved, who by this stage was convulsed with laughter, could come up with nothing more constructive than to remark that I appeared to have been performing obscene acts with a Smurf. Ha Ha.
What was really annoying, of course, was that he - immaculate as always - had not a drop on him. Not a smear. Not a hint of blue was to be seen about his person while Q and I looked like we'd been hit by a paint truck.
Some people are just like that. Sigh ...
Of course it turned out that the pen was innocent. Having dropped my Beloved and Q off at their car so they could continue on to familial duties, I dropped by Officeworks to buy new cartridges for my printer. Knowing the confusing array available, I had taken the precaution of taking the spent (or so I thought) cartridges with me. Mistake.
By the time I realised that it was in fact the ink cartridges that were the problem, I had managed to spread the joy to those fingers that had not previously been affected, my wallet and my face. Oh bliss...
Now let me give you some tips about removing ink stains.
You can't.
I tried Jif. No effect. I tried detergent. Not a chance. I retrieved the turps from the shed and tried that. Nada.
Not to be discouraged, I googled "how to get ink off your hands" and was rewarded with the information that a weak solution of bleach will do the trick.
Not so as you'd notice.
I finally discovered that nail polish remover could be applied with some effect, but have come to the sad realisation that the only thing which is really going to get rid of it is time. Until then, I will continue to look like I am suffering from some bizzare form of gangrene. I will try to colour coordinate ...
We both looked at the little dog who had, indeed, acquired several blue markings not common in a Jack Russel in the 30 seconds since we left the house.
My Beloved rummaged around in the back seat for a moment and retrieved the offending item - a blue pen that had obviously sprung a leak. "But it looks OK" said I, taking the article and inspecting it a little more closely. Not closely enough, it appeared, as I passed it back only to find blue ink all over my hands.
The pen was chucked out the window, thank goodness, but the damage had been done. Suddenly it appeared that there was blue everywhere. My hand was covered in it - then I found that it had leaked onto the arm rest causing more havoc. From the arm rest it had transferred to the other hand, my arm and to my (inevitably) white shirt.
"Bugger" said I, as I tried to remove the bulk of the damp ink with a convenient Wet One, achieving only a smearing effect that seemed to make it go even further.
My Beloved, who by this stage was convulsed with laughter, could come up with nothing more constructive than to remark that I appeared to have been performing obscene acts with a Smurf. Ha Ha.
What was really annoying, of course, was that he - immaculate as always - had not a drop on him. Not a smear. Not a hint of blue was to be seen about his person while Q and I looked like we'd been hit by a paint truck.
Some people are just like that. Sigh ...
Of course it turned out that the pen was innocent. Having dropped my Beloved and Q off at their car so they could continue on to familial duties, I dropped by Officeworks to buy new cartridges for my printer. Knowing the confusing array available, I had taken the precaution of taking the spent (or so I thought) cartridges with me. Mistake.
By the time I realised that it was in fact the ink cartridges that were the problem, I had managed to spread the joy to those fingers that had not previously been affected, my wallet and my face. Oh bliss...
Now let me give you some tips about removing ink stains.
You can't.
I tried Jif. No effect. I tried detergent. Not a chance. I retrieved the turps from the shed and tried that. Nada.
Not to be discouraged, I googled "how to get ink off your hands" and was rewarded with the information that a weak solution of bleach will do the trick.
Not so as you'd notice.
I finally discovered that nail polish remover could be applied with some effect, but have come to the sad realisation that the only thing which is really going to get rid of it is time. Until then, I will continue to look like I am suffering from some bizzare form of gangrene. I will try to colour coordinate ...
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