Well, not toxic, exactly... maybe just a little bit rank. But in a nice way. With a garnish.

Thursday, September 29, 2005

sounds about right.. :-)

squashed cat

The only animal I've ever run over was a cat, in Bristol.
I didn't run it over because it was in Bristol, I just happened to live there at the time and the cat just happened to be in the way.

Hang on -
I don't want to give the impression that I was driving along, saw a cat, decided that it was in the way and so ran him down...
It was, I swear, an unavoidable accident.
I hope we've got that straight.

Anyhow, I was chugging along in Walter (my late Volvo) down Gloucester Road, and the next split-second was one of the many split-seconds in my life that I wish I could change.

It has to be said, I see all speed-limits as targets, rather than limits... so I undoubtably was travelling at the maximum speed possible at the time. Given that this is a busy road, it was probably only about 25mph, but who's counting? Not the cat, that's for sure.

The car in front of me hit it first.
To my dismay I saw a very badly damaged cat emerging as this car carried on forward... and it was dragging itself back onto it's feet.
(The cat, not the car.)

I had four choices. None were great.

(i) Emergency stop.
No - not enough time, I was too close to the car in front. Also the car behind me would have gone straight up my arse.

(ii) Swerve to the left.
And mow down a pavement full of pedestrians? Hmm.

(iii) Swerve to the right.
Into oncoming traffic. Hmm again, I say.

(iv) Hit the cat.

The cat got it. Probably broke his back. I kept on moving and in my rear-view mirror, watched the car behind me finish him off.
Poor cat.

I've always wondered though - I felt terrible about the cat for a long time after. For years. So what about everyone else on the road?
I see a fresh harvest of mutilated animal corpses on the road every morning on the way to work. Someone must be mowing them down.
Who are these people?

I drove like a granny for weeks after the demise of the puss, but I can't say I notice other drivers going along slowly, looking for animals to avoid in post-knocking-down-a-cute-bunny-trauma.

This leads me to conclude:

One - The slowest drivers on the road are old people and toffs in four-wheel drives. It must be them... they are responsible for the slaughter of lots of innocent badgers and foxes.

Two - You never actually see them knocking down these fluffy little beasties, they must do it under cover of darkness.

Three - The fact that they drive so slowly must be a double bluff... we think they are careful drivers, so suspicion passes them by, whereas in fact they are heartless killers.

Four - the car in front of me must have been driven by an old geezer.

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

police cars

Somewhere in deepest darkest China, some bloke has just donated 70 police cars to his local force.

Cor Blimey! Must have had a lot of spare cars, I thought to myself.
Not so.
It looks like he's nicked Asias entire supply of golf buggies.
If you live in China, and you've mislaid your buggy, don't look under the fridge, it was him.

Stuck some lights on the roof, bit of foil and some double-sided tape. Job's a good'un.

Oh, and if you're a Chinese criminal, why not make your getaway in a Sinclair C5?
Go on, give them a fighting chance.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Extreme Anorak

At risk of going on and on about it endlessly, I've decided that I'm going to become a unicycle mountain-biking instructor.

If you can't face reading any more about unicycles, just leave now. I'd really like it if you stay but it takes all sorts. Just remember to shut the door behind you, it's starting to get chilly. (Have you noticed? And dark early.)

After some extensive internet research I've discovered that unicycling doesn't have to be restricted to those wannabe-clowns who insist on 'casually' juggling whenever they're in public.
Hey!! Look at me, I'm in fruit shop and I can bruise three Granny Smiths at the same time. On a wheel.
Clowns? Aaarggh. Maybe it's because there are a lot of students where I live - maybe I'm just becoming bitter and twisted.
Hand me that shot gun... no, not that one, the sawn-off one.

There are a couple of unicycle hockey teams within a 10-mile radius of my house (who'd have thought it?) so naturally I'll be joining one of them. *er.....

However the thing that really gets my pulse going is Muni, or Mountain Unicycling.

This moves unicycling (in my eyes) from 'Anorak' to 'Extreme Sport'.
Or maybe 'Extreme Anorak', as one of my friends suggested yesterday. That was just before she bent down to retrieve her front two teeth from the pool of blood spreading around her feet.

Obviously as demand grows for this sport then there'll be a need for instructors. And I'll be there waiting, with my unicycle and my helmet and my er... Mum. *In case I hurt myself.

Just as soon as I've learned to ride the bloody thing.

UPDATE: 24 inches.

That's not me.

Monday, September 26, 2005

7 seconds

Have you noticed that people always seem to fit in categories? You can look at someone and put them straight into a category.
  • Young boy racer, baseball cap, bit dense, says ‘fuckin’’ in every sentence.
  • Hairy, woolly jumper-wearing hippy, probably into herbal remedies. Asexual.
  • Boring ill-fitting suit-wearing middle-aged bloke. Clothes don’t quite match, he's got dodgy sideburns, lives with his mother.
  • Mumsy woman. Hideous hairdo – long and bushy with split ends and a straight fringe. Big teeth. Bad taste in flowery skirts. Probably a Christian.
  • Bloke in tracksuit-bottoms, smells a bit, greasy facial hair, stained teeth and yellow fingers on right hand. Smells of Tenants Super. On the dole.
  • Teenage girl, bit plump, ponytail, maroon jeans, sensible shoes. Probably wants to be a vet, talks posh, is a student.
  • Teenage girl, bit plump, oily long hair, spots, mismatched clothes and pushing a buggy. Single mum.

They say that you form an opinion about someone in the first few seconds of meeting them.

They? You know, those faceless ‘experts’ we all refer to when we don’t know what we’re talking about.

I’m as guilty as the next person for forming ideas about people based on their appearance. Clothes – stance – hair – personal hygiene – age – do they talk posh?
Oh and the most important one: I always add a bit on to the end of my assessment… do I think they’ll have any music worth borrowing?

Sunday, September 25, 2005


I had allergen testing on Monday.

A few months ago I woke up to find a massive red patch on my face and a swollen ear that resembled a cricket ball.
(The ear was in its usual place but swollen, it hadn't moved to my face. Hope that clears up any misunderstanding.)

In I trundle, slightly apprehensive.
I mean, what if they found out I was allergic to chocolate? Or even worse, crisps and beer?
Life would not be worth living, it has to be said. What value would my life have if I could no longer down a pint on a Friday night?
The term 'Quality of Life' would get neatly packed up in a brown parcel and sent horizon-wards. And I'd be on my knees, sobbing.

I'm pleased to report it's not that bad.
Cats, pollen, dogs (a bit), house dust mite, and egg (a bit).

The egg was a surprise, but the cat wasn't.
And anyway, I'm vegetarian... it's been a long time since I had a cat-buttie.

My thread? Ah yes; Dust. Almost lost it there.

So today I've been helping Imp pack, ready for her move on Friday.
I've been looking particularly attractive in a DIY dust-mask that seemed to make it harder to breathe (and hotter) but I still ended up sneezing for Britain.
Believe me, I would have won.
The Noise-Abatement Society would have been knocking on the door, had I not already blown it from its hinges.

It sounds like a rubbish excuse, but I really can only do about 1/2hr work before I am unable to get a decent lungful of air - which it has to be said, kind of cramps my style. Seriously, I've noticed that breathing can be a useful tool when it comes to living.

Ah well, it's not life-threatening.. I'll just avoid dust. Tell me if you see any, so I know not to go where you are.

Friday, September 23, 2005

hairy bird

When I was 11 years old I had my first ever sex education lesson and remember quite clearly being told that men would grow facial hair, women would not.

At the time I had a vague idea that sex wasn’t a fixed thing and that if I concentrated hard enough I would wake up one morning transformed into a boy.
It wasn’t that I was particularly unhappy being a girl, it was just that boys had better toys and got to play football…… and I had decided that when I grew up, that I would have a goatee.

So this was a devastating revelation to me.

However, I’ve got news for you. Women do have facial hair.
Oh yes! Armpit hair and leg hair and chin hair. And it’s not just me, every woman has it. They lied to us.

I’ve got a friend, Dr R, who like me is gay. This means that he didn’t really pay much attention to the minutiae of the female form on dissection days.
I was surprised when he asked me a while ago if women had hair around their nipples.

"Oy, Dr R", I cried "you’re the one who gets to inspect naked flesh in painstaking detail whenever it takes your fancy… you tell me!".

But it’s true.
Woman = hair = around nipples.

Not loads of it, let me make that straight. Our breasts aren’t the corn circles of the chest world.
No, just the odd hair.

However, I thought I might point that out. All those smooth hairless women you see on the front cover of Loaded magazine are actually hairy girlies with bikini stubble that’s been airbrushed out by a geek in an anorak. They’re not real.

Me? I’m doing research into electrolysis.
It’s not that I want to conform to this male stereotype of what the ideal woman should look like, it’s just that I’m getting tired of losing food in my beard.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

No Brainer

What can you eat but don't?

-your granny?

Things that sneeze:

-a space ship?
-Britney Spears?

After 10 seconds of this you won't know your arse from your elbow, take my word for it!

Tip: Play this game with someone else, it's loads funnier.
Oh, and don't drink alcohol.
It's not big and it's not clever.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

driving to work

The problem with driving to work is that you can’t do anything else while you’re driving.

Okay, so you can listen to the radio… but have you ever tried listening to local radio every day at the same time? After a while you want something that stretches your intelligent-muscles.

How about a conversation about *something different* that might just pick up your interest and capture your imagination; like how to abseil down a glacier, why penguins don’t live in the northern hemisphere, an interview with a retired prostitute? (Do prostitutes retire??)

Local radio does this:
Advert, weather, travel news, old crappy song, new crappy song, advert, mindless chitchat, guess-the-year song, travel news…… and repeat.

I want this:
Interesting chat, brilliant music, travel news, news, weather….. and repeat.

So I flick through the channels. Red Dragon fm until I start dribbling and rocking. Radio 4 until I can’t stand the posh people any more. Radio 1 until someone talks.

It has to be said though, I’ve seen some hair-raising sights on the roads in the last few years of commuting. I spend a minimum of 2 hours a day driving to and fro so I suppose that increases the likelihood of my spotting the dangerous two-fingers-up-to-the-highway-code selfish shites.
I’ve seen a woman brushing her hair with both hands while hurtling along the motorway, a bloke shaving, a bloke reading a newspaper, a bloke steering with his knees while squeezing a spot, a man hitting his wife/companion, a woman driving on the hard shoulder while doing her makeup.

What I would really like to do while driving is read a good book (talking books are no good, I miss out vital details every time I’m forced to flick out of automatic pilot and concentrate on what I’m doing), eat a delicious meal, preferably a roast dinner with mounds of parsnips, and have a quick nap before I get to work.

In the absence of the technology to enable this and the funds to pay for a chauffeur, I may just have to stay at home and become an internet mogul.
Yeah, I think I might do that.

Monday, September 19, 2005

unicycle update

Alright then, maybe not that far.

18 inches.

Saturday, September 17, 2005


One of the things that annoys me the most is people who put used matches back in the box.

Why? What use is a spent match?, I muse, urgently sitting on the desire to kneecap them with an iron bar.

Apart from giving the impression that there are more in the box than they really are, it's just messy, isn't it?

You're the kind of person who leaves a dirty knife on the work surface, margarine-side-down rather than put it in the washing up bowl.
You leave your plates on the living room floor and use them to stub out your cigarettes, rather than make the long, lonely walk all the way to the kitchen. You put your dog-ends in your mug, floating in a toxic soup of half-drunk cold tea. You don't *do* washing up, you rinse under a cold tap.
You leave your dirty underwear on the stairs and your clean washing - wet and straight out the machine - in a pile on the draining board.

I once shared a house with an RE teacher who could have competed for the World's Worst Slob competition (if anyone could have bothered to set one up). She left a plate of chicken in the fridge once for so long that the whole kitchen reeked of rotting meat and the chicken went green. It wasn't thrown out until I relented and did it myself.
One particularly special occasion saw me walking into the living room to find a plate on the floor covered in maggots.

Needless to say, I swiftly moved out.

I think the answer has to be capital punishment. (for Slobbery, that is, not moving house.)
Either that or removal of the hands at the wrists with a hot cheese wire.

I notice the Lib Dem conference is a rather quiet affair this year. Someone should tell them I've got some profile-raising policy ideas to share, if they would be interested.
For free. Gratis.

Seriously, if you see a Lib Dem, tell him.

Friday, September 16, 2005

pre-booked hospital bed

Imp gave me a unicycle for my birthday last month.

Okay, granted, it's not the sort of thing that you normally give someone as a birthday present but she knows that I have always wanted to learn to unicycle.
No particular reason, it's just one of those things.

However I haven't been able to ride it until today for a couple of reasons - at the time I had a gammy back.... and it was too tall for me.
I'm sure you can appreciate the problem she had when she nipped online in order to go unicycle shopping; what size do you get? Presumeably you would go for the one described as 'adult', given that I've now reached the grand old age of 33.
Not having bought a huge amount of unicycles in the past she lumped for that one - good choice, we cry - and a few days later it arrived.

Well my brother is 6 foot 1, and it was too tall for him! I'm not entirely sure which brand of adults the company were thinking of when they called this one the 'adult' cycle, but clearly people in circuses are considerably taller than the rest of us.

To cut a long story short, I have now cut the seatpost short also..... and I haven't got anything holding me back now.

Well, other than the fact that I just tried it and 'crap' wouldn't even come close to describing my unicycle abilites.

Yeah, right.

In fact, 'crap' would be really good at this point. 'Crap' went hurtling upwards past me as I plummetted groundwards and went through crap and out the other side, into the murky territory of 'really quite painfully appallingly shite'.

It would be fair to say that it's going to take me a while to get the hang of this. However, if my progress on a skateboard is anything to go by, it's going to be a while before my poor, broken body will be fracture, bruise, terrible injury-free.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

Wing and a Prayer

I'm not living in a dreamworld, but I would really like to keep my own chickens.

You lookin' at me?

It's not something I've always wanted to do - other than having That Ambition to live on a small-holding at the bottom of a mountain and have a pig, a cow, some ducks and chickens, two dogs and a lake. You know, the one that everyone wants.

*If you happen to own this small-holding and would like to sell at a reasonable rate, let me know. If you can throw in a tractor, that'd be great. I LOVE tractors. Any chance of a canoe, while we're at it?

So I only decided I wanted to keep chickens specifically, on Tuesday.
Because I would like to have free-range eggs every day.

Have you noticed that 'free range' aren't really free range? They're chickens that aren't in cages and get let out in the daytime into a tiny plot of land where they stand wing-to-wing.
It's kind of the chicken version of the underground. You see the odd chicken getting pissed off because someone doesn't understand the concept of personal space and is pressing their chicken-knees into their chicken-knees. If you see what I mean.
And broadsheets are out of the question. Free range chickens have to stick to reading pamphlets.

Oh anyhow, I digress.
I'd like three cute little white chickens and they can live in a run in the garden.

Not an expert on breeds... but are these Brown-nose hens?

And they'd be called Rod, Jane and Freddy.

Watch this space, I'll keep you informed.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

Selling sand to the Arabs

Remember the bloke who was selling bottles of Welsh air?

Looks like Catherine Zeta Jones thinks it's a great idea.

I'll be visiting my bank manager in the near future, look like my Welsh Girl Toenail Clippings idea might work then, if I market it correctly. You know, I could maybe sell them to Welsh inmates abroad?
'These toenails have grown inside a shoe that has walked the streets of Cardiff'
Catchy strapline?

I'm not proud.

Sunday, September 11, 2005

Cardiff Mardi Gras

Yesterday Imp and I went to the Mardi Gras with her two kids.

We saw the most amazing sights and outrageous costumes - people dressed as nuns, police officers, dominatrixes and the dominatrixed.

People wearing leather, latex, plastic, feathers, big hair.

Some people wearing not much at all.

Muscley people, skinny people, sexy people.

There were some fantastic spangley outfits and some incredible wigs.

Believe me!

All in all, it was how I wish the average high street was every day. (Can you imagine?!)

So I kind of let the side down. I went in my usual trainers, trousers, t-shirt.
Next year I'll wear something mouth-droppingly camp, I promise.

With all these other sights in every direction you would imagine that two women with two kids trailing along would be practically invisible.
Not so.
We hadn't even reached the field; we were still walking through Cardiff, when a gang of blokes pushed past us shouting 'F***ing Lesbians'.

Whatever happened to 'live and let live'?

It's a weak observation, but an observation all the same. Go dressed up as Gary Glitter, let your buttocks hang out, carry a leather whip? No hassle.
Have short hair, look vaguely dykey, mind your own business?
You obviously are subversive and need punishing.


Saturday, September 10, 2005

Toxic Soup

'Experts warn it could take up to 80 days to completely drain the city of flood water - a toxic soup of chemicals and human waste.'
BBC News website

'The city streets were covered with debris, as experts warned it could take months before the Big Easy could be habitable again.'
BBC News website

Friday, September 09, 2005

toxic soup

Who would have thought this possible?

The water is too polluted not only to wade through, but also to pump out of the city again. What are they going to do with it?

I was dragged along to church as a child - one of those happy-clappy ones where they tell you that credit cards and cash machines are the beginning of the End Times because we will soon be forced to carry the Mark of The Beast with us at all times. Some tenuous link to 666. Something like that. Trust me.
These bits I laugh at and I turn away.

However I also remember sitting through sermons hearing about how the earth will slowly start to fall apart... how people will roam in gangs killing each other (vigilantes... sound familiar?) and how we will suffer earthquakes and storms and death and starvation.

So I read the news every day wondering how we got to this. How is it that America, the world's superpower can be asking for aid; an entire city obliterated, corpses rotting, people hungry and dying?

Flooding in 'The Day After Tomorrow'

Imp and I watched The Day After Tomorrow when it came out, and we debated then whether the USA would be forward-thinking enough to become accountable for it's actions.
Then, it was entertainment on a serious theme. Now, it's reality.
It's not going to get better on its own.

other Toxic Soup links:

The Independent
Houston Chronicle

Thursday, September 08, 2005


I'm a bit rotund at the moment.
Not huge, you understand. If you squint, I still look quite thin. Well - thin plus 2 1/2 stone.

So I'm on a mission to shift the 2 1/2 stone.

It's not that I eat too much... I eat the wrong stuff.
My brain still thinks I'm a labourer.. that I burn the amount of calories needed to dig holes all day, shift lumps of concrete, swing a sledgehammer.

Someone needs to tell my brain that I sit in an office most of the time.
I no longer cycle to work; I sit on my arse in my comfortable car and burn the amount of calories it takes to twitch my left foot occasionally while changing gear and shake my fist more often, at drivers more lunatic than myself.
OY Brain! Pay attention...............

*the technical bit*
The bit in my head that tells you what you need to eat, is telling me that I need to stock up on pizza and packets of Wotsits. This is 'Brain Part A' or BPA
The bit in my head that's telling me that I need to eat baked potatoes and cottage cheese is functioning at a more lethargic pace and will from now on be known as 'Brain Part B' or BPB.

It's a scientific fact that BPA is much more bossy than BPB (and I am therefore a victim of bullying). I've been to see a solicitor and between us we compiled a letter to BPA telling him to please vacate the premises and go and hassle someone else.

I noticed that BPB whimpered a bit at this point and told me I needed to cut out the extra cheese on my pasta and try nibbling on fruit between meals to stave off those naughty little hunger pangs.
I considered this while opening a packet of Mini Cheddars and inspected the very squashed banana in the bottom of my bag...

Note to self: eat bananas in bag within a 3-day time period, before they get too squashed.
Note to self #2: wash out bottom of bag.
Note to self#3: remove squashed nectarine (while I'm at it) and throw away the punnet of mouldy plums.

I guiltily munched a cream cake (brought in by a colleague to celebrate her 40th... It would have been rude not to) while filling up the kitchen bin, and BPB crawled back to the hidden depths of my bonce, somewhere between my brain stem and my feet.

BPA grinned and screwed up the letter.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

wholesale slaughter

I was given Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas for my birthday this year.
Not only is it a genius game with an almost endless amount of missions, it means I get to:

(i) shoot people
(ii) drive like a maniac
(iii) steal cars

without feeling guilty.

In my real life I only manage (ii).

This evening I have mostly been swimming for oysters and running from a police helicopter. I've died about three times and I also ran into a police station, found some armour and a whole load of weapons and held seige there until I died again.

That's me, right there!

I ate pizza, did some weights, drove a motorbike over a cliff and broke into a house and stole a load of guns.

In my real life I sat in Swansea learning how to set up blogs for community groups.

Sounds boring but I'm planning to plant timed bombs on all the hardware and blow it all up when they're least expecting it.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Think Orange? Think Not!

Stay away from those thieving swine if you can.

A year ago I had to pay them £150 for the privilege of having a contract with them. The reason? Because I had the cheek to have reached the ripe old age of 31 without ever having got into debt. This meant I had no credit-rating and henceforth must be treated as an unreliable,incompetent, potless moron.

My way of thinking:

- It would be logical to assume therefore that I must be quite good at managing my own money
- It would be logical to assume that I am not a spendthrift and can be trusted to pay my bills
- It would be logical to assume that I am not a moron

Oh silly me! That's just not how it works, is it? There's no barrel to lay me over in that thinking. Quick, go fetch a barrel and shaft me.

£150 later, pride dented, wallet scarily thin, I get my phone and off I go on my merry way.

The thing that really made me fume is that the year ended on the 10th July and from that point onward, that money was once again MY money. Not an amount to be sniffed at, either.
In fact, I needed it to pay my car tax.

Said Orange.
We'll hang on to it and will put it against your future bills.

But I want it now, I need it now.

Said Orange, three weeks later.
You must send a fax requesting the money and we'll send you a cheque if the fax looks official enough.

But I haven't got a fax, and besides, IT'S MY MONEY!!!!

Said Orange, a month later.
You could have had your money but it inexplicably got 'stuck' in the system.

Well. I finally got my money.
2 months late. Goodness knows how much it cost me in phonecalls........ and how much they profited in that time in interest payments.
I'm making the crazy assumption that I'm not the only person who is having money withheld by Orange. They must be raking it in.

If I was a solicitor, I would sue their ass.
I'm not, so I can only pass this on and warn you off.

Monday, September 05, 2005


I spent most of yesterday waxing my car.

I'm well aware that this makes me sound like some kind of cardigan-wearing upper-middle class gent with a Jag.. but I'm not, honest. I haven't even got a drive to park my car on. I'm working class, me.
And I spurn cardigans.

In fact, this is the first time EVER that I've waxed any of my cars (in a timeline, that is; I don't own lots of cars in the plural sense).
It's the first time, in fact, that I've spent more than a passing milli-moment even almost thinking about the wellbeing of said vehicle's appearance.
Life's too short.
I could be listening to music or reading a book or lazing in the bath. Or putting my socks into alphabetical order.

However I'm currently engaged in battle of wits with a street full of lime trees... and they're winning right now.
*But I've got sayings about battles and wars to fall back on, and very comforting they are, too.

So until now I've turned the other cheek and meekly gone to the car wash.
But no longer! Despite my humble demeanor they continue to hurl sap like it's going out of fashion - at my car. There's a limit to my patience and now I'm rallying the troops and launching a full-scale offensive.
Don't mess with me.
I'm like a fierce animal.

My car is a gleaming, spangley, waxed, shiny bald head equivalent amongst scabby dandruff-afflicted motors (did you see what I did there?!) and we both beam.

My right arm is now about an inch broader than my left one and I've got RSI in my eyeballs.
But I'm a heartless mercenary unleashed. I want blood.

I expect the sap will slide helplessly to the road, screeching in evil fury.
And I shall laugh out loud in a hollow blood-curdling boom.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

and another thing...

Blokes who look older than me are actually younger than me.

I don't mean to keep harping on about the same old thing, but I keep meeting men who I would swear are a good 5 or 10 years older than me, and it turns out that they're fresh out of nappies.

I liked it better when everyone was older than me.
I've always had a baby-face... I'd like an age to match too, if it's not too much trouble.

Friday, September 02, 2005

I can see the top of the hill from here..

I'm now at the age where I'm starting to worry about my age.

It's a real problem because I've noticed that there isn't anything I can do about it. I think I had a vague idea when I was younger that I would somehow be able to halt the ageing process vaguely in the region of my late twenties and squat there.
*Squat as in 'to inhabit without authorisation', not squat as in 'drop your pants and assume the optimum position desired for urinating'

See? I try to keep things normal, without talking about either poo or wee, and I still get there anyway. Why do I do that? Is it normal? I didn't even mean it, it was an accident.

Anyway, I noticed that Blogger have changed my age on my profile. Of course, they're completely entitled to, in view of the fact that my age clunked up a notch recently.
It's just that I'm used to life being a little less efficient. Along the lines of someone promising to do the 'updating ages' job and leaving it on their desk for a couple of weeks... looking for something a bit more exciting. Arranging the office paperclips into two piles, for example (bent and unbent).
So that was a bit of a shock. I haven't competely got used to the idea of being in my thirties yet, and there they are, hurrying me along. That's not really very polite, is it?

Thursday, September 01, 2005

eating out without meat

When you eat out, d'ya want to eat a greasy goats-cheesy thing in a pastry case drizzled with caramelised onion goo or do you want to bury your face in a decent plate of nosh?

It's not that I'm complaining or anything, but I'm just having a complain.

Oddly enough it seems that I must want to eat poncy crap because I'm vegetarian. Obviously at the point that I left meat behind I must also have reduced the size of my intestines, increased my capacity for grease and become ludicrously, stupidly blinded by the prices of a decent meal.

"Nice substantial plate of veg and gravy with a stack of Quorn sausages or a nut roast?
Not for me, thanks, I'd like to eat a complicated but minute pile of cold strips of beans and carrots with a suspicious effluent-yellow gravy on top. And a bit of Brie.
Oh, and can I pay the same price as I would for a small-car-sized rack of lamb with roasted potatoes and vegetables, please? Don't worry about giving me anything filling, I appear to be sub-human."

Imp and I went on a search for a ploughman's lunch a few months back. True, we could have made one ourselves at home, but we really fancied sitting down in a Ye Olde pub with a pint of beer and a good old British ploughman's.
Unfortunately we had the bare-faced cheek to be desiring a ploughman's in the wrong season.
Did you know that ploughman's was seasonal?
Nor me.
*I guess those lumps of cheese breed in the spring and are an endangered species until at least May.

So four pubs later we gave up, went to Tesco and bought the various elements required for a ploughman's ourselves. Strangely the security guard at the door let us leave without challenging us about the timeliness of our purchases.

I couldn't help noticing that at each of these ploughman's-bereft pubs the meat-eaters menu was splendid; roast things, baked things, pies, crumbles, stews, roasted baked stewy pies.
Imp would have been fine.
I, on the other hand, would have been left with the suspicious sounding pear and Dolcelatte pastry cake.

Did anyone notice when pubs went poncy?
Is it me, do I just go to the wrong places?

Will someone please tell them that vegetarians just want a decent bit of stodge and gravy too, but without the meat, pear, Brie and caramelised onion?


Pwll Nofio

Can I just say how pleased I was to hear about this.

Having been born and bred in Bangor I learned to swim in this very pool and was astounded to first read about it on WorldNetDaily (about 3/4 way down)............. which seems to be some kind of freaky American site.
Aren't they all?!
I was just wading my way through 'Evolution Watch' and all the obligatory yawn-inducing UFO stuff when I came across this bit of home news. It's not every day Bangor hits the headlines.


*Ardderchog, as we would say up there in Welsh-land.