toxicsoup

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

Thursday, March 30, 2006

spiderman

I can do that.



And that.



But I can't be bothered.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

paperwork

Today is my last-but-one, last-but-one day at work.

I am very sad about this as I like my job. It is really good how I get to surf the web at lunchtimes and I can usually get past Websense if I am devious enough.

I am going to miss my colleagues as well. Some of them I will miss enough to give them my address so that they can send me a birthday card in August. I must remember to get their email addresses so that I can remind them when it is approaching.

My boss writes my reference... I can hear her muttering and wondering loudly how to make it sound like I am good at paperwork.
Her pen stops for a long time. I hold my breath.

My superhuman hearing must be on the blink.
I leave my game of PacMan and stick my head around the door.


“Don’t forget to say how good I am at relating to people,” I prompt.

It is amazing that I am as good with people as I am, as I am the grumpiest person I know.
It seems that people in South Wales like to be scowled at and kept waiting while I send texts. I hope that the teenagers on drugs will be the same. Maybe they won’t notice as they will be gazing into space or watching giant swans drive milk floats.

“Oh, and don’t forget to mention that I’m really good at IT,” I add, doing my special face that I hope looks earnest and sincere.

NiceBoss stares at the form and fiddles with her hair a bit. I can see the ‘Paperwork’ section is still empty. I shift my glance anxiously to the huge pile of unfiled detritus on my desk and decide that it is impossible to clear it in time for her to realise how wrong she is.

“I’ll skip that for a minute,” she muses, “and tell them about your power tool abilities….”


Tuesday, March 28, 2006

chippy-up-the-hill

I have chips and curry sauce and a mushy pea fritter for my dinner.

Not very SlimmingWorld, I know, but sacrifices must be made.

This is my last chance to have chips and curry sauce and a mushy pea fritter from the Chippy-Up-The-Hill before I leave on Friday.
It’s the last time I get to be ignored by the woman with the hairy mole on her face before I get stroppy and point out that I’ve been waiting for nearly ‘five minutes, you know’ and then she gets snotty and this look on her condensation-covered face where I worry she might be thinking about spitting on my chips.

The rules for this week are that I should have a last Something of Everything before I go, as it would be rude not to.
These are my rules and not actually official SlimmingWorld ‘what to do on your last week at a place of work’ rules, but I like them and besides, I do what I like (or what Imp tells me).

Tomorrow I’m going to the Harvester where I will have a lunchtime pint of beer which will make me sleepy and not-as-grumpy-as-usual; Thursday I might have a curry Pot Noodle and a crusty roll from the Spar-At-The-Bottom-Of-The-Hill and Friday I’m going er… back to the Harvester.

***

Dawn-the-administrator asks if she can nick a chip and I look anxiously at my plate.

It is heaving with chips.
It is practically blocking out the light to my desk. If it was any fuller I would need to apply for planning permission.

But they are mine.

“Well, the thing is,” I procrastinate, Um-ing and Ah-ing (and trying to look Generous-Yet-Troubled), “I did ask them to put some spare ones in, in case anyone wanted to nick one, but they didn’t………..”

Sunday, March 26, 2006

Sunday Game

This is the sort of game you will never admit to playing.
It's a bit like admitting to watching Judy & Richard (I don't), or still liking Farley's Rusks (I do) at the grand old age of 33.

So I'm not admitting to it.

I'm posting it as a gesture of love to those people who enjoy an afternoon of Murder, She Wrote (that tune still haunts me...) and a nice game of Sudoku. Or those who are Sudoku-curious... but would still rather a game of Scrabble. I'm celebrating diversity and just being a loveable old blogger.

Click

Saturday, March 25, 2006

chow mein and chips

I’m 100% committed to my diet.

Since January I have lost 18lbs and expect to be nicely emaciated by about July. This is due to my dedication and single-mindedness.

The great thing about being on SlimmingWorld is that I can eat as much food as I like and rarely feel hungry. I can even have a glass of whisky before I go to bed. This means that I don’t crave naughty food like chocolate or pizza or crisps. Obviously I have super-human will-power and can rise above it all with a twitch of a synapse. I’m glad I’m not easily distracted.

***

“Oh go on,” Dawn-The-Administrator says in a manner that I can only assume is what they mean by ‘wheedling’.

“You haven’t had lunchtime Chinese Takeaway for ages.”

This is true. That is why I am so lithe and attractively almost-slim and she is so…. er… slimmer than me. Dawn-The-Administrator is blessed with a metabolism that operates at the speed of light while mine stopped a while ago for a rest and a little look around. I wonder whether this could be considered harassment and if I could lodge an official complaint citing cruelty and get her sacked before I am tempted.

Luckily I have a will of iron. I check to see if it has noticed. It hasn’t.

“Aaah, what the hell,” I say, “just this once.”

“The usual?” she asks, picking up the phone.

Thursday, March 23, 2006

security

I go into the school.

Can I just say - I don’t normally go into schools.
I left one fifteen years ago vowing never to return and didn't for one minute imagine that I would have to practically break in if I decided to revisit. Back then the school’s idea of security was one slightly doolally caretaker with bandy legs and not much of a grip on the English language. Or the Welsh one either, come to that.
The locals used to walk their dogs across the football pitch without issue, leaving a trail of dog crap for us to skid in while playing hockey, while the bloke from the estate sold teenths from the ice-cream van just outside the gates.

These days schools have gun towers and RPGs and armed guards with Uzis and fierce dogs that haven’t been fed for six days so that they’ll go straight for your throat if you so much as glance at the school while hurrying past in a I’m-not-a-pervert-I’m-going-to-the-shops kind of purposeful walk.

Mindful of my life being in danger I exaggerate my carefree walk so that it will be obvious to anyone watching that I am supposed to be here, as I am on Official Business.
The playground seems to take hours to cross.

It’s weird walking through a primary school. Everything is tiny and for once in my life I feel huge. I walk past the hall where assembly is in full swing. A room full of tiny people singing tiny songs and being cute in a tiny way. The pictures stuck to the walls are at waist level and the furniture just about comes up to my knees. Mind you, I suppose I am very, very tall for my height.
Spotting a teacher, I look away quickly and try not to look like a paedophile.

I’m going to drive a car-load of people to Cardiff as a favour to a colleague who is unable to drive more than one car at a time. I hope I don’t end up with a whole load of snot-covered kids who will leave dribble and traces of poo on my car seats. I wish I’d lined the seats with bin bags.
Last time I ferried little kids they left a smearing of tuna on the upholstery. I decide to assert myself and ban all meat-based food products, snacking, drinks, talking, whinging, singing, smiling or fun of any kind WHATSOever. Breathing will be tolerated.

I meet the parents.
My eyes nearly pop out of my head. They are all really fat. A room FULL of fat people.
Apparently to become a parent you have to eat pies by the hundredweight.
There is one man somewhere near the back who is emaciated due to living entirely on Lambert&Butlers while the women are squeezed into size 20 shell suits and court shoes or high heels.

"Look, I don't want to be awkward," I rehearse in my head, "but would it be okay if you save the butties for later...?"

In my mind we all have a laugh about that and become close friends before we leave the room, sealing anything with crumbs into heavy-duty plastic bags and taping them shut with gaffer tape.

***

The passengers assigned to me could be body doubles for the Michelin Man's Missus (if he was real and needed to do, say, a sex scene and if he had a missus) and I smile weakly and lead them and their not-yet-obese child to the car.
As I am such a good-natured individual I helpfully carry the ham sandwiches and the fizzy drinks and the Tesco Carrier bags full of crisps and lollipops and spare ciggies for them, while they each crack open a can of Tenants Extra and hand the kid a corned beef pastie.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

sty

My body is falling apart.

As well as having gangrenous armpits I now have a swollen eye. It hurts when I blink or look. It really is a nuisance.
It has swollen so much that you could see it from space (if you happened to be in space looking in my direction) or at least from about 6 inches away.

I go to see a pharmacist.
It is loads easier to get to see a pharmacist than a doctor because you don't need an appointment and they look much more important because they have to wear a white uniform. I have a suspicion that they are better qualified than doctors, which is why they are allowed to spend a whole day in a room full of drugs.

(It is a scientific fact that doctors are more highly educated if they are wearing a uniform. Top tip.
I think if they score more than 60 out of a 100 they get a white top and an upside-down watch. The last time I went to see a doctor he had a bad hairdo and a woolly jumper and didn’t look particularly important. I wondered whether to report him to the doctor-police but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps his uniform was in the wash.)

I crash through the door that rings a bell when you open it and stumble around the strategically-placed stands. They are put in your way so that you have to walk further to get out of the chemist and forget why you were leaving before you reach the door and end up buying hairnets and throat-sweets that you didn't want. I think that's where they got the idea for Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

Chemists are always full of old people because they have worse memories than the rest of us and end up being trapped there for days, buying endless packets of Tenalady before they find the way out. If you notice that your elderly next door neighbour hasn't taken the milk from her doorstep for a few days running, it's a safe bet that she will be trapped in the chemist.

I collide with the counter and peer round my hugely deformed face, looking for a member of staff. My eye is so bad that the pharmacist can see the problem from a whole room away and she diagnoses it from her position around the corner.
It occurs to me that she might be the same woman who had to examine my gangrenous armpit, as she seems quite reticent about approaching my poor, wilting body, but I don’t think she is. Maybe she has a facial disfigurement or is very shy. It’s a good job that it isn’t anything too personal as I wouldn’t want to discuss say, thrush or nipple rash, from that distance.

“I’ve got an infection in my eye,” I shout (as quietly as possible), stating the obvious. “What do you think I should do about it?”

“I would say you’ve got an infection,” she says. “In the eye.”

I consider that piece of alarming news and piece together the evidence. It appears I have an infection, in my eye.

“Do you have any cream,” I ask “to make it get better?”

The pharmacist glances around the room and edges her way along the wall towards the ‘Eye’ section. I quickly stick my face down the front of my hoodie and sniff my armpits.

“We’ve got some cream,” she states and passes me a box.

It is eye cream.

Grateful to have made some progress I pay up while she is within handing-money-over distance and leave the building, complete with massive eye, a tube of cream and almost all of my dignity.

Monday, March 20, 2006

just say no

I get the job!

I am stunned. They are in for a special treat, as I will be able to offer them advice about their interior decoration as well offer to nip to the shop for milk on my unicycle. It's a well-known fact that unicycling is a highly desirable skill - it's good job I put it on the application form.

I must practice my talking-to-teenagers voice, as that is what I will be doing from now on. I am supposed to tell them not to take drugs, which is a good idea as smoking pot would make them unresponsive and rebellious. I expect that they will be grateful that I have arrived to tell them and rush home immediately to do their violin practice (which they narrowly were in danger of giving up in favour of spliff-smoking).

I will be the most popular person in South Wales.

Sunday, March 19, 2006

Sunday Game

Did you know that tarn, yare, ane, cep and yar are words? No?
Nor me.
You would have scored an extra 5 points for knowing that on WeBoggle - the web version of Boggle.

The nice thing about this game is that you play against an unspecified number of players or teams from around the world... and you are guaranteed to be somewhere near the bottom, but never the lowest! The games are continuous - jump on, jump off.

The rules are simple - type in as many words as you can spot in the 3 minutes allowed and then recklessly invent any old word for the remaining few seconds.

Anyway, I can't stand around chatting, I've got to chyafo my votfad before the sqarootch comes off.

Click

Friday, March 17, 2006

the panel

The wallpaper is horrible.

I shouldn’t really be thinking about the wallpaper because there are three people looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to answer a Hard Interview Question but I have noticed that it is anaglypta that someone has painted blue in the hope that people won’t notice and it is bothering me.

I’m actually trying to remember a word. I know it begins with ‘a’ so I’m quickly thinking of as many words as possible that begin with ‘a’.
The criteria are these: 1) it has to be English, 2) it cannot be rude, 3) it has to make vague sense and (4) it can’t be a word that I’ve just made up.
Before I finally remember that it is ‘articulate’, I try out autistic, Atlantic and antiseptic in my head. It takes about 2 seconds but it feels like about four and a half months and I can feel my hair grow.

My eyes are drawn back to the horrible wallpaper and I am working out what should be done to improve the décor.
I wonder if they will give me the job if I tell them that we should strip the walls and ditch the Artex?
I'm a bit worried that my clothes clash and that would be a fashion disaster. Not what you want in a job interview. Or maybe I blend in too much and they can't see me? That would be just my luck.

The Horrible Frosty Lady keeps asking me hard questions like ‘How do you prioritise and evaluate your work when you are running behind on deadlines and in danger of failing to meet targets?’
I think she is scrambling her voice with some kind of gadget borrowed from the FBI because I hear her say ‘How targets-funding-priority-evaluation-squiggly-wiggly-administration-R2D2-clipboard-boring-snoring-summarising can you?’

I feel the blood drain from my internal organs and pool in my ankles. This is a distinct disadvantage to my brain, which is higher than my ankles and needs blood or oxygen or inspiration or something.

I cough to buy time.

The Nice Smiley Man is being nice and smiley but I know not to let my guard down in case I am lulled into a false sense of security and make a joke about my missing eyebrow or tell them my best poo story.

I open my mouth and hear a mid-pitched babble escape; lots of joined up sounds that are unidentifiable to the human ear. I try to pass it off as intelligent speech and once again do my Bambi Eyes.

Thursday, March 16, 2006

McEverywhere

In his album 'Amused to Death', Roger Waters sings an astutely cynical song called 'It's a Miracle'.
Here's a snippet of the lyrics:

They’ve got Pepsi in the Andes
McDonalds in Tibet....
...By the grace of God Almighty
And the pressures of the marketplace
The human race has civilized itself
It’s a miracle.

Hmm.
Ah well, I almost got serious then. Slap on the wrist.

Talking of McDonalds -
This'll help you get over it. (Click Watch and scroll to the bottom)

dirt devil

I climb into my Posh Clothes.

The trousers have to go on at the last possible minute because I am well-known for my inability to wear anything lighter than dark grey without defacing it almost immediately with grass-stains and dirt and ketchup.
I have a superhuman ability to do this, even if there isn’t any grass or dirt or ketchup available for the purpose of reckless staining.

It’s a mystery to me.
Lock me in a sterile room wearing white or beige for a mere moment and I would still emerge an alarmingly marked woman. Fact.
If there are any scientists out there hoping to do a study on impossible blemishes (that pays handsomely), feel free to get in touch.

I nip to the toilet and remove any potentially embarrassing stain-producing elements, careful to not mark anything. Luckily Imp’s going to drive me right to the door, thus reducing the odds of meeting friendly-jumpy-dogs or nasty-splashy-puddles.

Imp waits in the car while I visit the toilet again after unsuccessfully ignoring the nervous cries of my lower intestine and worry a bit more about what I will say when they ask me why I am the best person for the job.
Of course, I expect that they will be really pleased that it is only a couple of minutes walk from Imp’s house but I don’t think they will give me a job for that reason, even if I do Bambi Eyes and smile nicely.

We pull up outside the front door and I go inside, worrying that the door or the pavement or someone who is a bit grubby will make me get a mark on my Posh Clothes.
There are two other people there already waiting, looking really good at being better than me and none of them look scared or worried about dirty marks. One has a sparkly thing in her teeth. I wonder if I should have a sparkly thing in my teeth?

I sit down - checking first for ketchup - and do my Bambi Eyes.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

time at the bar

I hand in my notice.

It's a leap of faith because I haven't got it in writing yet, the fact that I have been offered a new job - it happened on the phone while I was on the M4, causing me to shout a lot and laugh and almost crash.

I hope I don't get home and find out that it was one of my mates, having a laugh.

Bastards.

Wedding at Cana? That's nothing...

This must have been terrible, poor dear.


Monday, March 13, 2006

classy night out

We go to a wine and cheese evening.

All of a sudden, people must think I am sophisticated, which is a puzzle to me as it’s quite tricky to look like an It Girl in a hoodie. Of course, I could try wearing something else other than a hoodie but then my neck would get cold and I would be forced to wear a scarf, which would be fashion suicide. It.Just.Isn’t.Cool.

I’ve been to two wine and cheese evenings now – this is my second – so I must be moving up the social ladder. Most people would imagine that you have to be sophisticated to frequent these kind of soirées but really, all you need are a few friends who are either intellectual, arty or gay. As I am all of these I fit in very well, even in a hoodie.

I am starving and immediately hover near the cheese-laden table. There are all sorts of people who I don’t know and a man tries to talk to me. He’s a really nice bloke but I’m worried about the cheese.
I smile a lot and edge still closer to the table, hoping that the cheese doesn’t run out before I get there, as who knows, a whole coach-load of people could arrive at any moment and then I would probably collapse from weakness and despair.

I hope I’m not the only First-Aider in the room as I might be in no condition to treat myself.

Luckily no coach parties arrive and I make it in time to load my plate up, artily arranging a few biscuits for show so that no one notices that I’m having an evening off my diet and am making up for 3 months without cheese.

I then concentrate on securing a large glass of wine and stay near the bottle so that I can guard it from people who aren’t qualified to drink it. Obviously after tasting a few different brands I confirm my theory that only wines with an alcohol percentage greater than 12% are worth drinking and I share this wisdom with the woman closest to me.
She is wearing a dress and high heels. She doesn’t try to steal the high-percentage wine bottle from my grasp. She is wise.

Imp is ‘mingling’, which she is very good at. I’m not very good at mingling so I concentrate on staying near the cheese, which is much more important. This is turning out to be a very successful wine and cheese evening as I have had a lot of cheese and also quite a lot of wine, which is how I imagine one would mark a wine and cheese evening if ever there were wine-and-cheese-evening competitions.

I bump into some friends and accidently order a calendar of the Cardiff Lions Gay Rugby Team, without any clothes on. (The photos in the calendar, not me. I was fully clothed and I had a hoodie on.)
I have a vague idea that if I had been drinking coffee, I might not have ordered it.

I hope I will get a discount for January, February and March.

Sunday, March 12, 2006

Sunday Game

If your boss is hassling you and the photocopier's on the blink, then may I suggest hiding behind your computer and playing this game?

Remember Erik vs Erik?

Well this is done by the same guy and has a few similarities. It's the same but different. This time instead of collecting dots, you're collecting stars... and the monsters are harder to avoid and the stars move.

Of course, with a name like 'Mr Hopwit and the Mysterious Maze', it just about guarantees quality, just like 'The Price is Right' guarantees complete misery and suicidal tendencies within 30 seconds.

In fact, it's so good it's doing my head in.
I've only once managed to get past level 2 and I lasted the grand total of about a millisecond. Please put me out of my misery and tell me what happens next......... ;)

Watch out for the robots, they're out to get you.
Oh, and there's no sound control. Remember to turn your speakers off if you're supposed to be writing reports or doing important worky-things.

Click

Friday, March 10, 2006

canal boat


I’ve always wanted to live on a boat.

Not a yacht or a posh thingy. A narrow boat.
Imp isn’t too impressed with this because the nearest canal is a good hour and a half away from her gaff. But anyway, a girl can dream.

If I can’t live on a boat I would like to live in a bus, or a decommissioned aeroplane or maybe a cave (with mod cons).
I’m open to suggestions.

Of course, I’ve weighed the pros and cons. I’ve stood next to canals and squinted wisely in my wise, squinty way and made loud comments about ballast and footage, hoping that people will think that I know boaty stuff.
I’ve peered through dusty windows at the tiny little tables and impossibly compact kitchens and imagined myself there in the mornings, being grumpy in a canal-boat of my very own.
I like to think of this as serious research (I even bought a magazine) but I’m having trouble convincing Imp that it’s a good idea.

These are the pros and cons as I see them:

Pros

1. The best thing about living on a boat would be the fact that I could look out my little windows in the morning and stare straight into the gaze of a duck.
I love ducks. If I could have a pet duck, I would, but it wouldn’t really be convenient in my first-floor flat.
This way I would have a whole duck-entourage.

2. The camaraderie. Everyone knows that if you live on a boat, you instantly become mates with an old bloke in wellies who leans on his stick gazing wistfully at the view while his decrepit dog lies in a diabetic coma at his feet.
I bet if I lived on a boat I could get him to buy me beer down the local.

Cons

1. The worst thing about living on a boat would be the necessity to stay afloat.
The thing is; I’m a terrible book-buyer.
Walk with me down a street with second-hand shops and you’ll be on your own within seconds. Let me loose at a car boot sale, or a market and I’ll be laden down with carrier bags full of yellowing, slightly pongy books moments later.
I’m not sure what the maximum amount of books would be that a 50ft narrow boat would be able to contain before slowly sinking into a silty grave, but I reckon I would be pushing my luck.

2. There is always the constant danger that you might be forced to wear a hand-knitted boat-jumper. I would endeavour to emphasise to all my remaining grandparents that although I would love a jumper, I would be quite happy to accept a moving-in present of hard cash, to go towards a Calor Gas cylinder.

See? I have researched the issue exhaustively and really fail to see where the problems may lie.
It is for this reason that I open it up for debate.

I thank you.

Live on a boat, Yes or No?
yes - there is no greater freedom than cramming yourself into a floating tube.
Yes, you show great discernment and wisdom, FT.
No, you could lose your ability to walk on solid ground and THEN where would you be?
No, Imp's right, it's too far away and you might float into the middle of the Atlantic by accident..
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Thursday, March 09, 2006

bed

I'm a grumpy git, that's no secret.

I culture my grumpiness... fashion it in private and then release it to cause misery among the poor, unsuspecting public.

The thing is that deep down I'm not grumpy at all. I'm laid back, happy, content.
I'm a friendly soul who would give a stranger my last penny, or sit and chat with a piss-stained homeless geezer.
That's in my head, anyway.
Sometimes it escapes and I really do find myself Being Nice by accident before I have a chance to gather my wits and return to sarcastic irony. "Oops!" I think to myself and aim my best scowl at the world.
Deep down I'm nice.

Well, that's what I thought, anyway.
Until the other night when I found out I'm even grumpy in my sleep.

Bugger.

"My arse is too big for the quilt," I announced at top volume.

Nothing remarkable about that... except that I made this enlightening statement in my sleep, loud enough to wake Imp, who quite reasonably thought I must be awake. I wasn't. I was sleep-talking and it was about 3am. I was miles away, mid-dream.

Anyway, who has a quilt, these days? Apart from my gran, that is?
Blimey, I'm showing my age in my sleep now. I'm a nocturnal old fart. Next I'll be getting up and wandering around, muttering, looking for the outside toilet.
Or boiling my (not so) smalls in a massive saucepan while eating toast and dripping.
"It's okay, I'll pull the duvet over you some more," Imp whispered, grappling with the bedcovers.
At this I (apparently) did my best sleepy strop and scornfully, snoringly, sarcastically smote her with a serving of full-force industrial strength disdain.

" There's NO POINT, it will STILL be too big!"

***

Er.... yeah. Whatever.

Sorry, Imp.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

bed by 11

We wait in the posh bar for our mates to arrive.

We have agreed that we will have a sedate evening.. perhaps manage a careful energy-conserving dance before we go home in good time to be in bed well before midnight.

Now that I am getting older I am starting to think that early nights are sensible. After all, how can you get up the next day if you haven't had a good 8 hours sleep? To say nothing of that fact that I am much more likely to clean my teeth if I am sober.
The days of burning the candle at both ends are long gone now that I am a respectable 33 years old.

Imp wants an easy night too as she had been feeling quite tired.. and our friend Gay Stu is recovering from a stomach bug. To cap it all, Gay Stu's partner Gay Liam* is recovering from a hangover.
Brilliant! We'll be tucked up in a couple of hours.

I down my second bottle of beer and we agree to move on to another trendy (but quieter) bar across town. I am pleased with this decision as this means I will be able to switch to pints. Of course, I will be viewing this third beer as a nightcap.

***

(Cut to 1am)
We have just been chucked out! They are closing up and want us to go. I am outraged. After all, how is a girl supposed to drink if the hostelries are intent on being big babies and whinging about the time? In disgust we march up the road and straight into the welcoming shadows of a nightclub.

(Cut to 2am)
I am standing at the top of a wide flight of stairs looking down at the dancers below. Clearly this is a Bruce Forsyth moment and calls for a large arm-wavey re-entrance and a flamboyant sideways dance down the stairs in my best gay Brucey way.
I can see that everyone is very impressed and luckily I am not at all impaired by the alcohol I have consumed.

(Cut to 3am)
We have just been chucked out! They are closing up and want us to go. Once again I am outraged. The night is yet young. How is a girl supposed to dance when all the clubs refuse to cooperate? Sheesh.

We weave our way home, pleased that again, it has been a successful night out on the town.

*They are gay, you know.

Monday, March 06, 2006

BO

My armpits are really itchy!

I covertly scratch them at every opportunity... while I'm driving, while I'm out walking TinyDog, while I'm kissing...
It is becoming a problem.

Closer inspection has revealed that I have gangrene of the armpit. Well, they're red and sore, which is almost as bad.

The worst thing about having gangrenous armpits is that I am no longer able to spray deoderant on them. It KILLS.
If that were the extent of the damage I would still blast my pit with sweat-masking goodness, but it makes it worse. As a result I have now got stinky, gangrenous pits. Not very sexy.

I am forced to wear extra layers of clothing so that the smell won't escape, which makes me more smelly.

I go to a chemist, hoping that somewhere on the vast amounts of shelving there will be a box labelled "Armpit Cream" and that I will be able to buy it and leave without having to talk to anyone about my armpits. I can't see any.
Just as I am crouching over the nappy section, trying to make it obvious that I am not interested in the condoms that are 4 feet away, I become aware of someone standing right behind me, helpfully.

Turning stiffly, while trying to keep all traces of odour firmly trapped under my immense clothing I face the helpful lady. I keep my arms pressed firmly to my sides. I think she suspects me of shoplifting.

"I'm looking for something to put on my armpits", I explain, checking that there isn't anyone near who will hear me and laugh.

"Come through to the back and the pharmacist can take a look", she replies, clearly expecting me to break into a sprint, packets of hairclips and a fluffy hot water bottle tumbling from my person.

I follow her into the back.

The nice pharmacist lady is very polite when I hoik up my t-shirt, releasing toxic sweat fumes into the atmosphere. She sells me lots of things very quickly without coughing or breathing down her blouse or mentioning gangrene and I leave gratefully, armed with potions that will make my pits better.

Sunday, March 05, 2006

games

Although this is not a games site, you will have noticed that I like to mess around at every available opportunity.
I've got a whole stock of favourites - different genres for different occasions, depending on my mood... and how long my lunch-break is.

Anyhow, all the games I have reviewed or recommended over the past 9 months are now listed on the right hand side of this page just under 'buttons'.

Sunday Game

This game has been driving me potty. I can't for the life of me get past level 5.
Please 'print screen' and email me the evidence if you manage to beat me.

The scenario: You are a fireman who for some bizarre reason is being given various shapes of hose which you must lock together before the timer runs out, in order to put out the fire.

If the timer runs out and you have a lawn full of odd shapes that don't make anything useful you will be shot at dawn. Either that or the water will run onto the lawn and you lose the level.

Needless to say, you have to be pretty good at spacial awareness to be able to do this. Don't even bother of you can't cope with things like reading maps (or parking a car).
It's worth having a little mooch on Gamesheep while you're there, though. There are some cute 5-minute games on their site.

Click

Friday, March 03, 2006

mixed tape

It's Friday and it's time to load up your mp3 player ready for the weekend.

Mercedes Benz have got a nice little thing going where they release a new playlist of stuff every 10 weeks. It's downloadable and free!
The tracks are from around the globe (no James Blunt in sight) and you don't need a mercedes or an ipod.. just some speakers and a bottle of beer.

The site sometimes takes a while to load up. either leave it ticking over or go away and try again in ten minutes.
It's worth the wait, however.

Click

Thursday, March 02, 2006

outrageous

Lynne Truss would be proud of me.

I’ve turned into a punctuation activist and all without noticing. It crept up on me one day and the next thing I knew I was getting stroppy about grammar. Maybe it’s my age. I’ve heard about people becoming more intolerant as they get older… I must have finally Got Older.

It didn’t hurt, it just happened. Around about the time I started going around switching lights off after people and saying things like, ‘Electric costs money, you know’ and, ‘I remember when all this was fields…….’ and, ‘You can’t even hear the words, that’s not music, it’s NOISE!’

So there I was driving down the dual carriageway and a van undertook me, blatantly being naughty. I was just about to don my metaphorical flat cap and start moaning out loud about how Typical it was; there’s blokes for you… and a bloke in a van, to top it all………. when I noticed the lettering on the back.

“Natures Menu. Feed your cat’s and dog’s as nature intended.”

Bloody-blimey-crikey! TWO apostrophes and none of them correct! They didn't even get the one that should have been there. What kind of a company doesn’t research its apostrophes before it slaps a load of bad punctuation on the side of a van? A Mickey Mouse operation, no doubt.

I haven’t got a dog, or a cat, but I wouldn’t buy stuff from them if I had a gun to my head.

The van advertising the company, “Bees Knee's”, won’t be seeing a penny from me either, I tell you.
Oh, and the council responsible for the signage in Abergavenny doesn’t know its arse from its elbow. They’ve got signs somewhat mysteriously announcing “Taxi’s only”.
The taxi is only what?
Undereducated and probably stolen, that’s what.

Anyway, I can’t hang around chatting, I’ve got teabags to squeeze out and then I need to hide by the window guarding the wheelie bin, in case someone tries to nick it.

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

still tall

I stood up and found that I am indeed very tall. You may mock.

Here I am standing next to a HORSE.
What more proof could you need?