What's not to like about Monday mornings?
I've just wandered in to work, strolling along the Embankment, watching the rain spattering into the Thames, twirling my brolly and embarrassing passers-by with an atrociously atonal mangling of REM's "The Wake-Up Bomb".
Oh, what a jolly thing is a moist Monday morning in old London Town.
I'm skipping the Monday Melee this week. It would only be the same old moan about the non-existent internet in my village which means I can only blog for the three days a week I'm in London. So bugger that.
The only thing to mar this lovely Monday morning has been Caffè Nero's pastry supplier, who somewhat perversely has made today's croissants from what I can only describe as fragmentation pastry. A billion tiny pieces of slightly greasy brown flaky detritus now cling to my clothes and everything around me. Hey ho.
To prove how happy I am, I just had a meeting with a guy from marketing and didn't throttle him.
So "Happy Monday" to all you miserable Monday-hating bastards.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Walking Disaster Area
Whatever you do, make sure you never stand about a hundred yards away from me. It's historically a pretty dangerous place to be.
Yesterday afternoon I was outside St.James's Park tube station when a building collapsed a hundred yards away. I swear I never touched it.
The traffic was so heavy that I didn't even notice it. I knew nothing about it until I got home and saw it on the news.
This morning, inevitably the gutter press were screaming about "Terror In Westminster" and people thinking it was "9/11 all over again" (I don't know what drugs they take in newspaper offices but they're pretty fucking hallucinogenic).
And the July 7th bomb at Aldgate went off on the train right behind me. I didn't notice that either (can you see a pattern emerging here?) … There was just a big bang and all the lights went out and we waited to get walked to the next platform.
Whatever people have said about it since, at the time everybody just shrugged our shoulders and thought "Hey, ho. Just another fucking day on the tube".
I walked the rest of the way to the office and checked the tube website to find an announcement of a power failure. It wasn't until my brother called a couple of hours later to see if I was alive that anyone in the office knew about the bombs.
Then the scary Church of Cult Sex burned down when I was supposed to be there, fornicating with the lovely Emma …
So it appears I am a walking disaster area. Or at least the area around where I'm walking is …
I think perhaps Kate, the Groover and Monsieur Benaut are at minimum safe distance from me but the rest of you better watch out.
If anybody's thinking of "doing an Ame" and visiting London this summer, bring a hard hat and some protective clothing with you.
Meantime I'm thinking of hiring myself out to the military.
Yesterday afternoon I was outside St.James's Park tube station when a building collapsed a hundred yards away. I swear I never touched it.
The traffic was so heavy that I didn't even notice it. I knew nothing about it until I got home and saw it on the news.
This morning, inevitably the gutter press were screaming about "Terror In Westminster" and people thinking it was "9/11 all over again" (I don't know what drugs they take in newspaper offices but they're pretty fucking hallucinogenic).
And the July 7th bomb at Aldgate went off on the train right behind me. I didn't notice that either (can you see a pattern emerging here?) … There was just a big bang and all the lights went out and we waited to get walked to the next platform.
Whatever people have said about it since, at the time everybody just shrugged our shoulders and thought "Hey, ho. Just another fucking day on the tube".
I walked the rest of the way to the office and checked the tube website to find an announcement of a power failure. It wasn't until my brother called a couple of hours later to see if I was alive that anyone in the office knew about the bombs.
Then the scary Church of Cult Sex burned down when I was supposed to be there, fornicating with the lovely Emma …
So it appears I am a walking disaster area. Or at least the area around where I'm walking is …
I think perhaps Kate, the Groover and Monsieur Benaut are at minimum safe distance from me but the rest of you better watch out.
If anybody's thinking of "doing an Ame" and visiting London this summer, bring a hard hat and some protective clothing with you.
Meantime I'm thinking of hiring myself out to the military.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
More Trousers
Sam's dyed his hair pink.
He also opened the door of his ludicrously pimped, mirror-windowed, über-macho "custom car" to reveal a cute Hello Kitty air freshener.
Gandy's resprayed his entire car in the flag of the Imperial Japanese Navy.
And Groover's been seen in a dress.
It's been one of those weeks that reaffirms my faith in the power of Fun as an elemental force for good.
Another quick V…… story as we're on the subject of fun:
Lunchtime.
V……, Bruce and Dive again, wandering through the crowded streets.
V…… and Bruce decide to follow Dive doing that silly "walking as close as possible and keeping in step" walk.
Dive sees a huge, sloppy dog turd in his path and jumps over it.
V…… looks up at Dive, slips on the turd and lands on his arse.
Sloppy turd is thickly smeared all the way up the back of his trousers.
Much hilarity ensues.
V…… stands outside nearby department store while Dive and Bruce take his money and buy him a new pair of trousers.
We buy a horrid brown pair, waaay too short in the leg.
We drop the receipt down a road gully so he cannot change them.
He has to put them on in the street.
Much hilarity ensues.
I'm feeling frisky today so don't come too close to me.
He also opened the door of his ludicrously pimped, mirror-windowed, über-macho "custom car" to reveal a cute Hello Kitty air freshener.
Gandy's resprayed his entire car in the flag of the Imperial Japanese Navy.
And Groover's been seen in a dress.
It's been one of those weeks that reaffirms my faith in the power of Fun as an elemental force for good.
Another quick V…… story as we're on the subject of fun:
Lunchtime.
V……, Bruce and Dive again, wandering through the crowded streets.
V…… and Bruce decide to follow Dive doing that silly "walking as close as possible and keeping in step" walk.
Dive sees a huge, sloppy dog turd in his path and jumps over it.
V…… looks up at Dive, slips on the turd and lands on his arse.
Sloppy turd is thickly smeared all the way up the back of his trousers.
Much hilarity ensues.
V…… stands outside nearby department store while Dive and Bruce take his money and buy him a new pair of trousers.
We buy a horrid brown pair, waaay too short in the leg.
We drop the receipt down a road gully so he cannot change them.
He has to put them on in the street.
Much hilarity ensues.
I'm feeling frisky today so don't come too close to me.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Monday Melee
Woohoo! It's Monday.
I hate the weekend even more now I can't get a proper connection in the village. But for once I'm not going to moan about that in Fracas Monday Melee. There's a whole world of other crap to moan about. Here's some:
1: The Misanthropic.
(Name something - about humanity - you absolutely hate).
This week I have been mostly hating Lorraine.
Actually, she's not so bad but the old song was playing in a shop on Saturday and I misheard it. So ever since I've been singing "I can't stand Lorraine, at my window … etc."
2: The Meretricious:
(Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus).
Scooter Libby's character witness: Dick Cheney. Hee hee hee.
3: The Malcontent:
(Name something you're unhappy with).
The fact that "Late Junction", the only essential programme on music radio has been shortened and put back an hour to 11:30 as part of Radio 3's "dumbing down" agenda. Twats!
4: The Meritorious.
(Give someone credit for something and name it if you can).
Kate for her fabulous reportage photos of the shipwreck on her local beach. Brilliant!
5: The Mirror.
(See something good about yourself and name it).
I have nice hands.
6: The Make-Believe:
(Name something you wish for).
People who commute by train and tube to put on their fucking after-shave/perfume when they get to work and not to gag me with the stuff.
I hate the weekend even more now I can't get a proper connection in the village. But for once I'm not going to moan about that in Fracas Monday Melee. There's a whole world of other crap to moan about. Here's some:
1: The Misanthropic.
(Name something - about humanity - you absolutely hate).
This week I have been mostly hating Lorraine.
Actually, she's not so bad but the old song was playing in a shop on Saturday and I misheard it. So ever since I've been singing "I can't stand Lorraine, at my window … etc."
2: The Meretricious:
(Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus).
Scooter Libby's character witness: Dick Cheney. Hee hee hee.
3: The Malcontent:
(Name something you're unhappy with).
The fact that "Late Junction", the only essential programme on music radio has been shortened and put back an hour to 11:30 as part of Radio 3's "dumbing down" agenda. Twats!
4: The Meritorious.
(Give someone credit for something and name it if you can).
Kate for her fabulous reportage photos of the shipwreck on her local beach. Brilliant!
5: The Mirror.
(See something good about yourself and name it).
I have nice hands.
6: The Make-Believe:
(Name something you wish for).
People who commute by train and tube to put on their fucking after-shave/perfume when they get to work and not to gag me with the stuff.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Students, Drugs And Arse-Gravy
Hokay.
It seems you lot are fixated on laxatives today (see the comments to the last post and Robyn's reply), so I'll take this opportunity to add my own (true) tale of arse-gravy mayhem.
This one involves V……, now a prominent local Architect who will never forgive me if he finds me relating this sorry tale on the interweb, but hey ho.
Way back in the mists of time, in celebration of completing our final Architecture exam, V……, Bruce and myself found ourselves in the shabby gloryhole that was Norwich's Golden Star pub (their proud boast: "Not so much a pub, more of a bucket"). It has since been cleaned up and "theme-pubbed" but back then was the real 'spit and sawdust' experience … except without the sawdust.
After a couple of pints of the finest effluent from their own backyard brewery (from memory it was called Royal Flush and had a cartoon of the Queen on the loo on the beer pump - classy), V…… was up for further celebrations.
Nigel - one of the local dealers - was in the house and V…… decided it was about time he discovered just why the rest of us liked the occasional spliff.
So … a quick chat with our Nige (my band played his wedding and the bride's father got out of his tree on hash cake but that's another story) and, suitably grassed up we sashayed down to the river to relax.
I'll get to the point eventually but let me set the scene a little first.
The riverside walk at Norwich is extremely pretty and as this was midsummer was crowded with holidaymakers. Alongside the river is a mediæval defensive tower called Cow Tower, a bloody great circular ruin. We lounged beside this and skinned up.
A few puffs later and Bruce and me lay happily on the grass watching the little fluffy white clouds. We passed the rest of the joint to V…… to try.
I have since discovered that it has this effect on a small number of people. But the first we knew of it, however, was when V…… leapt up, yelling at us that he needed to crap, REALLY urgently.
There are no toilets anywhere near there so I told him to go in the tower.
Panicking, he yelled "But what can I use for toilet paper?"
"Just grab a handful of leaves." I said.
So …
Roused somewhat from our reverie, we watched in mild amusement as V……, in a stoned panic, tore along the footpath to the nearest bush and yanked the whole thing out of the ground, roots and all before dashing into the tower, screaming at us not to look.
Well, what would you do?
We gave him a few seconds and wandered in … to find poor V…… squatting in an alcove, moaning loadly in the throes of a most impressive display of explosive diarrhoea.
Of course, we did what any true friend would do and grabbed his shrub and high-tailed it out of there.
We certainly learned a few new words and descriptive phrases from V…… as we rolled about on the grass in hysterics. Only to have to get up and run as V…… emerged from the tower, brandishing his trousers and informing the world - including a crowd of passing holidaymakers - that he had been forced to wipe his arse on his underpants.
Naked from the waist down he realised his predicament and dashed back inside the tower, followed (absolutely true) by the holidaying family's dog which was in turn followed by their little girl, who was inevitably followed by the bellowing father. V…… caught up with us as we ran, which was a difficult thing to do when you're laughing so hard you can't breathe and one of you is trying to put on his trousers.
Ah, shadenfreude.
Bloody students, eh?
Let that be a lesson to you.
It seems you lot are fixated on laxatives today (see the comments to the last post and Robyn's reply), so I'll take this opportunity to add my own (true) tale of arse-gravy mayhem.
This one involves V……, now a prominent local Architect who will never forgive me if he finds me relating this sorry tale on the interweb, but hey ho.
Way back in the mists of time, in celebration of completing our final Architecture exam, V……, Bruce and myself found ourselves in the shabby gloryhole that was Norwich's Golden Star pub (their proud boast: "Not so much a pub, more of a bucket"). It has since been cleaned up and "theme-pubbed" but back then was the real 'spit and sawdust' experience … except without the sawdust.
After a couple of pints of the finest effluent from their own backyard brewery (from memory it was called Royal Flush and had a cartoon of the Queen on the loo on the beer pump - classy), V…… was up for further celebrations.
Nigel - one of the local dealers - was in the house and V…… decided it was about time he discovered just why the rest of us liked the occasional spliff.
So … a quick chat with our Nige (my band played his wedding and the bride's father got out of his tree on hash cake but that's another story) and, suitably grassed up we sashayed down to the river to relax.
I'll get to the point eventually but let me set the scene a little first.
The riverside walk at Norwich is extremely pretty and as this was midsummer was crowded with holidaymakers. Alongside the river is a mediæval defensive tower called Cow Tower, a bloody great circular ruin. We lounged beside this and skinned up.
A few puffs later and Bruce and me lay happily on the grass watching the little fluffy white clouds. We passed the rest of the joint to V…… to try.
I have since discovered that it has this effect on a small number of people. But the first we knew of it, however, was when V…… leapt up, yelling at us that he needed to crap, REALLY urgently.
There are no toilets anywhere near there so I told him to go in the tower.
Panicking, he yelled "But what can I use for toilet paper?"
"Just grab a handful of leaves." I said.
So …
Roused somewhat from our reverie, we watched in mild amusement as V……, in a stoned panic, tore along the footpath to the nearest bush and yanked the whole thing out of the ground, roots and all before dashing into the tower, screaming at us not to look.
Well, what would you do?
We gave him a few seconds and wandered in … to find poor V…… squatting in an alcove, moaning loadly in the throes of a most impressive display of explosive diarrhoea.
Of course, we did what any true friend would do and grabbed his shrub and high-tailed it out of there.
We certainly learned a few new words and descriptive phrases from V…… as we rolled about on the grass in hysterics. Only to have to get up and run as V…… emerged from the tower, brandishing his trousers and informing the world - including a crowd of passing holidaymakers - that he had been forced to wipe his arse on his underpants.
Naked from the waist down he realised his predicament and dashed back inside the tower, followed (absolutely true) by the holidaying family's dog which was in turn followed by their little girl, who was inevitably followed by the bellowing father. V…… caught up with us as we ran, which was a difficult thing to do when you're laughing so hard you can't breathe and one of you is trying to put on his trousers.
Ah, shadenfreude.
Bloody students, eh?
Let that be a lesson to you.
A Cautionary Tale
Robyn's mouth-watering, chocolate-covered post reminds me of a cocoa-related cautionary tale of my own:
Where I used to work we had a guy who would cruise around peoples' desks and help himself to any chocolates that happened to be laying there. As you can probably understand, this kinda rankled after a while.
So anyway, Elaine had a chocolate making kit (one of those crappy mould things she got for Christmas) with which we spent an entertainingly disgusting evening creating a small batch of rather exclusive chocolates with … er … "exotic" fillings.
And drinking a lot.
The first one we made was a cube of cheese with a tiny pickle on top, lovingly encased in chocolate. It looked so damned good sitting there I almost ate it myself.
The next was a wad of cotton wool soaked in meths; again a rather enticing prospect when coated in the yummy brown stuff.
Another was a dead spider (quite a meaty one) enhanced with a dollop of tomato ketchup and gloopily enveloped in a dark chocolate shell (yum).
The fourth was tuna cat food.
We arranged our creations artfully in an old chocolate box and left them on the end of Elaine's desk the following morning, every one of us surreptitiously keeping a sly eye on events.
Sure enough, within minutes, Frank (hi, Frank) zoomed in and snaffled a couple, cramming them into his mouth with unconcealed glee.
Oh, joy unbounded!
He got the dead spider in ketchup and the cheese and pickle. And it took several seconds of self-satisfied grinning and chomping before his expression changed to one that is best imagined rather than described.
Ah, schadenfreude … Pointing and laughing is always such fun.
Unfortunately it didn't stop Frank's predatory ways but he was somewhat more circumspect as a consequence, only snaffling unopened chocolate bars.
We did offer him the meths and cat food chocs but he nobly declined.
Let that be a lesson to you.
P.S. Happy birthday, little brother!
Where I used to work we had a guy who would cruise around peoples' desks and help himself to any chocolates that happened to be laying there. As you can probably understand, this kinda rankled after a while.
So anyway, Elaine had a chocolate making kit (one of those crappy mould things she got for Christmas) with which we spent an entertainingly disgusting evening creating a small batch of rather exclusive chocolates with … er … "exotic" fillings.
And drinking a lot.
The first one we made was a cube of cheese with a tiny pickle on top, lovingly encased in chocolate. It looked so damned good sitting there I almost ate it myself.
The next was a wad of cotton wool soaked in meths; again a rather enticing prospect when coated in the yummy brown stuff.
Another was a dead spider (quite a meaty one) enhanced with a dollop of tomato ketchup and gloopily enveloped in a dark chocolate shell (yum).
The fourth was tuna cat food.
We arranged our creations artfully in an old chocolate box and left them on the end of Elaine's desk the following morning, every one of us surreptitiously keeping a sly eye on events.
Sure enough, within minutes, Frank (hi, Frank) zoomed in and snaffled a couple, cramming them into his mouth with unconcealed glee.
Oh, joy unbounded!
He got the dead spider in ketchup and the cheese and pickle. And it took several seconds of self-satisfied grinning and chomping before his expression changed to one that is best imagined rather than described.
Ah, schadenfreude … Pointing and laughing is always such fun.
Unfortunately it didn't stop Frank's predatory ways but he was somewhat more circumspect as a consequence, only snaffling unopened chocolate bars.
We did offer him the meths and cat food chocs but he nobly declined.
Let that be a lesson to you.
P.S. Happy birthday, little brother!
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Light
Wandering along beside the Thames this morning I got to thinking of Rich's Edward Hopper post. Thanks for the reminder, Rich.
I love Hopper; I have a couple of nice Hopper lighthouse prints over my bedroom dresser to cheer me in the mornings. They just fill the room with fresh air and a sea breeze (or it could be my open window and an easterly from the North Sea, but hey).
More specifically I got to thinking of the light in Hopper's paintings. That "hard" light he emphasises in his interiors.
London light is different. It's softer.
Like Venice, London is a city built on water; a lot of the old centre is reclaimed from marsh and estuary and the light which so delighted Monet is often diffused with mist, especially on my morning walks to work.
It's a sparkling, mysterious light.
A beautiful - if occasionally pestiferous - luminescence that washes over the morning city; the dome of St.Paul's is often afloat on it.
Hopper's light, on the other hand is harsh and almost solid.
I love it. Probably because we just don't see it here. It's a peculiarly American light.
Hopper paints that wonderful clear sharp light you see in movies like "Chinatown" and "L.A. Confidential".
There's a marvellous Raymond Chandler line that always reminds me of Hopper interiors. It's from "Farewell, My Lovely".
We're in Philip Marlowe's office …
"A wedge of sunlight slipped over the edge of the desk and fell noiselessly to the carpet."
I think I'm gonna go home and wallpaper my house with Edward Hopper paintings.
I love Hopper; I have a couple of nice Hopper lighthouse prints over my bedroom dresser to cheer me in the mornings. They just fill the room with fresh air and a sea breeze (or it could be my open window and an easterly from the North Sea, but hey).
More specifically I got to thinking of the light in Hopper's paintings. That "hard" light he emphasises in his interiors.
London light is different. It's softer.Like Venice, London is a city built on water; a lot of the old centre is reclaimed from marsh and estuary and the light which so delighted Monet is often diffused with mist, especially on my morning walks to work.
It's a sparkling, mysterious light.
A beautiful - if occasionally pestiferous - luminescence that washes over the morning city; the dome of St.Paul's is often afloat on it.
Hopper's light, on the other hand is harsh and almost solid.
I love it. Probably because we just don't see it here. It's a peculiarly American light.
Hopper paints that wonderful clear sharp light you see in movies like "Chinatown" and "L.A. Confidential".
There's a marvellous Raymond Chandler line that always reminds me of Hopper interiors. It's from "Farewell, My Lovely".We're in Philip Marlowe's office …
"A wedge of sunlight slipped over the edge of the desk and fell noiselessly to the carpet."
I think I'm gonna go home and wallpaper my house with Edward Hopper paintings.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Monday Melee
Hokay, so I missed a Fracas Monday Melee thanks to the broadband connection in my village being deader than flares (no, if you wear them I really do not want to know). I'm on intermittent dial-up at the moment and can just about handle an email but it takes one look at my instruction to load a blog page and tells me to fuck off.
Hey ho.
Hence, I am only posting when I'm in London and I'm buggered if I'm sufferring that commute more than three days a week just so I can write drivel to you lot.
1: The Misanthropic.
(Name something - about humanity - you absolutely hate).
This week I have been mostly hating the fact that I go decades (millennia, actually) without a date and then out of the blue I am hit on by a pretty girl but she turns out to be a psycho.
2: The Meretricious:
(Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus).
Bush's assertion that America is at the forefront of the battle against climate change because "technology is on the verge of a breakthrough".
Come on, George; you're doing fuck all (apart from burning more oil) because acting to slow climate change would hurt your profits and those of your buddies.
The "fuck you lot, I'm gonna hit the lecture circuit and leave the mess for the Democrats" attitude simply adds more weight to the sack of shit that is your "legacy" and makes your country a pariah in the eyes of the world.
Twat!
3: The Malcontent:
(Name something you're unhappy with).
Claire's getting married in September and I can't fit into my stupid suit. Do I go on a crash diet or do I say "Fuck it. I'm a fat bastard" and buy a new one?
4: The Meritorious.
(Give someone credit for something and name it if you can).
Groover, for realising the value of great tone.
5: The Mirror.
(See something good about yourself and name it).
I managed not to vomit on the twat who sweated Lynx all over me on the tube.
6: The Make-Believe:
(Name something you wish for).
More bookshelves.
Hey ho.
Hence, I am only posting when I'm in London and I'm buggered if I'm sufferring that commute more than three days a week just so I can write drivel to you lot.
1: The Misanthropic.
(Name something - about humanity - you absolutely hate).
This week I have been mostly hating the fact that I go decades (millennia, actually) without a date and then out of the blue I am hit on by a pretty girl but she turns out to be a psycho.
2: The Meretricious:
(Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus).
Bush's assertion that America is at the forefront of the battle against climate change because "technology is on the verge of a breakthrough".
Come on, George; you're doing fuck all (apart from burning more oil) because acting to slow climate change would hurt your profits and those of your buddies.
The "fuck you lot, I'm gonna hit the lecture circuit and leave the mess for the Democrats" attitude simply adds more weight to the sack of shit that is your "legacy" and makes your country a pariah in the eyes of the world.
Twat!
3: The Malcontent:
(Name something you're unhappy with).
Claire's getting married in September and I can't fit into my stupid suit. Do I go on a crash diet or do I say "Fuck it. I'm a fat bastard" and buy a new one?
4: The Meritorious.
(Give someone credit for something and name it if you can).
Groover, for realising the value of great tone.
5: The Mirror.
(See something good about yourself and name it).
I managed not to vomit on the twat who sweated Lynx all over me on the tube.
6: The Make-Believe:
(Name something you wish for).
More bookshelves.
Friday, June 01, 2007
A Cheese-Loving Bibliophile Writes
I ooze my way over to young Robyn's Library Thing and am utterly astonished to learn that there are - incredible as this may seem - some 243,515 books more popular than the classic
"Great Grilled Cheese: 50 Innovative Recipes for Stove Top, Grill and Sandwich Maker"
I am aghast!
Let us right this injustice to the art of cheese-grilling without delay.
Hie thee to Amazon and order your copy today.
"Great Grilled Cheese: 50 Innovative Recipes for Stove Top, Grill and Sandwich Maker"
I am aghast!
Let us right this injustice to the art of cheese-grilling without delay.
Hie thee to Amazon and order your copy today.
Witchy
Brrrrrrrrr …
It's yesterday …
I pop in to Building Control; always a handy favourite when I fancy wasting an hour with obfuscation and obdurate bureaucracy; it is a truly marvellous sink-hole of incompetent fuckwits.
The woman at the desk looks up and beams.
"Gosh! Hello, J……." I say, "How are you? Long time no see."
It's always nice to bump into an old friend and J…… had been my secretary for years, way back during prohibition.
We get chatting and everything is fine and dandy. Then after a few minutes she starts talking about how she's divorced now. I make conciliatory noises. I quite liked her husband; we had all been quite chummy back then and I'd been round their house a lot. J……'s a few years younger than me and slim and pretty but she had always struck me as just the teeeeensiest bit psycho. I wasn't surprised he'd left her, just surprised he was still alive.
Then she says "Laurie tells me you and ……… broke up."
I know, I know. I should see these things coming but I'm a bloke, for fuck's sake. The default setting for my brain is "duh."
"Yes, a loooong time ago. I live in Brundall now." says I in all innocence.
All the bells go off and the lights flash in her eyes. She squeals.
"I live in Brundall!"
I'm still as ignorant as only a bloke can be and quite happily agree that we should meet up for coffee as we now live in the same village. After all, we're old pals and have a lot of gossiping and bitching to catch up on.
Then she lowers her eyes for a moment before hitting me with full beam and a cute smile and a suddenly quiet and conspiratorial voice …
"I never said anything when I was married but …"
Somehow I manage to get away with just her phone number and address which go straight in the shredder when I get home. I am too flabbergasted to tell her I actually have a girlfriend. Besides, that sort of information is likely to elicit a hissy fit and possibly some form of castration with an imaginatively wielded item of office equipment.
How the fuck do I tell the woman "No, I won't meet you for coffee and I won't call you and I am SO glad I didn't tell you my address because frankly you scare the living crap out of me."?
How the fuck do I walk through the village to the local shop?
I like my village. I don't want to move.
How the fuck do I go back to Building Control, which I need to do for my work?
Brrrrrrr …
Advice gratefully accepted.
It's yesterday …
I pop in to Building Control; always a handy favourite when I fancy wasting an hour with obfuscation and obdurate bureaucracy; it is a truly marvellous sink-hole of incompetent fuckwits.
The woman at the desk looks up and beams.
"Gosh! Hello, J……." I say, "How are you? Long time no see."
It's always nice to bump into an old friend and J…… had been my secretary for years, way back during prohibition.
We get chatting and everything is fine and dandy. Then after a few minutes she starts talking about how she's divorced now. I make conciliatory noises. I quite liked her husband; we had all been quite chummy back then and I'd been round their house a lot. J……'s a few years younger than me and slim and pretty but she had always struck me as just the teeeeensiest bit psycho. I wasn't surprised he'd left her, just surprised he was still alive.
Then she says "Laurie tells me you and ……… broke up."
I know, I know. I should see these things coming but I'm a bloke, for fuck's sake. The default setting for my brain is "duh."
"Yes, a loooong time ago. I live in Brundall now." says I in all innocence.
All the bells go off and the lights flash in her eyes. She squeals.
"I live in Brundall!"
I'm still as ignorant as only a bloke can be and quite happily agree that we should meet up for coffee as we now live in the same village. After all, we're old pals and have a lot of gossiping and bitching to catch up on.
Then she lowers her eyes for a moment before hitting me with full beam and a cute smile and a suddenly quiet and conspiratorial voice …
"I never said anything when I was married but …"
Somehow I manage to get away with just her phone number and address which go straight in the shredder when I get home. I am too flabbergasted to tell her I actually have a girlfriend. Besides, that sort of information is likely to elicit a hissy fit and possibly some form of castration with an imaginatively wielded item of office equipment.
How the fuck do I tell the woman "No, I won't meet you for coffee and I won't call you and I am SO glad I didn't tell you my address because frankly you scare the living crap out of me."?
How the fuck do I walk through the village to the local shop?
I like my village. I don't want to move.
How the fuck do I go back to Building Control, which I need to do for my work?
Brrrrrrr …
Advice gratefully accepted.
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