Height Comes Before a Fall

Of course all this is purely theoretical, but IF you suffer from a mild form of dyspraxia during, say, PMT, that causes you drop, fall over or bump into any object within a 5 metre radius, and IF you have to run a workshop for some mildly disinterested secondary school students during said phase of PMT, and IF you have an inferiority complex relating to being shorter than people who are not yet through puberty, and IF said inferiority complex leads you to don a pair of rather splendid heels so the charming 14 year olds won't tower over you MAKE SURE YOU DON'T TRY AND WALK UP STAIRS IN FRONT OF THEM CARRYING LOADS OF STUFF.  I can't stress this strongly enough.  Because obviously, theoretically, you will fall over, and then you won't need to worry about them not respecting you because they're all at least a foot taller than you.  Oh no.  You'll have made yourself look like a tit without them even having to THINK about your diminutive stature.  And you'll twist your ankle.  You idiot. 

Quandry.

I'm conflicted. This morning I was told that I looked beautiful by a stranger. He was wearing a coat tied in the middle with string and was hunched protectively over a can of Special Brew (unnecessarily I feel as who has the wherewithal to steal 'premium lager' at 10am?).

Punctuation Stations

What makes me uncomfortable?
Tight jeans. Tentative silences....
Public performances.
But nothing makes me twitch and itch and shift in my seat
Like a BIG EMPTY SPACE where an apostrophe should be.
An involuntary spasm
For the missing punctuation,
Yes I care about the commas
(I also like alliteration).
I want to be
Swaddled by semicolons;
Hugged by hyphens -
A brought up short by a fat full stop.
Like notes on a score
These insignificant specks that tell words how to behave
Have made me their slightly obsessive slave.
The pleasure that I treasure
In the meter and the measure
Gets its confidence from colons
And brackets make it brave.

Would you like salt with that?

When someone mentions the words ‘hoover’ and ‘unusual usage of’ in the same sentence my mind immediately constructs an elaborate scenario involving a visit to A&E and a story that the attendant medics can dine out on for months. Whether this is due to a brief but intense addiction to Loaded magazine 13 years ago or the fact that housework is more alien to me than bizarre sex stories is unclear. I did however - and I’m not doing myself any favours by admitting this – experience a slight frisson of excitement today when I inadvertently used said domestic cleaning device in a vaguely unorthodox way, and the fact that I am currently taking any opportunity to put off various work-related tasks has driven me to record it for posterity.

Having recently been given a second-hand salt grinder* I decided that today would be the momentous occasion that I not only bought real salt – in little lumps! – but also filled the implement in question thus enabling me to make the little lumps of salt smaller. The design was clearly intended for use by someone of considerably greater intellect than me, years of academic study proving less than useless when it came to the rather basic task of getting the salt from the bag into its shiny new plastic home (which had thoughtfully been made of clear Perspex, presumably so one can gaze in wonder at the little grains of heart disease without having to do something as vulgar as putting them on one's food).

Having covered the work surface in a light dusting of salty goodness, I finally managed to wrestle the top on, only to discover that the grindy mechanism was - rather frustratingly – not at all grindy. Having pointed out to Beagle that I had got salt “everywhere” during this pointless exercise, he immediately proved that this wasn’t the case by taking it from me and, presumably in a quest to prove that there was some secret ‘way of the grinder’ which required a man’s firm but forceful touch, accidentally deposited the salt in a much more accurate demonstration of the word “everywhere”.

Having assured him that his assistance was no longer needed I set to work cleaning up the little crystals that I’d had such high expectations for when I bought them from the farm shop 2 hours ago (namely, I thought buying coarse organic sea salt would make me both vaguely cosmopolitan and a good cook. Retrospectively this seems an ambitious and possibly unrealistic expectation of a condiment). Eschewing the pan, brush, sweep etc method that would require me finding more than one cleaning implement, I extricated the hoover from its hibernating hole. Having cleared the floor of its snowy coating I decided to hoover up the various salt mountains on the work surface. Just a couple of sweeps would do. But it wasn’t enough! The clear patches just made everything else look…well, unclear**, by comparison. I hoovered the hob, I vacuumed the veg peelings, I sucked up the dirt from crevices which were probably advertised as luxurious holiday destinations in glossy lifestyle magazines for germs. Discovering that the humble hoover is clearly sufficient for every cleaning task, and consequently I am now able to throw away every other housework-related item, gave me an immense feeling of satisfaction, as I had previously only purchased them in the hope that buying them and keeping them under my sink would somehow make the house cleaner.

Despite failing completely to achieve any kind of salt/container interface I am sufficiently satisfied that I have a slightly cleaner kitchen, a lazy way to clean absolutely everything, and in the admittedly unlikely event of slugs having taken up residence in the hoover bag they are now well and truly toasted.

Next week: cutting my hair with a strimmer.

*life’s too short, just buy a new one
**filthy

Brain Drain

Missing: 28 years of accumulated memory. Identifying characteristics: paranoid fantasy; half-baked feminist deconstruction; lyrics to Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals (I’m not proud); no geographical knowledge whatsoever. Reward for information leading to its return: eternal gratitude. And a bun.

In explanation, I was in the local on Monday evening (start the week as you mean to go on), and ‘assisting’ Amy Tree and Karaokie Blokie with various games on that devious time-wasting contrivance, the pub quiz machine. More like a psychological torture device that charges you for the pleasure of mocking your ignorance, I quickly became disenchanted with the idea of feeding precious gin money into its sneering maw. Not, however, before I had seriously begun to doubt the existence of a section of my brain which is supposed to store information, some of it acquired at great expense over 3 years at university. At best I was able to assist with answers to the blindingly obvious questions, along the lines of ‘Who directed Star Trek V: The Final Frontier?…A) William Shatner B) Andy Pandy C) Nitrous Oxide D) Marxism’. More commonly, I would gaze quizzically at the rapidly decreasing timer as if the questions were in Cantonese, perhaps mumbling “I think maybe….” as if the act of speaking would summon something, anything, resembling knowledge from my mind, which had at this point turned its back and was pretending to examine intently something very interesting on the other side of the room.

I’m not saying I’m stupid. I have been known, on occasion, to make useful, possibly even engaging contributions to conversation, and hold down a job which often requires me to contribute some sort of intellectual effort. But the lack of ability to access anything resembling trivia, general knowledge or, that thing of which I am most envious, a joke, is starting to cause significant social problems. I would be very happy if someone could tell me the medical term for the inability to recall information on demand in a competitive environment, preferably in Latin so I can intellectualise it. And promptly forget it.

The Great Divide

I have been pondering on the recent demise of the Icelandic quiz-show demi-god Magnus Magnusson. Having been briefly in his presence, when he unveiled what I seem to remember was a large rock commemorating the 2000th anniversary of the Viking invasion of Cornwall*, I scoured the inner reaches of my mind, trying to recall some inkling of a tangible experience of the man himself. I was right out of inklings (don't they sound like tiny creatures that steal biros?). I did however stumble across what I feel may be a signifcant cultural dividing line between generations of Brits: those who, when asked to identify a famous Magnus, would obviously answer 'Magnusson', and those who would answer 'Powermouse'. One could probably delineate whole new marketing subgroups based on this vital information. However if anyone wishes to do so please note I hold intellectual copyright of the concept; you can have it for a fiver and a cup of tea.

*this is probably wrong

Winners and Sinners

Today, I feel like a winner. Far from having achieved anything specific (it IS only Monday), this is due to the fact that, unlike a large percentage of the population I have encountered in the past week, I have not made any of those nasty little guilt-inducing new year’s resolutions. You can spot almost instantly those friends and colleagues who have already disappointed themselves by failing to curb their smoking/cake-eating/compulsive sex habit (alright, those ones don’t look so disappointed), their faces crumpling when they confess their newly-minted sins, 2007 already a write-off.

My defects, failings and nasty habits are, I am proud to say, well and truly in tact. Suggestions for new and interesting vices will be seriously considered.

This was one of the many Sunday night work-induced insomniac thoughts that occupied me last night as I was slowly absorbed into my beloved memory foam mattress, a sleeping companion that knows the contours of my body more intimately than any lover (and is significantly lower-maintenance).

Another niggling thought was that, despite my anti-resolution stance, I must admit to feeling a need to do….well, something other than being-at-work or not-being-at-work. I decided that my sometime leaning towards making a mess on canvas (clear lack of confidence in the idea of calling myself an artist) should take the route of Vegetable Variations. Striking celery, inviting avocadoes, inexplicable onions; these mute models will be my new focus. And they’re perfect subjects – cheap, quiet, and you can make a casserole out of them when you’re done. This interest in depicting the mystery of fruits and tubers was prompted by a flashback (wobbly lines) to myself at the tender age of 15, explaining to my longsuffering mother why I needed her to acquire a colourful variety of veg which I would leave on my windowsill to deteriorate into a soggy, smelly and potentially health-damaging mess, to be documented by myself in a variety of media over the course of 6 weeks. Her growing concern as spores were gradually released and a foul smelling liquid was exuded by my motley collection of aubergines, apples and mushrooms can only have been assuaged by the fact that her eldest progeny was one step closer to teenage cliché – impenetrable sulks and wild mood swings would now be accompanied – joy! – by rotting food in the bedroom.

Snap back to the present: it occurs to me that I should make amends for these recently remembered tests of my mother’s fortitude by being a Model Daughter for the year. But doesn’t that sound a bit too much like a resolution?...