Showing posts with label funny. Show all posts
Showing posts with label funny. Show all posts
Friday, 6 July 2012
Rower's buttock and the bum massage ordeal!
Tuesday, 20 December 2011
The sound of an elephant laying an egg...
Have you ever considered what the sound of an elephant laying an egg might be like? I just wanted to put an example of a hook as an opener here... Oh yes hooks are wonderful instruments in the art of writing... Why do I mention this? Well this last ten weeks has been wonderful. I have been teaching a creative writing class and I loved it...
For those who know me, as shy as I can be, when it comes to being really passionate about something and having a captive audience, in a confined space with a closed door - something happens. A mental explosion of information all constructed to meet the student's needs.... I didn't just love it... I really loved it!
The thing with teaching for ten weeks is that I had to prepare lessons. At some point I will post them on here... All the time I was doing that made it difficult to go to work, race in my rowing team / train in the rowing team and edit The Resonance... I know ... Excuses... Mine is being human!
I have to admit I am quite excited about being back, previously the blog became a pressure. At times I would walk out of the toilet at work (rather than fall in) and people would point at me.... Not because I had made a smell, but rather because I was the girl who wrote the books and the blog. Again for those of you who really know me - I am a private person - especially in a lavatory. In fact, sometimes I suffer stage fright and am transported back to those years on ships where people would pursue you to ask you about ports. The worst moment was when two passengers actually shoved their head under a cubicle door, whilst I was in midst monster creation and asked me how many steps there were in the Hermitage museum... Imagine. I think I might have actually answered too... Oh God the years on ships and the memories...
Right before I deviate again... I just want to let you know the good news...
The Resonance is already out in digital and the solid form book will be available in the new year.
At the moment I am finishing the draft of my very secret book and then straight into 'Beneath the surface."
Okay just to let you know there has been a vote on what 'Beneath the surface' should be called. Apparently this sounds like a submarine. The other offerings have been Portholes and Poop Deck. Please bear in mind this is a real life diary of a cruise ship... Any opinions will be greatly appreciated... In the meantime, I will keep writing posts... I have quite a lot to catch up on... Especially in terms of escaping mundanity...
Talk soon
MichelleXXX
For those who know me, as shy as I can be, when it comes to being really passionate about something and having a captive audience, in a confined space with a closed door - something happens. A mental explosion of information all constructed to meet the student's needs.... I didn't just love it... I really loved it!
The thing with teaching for ten weeks is that I had to prepare lessons. At some point I will post them on here... All the time I was doing that made it difficult to go to work, race in my rowing team / train in the rowing team and edit The Resonance... I know ... Excuses... Mine is being human!
I have to admit I am quite excited about being back, previously the blog became a pressure. At times I would walk out of the toilet at work (rather than fall in) and people would point at me.... Not because I had made a smell, but rather because I was the girl who wrote the books and the blog. Again for those of you who really know me - I am a private person - especially in a lavatory. In fact, sometimes I suffer stage fright and am transported back to those years on ships where people would pursue you to ask you about ports. The worst moment was when two passengers actually shoved their head under a cubicle door, whilst I was in midst monster creation and asked me how many steps there were in the Hermitage museum... Imagine. I think I might have actually answered too... Oh God the years on ships and the memories...
Right before I deviate again... I just want to let you know the good news...
The Resonance is already out in digital and the solid form book will be available in the new year.
At the moment I am finishing the draft of my very secret book and then straight into 'Beneath the surface."
Okay just to let you know there has been a vote on what 'Beneath the surface' should be called. Apparently this sounds like a submarine. The other offerings have been Portholes and Poop Deck. Please bear in mind this is a real life diary of a cruise ship... Any opinions will be greatly appreciated... In the meantime, I will keep writing posts... I have quite a lot to catch up on... Especially in terms of escaping mundanity...
Talk soon
MichelleXXX
Wednesday, 25 May 2011
Dangling a bottom on a stick!
Dangling a bottom on a stick.
It is days like this that I love coming to work. I do not mind sitting at the desk because I am provided with a rare insight into the male mind and how it perceives the world. While I construct the most enormously complex spreadsheet full of formulae, the simplistic nature of the male mind and its motivations are revealed.
I glanced over at the office cheeky, “is everything okay? You haven’t said anything rude today.”
“Oh, sorry... Just busy,” he replied.
Admittedly he did look completely harassed and immersed in numerous complex calculations and charts.
“I want the fun one back,” I replied.
“Okay I will just pop to the loo and then tell you about the perfect gym experience that I had last night,” he said. With that he stood up from the desk and stretched.
When he returned he had one of those cheeky glints in his eye.
“So... I was at the gym last night and running on the treadmill and some kind of planetary alignment must have taken place because the perfect motivation took place. You know what it was?”
I studied him, “naked can-can dancers?”
“Nope three Latino bottoms on the cross trainers in front of me,” he replied smugly.
I frowned, I had an image of dis-embodied bottoms residing on the foot placement pads of the cross-trainer. “I take it they had women attached to them...”
“Yes the most perfect women you could imagine. I don’t know why they even have to go to the gym,” he said entering the fantasy dazed state.
“Well surely that is why they are perfect. They go to the gym daily and maintain their bodies - so therefore are ideal. If they didn’t go and ate pies they would probably look very different,” I replied
“Chicken and egg,” he said.
“So regarding these women’s bottoms... I sense that there is some kind of bottom hierarchy / measure to gauge the perfection of a bottom.”
“There are three types,” he replied.
Surely there had to be more than three types of bottom. Still I did not butt into the bottom flow.
“There is the Latino bottom, which is the ultimate in bottom. It is full, voluptuous and firm. There is plenty of meat on it. There is the Afro-Caribbean bottom. A similar kind of bottom, full, solid and beautiful and then there is the ‘other,’” he said with a smile.
There was a silence while I waited for his bottom measure elaboration / justification.
“The other comprises of all manner of bottom. You have the small Asian, the American cheerleader and many others. Three categories are more than enough for men to determine where something sits in terms of bottom,” he said with a definite nod.
I had honestly never considered a bottom hierarchy before. The office cheeky had changed my perception of the common bottom. “Okay what about men then?”
“There are two types: hairy and non hairy.”
How fair was that? There had to be more bottom categories for men.
“So tell me more about your motivation then,” I said allowing the male bottom hierarchy to churn in the back of my mind.
“Well being mesmerised by the bouncing bottoms, I realised I could divide my run into targets. When I achieved the first couple of kilometres I got the first one. The thought of her and her bottom kept me running. Then when I hit the second goal I was rewarded with the second beautiful bottom.”
I studied him; it was the office cheeky.... “You were rewarded with both weren’t you?”
He smiled a cheeky grin, “yep! Then when I got to the third...”
“Okay... I kind of get it...” I said before a full visual elaboration took place.
“The fantasy was fantastic... It worked really well apart from when I was running for the third posterial reward... Unfortunately the three of them finished training. I was so disappointed,” he said sadly.
“And let me guess an overly sweaty man arrived in a thong.”
“No... But it was a sad case. I ran faster to try and catch them,” he replied.
“You ran faster on a stationary treadmill to try and chase the Latino ladies?” I asked.
“Metaphorically yes. In my mind I ran through the treadmill and caught them all! It was amazing!”
“I think it would have been better if Mr sweaty and his white t-shirt had appeared. Or three flabby bottoms wobbled in front of you,” I said imagining it.
“Who is Mr Sweaty?”
“You have never heard of Mr Sweaty?”
He shook his head with a frown.
“He basically floods the area with sweat whenever he exercises. He is amazing. We once did an abs class and he sweated so hard that he created a sweat puddle. When he walked off he turned to us and said you know you have had a good work out when you have sweated. He often wears a white t-shirt which sticks to his hairy back. The hair sometimes makes patterns according to how he has been laying.”
“That is gross!” replied Office cheeky.
“He seems quite proud of it,” I replied.
Mr cheeky seemed absorbed by something.
“Okay what’s going on? Your eyes are wiggling... “I said.
“I am thinking... So how come some women wear lots of make- up to the gym and others don’t?” he asked seriously. Was there some kind of pattern?
“I have no real clue. Although my friend was saying about two women she saw at the gym. They were dressed in the smallest clothing, had done their hair and wore full evening make-up. They had rather pert parts and displayed braless- lycra-clad breastage. After they had posed around the gym she heard the pair of them in the stretching room saying ‘God men just stare all the time. They are such pervs. It really puts you off going to the gym!’”
The office cheeky looked dumbfounded, “but they are dressed like that – what do they expect? Men are visual! It is their instinct to look!”
He was right.
“As I said before men spend the majority of their time imagining women naked,” he said drifting into the glazed eye look.
“Yes I had a question about that... What even fat ones?” I said.
He shook his head and appeared to have a smell under his nose. “No they are invisible. They become an extension to a wall or a pillar. We just don’t see them. In fact we selectively filter to enable maximum naked fantasy of hottyness,” he said.
I shook my head, “that is not nice.”
“It is reality and truth... If a person wants to be imagined naked – make it nice for the fantasiser – I say!” he replied.
For a moment the pair of us sat in contemplation. I wondered how women perceived men at the gym. They grunted, a few posed but the majority appeared to exercise. In the meantime it was like a mental nudist camp for the men. How could the gym dynamic be sooo different for men and women?
The office hotty trotted past so I waved her over. “Do you go to the gym?”
“No,” she said.
“If you went to the gym would you wear make-up?”
“Probably,” she replied honestly.
“Do you know any women who wear make-up to the gym?” asked the office cheeky.
“Oh yes... One girl I know wears make-up and revealing clothing but that was because she fancied the instructor,” she replied
“Did it work?”
“Yes an escapee nipple resulted in her having a date and a cheeky kiss,” she said matter of factly.
Office cheeky and I gave each other a look. So by flashing your nipples at the gym instructor a person could get a date. I must have been bought up in a different era. It seemed the learnings I had had through my life had missed out that key fact. It was the same as the not running when taking part in a game of kiss chase. Hmmm maybe the gym was another equivalent to kiss chase in the exercise dynamic.
“The gym must attract two types – those who pose and those who actually want to exercise. Gym dating...” she said thinking about the make-up conundrum.
“Actually I was always bemused by a girl who used to come to the gym wearing Lycra with a leopard skin thong over the top. She used to saunter around the gym, stretch and bend over in front of the grunting men lifting weights. Suddenly it makes sense,” I said.
“Did they grunt louder went she bent over?” asked the office hotty.
“Yes much louder. Actually one time, at the same gym, one of the lycra-clad bending-over girls distracted a man on a treadmill who shot off the back and landed on my lap on the bike. It was quite funny really,” I said remembering how embarrassed the poor chap was.
“Really?”
The pair shook their heads.
“So how do you measure a man’s bottom? I mean in terms of pertness in the bottom hierarchy?” I asked the office hotty.
“Well there is peachy and not...”
“There must be more... Men have Latino, Afro-Caribbean and other for women,” I said.
“Other?” said with a bemused look.
“All the other categories,” I said.
“Let me just say there are lots of lovely bottoms in the ‘other’ category,” said the office cheeky.
“I think there are buns of steel, flat bottom and peachy,” I said thoughtfully considering the male bottom hierarchy.
The office hotty agreed. “I am not into the flat bottom. Just the peachy,” she said.
“There must be women who are specifically attracted to the flat bottom kind,” I said.
We all looked at each other. Was a woman attracted to a certain kind of bottom? What would determine that? It seemed the office hotty had developed a selective bottom filtration system. I had a tendency towards buns of steel and the walnut cracking kind. It seemed to tally in with the fact that I was fitness obsessed. She was curvaceous and had an attraction to a peachy bottom. I had never considered bottom hierarchy in the survival psyche. Nor had I realised that dangling a bottom on a stick was a key motivator for the male exerciser. I knew that sex was a motivator but I had one final question.”
“So if we created a man only gym with films of female bottoms playing repetition would the men get fit?”
“No. It isn’t real. You need the bouncing action to be real and close. That way we will fantasise about chasing it. It is all about the display and the potential.... It stops the pain in the limbs. You can ache like hell but you will keep chasing,” he said.
Hmmm. I smiled to myself.
“What happens if you get overly excited?” I asked.
“The treadmill will take care of that and eject you!”
I had never considered this before... I had never considered men running whilst excited... Was that possible? So I wrote on a pad “Can a man with an excited sausage run?” and handed it to the office comedian and the office cheeky.
Answer: ‘yes – when I was at school we had a swimming race. One of the kids had that same problem, jumped in the pool and won the race,’ said the office comedian.
I wonder whether he used it as a propeller....
Although, according to the office cheeky, there was more to it...
“I think I should explain...” he said thoughtfully. “There is a self safety process built in my system, it only needs a starting point where everything is calm before getting on the treadmill.... As a person gets more excited, the hope of getting the incentive grows, so you run faster putting all the extra blood to better use. Until that person thinks some more, gets more excited, runs faster, blood circulates ... And there you go a safety loop which is also the exercise driver ... and whole point behind the theory. Fantasy drives the physical!”
It made perfect sense.
“So what if a person is already het up?”
“Well that could prove sticky... If a person is already excited, then they will never start running until they take care of business manually. Or if they are half man and half amazing they will get the incentive to take care of business for them unfortunately the running becomes redundant.”
I was a little confused.
“So....”
“To answer your question regarding the sausage - no in all possible scenarios ... No running with a live hotdog,” he said.
How come the office comedian believed a person could run with an inflated extra leg and office cheeky was stumped by a hot dog in motion?
“But he says that his friend won a swimming competition whilst in a state of sausage excitement,” I replied.
The office cheeky rolled his eyes, “Water is a completely different medium with ,naturally, its own set of rules and theories ...”
I should have known!
In summary:
It seemed that motivation was more than just excitement. It seemed the simple suggestion that caused the lower regions to twitch could heighten a performance. But what did that mean? Did it mean that a person’s drive was stimulated by the potential physical reward? Was it primeval? Or was there something paramount that I was missing? Why were women so different? A woman would not necessarily run faster on a treadmill if three hot men were in front of her. If they were behind her she might run faster... Or she might slow down if she had been aware of the ideal strategy in kiss chase! Obviously these thoughts have distracted me. If you have answers to this conundrum I would love to know!
So to the morals of the story...
1) Place a large bottom on a stick to motivate a man to get fit.
2) Never be offended if your bottom falls into the other category.
3) Never run with an inflated hotdog unless you have the capability to use it as a propeller to win a swimming race.
Since the discussions Mr Cheeky has since informed that using a male appendage is unwise because it potentially could take the swimmer out of the water - kind of like a helicopter. "It should be more of a fin!" he said.
It is days like this that I love coming to work. I do not mind sitting at the desk because I am provided with a rare insight into the male mind and how it perceives the world. While I construct the most enormously complex spreadsheet full of formulae, the simplistic nature of the male mind and its motivations are revealed.
I glanced over at the office cheeky, “is everything okay? You haven’t said anything rude today.”
“Oh, sorry... Just busy,” he replied.
Admittedly he did look completely harassed and immersed in numerous complex calculations and charts.
“I want the fun one back,” I replied.
“Okay I will just pop to the loo and then tell you about the perfect gym experience that I had last night,” he said. With that he stood up from the desk and stretched.
When he returned he had one of those cheeky glints in his eye.
“So... I was at the gym last night and running on the treadmill and some kind of planetary alignment must have taken place because the perfect motivation took place. You know what it was?”
I studied him, “naked can-can dancers?”
“Nope three Latino bottoms on the cross trainers in front of me,” he replied smugly.
I frowned, I had an image of dis-embodied bottoms residing on the foot placement pads of the cross-trainer. “I take it they had women attached to them...”
“Yes the most perfect women you could imagine. I don’t know why they even have to go to the gym,” he said entering the fantasy dazed state.
“Well surely that is why they are perfect. They go to the gym daily and maintain their bodies - so therefore are ideal. If they didn’t go and ate pies they would probably look very different,” I replied
“Chicken and egg,” he said.
“So regarding these women’s bottoms... I sense that there is some kind of bottom hierarchy / measure to gauge the perfection of a bottom.”
“There are three types,” he replied.
Surely there had to be more than three types of bottom. Still I did not butt into the bottom flow.
“There is the Latino bottom, which is the ultimate in bottom. It is full, voluptuous and firm. There is plenty of meat on it. There is the Afro-Caribbean bottom. A similar kind of bottom, full, solid and beautiful and then there is the ‘other,’” he said with a smile.
There was a silence while I waited for his bottom measure elaboration / justification.
“The other comprises of all manner of bottom. You have the small Asian, the American cheerleader and many others. Three categories are more than enough for men to determine where something sits in terms of bottom,” he said with a definite nod.
I had honestly never considered a bottom hierarchy before. The office cheeky had changed my perception of the common bottom. “Okay what about men then?”
“There are two types: hairy and non hairy.”
How fair was that? There had to be more bottom categories for men.
“So tell me more about your motivation then,” I said allowing the male bottom hierarchy to churn in the back of my mind.
“Well being mesmerised by the bouncing bottoms, I realised I could divide my run into targets. When I achieved the first couple of kilometres I got the first one. The thought of her and her bottom kept me running. Then when I hit the second goal I was rewarded with the second beautiful bottom.”
I studied him; it was the office cheeky.... “You were rewarded with both weren’t you?”
He smiled a cheeky grin, “yep! Then when I got to the third...”
“Okay... I kind of get it...” I said before a full visual elaboration took place.
“The fantasy was fantastic... It worked really well apart from when I was running for the third posterial reward... Unfortunately the three of them finished training. I was so disappointed,” he said sadly.
“And let me guess an overly sweaty man arrived in a thong.”
“No... But it was a sad case. I ran faster to try and catch them,” he replied.
“You ran faster on a stationary treadmill to try and chase the Latino ladies?” I asked.
“Metaphorically yes. In my mind I ran through the treadmill and caught them all! It was amazing!”
“I think it would have been better if Mr sweaty and his white t-shirt had appeared. Or three flabby bottoms wobbled in front of you,” I said imagining it.
“Who is Mr Sweaty?”
“You have never heard of Mr Sweaty?”
He shook his head with a frown.
“He basically floods the area with sweat whenever he exercises. He is amazing. We once did an abs class and he sweated so hard that he created a sweat puddle. When he walked off he turned to us and said you know you have had a good work out when you have sweated. He often wears a white t-shirt which sticks to his hairy back. The hair sometimes makes patterns according to how he has been laying.”
“That is gross!” replied Office cheeky.
“He seems quite proud of it,” I replied.
Mr cheeky seemed absorbed by something.
“Okay what’s going on? Your eyes are wiggling... “I said.
“I am thinking... So how come some women wear lots of make- up to the gym and others don’t?” he asked seriously. Was there some kind of pattern?
“I have no real clue. Although my friend was saying about two women she saw at the gym. They were dressed in the smallest clothing, had done their hair and wore full evening make-up. They had rather pert parts and displayed braless- lycra-clad breastage. After they had posed around the gym she heard the pair of them in the stretching room saying ‘God men just stare all the time. They are such pervs. It really puts you off going to the gym!’”
The office cheeky looked dumbfounded, “but they are dressed like that – what do they expect? Men are visual! It is their instinct to look!”
He was right.
“As I said before men spend the majority of their time imagining women naked,” he said drifting into the glazed eye look.
“Yes I had a question about that... What even fat ones?” I said.
He shook his head and appeared to have a smell under his nose. “No they are invisible. They become an extension to a wall or a pillar. We just don’t see them. In fact we selectively filter to enable maximum naked fantasy of hottyness,” he said.
I shook my head, “that is not nice.”
“It is reality and truth... If a person wants to be imagined naked – make it nice for the fantasiser – I say!” he replied.
For a moment the pair of us sat in contemplation. I wondered how women perceived men at the gym. They grunted, a few posed but the majority appeared to exercise. In the meantime it was like a mental nudist camp for the men. How could the gym dynamic be sooo different for men and women?
The office hotty trotted past so I waved her over. “Do you go to the gym?”
“No,” she said.
“If you went to the gym would you wear make-up?”
“Probably,” she replied honestly.
“Do you know any women who wear make-up to the gym?” asked the office cheeky.
“Oh yes... One girl I know wears make-up and revealing clothing but that was because she fancied the instructor,” she replied
“Did it work?”
“Yes an escapee nipple resulted in her having a date and a cheeky kiss,” she said matter of factly.
Office cheeky and I gave each other a look. So by flashing your nipples at the gym instructor a person could get a date. I must have been bought up in a different era. It seemed the learnings I had had through my life had missed out that key fact. It was the same as the not running when taking part in a game of kiss chase. Hmmm maybe the gym was another equivalent to kiss chase in the exercise dynamic.
“The gym must attract two types – those who pose and those who actually want to exercise. Gym dating...” she said thinking about the make-up conundrum.
“Actually I was always bemused by a girl who used to come to the gym wearing Lycra with a leopard skin thong over the top. She used to saunter around the gym, stretch and bend over in front of the grunting men lifting weights. Suddenly it makes sense,” I said.
“Did they grunt louder went she bent over?” asked the office hotty.
“Yes much louder. Actually one time, at the same gym, one of the lycra-clad bending-over girls distracted a man on a treadmill who shot off the back and landed on my lap on the bike. It was quite funny really,” I said remembering how embarrassed the poor chap was.
“Really?”
The pair shook their heads.
“So how do you measure a man’s bottom? I mean in terms of pertness in the bottom hierarchy?” I asked the office hotty.
“Well there is peachy and not...”
“There must be more... Men have Latino, Afro-Caribbean and other for women,” I said.
“Other?” said with a bemused look.
“All the other categories,” I said.
“Let me just say there are lots of lovely bottoms in the ‘other’ category,” said the office cheeky.
“I think there are buns of steel, flat bottom and peachy,” I said thoughtfully considering the male bottom hierarchy.
The office hotty agreed. “I am not into the flat bottom. Just the peachy,” she said.
“There must be women who are specifically attracted to the flat bottom kind,” I said.
We all looked at each other. Was a woman attracted to a certain kind of bottom? What would determine that? It seemed the office hotty had developed a selective bottom filtration system. I had a tendency towards buns of steel and the walnut cracking kind. It seemed to tally in with the fact that I was fitness obsessed. She was curvaceous and had an attraction to a peachy bottom. I had never considered bottom hierarchy in the survival psyche. Nor had I realised that dangling a bottom on a stick was a key motivator for the male exerciser. I knew that sex was a motivator but I had one final question.”
“So if we created a man only gym with films of female bottoms playing repetition would the men get fit?”
“No. It isn’t real. You need the bouncing action to be real and close. That way we will fantasise about chasing it. It is all about the display and the potential.... It stops the pain in the limbs. You can ache like hell but you will keep chasing,” he said.
Hmmm. I smiled to myself.
“What happens if you get overly excited?” I asked.
“The treadmill will take care of that and eject you!”
I had never considered this before... I had never considered men running whilst excited... Was that possible? So I wrote on a pad “Can a man with an excited sausage run?” and handed it to the office comedian and the office cheeky.
Answer: ‘yes – when I was at school we had a swimming race. One of the kids had that same problem, jumped in the pool and won the race,’ said the office comedian.
I wonder whether he used it as a propeller....
Although, according to the office cheeky, there was more to it...
“I think I should explain...” he said thoughtfully. “There is a self safety process built in my system, it only needs a starting point where everything is calm before getting on the treadmill.... As a person gets more excited, the hope of getting the incentive grows, so you run faster putting all the extra blood to better use. Until that person thinks some more, gets more excited, runs faster, blood circulates ... And there you go a safety loop which is also the exercise driver ... and whole point behind the theory. Fantasy drives the physical!”
It made perfect sense.
“So what if a person is already het up?”
“Well that could prove sticky... If a person is already excited, then they will never start running until they take care of business manually. Or if they are half man and half amazing they will get the incentive to take care of business for them unfortunately the running becomes redundant.”
I was a little confused.
“So....”
“To answer your question regarding the sausage - no in all possible scenarios ... No running with a live hotdog,” he said.
How come the office comedian believed a person could run with an inflated extra leg and office cheeky was stumped by a hot dog in motion?
“But he says that his friend won a swimming competition whilst in a state of sausage excitement,” I replied.
The office cheeky rolled his eyes, “Water is a completely different medium with ,naturally, its own set of rules and theories ...”
I should have known!
In summary:
It seemed that motivation was more than just excitement. It seemed the simple suggestion that caused the lower regions to twitch could heighten a performance. But what did that mean? Did it mean that a person’s drive was stimulated by the potential physical reward? Was it primeval? Or was there something paramount that I was missing? Why were women so different? A woman would not necessarily run faster on a treadmill if three hot men were in front of her. If they were behind her she might run faster... Or she might slow down if she had been aware of the ideal strategy in kiss chase! Obviously these thoughts have distracted me. If you have answers to this conundrum I would love to know!
So to the morals of the story...
1) Place a large bottom on a stick to motivate a man to get fit.
2) Never be offended if your bottom falls into the other category.
3) Never run with an inflated hotdog unless you have the capability to use it as a propeller to win a swimming race.
Since the discussions Mr Cheeky has since informed that using a male appendage is unwise because it potentially could take the swimmer out of the water - kind of like a helicopter. "It should be more of a fin!" he said.
Monday, 23 May 2011
The mad, the bizarre and the down right wasted.
For the first time in my life I truly understood the expression as mad a hatter. Imagine parking your car opposite three people who are having a garage sale without a garage. Yes. So a number of undesirable items are lined up along the wall. Broken ornaments, an anarchy flag (everyone must have one of those) and a broken badminton bat... There were other items but they did not make a consumative impression on me...
The three people who had originated the idea accompanied their wall display with hardcore music played at full volume. A sales technique which is quite rare revealed highly energeticdancing which could be likened to jerking, spasms and tantrums. Every so often they sat down swigged a beer and then prepared for the next dance.
Subtely trying to park my car in a space that was coincidentally available oppsite the display, I tried to adopt my stealth departure. Unfortunately as I rounded a corner I stumbled upon three child-like drawings. Since I have a mind which feels the need to decode code I stood studying them. In red pen was writtem 'jellyusy is no need' no to discrmatv bevor,' and 4d+7d = somefing' A real puzzle if you ask me. In the centre there was a half drawn anarchy sign with eyelashes. If you can work that out you are a genius.
Since Boscombe has the ability to provide me than just human spectacle, I stood for a moment attempting fathom what it meant. That was my mistake. One of the spasmotic dancers spotted me and ran over. Well when I say ran is was more of a sideways stumble mixed with forward momentum. When she arrived she grinned at me wearing a top hat. Yes - TOP HAT!
'Hello do you like our drawings?'
Being polite I replied, 'I am just trying to work out what it says.'
'I am wasted.'
I studied the paper. I could not decipher those words.
'No I am wasted - been drinking and dancing. We did this to promote our garage sale. But I'm a bit drunk now.'
Okay - they were promoting their garage sale by not actually referencing a garage, having a garage, a sale or anything relating to it. Amazing cryptic clues - maybe they could enact a garage sale through charades too.
'I did that one,' she said pointing.
I nodded and considered my potential escape.
'It says not to be jealous... There is no point you see.'
She was right.
''cause jelousy makes you jealous.'
I could see the logic in that argument.
'I'm wearing a hat.'
'Yes you are... a top hat too.'
'I'm drunk. That bit says not to discrim in discrimin. Discrimin-hate...' she said with a belch. Discriminhate - that was pretty clever...
'That's a good attitude.' I replied.
'That one there was about dimensions and all the different dimensions. That is done by him over there... He likes his dimensions and his drugs.'
Oh brilliant... Lucky me falling into this conversation.
'I will be honest I don't really get it and I need to go and eat my tea.' I said.
She turned and gazed into my eyes, 'do you like it?'
What did a person say?
'I think the jealousy thing is very true. Jealousy does in actual fact make you jealous. Thank you. Right I have to go...'
She smiled, tipped her hat and stumbled back to the non garage sale.
I wandered home bemused and chatted to one of my friends on the phone about it. As much as I thought that was weird it turns out the person in a flat below her set off the fire-alarm with her cooking. When the three fire engines arrived she would not let them in. She then tried to stop the fire alarm by spraying airfreshner into it(at least it would smell nice) and later she was found hiding in a skip. How do you beat that?
I have to admit since moving to Boscombe I have had more writing material than a person could potentially wish for. Although as wonderful as it is, I often wonder about humanity and what the future holds. Then again - if it all goes to pot one can always hold a garage sale without a garage and advise random people not to get jealous. The posibilities are limitless!
Moral of the story jealously makes you jealous!
Moral of the story 2 Never ever stop and read promotional garage sale signs that do not relate to any garage.
Moral of the story 3 never park near to or next to anyone spasmotically dancing wearing a top hat at six in the evening....
The three people who had originated the idea accompanied their wall display with hardcore music played at full volume. A sales technique which is quite rare revealed highly energeticdancing which could be likened to jerking, spasms and tantrums. Every so often they sat down swigged a beer and then prepared for the next dance.
Subtely trying to park my car in a space that was coincidentally available oppsite the display, I tried to adopt my stealth departure. Unfortunately as I rounded a corner I stumbled upon three child-like drawings. Since I have a mind which feels the need to decode code I stood studying them. In red pen was writtem 'jellyusy is no need' no to discrmatv bevor,' and 4d+7d = somefing' A real puzzle if you ask me. In the centre there was a half drawn anarchy sign with eyelashes. If you can work that out you are a genius.
Since Boscombe has the ability to provide me than just human spectacle, I stood for a moment attempting fathom what it meant. That was my mistake. One of the spasmotic dancers spotted me and ran over. Well when I say ran is was more of a sideways stumble mixed with forward momentum. When she arrived she grinned at me wearing a top hat. Yes - TOP HAT!
'Hello do you like our drawings?'
Being polite I replied, 'I am just trying to work out what it says.'
'I am wasted.'
I studied the paper. I could not decipher those words.
'No I am wasted - been drinking and dancing. We did this to promote our garage sale. But I'm a bit drunk now.'
Okay - they were promoting their garage sale by not actually referencing a garage, having a garage, a sale or anything relating to it. Amazing cryptic clues - maybe they could enact a garage sale through charades too.
'I did that one,' she said pointing.
I nodded and considered my potential escape.
'It says not to be jealous... There is no point you see.'
She was right.
''cause jelousy makes you jealous.'
I could see the logic in that argument.
'I'm wearing a hat.'
'Yes you are... a top hat too.'
'I'm drunk. That bit says not to discrim in discrimin. Discrimin-hate...' she said with a belch. Discriminhate - that was pretty clever...
'That's a good attitude.' I replied.
'That one there was about dimensions and all the different dimensions. That is done by him over there... He likes his dimensions and his drugs.'
Oh brilliant... Lucky me falling into this conversation.
'I will be honest I don't really get it and I need to go and eat my tea.' I said.
She turned and gazed into my eyes, 'do you like it?'
What did a person say?
'I think the jealousy thing is very true. Jealousy does in actual fact make you jealous. Thank you. Right I have to go...'
She smiled, tipped her hat and stumbled back to the non garage sale.
I wandered home bemused and chatted to one of my friends on the phone about it. As much as I thought that was weird it turns out the person in a flat below her set off the fire-alarm with her cooking. When the three fire engines arrived she would not let them in. She then tried to stop the fire alarm by spraying airfreshner into it(at least it would smell nice) and later she was found hiding in a skip. How do you beat that?
I have to admit since moving to Boscombe I have had more writing material than a person could potentially wish for. Although as wonderful as it is, I often wonder about humanity and what the future holds. Then again - if it all goes to pot one can always hold a garage sale without a garage and advise random people not to get jealous. The posibilities are limitless!
Moral of the story jealously makes you jealous!
Moral of the story 2 Never ever stop and read promotional garage sale signs that do not relate to any garage.
Moral of the story 3 never park near to or next to anyone spasmotically dancing wearing a top hat at six in the evening....
Sunday, 22 May 2011
Too much thinking about thinking.
This turned up today when I was thinking about updating my status on facebook!
The question what is on your mind is a strange question. If something was on my mind then surely my mind would be like a bench or something solid. I think a better question would be what is wafting / floating or wandering through the 'what is' that is labelled as your mind... I think to much... Thinking too much is on my mind... How does that work. I will stop thinking about thinking - which means I am thinking about thinking!!! Help!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The question what is on your mind is a strange question. If something was on my mind then surely my mind would be like a bench or something solid. I think a better question would be what is wafting / floating or wandering through the 'what is' that is labelled as your mind... I think to much... Thinking too much is on my mind... How does that work. I will stop thinking about thinking - which means I am thinking about thinking!!! Help!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ego learning and the concept of remote control sea gulls!
Today has been a bit of a learning... I had never really understood how a person's ego could inflate to the size of a walrus... Yes it is possible for an ego to become that huge!
So after careful consideration I believe I should share my findings... So how many people are actually aware of how they come across? How many people are actually aware of why they do things? How many people are aware of how huge their ego is? Not me!
Yesterday I was in a rowing race and had a strange moment where I realised as much as we rowed as a team, during the race we all resided in our own personal reality. One girl was feeling not good enough and feared letting the team down. One had to lead and had the responsibility of setting the pace, another was angry because she was not reaching her full potential. I was enjoying the view - young hot men lugging boats around. What more could a woman in her thirties want?
During the race the girl who felt inadequate kept saying sorry... She seemed to be living her own personal hell until her arm ceased up... There it was - bang - an excuse... A way out.
All the while, I was enjoying the view. Obviously we did not win the race but it was interesting how the team dynamic developed once we stepped ashore. I thought the race was great - there was a nice view, I had raced and had been out on the water and survived. The lady who felt bad was justifying why it had not gone well, another sulked whilst another was angry... In the meantime, I trundled around wondering what goes on in people's minds and why it matters so much to win...
While I was thinking deeply I was asked to spend an hour on the rescue boat. "what do you want me to do?" I asked.
"Rescue people and stop them dying," was the reply.
So I set about stopping people from dying. In doing so I climbed into the rescue boat with a chap who, not being rude, seemed to have no clue how to drive it. A few moments later the engine cut out in the middle of the race. There we floated with six racing boats hammering at us at full speed. How does one react to that?
The boat driver frantically tried to start the engine... I noticed some paddles and watched the chap panic. In the end I just thought - the worst that can happen is a collision and I get to fish hot men out of the water. I also had an excuse to practice mouth to mouth under the excuse of 'I am trying to stop you dying - that is my job you know!'
The collision did not happen but our rescue boat was rescued and the boat driver's ego was bruised. He also kept apologising and told me how out of control he felt. Surely life is out of control and any form of control in chaos is an illusion... What I did notice was how the ego was hurt with failiure or perceived failiure... A bit later I climbed the pontoon and strolled back to the picturesque site of athletic bodies and burgers.
Later that day, after dwelling on egos, the egosaurus appeared on the scene. The person who told us how great they were, how everyone else was lesser than them and how they were at a higher level... In truth it was hideous - but if life is a reflection of ourselves I had to consider where my own ego sat in a boat and how egotistical rantings affected others... In truth, unless we are aware of ourselves we often do not catch our behaviour... I often behave as though I can save the world, am a gold medal winner in the olympics and am an internationally renown author... Unfortunately, after witnessing the egosaurus, something dawned on me - we only see these things because that is part of ourselves... So with great reluctance one needs to face the ego monster and face the reality - one can save the world one tree at a time. Winning an olympic gold medal in chatting about random things is probably not likely. Being an internationally renown author may happen one day but it has not happened yet. So I will re-focus my energies on what is and what is actually possible!
So I just invented something amazing: a remote control seagull that you can use to shit on those whose egos are huge - it could be a best seller. What do you think?
Here is a link to RETINA BLUE AND GOYLEGATE - You could help me become an internationally renown author so I do not have to have the remote control seagull put into production!!!!
So after careful consideration I believe I should share my findings... So how many people are actually aware of how they come across? How many people are actually aware of why they do things? How many people are aware of how huge their ego is? Not me!
Yesterday I was in a rowing race and had a strange moment where I realised as much as we rowed as a team, during the race we all resided in our own personal reality. One girl was feeling not good enough and feared letting the team down. One had to lead and had the responsibility of setting the pace, another was angry because she was not reaching her full potential. I was enjoying the view - young hot men lugging boats around. What more could a woman in her thirties want?
During the race the girl who felt inadequate kept saying sorry... She seemed to be living her own personal hell until her arm ceased up... There it was - bang - an excuse... A way out.
All the while, I was enjoying the view. Obviously we did not win the race but it was interesting how the team dynamic developed once we stepped ashore. I thought the race was great - there was a nice view, I had raced and had been out on the water and survived. The lady who felt bad was justifying why it had not gone well, another sulked whilst another was angry... In the meantime, I trundled around wondering what goes on in people's minds and why it matters so much to win...
While I was thinking deeply I was asked to spend an hour on the rescue boat. "what do you want me to do?" I asked.
"Rescue people and stop them dying," was the reply.
So I set about stopping people from dying. In doing so I climbed into the rescue boat with a chap who, not being rude, seemed to have no clue how to drive it. A few moments later the engine cut out in the middle of the race. There we floated with six racing boats hammering at us at full speed. How does one react to that?
The boat driver frantically tried to start the engine... I noticed some paddles and watched the chap panic. In the end I just thought - the worst that can happen is a collision and I get to fish hot men out of the water. I also had an excuse to practice mouth to mouth under the excuse of 'I am trying to stop you dying - that is my job you know!'
The collision did not happen but our rescue boat was rescued and the boat driver's ego was bruised. He also kept apologising and told me how out of control he felt. Surely life is out of control and any form of control in chaos is an illusion... What I did notice was how the ego was hurt with failiure or perceived failiure... A bit later I climbed the pontoon and strolled back to the picturesque site of athletic bodies and burgers.
Later that day, after dwelling on egos, the egosaurus appeared on the scene. The person who told us how great they were, how everyone else was lesser than them and how they were at a higher level... In truth it was hideous - but if life is a reflection of ourselves I had to consider where my own ego sat in a boat and how egotistical rantings affected others... In truth, unless we are aware of ourselves we often do not catch our behaviour... I often behave as though I can save the world, am a gold medal winner in the olympics and am an internationally renown author... Unfortunately, after witnessing the egosaurus, something dawned on me - we only see these things because that is part of ourselves... So with great reluctance one needs to face the ego monster and face the reality - one can save the world one tree at a time. Winning an olympic gold medal in chatting about random things is probably not likely. Being an internationally renown author may happen one day but it has not happened yet. So I will re-focus my energies on what is and what is actually possible!
So I just invented something amazing: a remote control seagull that you can use to shit on those whose egos are huge - it could be a best seller. What do you think?
Here is a link to RETINA BLUE AND GOYLEGATE - You could help me become an internationally renown author so I do not have to have the remote control seagull put into production!!!!
Wednesday, 11 May 2011
THE ART OF SHOE SNIFFING AND GENERAL OFFICE HYSTERIA
Shoe sniffing and general office hysteria.
When you come to work at eight in the morning to be greeted by a mass of people sniffing a shoe you realise that mass office hysteria has most definitely broken out. Admittedly it was a strange sight but it did demand attention. How often have you witnessed a line of people waiting to sniff a shoe? Shoe sniffing - is that some metaphor or had Cinderella found a new way of identification?
After each person had sniffed the shoe another lined up to sniff it. “Mmmm that is really nice,” said one.
“ I never knew shoes could smell so good,” said another.
The queue grew… I understand that in England we have a tendency to queue but that has to be one of the most ridiculous reasons to join other than to see why everyone is queuing. As much as I was resistant I was also curious. Why was everyone sniffing a shoe and why was everyone coming away smiling?
The office hotty stood proudly waving her fragrant shoe under people’s noses. When I reached the said shoe I studied it – it was pink with a heart on the top – of course it was perfect office attire. Well perfect office attire for male distraction and fantasy.
After studying the shoe, I leant forward and sniffed. My goodness…. What did I discover? It was not a game of sabotage –the office hotty had not trodden in dog mess and being vicious – instead the shoe smelled like bubble gum – yes bubble gum!
“I cannot believe people are lined up to sniff your shoe – no one lines up to sniff my trainers…” Obviously the aroma is not quite so enticing – instead of a smell of bubble gum my trainers smell like dog breath mixed with death and rotten sprouts. Although in a twisted way I would love the same people to sniff those trainers so that they could make the comparison! Of course that is me being a bit ‘dark’.
“Yes it is bubblegum flavour shoes,” said the office hotty.
I glanced down at my trainers, “I have rotten sprout flavour trainers. Does anyone want to sniff?”
The line dispersed but numerous women still clambered to study the beautiful shoe form before them. It was as if the shoe had descended from heaven its self“Vivienne Westwood,” said the office hotty with a coy smile.
The other women oooooed and ahhhhhhhhhhhed – they were grateful to simply have touched an expensive shoe.
In that moment I experienced an epiphany… When people fall at other people’s feet it is because their shoes smell of bubblegum rather or perfume rather than dog’s arse.
After that I went for a coffee to digest the fragrant shoe phenomenon. I studied people’s shoes and wondered whether there was a definitive guide to shoe selection and whether a person could be profiled according to shoe. Did the shoe actually correlate to the office type? The office hotty wore decorative feminine shoes. The office stinker probably wore stinky shoes – oh crap that makes me the office stinker doesn’t it? I am not the office stinker – I promise - I do have office observer shoes too. They have binoculars on the front… Actually that was a joke. The office bore probably has grey dull shoes. The office efficient will probably have clean patent shoes.
Does the office comedian wear clown shoes? Hmmm I feel that a study of shoes in relation to office personality profile might be necessary. Although if a person knew a shoe profile could they create decoys? Hmmm I wonder if the office strumpet wears leopard skin shoes. Obviously office little and cute wears small shoes because their feet are so small but those shoes will be psychologically selected to exude more cuteness…. There is a whole world of shoe profiling potential that I had never recognised before. How had I missed it?
A whole new study of potential personality profiling has opened up… Shoe spotting could reveal power dynamics… How am I going to cope with this new observatory knowledge? What else will be sniffing in the office next? Shoes today – what tomorrow… Office sniffing hysteria has infected everyone! Pheww… It is too much – I have to focus on metrics and graphs. That way I will not be overwhelmed by the potential of the shoe and shoe aroma in the office dynamic!
Moral of the story when sniffing shoes make sure they smell of perfume before sniffing.
Moral of the story two – never join a queue unless you know what it is for – you may be forced to sniff my trainers!
Moral of the story three – wear good shoes at all times otherwise you may unintentionally fall into the role of the office stinker without even realising it!
.
When you come to work at eight in the morning to be greeted by a mass of people sniffing a shoe you realise that mass office hysteria has most definitely broken out. Admittedly it was a strange sight but it did demand attention. How often have you witnessed a line of people waiting to sniff a shoe? Shoe sniffing - is that some metaphor or had Cinderella found a new way of identification?
After each person had sniffed the shoe another lined up to sniff it. “Mmmm that is really nice,” said one.
“ I never knew shoes could smell so good,” said another.
The queue grew… I understand that in England we have a tendency to queue but that has to be one of the most ridiculous reasons to join other than to see why everyone is queuing. As much as I was resistant I was also curious. Why was everyone sniffing a shoe and why was everyone coming away smiling?
The office hotty stood proudly waving her fragrant shoe under people’s noses. When I reached the said shoe I studied it – it was pink with a heart on the top – of course it was perfect office attire. Well perfect office attire for male distraction and fantasy.
After studying the shoe, I leant forward and sniffed. My goodness…. What did I discover? It was not a game of sabotage –the office hotty had not trodden in dog mess and being vicious – instead the shoe smelled like bubble gum – yes bubble gum!
“I cannot believe people are lined up to sniff your shoe – no one lines up to sniff my trainers…” Obviously the aroma is not quite so enticing – instead of a smell of bubble gum my trainers smell like dog breath mixed with death and rotten sprouts. Although in a twisted way I would love the same people to sniff those trainers so that they could make the comparison! Of course that is me being a bit ‘dark’.
“Yes it is bubblegum flavour shoes,” said the office hotty.
I glanced down at my trainers, “I have rotten sprout flavour trainers. Does anyone want to sniff?”
The line dispersed but numerous women still clambered to study the beautiful shoe form before them. It was as if the shoe had descended from heaven its self“Vivienne Westwood,” said the office hotty with a coy smile.
The other women oooooed and ahhhhhhhhhhhed – they were grateful to simply have touched an expensive shoe.
In that moment I experienced an epiphany… When people fall at other people’s feet it is because their shoes smell of bubblegum rather or perfume rather than dog’s arse.
After that I went for a coffee to digest the fragrant shoe phenomenon. I studied people’s shoes and wondered whether there was a definitive guide to shoe selection and whether a person could be profiled according to shoe. Did the shoe actually correlate to the office type? The office hotty wore decorative feminine shoes. The office stinker probably wore stinky shoes – oh crap that makes me the office stinker doesn’t it? I am not the office stinker – I promise - I do have office observer shoes too. They have binoculars on the front… Actually that was a joke. The office bore probably has grey dull shoes. The office efficient will probably have clean patent shoes.
Does the office comedian wear clown shoes? Hmmm I feel that a study of shoes in relation to office personality profile might be necessary. Although if a person knew a shoe profile could they create decoys? Hmmm I wonder if the office strumpet wears leopard skin shoes. Obviously office little and cute wears small shoes because their feet are so small but those shoes will be psychologically selected to exude more cuteness…. There is a whole world of shoe profiling potential that I had never recognised before. How had I missed it?
A whole new study of potential personality profiling has opened up… Shoe spotting could reveal power dynamics… How am I going to cope with this new observatory knowledge? What else will be sniffing in the office next? Shoes today – what tomorrow… Office sniffing hysteria has infected everyone! Pheww… It is too much – I have to focus on metrics and graphs. That way I will not be overwhelmed by the potential of the shoe and shoe aroma in the office dynamic!
Moral of the story when sniffing shoes make sure they smell of perfume before sniffing.
Moral of the story two – never join a queue unless you know what it is for – you may be forced to sniff my trainers!
Moral of the story three – wear good shoes at all times otherwise you may unintentionally fall into the role of the office stinker without even realising it!
.
Sunday, 24 April 2011
TECHNIQUES TO AVOID PROMOTION!
How to ruin any chance of promotion.
Well it seems that in most offices there are people lined up to nut nuzzle, schmooze or woo the boss to be promoted. I find it interesting how the office back stabber and office nut nuzzler (brown nose) seem to be in allegiance until it comes down to a final show down. In the meantime, the office strumpet is practically shimmying about the office attempting to hypnotise the boss with booosoka shuffling. It can either entice the boss or result in motion sickness – it all depends on rate of motion and angle. Unfortunately, for the office strumpet, she usually misses the position because she is already lying on her back with some other high-ranking, married superior who offers power potential through association.
All the while the office victim is telling stories of how she has been overlooked for promotion ten years in a row and how nothing good ever happens to her. The office efficient is planning her secret efficient strategy. The office bore is telling a three-hour self-amused story of the day he once heard that someone might have been promoted – which was actually him. In that monologue he deviates numerous times and forgets what he was actually trying to tell you. To him it is incredibly amusing but to others they would rather have hair ripped from their private parts. At that point, the rest of the team are standing by the window trying to work out how they can escape through the bombproof glass without actually dying… Why does no one ever bring long ropes and glass cutters to the office for such necessary escape eventuality?
So of course while the majority of the team consider abseiling twenty floors to escape the office bore, the office backstabber and nut nuzzle are freed up to do their thing! When it comes to being under pressure to get promotion both will return to their natural behaviour: the back stabber prepares to backstab the nut nuzzler. However, all animals have survival techniques and the nut nuzzler has cleverly adopted his natural instinct to survive. He has already bent over and has adopted the brown nosing position behind the back stabber. Obviously, the back stabber receives pleasure from this action but the reward for promotion is greater than having your ego massaged internally using a nose. From the observers point of view the pair resemble the snake trying to eat its own tail and a no win situation ensues. The backstabber is unable to backstab the nut nuzzler because he is practically absorbed in her behind. The backstabber has essentially become a living hat. What’s more, you cannot backstab yourself and it is hard to backstab someone standing behind you unless you are a martial artist and can do a good back flip at the perfect time. While all this is taking place I realised that promotion simply means more work. It also means more responsibility, more stress and less time to write blogs about what takes place in the office. What at first seemed to be an unintentional technique to avoid promotion has revealed it is my natural tendency. How can the office observer observe if they are working flat out? So if you do want to be promoted do not do any of the below:
• Do not send pictures of dogs in wigs to your boss, especially if he has no hair or wears a wig himself. If the boss is a woman, she may also be offended because she may interpret that you are likening her to a dog. Admittedly, it was a great idea at the time but a dog in a wig does nothing to convince your boss of leadership skills, other than leadership of dogs in wigs. What’s more, do not sit hysterically laughing at the array of dogs you have found on the internet when you are supposed to be working towards a crucial presentation, which does not involve said dogs in wigs. It could actually suggest that you are evolving into the office I do diddlysquat.
• When disclosing psychological techniques for delivering bad news do not say anything actually offensive directly to you boss. The sandwich technique is a classic technique where you sandwich the bad news between two pieces of good news. Take for example the following delivery, which I gave my boss as an example. “So how you deliver the bad news is like this: that is a nice shirt, yep you’re ugly as sin, but you have nice shoes.”
“Hang on that’s a bit harsh…”
In that moment, I realised my choice of bad news was not terribly thought through. I had essentially told my boss that he was ugly. Oh God!!!!!!!!!!!!! (He isn’t at all. He is actually quite handsome. Oooops!”
And that was when the digging begins… The hole was already deep and was becoming a well.
‘No not you… You are actually good looking – but you know that. You must know that. No, you are definitely not ugly as sin. It was just an example of bad news… It just popped into my head… Oh God! Please do not be offended. Your wife must think you are good looking… She married you didn’t she? See that is more evidence of you not being ugly as sin. Admittedly, she might have really liked your personality. I did not just say that… Oh God… You are a good-looking man… You don’t need me to tell you that…’
Dig, dig, dig.
The hole wasn’t just deep - it was becoming a well.
Silence.
Intensive blushing.
Nervous laughter and time to involve the team and get them away from the window and the office bore.
“He’s good looking isn’t he? He’s not ugly as sin.”
The teammates gazed at me in horror as I continued to justify what I said. Promotion for miss dry… Pahhhh! No chance! Bus trip to work banishment – oh one ticket please! No return!
When you actively involve teammates to justify the horrifying thing you have just said by accident you know it has all gone wrong. In that moment of silence, I realised there was no saving the situation.
“Look over there,” I said pointing. They all looked over there and I hid under the desk. (Actually, I made that up, but thinking about it… That is what I will do in the future). Anyway, from now on I will bring in my own tumbleweed and roll it around the office!
• Alternatively, you can evolve into the role of office stinker and repel everyone on a daily basis. You will definitely not even be called into potential promotion interview through the boss’s fear of being stuck in a confined space with a hideous stench.
• If you really do not want to avoid promotion just make a massive mistake with your name on. When I worked as a temp, I once made a payment of eight hundred dollars to the wrong account. I was beside myself and instantly ran over to my previous boss and apologised profusely. She turned to me and smiled. ‘That is cannon fodder Michelle, I once paid the wrong account eight one million. Strangely, she was a boss… Hmm… Thinking about it – maybe my theory is not perfect! In fact, maybe my antics will keep me in the mind of the boss and get me a promotion that I do not really want. Actually too late – office power-hungry has convinced everyone of her true potential and as always, she has taken no prisoners. The backstabber can never backstab her because she knows that power hungry will lift her by the throat and stare into her eyes like Darth Vader! There will be deep breathing and there will be power surges through the office that no one can actually explain.
So moral of the story: bring long ropes and glasscutters to work. The action of considering escape from the office bores three-hour monologue will endear you to the team and create the perfect teambuilding escape strategy.
Moral of the story two – when laughing hysterically at images of dogs in wigs and fancy dress – go to the bathroom and laugh. Do not share the images with boss or anyone with hair depreciation.
Moral of the story three – when offending a person of a higher title than you – make sure you sandwich it, have and escape route or offer them the office strumpet as a distraction for offense – that is if she is not already being taken by anyone else.
Well it seems that in most offices there are people lined up to nut nuzzle, schmooze or woo the boss to be promoted. I find it interesting how the office back stabber and office nut nuzzler (brown nose) seem to be in allegiance until it comes down to a final show down. In the meantime, the office strumpet is practically shimmying about the office attempting to hypnotise the boss with booosoka shuffling. It can either entice the boss or result in motion sickness – it all depends on rate of motion and angle. Unfortunately, for the office strumpet, she usually misses the position because she is already lying on her back with some other high-ranking, married superior who offers power potential through association.
All the while the office victim is telling stories of how she has been overlooked for promotion ten years in a row and how nothing good ever happens to her. The office efficient is planning her secret efficient strategy. The office bore is telling a three-hour self-amused story of the day he once heard that someone might have been promoted – which was actually him. In that monologue he deviates numerous times and forgets what he was actually trying to tell you. To him it is incredibly amusing but to others they would rather have hair ripped from their private parts. At that point, the rest of the team are standing by the window trying to work out how they can escape through the bombproof glass without actually dying… Why does no one ever bring long ropes and glass cutters to the office for such necessary escape eventuality?
So of course while the majority of the team consider abseiling twenty floors to escape the office bore, the office backstabber and nut nuzzle are freed up to do their thing! When it comes to being under pressure to get promotion both will return to their natural behaviour: the back stabber prepares to backstab the nut nuzzler. However, all animals have survival techniques and the nut nuzzler has cleverly adopted his natural instinct to survive. He has already bent over and has adopted the brown nosing position behind the back stabber. Obviously, the back stabber receives pleasure from this action but the reward for promotion is greater than having your ego massaged internally using a nose. From the observers point of view the pair resemble the snake trying to eat its own tail and a no win situation ensues. The backstabber is unable to backstab the nut nuzzler because he is practically absorbed in her behind. The backstabber has essentially become a living hat. What’s more, you cannot backstab yourself and it is hard to backstab someone standing behind you unless you are a martial artist and can do a good back flip at the perfect time. While all this is taking place I realised that promotion simply means more work. It also means more responsibility, more stress and less time to write blogs about what takes place in the office. What at first seemed to be an unintentional technique to avoid promotion has revealed it is my natural tendency. How can the office observer observe if they are working flat out? So if you do want to be promoted do not do any of the below:
• Do not send pictures of dogs in wigs to your boss, especially if he has no hair or wears a wig himself. If the boss is a woman, she may also be offended because she may interpret that you are likening her to a dog. Admittedly, it was a great idea at the time but a dog in a wig does nothing to convince your boss of leadership skills, other than leadership of dogs in wigs. What’s more, do not sit hysterically laughing at the array of dogs you have found on the internet when you are supposed to be working towards a crucial presentation, which does not involve said dogs in wigs. It could actually suggest that you are evolving into the office I do diddlysquat.
• When disclosing psychological techniques for delivering bad news do not say anything actually offensive directly to you boss. The sandwich technique is a classic technique where you sandwich the bad news between two pieces of good news. Take for example the following delivery, which I gave my boss as an example. “So how you deliver the bad news is like this: that is a nice shirt, yep you’re ugly as sin, but you have nice shoes.”
“Hang on that’s a bit harsh…”
In that moment, I realised my choice of bad news was not terribly thought through. I had essentially told my boss that he was ugly. Oh God!!!!!!!!!!!!! (He isn’t at all. He is actually quite handsome. Oooops!”
And that was when the digging begins… The hole was already deep and was becoming a well.
‘No not you… You are actually good looking – but you know that. You must know that. No, you are definitely not ugly as sin. It was just an example of bad news… It just popped into my head… Oh God! Please do not be offended. Your wife must think you are good looking… She married you didn’t she? See that is more evidence of you not being ugly as sin. Admittedly, she might have really liked your personality. I did not just say that… Oh God… You are a good-looking man… You don’t need me to tell you that…’
Dig, dig, dig.
The hole wasn’t just deep - it was becoming a well.
Silence.
Intensive blushing.
Nervous laughter and time to involve the team and get them away from the window and the office bore.
“He’s good looking isn’t he? He’s not ugly as sin.”
The teammates gazed at me in horror as I continued to justify what I said. Promotion for miss dry… Pahhhh! No chance! Bus trip to work banishment – oh one ticket please! No return!
When you actively involve teammates to justify the horrifying thing you have just said by accident you know it has all gone wrong. In that moment of silence, I realised there was no saving the situation.
“Look over there,” I said pointing. They all looked over there and I hid under the desk. (Actually, I made that up, but thinking about it… That is what I will do in the future). Anyway, from now on I will bring in my own tumbleweed and roll it around the office!
• Alternatively, you can evolve into the role of office stinker and repel everyone on a daily basis. You will definitely not even be called into potential promotion interview through the boss’s fear of being stuck in a confined space with a hideous stench.
• If you really do not want to avoid promotion just make a massive mistake with your name on. When I worked as a temp, I once made a payment of eight hundred dollars to the wrong account. I was beside myself and instantly ran over to my previous boss and apologised profusely. She turned to me and smiled. ‘That is cannon fodder Michelle, I once paid the wrong account eight one million. Strangely, she was a boss… Hmm… Thinking about it – maybe my theory is not perfect! In fact, maybe my antics will keep me in the mind of the boss and get me a promotion that I do not really want. Actually too late – office power-hungry has convinced everyone of her true potential and as always, she has taken no prisoners. The backstabber can never backstab her because she knows that power hungry will lift her by the throat and stare into her eyes like Darth Vader! There will be deep breathing and there will be power surges through the office that no one can actually explain.
So moral of the story: bring long ropes and glasscutters to work. The action of considering escape from the office bores three-hour monologue will endear you to the team and create the perfect teambuilding escape strategy.
Moral of the story two – when laughing hysterically at images of dogs in wigs and fancy dress – go to the bathroom and laugh. Do not share the images with boss or anyone with hair depreciation.
Moral of the story three – when offending a person of a higher title than you – make sure you sandwich it, have and escape route or offer them the office strumpet as a distraction for offense – that is if she is not already being taken by anyone else.
Thursday, 21 April 2011
TOILET OF TERROR!
The office toilet dynamic and the curious incident of the nostril violator.
Whether we like it or not, we all, during the course of the day, have to visit the office loo. To be honest if I did not have to go I would avoid the toiletry dynamic at all costs. So today, as with every other day I have ventured into the toilet of terror! Yes it is the toilet of terror. You never know who, what or how you are going to find this loo. What’s more, when you do venture there it is often the case that cleaning is in progress and the appropriate ‘you must cross your legs and wait’ sign is stuck to the door. Now when you have a cleaning sign on the door you generally make the assumption that cleaning is taking place. I believe this cleaner may well be the anti-thesis of cleaning and goes in there and destroys the area. In actual fact I think she goes in there and sprays nostril violation stink bombs and throws toilet paper on the floor so it can get stuck to your shoes.
When I have finally managed to access the toilet of terror, I have noticed some common themes that appear to be repeat toiletry patterns. The end loo is always taken by someone sitting rustling loo roll. That in toiletry terms means it is time to evacuate the area – women and children first and I am letting you know of an impending posterior tragedy. Also if anyone passes wind in the bathroom they generally have a tendency to stay in the cubicle until any potential witnesses have left. If miss vanity is in the loo the rips-snorter creator is likely to be in the toilet most of the day.
Talking of the office vanity, she seems to spend the majority of the day studying her non-existent zits in the mirror. She applies make-up on make-up and adjusts, readjusts and adjusts her clothing. Her hair is endlessly brushed and lip gloss is applied then re-applied and applied again. Some call it applying the slap, I would say that is a defensive technique to buffer the slap that she deserves for allowing other people to sweat blood while she makes herself look nice. What’s more, she gets away with this by fluttering her false eyelashes and smelling nice. In one office I worked in we had to type a code into the phone to collate the time that we spent in the loo. This then became a metric and each person’s time in the loo was added up and added to a chart. One particular girl was called into a meeting and asked her to justify her average time spent in the loo.
I just walked into the ‘restroom’ to find the office ‘I am on a diet’ studying her bottom in the mirror. Clenching one’s bottom cheeks does not change the size of the bottom, only the shape. It you wear cheap trousers clenching will only reveal cellulite and make it look like a squashed organge, so don’t do it. Now, something I have noticed is that when women look in mirrors they adopt what I now call ‘the my best slim face. ‘ They suck in their cheeks and kind of do an ‘I’m in a magazine pose.’ What’s more, it seems that all women do this – no exception – the old, the ugly, the strumpet the cute – all of them! They also have a tendency to look at themselves from a three-quarter angle and lift up the closest shoulder. Some look hunched others look like pin-ups others… Well… We won’t go there. Many also tip their head to hide double chins. I guess that I notice this because for years I worked as a photographer on cruise ships. And when it came to photographing portly women I had to stand on something tall and make them look up to avoid capturing extra chins or hanging skin. Obviously sometimes you might have to consider standing on the ship’s funnel to get the best angle and distance but you had to do what you had to do to get the best shot. At one time I was re-touching and asked to add a whole head of hair to a bald man… I have also had to remove every wrinkle from and eighty year old… Try doing that when she had probably spent about sixty years in the sun!
Sorry I deviated from the bathroom. In the toilet of terror there is often the moment of loo role lack. I have heard people whimper ‘hello… Is anyone there… There is no loo roll in here…’
Now what I do wonder is who in their right mind would choose to clean loos? There must be other alternatives than loos. One particular cleaner I met at a previous work place was amazing. She interpreted the little messages from the loo. Rather than reading tea leaves she could read other things and offer her opinion on your life and diet… She could tell you about your state of health according to colour, texture and consistency. I never took my opportunity to have this done because I did not comprehend how the shape of my intestine could actually shape my life. Also I have never felt the need to share my posterial creations with strangers…
Talking of that… I do have a real issue with those who do not flush the loo. Now what is going on with that? Is it that people are proud, want to show off or simply torture others? There is nothing worse than walking into a loo with an item floating there which has not flushed. Admittedly most people’s reaction is to turn and walk away. Please flush it because it will affect other people’s days. In terms of being kind to your fellow humans - why allow them to experience the horror that you have experienced too? Now what people don’t actually know – apparently – is that if you repeatedly pump the flush button it will eventually flush. Effort in will result in a full flush…. Wow! Amazing!
Has anyone else ever witnessed the competition between length and force of peeing sound whilst other women visit the loo? Personally I have a tendency to suffer stage fright when others are present and have to really concentrate to allow anything to happen. Others seem to have the tendency to simply go for it and let loose. The sheer force and power behind it can lead me to a number of conclusions: they drank a river. Somewhere in their lineage they adopted a horse genetic. Or they have the pelvic floor of steel. I think the power-pee-er is more than likely the office power hungry because even in the bathroom her insecurity is demonstrated by the sheer force of her peeing skills.
Hovering… I understand that when we actually consider all the different bear behinds that have sat on toilet seats is quite disturbing, but hovering is not the answer. It seems that women who wish to strengthen their thighs and have no contact with the evil loo, often go for the hover, but the truth is hovering is selfish. Honestly how good are you at aiming? You might have a pelvic floor which could shoot a basketball but that is a rare phenomenon and you are messing up the loo for others and giving the anti-thesis cleaner no change to make her own mess!
Now I have just witnessed the ultimate in the bathroom, a woman who simply adjusted her tone and almost created a cyclic hum with her number one production. I am actually astounded – how did she learn that? Is it a natural talent?
What I would like to know is whether anyone else notices this stuff going on? Or is it that the office observer simply notices everything because they it is intrinsic to them.
Moral of the story: don’t visit the toilet of terror if you want to remain emotionally unaffected.
Moral of the story two: to compete in the power pee Olympics do numerous pelvic floor exercises at the desk. Build up your skills to shooting basketballs and only then compete!
Moral of the story three – develop a bladder of steel which can last nine hours without any visits. You will impress your boss because of how long you spend at the desk
Moral of the story four: bring your own potty to the desk.
Whether we like it or not, we all, during the course of the day, have to visit the office loo. To be honest if I did not have to go I would avoid the toiletry dynamic at all costs. So today, as with every other day I have ventured into the toilet of terror! Yes it is the toilet of terror. You never know who, what or how you are going to find this loo. What’s more, when you do venture there it is often the case that cleaning is in progress and the appropriate ‘you must cross your legs and wait’ sign is stuck to the door. Now when you have a cleaning sign on the door you generally make the assumption that cleaning is taking place. I believe this cleaner may well be the anti-thesis of cleaning and goes in there and destroys the area. In actual fact I think she goes in there and sprays nostril violation stink bombs and throws toilet paper on the floor so it can get stuck to your shoes.
When I have finally managed to access the toilet of terror, I have noticed some common themes that appear to be repeat toiletry patterns. The end loo is always taken by someone sitting rustling loo roll. That in toiletry terms means it is time to evacuate the area – women and children first and I am letting you know of an impending posterior tragedy. Also if anyone passes wind in the bathroom they generally have a tendency to stay in the cubicle until any potential witnesses have left. If miss vanity is in the loo the rips-snorter creator is likely to be in the toilet most of the day.
Talking of the office vanity, she seems to spend the majority of the day studying her non-existent zits in the mirror. She applies make-up on make-up and adjusts, readjusts and adjusts her clothing. Her hair is endlessly brushed and lip gloss is applied then re-applied and applied again. Some call it applying the slap, I would say that is a defensive technique to buffer the slap that she deserves for allowing other people to sweat blood while she makes herself look nice. What’s more, she gets away with this by fluttering her false eyelashes and smelling nice. In one office I worked in we had to type a code into the phone to collate the time that we spent in the loo. This then became a metric and each person’s time in the loo was added up and added to a chart. One particular girl was called into a meeting and asked her to justify her average time spent in the loo.
I just walked into the ‘restroom’ to find the office ‘I am on a diet’ studying her bottom in the mirror. Clenching one’s bottom cheeks does not change the size of the bottom, only the shape. It you wear cheap trousers clenching will only reveal cellulite and make it look like a squashed organge, so don’t do it. Now, something I have noticed is that when women look in mirrors they adopt what I now call ‘the my best slim face. ‘ They suck in their cheeks and kind of do an ‘I’m in a magazine pose.’ What’s more, it seems that all women do this – no exception – the old, the ugly, the strumpet the cute – all of them! They also have a tendency to look at themselves from a three-quarter angle and lift up the closest shoulder. Some look hunched others look like pin-ups others… Well… We won’t go there. Many also tip their head to hide double chins. I guess that I notice this because for years I worked as a photographer on cruise ships. And when it came to photographing portly women I had to stand on something tall and make them look up to avoid capturing extra chins or hanging skin. Obviously sometimes you might have to consider standing on the ship’s funnel to get the best angle and distance but you had to do what you had to do to get the best shot. At one time I was re-touching and asked to add a whole head of hair to a bald man… I have also had to remove every wrinkle from and eighty year old… Try doing that when she had probably spent about sixty years in the sun!
Sorry I deviated from the bathroom. In the toilet of terror there is often the moment of loo role lack. I have heard people whimper ‘hello… Is anyone there… There is no loo roll in here…’
Now what I do wonder is who in their right mind would choose to clean loos? There must be other alternatives than loos. One particular cleaner I met at a previous work place was amazing. She interpreted the little messages from the loo. Rather than reading tea leaves she could read other things and offer her opinion on your life and diet… She could tell you about your state of health according to colour, texture and consistency. I never took my opportunity to have this done because I did not comprehend how the shape of my intestine could actually shape my life. Also I have never felt the need to share my posterial creations with strangers…
Talking of that… I do have a real issue with those who do not flush the loo. Now what is going on with that? Is it that people are proud, want to show off or simply torture others? There is nothing worse than walking into a loo with an item floating there which has not flushed. Admittedly most people’s reaction is to turn and walk away. Please flush it because it will affect other people’s days. In terms of being kind to your fellow humans - why allow them to experience the horror that you have experienced too? Now what people don’t actually know – apparently – is that if you repeatedly pump the flush button it will eventually flush. Effort in will result in a full flush…. Wow! Amazing!
Has anyone else ever witnessed the competition between length and force of peeing sound whilst other women visit the loo? Personally I have a tendency to suffer stage fright when others are present and have to really concentrate to allow anything to happen. Others seem to have the tendency to simply go for it and let loose. The sheer force and power behind it can lead me to a number of conclusions: they drank a river. Somewhere in their lineage they adopted a horse genetic. Or they have the pelvic floor of steel. I think the power-pee-er is more than likely the office power hungry because even in the bathroom her insecurity is demonstrated by the sheer force of her peeing skills.
Hovering… I understand that when we actually consider all the different bear behinds that have sat on toilet seats is quite disturbing, but hovering is not the answer. It seems that women who wish to strengthen their thighs and have no contact with the evil loo, often go for the hover, but the truth is hovering is selfish. Honestly how good are you at aiming? You might have a pelvic floor which could shoot a basketball but that is a rare phenomenon and you are messing up the loo for others and giving the anti-thesis cleaner no change to make her own mess!
Now I have just witnessed the ultimate in the bathroom, a woman who simply adjusted her tone and almost created a cyclic hum with her number one production. I am actually astounded – how did she learn that? Is it a natural talent?
What I would like to know is whether anyone else notices this stuff going on? Or is it that the office observer simply notices everything because they it is intrinsic to them.
Moral of the story: don’t visit the toilet of terror if you want to remain emotionally unaffected.
Moral of the story two: to compete in the power pee Olympics do numerous pelvic floor exercises at the desk. Build up your skills to shooting basketballs and only then compete!
Moral of the story three – develop a bladder of steel which can last nine hours without any visits. You will impress your boss because of how long you spend at the desk
Moral of the story four: bring your own potty to the desk.
Monday, 18 April 2011
SATURDAY NIGHT BOTTOM MESMERISATION AND DAD DANCING!
Saturday night, hypnotic buttock motion and the role of dad dancing to impress women.
Saturday night, as with all Saturday nights, is the opportunity to venture into the human alcohol imbued jungle. It is the prime time to watch the mating techniques of numerous inebriated human animals. Large gestures, exaggerated hip motions and puffed out chests are just a few of the techniques used to attract attention. One of the major techniques in Bournemouth is ridiculous fancy dress outfits. When I say fancy dress I do not mean a ‘fancy’ dress as in a nice evening dress. Instead large groups of men (the stag night) can be witness dressed as babies, large items of fruit or super heroes. These are directly proportionate to hen parties who are dressed as policewomen, nurses or pirates. There are obviously variations on these themes but the women wear items that are revealing, a bit rude and are suggestive. In the opposite faction the men dress as fruit. I have not determined the ultimate psychology behind this, but essentially the men go for phallic / heroes. And the women go for ‘have some of this big boy!”
With all the above in mind, Saturday night is the prime opportunity to take part in a human safari. It is dangerous, there are conflicts and there are passing outs in the street. Survival of the fittest is demonstrated by the winning Alpha male escorting the most attractive female in the direction of a taxi. Of course there are those who are unsuccessful in the mating escapades. The women are often found collapsed in piles outside bars with opportunist men attempting to prize them off the pavement. Alternatively you find those who resort to stuffing chips and kebabs in their faces with far too much Chilly sauce as a consolidation prize.
So this brings me to the dance floor. The dance floor is the prime place for demonstration of sexual prowess. With low lights, alcohol and loud music this is the prime place to appear attractive without actually being attractive. The constant flashing of lights and intoxication evolves beyond beer goggles into cocktail glasses! No one has to talk; they just need to demonstrate their sexual prowess by dancing.
In terms of dance, or that which is defined as dance, - the pointing at of genitalia, waving at genitalia or simulating certain motions with your best friend or any passer-by who is not offended by the randy-dog leg grabbing technique appears in abundance. On this particular evening a group of stags, wearing baby attire, were in full testicular swing. Dad dancing extraordinaire was being demonstrated in all directions and genitalia thrusting filled the dance floor. As the evening hotted up, the men attempted to out thrust each other until two blondes arrived on the dance floor. That was when things became interesting and best friends stopped being best friends and survival of the fittest/alpha-malism competition was on!
The two blondes, wearing their best animal patterned dresses, rotated their hips and hypnotised. The men did not stand a chance. In that moment I understood that the word hypnotism may have originated from such hip motion because it was actually hypnotic (Hip – notic)
My fellow safari observer, who was male, was transfixed by the motion too.
“Does that mesmerize?” I asked turning to him.
The answer was obvious; his eyes were fixed on the ‘said’ bottom. He could barely speak and his head motioned in exactly way as the hypnotic bottom. Her motion reminded me of a cobra and how it subtly motioned until its prey was completely dazed and then it would attack. Strangely my fellow safari observer could hardly string a sentence together either. In the meantime, I considered how the application of the sound of jungle drums to would work well accompany the blonde bottom undulation.
“It is really interesting… “ he finally said choking on his words. “I never realised a bottom actually hypnotised,” he said. It is really nice to watch…” he said dreamily.
It was then that the competition increased. A group of hens arrived in the arena dressed as police women. They carried truncheons and handcuffs. The invasion changed the dynamic of the room and the men scattered and were confused. Rather than just focus on the blondes they thought they could go for all of them and work by numbers. That never works and men never really seem to learn that.
As soon as the competition arrived, the animal pattern wearing blondes increased their rate of bottom mesmerisation. The men increased their thrusting but the hens were accosting the thrusting men. It was like the Serengeti crossing. All manner of species were diving into the water and some of them were going to be picked off by the alligators. The men were scattered, there was no group dynamic or strategy. It was carnage. The men were confused which did they go for? Did they accept the easy pickings in terms of hen party versus the prize of the hypnotic bottom owners? The competition was rife. Hen’s versus the cobras. The men could not think because the blood had been dispersed between the two brains and all they could do is thrust their parts. It was genitila testicular war!
Of course, the blondes had a strategy. As soon as the men were distracted, they pulled out the ultimate male-attention attracting card. They danced closely with each other and kissed each other on the cheek. It was at that moment a ‘matrix’-like moment took place. All the men froze, the hens features distorted, they had been out-alpha-femaled… The male attention had shifted and the hens were now desperate. And what happened? It was a fraught moment and the hens had to get the attention back. The hens glanced at each other and to their leader. Someone had to do something and do it quickly. They could not repeat what the blondes were doing so there was one thing for it. The leader of the hens lifted her top and showed off a pair of massive bazookas. Bang! The men did not know where to look. Two brains not enough blood. Two eyes not enough vision. Mental overload took place and the men folded. They reverted to what they knew and all adopted their worst dad dancing. No one was impressed and the blondes left the dance floor.
Later that evening my fellow safari observer and I walked past a number of kebab shops. The stag night were in there stuffing consolidation. The blondes were being escorted to taxis by two very masculine opportunist and the hen night were in a pile outside the bar laughing hysterically. Men were attempting to help them up and legs were flaying.
Moral of the story: if you are a man focus on one woman and go for it. Scattering your mind will scatter your options which will result in your evening ending in chips and kebab.
Moral of the story two – hypnotising the room with the bottom can only be achieved successfully if there is not hen-like competition. Too much bottom mesmerisation results in dad dancing. It is the default for the drunken male.
Moral of the story three – do not dad dance even if your instinct drives you to. Do not thrust your pelvis at your friends to gain attention. I suggest you spot potential bottom mesmerisers early on and make your move before the rest of them room are transfixed by an undulating bottom.
NOTE: My fellow safari observer mentioned something very profound which may well provided insight. When a person is drunk and talks to someone sober, the sober person never understands. Yet when two drunken people talk to each other – they always understand! The language of inebriation seems to be exclusive to those who are wasted.
Saturday night, as with all Saturday nights, is the opportunity to venture into the human alcohol imbued jungle. It is the prime time to watch the mating techniques of numerous inebriated human animals. Large gestures, exaggerated hip motions and puffed out chests are just a few of the techniques used to attract attention. One of the major techniques in Bournemouth is ridiculous fancy dress outfits. When I say fancy dress I do not mean a ‘fancy’ dress as in a nice evening dress. Instead large groups of men (the stag night) can be witness dressed as babies, large items of fruit or super heroes. These are directly proportionate to hen parties who are dressed as policewomen, nurses or pirates. There are obviously variations on these themes but the women wear items that are revealing, a bit rude and are suggestive. In the opposite faction the men dress as fruit. I have not determined the ultimate psychology behind this, but essentially the men go for phallic / heroes. And the women go for ‘have some of this big boy!”
With all the above in mind, Saturday night is the prime opportunity to take part in a human safari. It is dangerous, there are conflicts and there are passing outs in the street. Survival of the fittest is demonstrated by the winning Alpha male escorting the most attractive female in the direction of a taxi. Of course there are those who are unsuccessful in the mating escapades. The women are often found collapsed in piles outside bars with opportunist men attempting to prize them off the pavement. Alternatively you find those who resort to stuffing chips and kebabs in their faces with far too much Chilly sauce as a consolidation prize.
So this brings me to the dance floor. The dance floor is the prime place for demonstration of sexual prowess. With low lights, alcohol and loud music this is the prime place to appear attractive without actually being attractive. The constant flashing of lights and intoxication evolves beyond beer goggles into cocktail glasses! No one has to talk; they just need to demonstrate their sexual prowess by dancing.
In terms of dance, or that which is defined as dance, - the pointing at of genitalia, waving at genitalia or simulating certain motions with your best friend or any passer-by who is not offended by the randy-dog leg grabbing technique appears in abundance. On this particular evening a group of stags, wearing baby attire, were in full testicular swing. Dad dancing extraordinaire was being demonstrated in all directions and genitalia thrusting filled the dance floor. As the evening hotted up, the men attempted to out thrust each other until two blondes arrived on the dance floor. That was when things became interesting and best friends stopped being best friends and survival of the fittest/alpha-malism competition was on!
The two blondes, wearing their best animal patterned dresses, rotated their hips and hypnotised. The men did not stand a chance. In that moment I understood that the word hypnotism may have originated from such hip motion because it was actually hypnotic (Hip – notic)
My fellow safari observer, who was male, was transfixed by the motion too.
“Does that mesmerize?” I asked turning to him.
The answer was obvious; his eyes were fixed on the ‘said’ bottom. He could barely speak and his head motioned in exactly way as the hypnotic bottom. Her motion reminded me of a cobra and how it subtly motioned until its prey was completely dazed and then it would attack. Strangely my fellow safari observer could hardly string a sentence together either. In the meantime, I considered how the application of the sound of jungle drums to would work well accompany the blonde bottom undulation.
“It is really interesting… “ he finally said choking on his words. “I never realised a bottom actually hypnotised,” he said. It is really nice to watch…” he said dreamily.
It was then that the competition increased. A group of hens arrived in the arena dressed as police women. They carried truncheons and handcuffs. The invasion changed the dynamic of the room and the men scattered and were confused. Rather than just focus on the blondes they thought they could go for all of them and work by numbers. That never works and men never really seem to learn that.
As soon as the competition arrived, the animal pattern wearing blondes increased their rate of bottom mesmerisation. The men increased their thrusting but the hens were accosting the thrusting men. It was like the Serengeti crossing. All manner of species were diving into the water and some of them were going to be picked off by the alligators. The men were scattered, there was no group dynamic or strategy. It was carnage. The men were confused which did they go for? Did they accept the easy pickings in terms of hen party versus the prize of the hypnotic bottom owners? The competition was rife. Hen’s versus the cobras. The men could not think because the blood had been dispersed between the two brains and all they could do is thrust their parts. It was genitila testicular war!
Of course, the blondes had a strategy. As soon as the men were distracted, they pulled out the ultimate male-attention attracting card. They danced closely with each other and kissed each other on the cheek. It was at that moment a ‘matrix’-like moment took place. All the men froze, the hens features distorted, they had been out-alpha-femaled… The male attention had shifted and the hens were now desperate. And what happened? It was a fraught moment and the hens had to get the attention back. The hens glanced at each other and to their leader. Someone had to do something and do it quickly. They could not repeat what the blondes were doing so there was one thing for it. The leader of the hens lifted her top and showed off a pair of massive bazookas. Bang! The men did not know where to look. Two brains not enough blood. Two eyes not enough vision. Mental overload took place and the men folded. They reverted to what they knew and all adopted their worst dad dancing. No one was impressed and the blondes left the dance floor.
Later that evening my fellow safari observer and I walked past a number of kebab shops. The stag night were in there stuffing consolidation. The blondes were being escorted to taxis by two very masculine opportunist and the hen night were in a pile outside the bar laughing hysterically. Men were attempting to help them up and legs were flaying.
Moral of the story: if you are a man focus on one woman and go for it. Scattering your mind will scatter your options which will result in your evening ending in chips and kebab.
Moral of the story two – hypnotising the room with the bottom can only be achieved successfully if there is not hen-like competition. Too much bottom mesmerisation results in dad dancing. It is the default for the drunken male.
Moral of the story three – do not dad dance even if your instinct drives you to. Do not thrust your pelvis at your friends to gain attention. I suggest you spot potential bottom mesmerisers early on and make your move before the rest of them room are transfixed by an undulating bottom.
NOTE: My fellow safari observer mentioned something very profound which may well provided insight. When a person is drunk and talks to someone sober, the sober person never understands. Yet when two drunken people talk to each other – they always understand! The language of inebriation seems to be exclusive to those who are wasted.
Friday, 15 April 2011
TWO BRAINS - NOT ENOUGH BLOOD AND THE WORLD OF WOMAN THROUGH MALE EYES!
So how often do you receive a phone call asking how obvious you are on a scale of one to ten?
I would guess not very often, well I have just had a call from the mail room asking me that very question. ‘Are you a blonde or a brunette,’ he asked.
‘Neither, I am red,’
‘Ah fiery then… Good I like fiery ones…’he replied.
Apparently I came off the phone looking rather confused and the men in the close vicinity were studying my expression and pointed out that I was blushing.
‘So what is making you pull that face?’ they asked.
‘On the scale of 1-10 how obvious are you?’
For a while there was silence. The general consensus of opinion was that most people in the office were about a five. So why was I nominated an eight?
A few minutes later, our trusty mail man turned up with my book delivery… Yes I have my books delivered to my desk – how luxury is that? In truth I have every delivered to the office because I can’t take the delivery at home.
“Ah a fiery one…” said the mail man.
I shook my head, “I’m not fiery…”
“Is she fiery?” he asked my male colleagues.
Both nodded, “really fiery!”
“I knew it!” he said.
Thanks!
Anyway, whilst rummaging under the desk I heard a chap say ‘boobs,’ under his breath. There was an elongated silence and all the men in the vicinity stopped typing, breathing or making random comments. It was eerie to say the least, so I popped up and looked around. The mesmerised look of a man who had been hypnotised was the only way I could describe the facial expressions of all the men in close proximity. In that moment I was struck by a bolt of inspirational lightening and it was then that I identified ‘the male compulsive blurt. ‘‘Sorry?’
‘Boobs,’ he said with a whisper and a nod in a certain direction. Admittedly there was a pair jiggling past in too looser bra. Two angry ferrets in sacks wrestled and were intent on escape.
I turned to my other male colleague who was smiling and had a similar expression on his face.
‘Busted!’
It was then I was provided with an insight into the male office view. So it seems that whenever any woman walks into the room the men have a tendency to imagine her in the way that nature intended.
“So what every woman who comes into the room - you know… You imagine?”
The pair smiled a very knowing male smile.
“That is a male secret. We have disclosed something very precious to you. You are now an honory bloke!’
Great!
“So what all women?”
“All women except those that are ugly or over sixty,” said the office cheeky.
“Really?”
“Actually all women…”
I studied them both and the pair grinned as a couple of women walked through the office carrying coffee. In that moment, I glimpsed the world through their eyes…
“So what about the blurt? Is it kind of like when you say something before you mind filters it.”
The pair shook their heads.
“That is just women who do that,” came the response.
“Okay then… Can you justify that?”
“Men think before they speak, but the blurt is different. It is a male reflex action that enables other men to know there is potential visual absorption in the area, just in case they miss the display. Look at it kind of like a call. In fact it is a natural tribal instinc - you would not want your friends to miss out on the potential sight.”
“What like when women go to the loo together?”
The men shook their heads, I was obviously a woman and still could not step into the mind of a man – even if I had been privilege to become the honorary bloke.
“So meetings…”
“Let me just say if you walk into a room full of men you are not likely to wow them with intelligence. We are men and we are visual – you should know that!
I glanced at them both and suddenly it all made sense. I call it the two brains not enough blood syndrome. Obviously there is only a certain amount of blood in a man’s body and when any type of twitching occurs in the nether regions, the blood slips from his cerebral cortex to the alternative location for thought.
“This kind of thought only comes with the male appendage. Think of it like the appendage being the hard-wear and the blurt, in terms of boosooka recognition, is the software…”
I sat for a while brooding about how different the male mind is from a woman’s and came up with a few morals of the story.
Moral of the story: To avoid being envisioned naked at work - wear clothes that contain mirrors.
Second moral of the story: If you don’t want that kind of attention move at great speed erratically flapping your arms.
Third moral of the story: If you want that kind of attention do the can-can as you walk into the office. Or maybe possibly shout ‘here I am boys!’ When doing the can-can make sure you have not left your knickers behind!
Oh and before we go any further I have to share my amazing linguistic discovery. After returning to the office after a run at the gym I noticed a general air of doom. It seemed that room had a grey cloud of Friday afternoon boredom descending upon it. And then it hit me they were all suffering from BOREDOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
That little combination will be milked until the literary cow is dry!opportunity. Are you suffering from boredooooom? I feel a bit of boredooooooooooooom coming on! They mystery of the angry hamster and the office of boredooooooooom! Right that is off my chest now. I feel better.
I have had my escape from mundanity! Hooorah!
I would guess not very often, well I have just had a call from the mail room asking me that very question. ‘Are you a blonde or a brunette,’ he asked.
‘Neither, I am red,’
‘Ah fiery then… Good I like fiery ones…’he replied.
Apparently I came off the phone looking rather confused and the men in the close vicinity were studying my expression and pointed out that I was blushing.
‘So what is making you pull that face?’ they asked.
‘On the scale of 1-10 how obvious are you?’
For a while there was silence. The general consensus of opinion was that most people in the office were about a five. So why was I nominated an eight?
A few minutes later, our trusty mail man turned up with my book delivery… Yes I have my books delivered to my desk – how luxury is that? In truth I have every delivered to the office because I can’t take the delivery at home.
“Ah a fiery one…” said the mail man.
I shook my head, “I’m not fiery…”
“Is she fiery?” he asked my male colleagues.
Both nodded, “really fiery!”
“I knew it!” he said.
Thanks!
Anyway, whilst rummaging under the desk I heard a chap say ‘boobs,’ under his breath. There was an elongated silence and all the men in the vicinity stopped typing, breathing or making random comments. It was eerie to say the least, so I popped up and looked around. The mesmerised look of a man who had been hypnotised was the only way I could describe the facial expressions of all the men in close proximity. In that moment I was struck by a bolt of inspirational lightening and it was then that I identified ‘the male compulsive blurt. ‘‘Sorry?’
‘Boobs,’ he said with a whisper and a nod in a certain direction. Admittedly there was a pair jiggling past in too looser bra. Two angry ferrets in sacks wrestled and were intent on escape.
I turned to my other male colleague who was smiling and had a similar expression on his face.
‘Busted!’
It was then I was provided with an insight into the male office view. So it seems that whenever any woman walks into the room the men have a tendency to imagine her in the way that nature intended.
“So what every woman who comes into the room - you know… You imagine?”
The pair smiled a very knowing male smile.
“That is a male secret. We have disclosed something very precious to you. You are now an honory bloke!’
Great!
“So what all women?”
“All women except those that are ugly or over sixty,” said the office cheeky.
“Really?”
“Actually all women…”
I studied them both and the pair grinned as a couple of women walked through the office carrying coffee. In that moment, I glimpsed the world through their eyes…
“So what about the blurt? Is it kind of like when you say something before you mind filters it.”
The pair shook their heads.
“That is just women who do that,” came the response.
“Okay then… Can you justify that?”
“Men think before they speak, but the blurt is different. It is a male reflex action that enables other men to know there is potential visual absorption in the area, just in case they miss the display. Look at it kind of like a call. In fact it is a natural tribal instinc - you would not want your friends to miss out on the potential sight.”
“What like when women go to the loo together?”
The men shook their heads, I was obviously a woman and still could not step into the mind of a man – even if I had been privilege to become the honorary bloke.
“So meetings…”
“Let me just say if you walk into a room full of men you are not likely to wow them with intelligence. We are men and we are visual – you should know that!
I glanced at them both and suddenly it all made sense. I call it the two brains not enough blood syndrome. Obviously there is only a certain amount of blood in a man’s body and when any type of twitching occurs in the nether regions, the blood slips from his cerebral cortex to the alternative location for thought.
“This kind of thought only comes with the male appendage. Think of it like the appendage being the hard-wear and the blurt, in terms of boosooka recognition, is the software…”
I sat for a while brooding about how different the male mind is from a woman’s and came up with a few morals of the story.
Moral of the story: To avoid being envisioned naked at work - wear clothes that contain mirrors.
Second moral of the story: If you don’t want that kind of attention move at great speed erratically flapping your arms.
Third moral of the story: If you want that kind of attention do the can-can as you walk into the office. Or maybe possibly shout ‘here I am boys!’ When doing the can-can make sure you have not left your knickers behind!
Oh and before we go any further I have to share my amazing linguistic discovery. After returning to the office after a run at the gym I noticed a general air of doom. It seemed that room had a grey cloud of Friday afternoon boredom descending upon it. And then it hit me they were all suffering from BOREDOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
That little combination will be milked until the literary cow is dry!opportunity. Are you suffering from boredooooom? I feel a bit of boredooooooooooooom coming on! They mystery of the angry hamster and the office of boredooooooooom! Right that is off my chest now. I feel better.
I have had my escape from mundanity! Hooorah!
Monday, 11 April 2011
Gossiptorial locations around the office.
Gossiptorial locations about the office and gossip spotting.
Today is another international conference call of doom. This is my prime opportunity to glance about the room and consider the intricacies of office life…
Today I have the feeling that gossip seems to be my focus. Thinking about it… There is always at least one gossip, two supporters and numerous others who are interested in other people’s lives and stories. It is like watching planets come into alignment and gravity pulls the gossiptorial group together. Such activity is what gives the office gossip her status and value. She alleviates the tedium and the dull repetition of the office grind.
In terms of gossip, there has to be specific locations for gossip other than instant messaging… These are the communal hubs where people have the opportunity to congregate and appear to be working. It seems that the various locations provide different levels of gossip potential depending on location and privacy… It is kind of like a gossip gathering… In my personal study and investigation I have come up with the following:
The photocopier…
The photocopier is the prime area to catch up on the general happenings. There is not too much actual gossip on the surface but people do have a tendency to reveal how they feel about others and tell you what is going on in their lives. Although, when the paper gets jammed it seems that while people perform the gynaecological operation on the machine, something stimulates them to share actual gossip. I believe that something must happen when the person is bent over and rummaging about the copier’s innards. My assumption is that there is a rush of blood to the head which results in the gossip release… In terms of photocopier disclosure – the collation of actual paper or paper shuffling will disclose the potential for a full confession. The speed and action of the paper shuffle is directly proportionate to what is about to be released. If you notice an increased rate of paper shuffle I suggest you find something to photocopy and get to that machine pretty quickly.
By sitting close to the copier I have learned about bunion removals… Births and birthing techniques. At other times I have been provided with numerous strategies for pulling… The photocopier is not the prime area for full reveals unless there is a massive paper shuffle, but the photocopier provides an entertaining place to catch up and gain insight into other people’s lives.
The lift.
As soon as those lift door shut – that is it! It is as if someone has shot the starters’ gun on the Olympic 100m race. For those who work on the higher floors there is potential for at least three floors of comprehensive gossip off-load. The lift is the prime area for power talking. This is stimulated by the fear that someone will join the lift mid-flow. Have you noticed that other people always enter the lift at the most juicy part of the conversation and it has to be continued in the loo?
The water cooler and /or coffee machine.
The locations of the water coolers vary but those that are in remote places are a hub for office chat. The bigger the bottle you take with you the longer you can chat. Although bringing a ten litre container to the work may indeed reveal a very obvious intention. The answer is to bring ten one bottles and confess that you get very very thirsty. The only problem is that the more water you drink the more time you spend in the loo – which again is another prime location for chat.
Lavatorial gossip.
This is the prime place. I have watched people check every cubicle to make sure that there are not ears a wiggin'. Once clear that is where the gossip off-load takes place. Did you hear… My God so and so… It is amazing. Sometimes people are not so careful in the cubicle check and I have been witness to the beginnings of an office mutiny. After one girl had been crying in the loo her colleague stamped her foot and made a plan for a mass resignation of the whole team. Within the month nine people left a team of ten… I am not saying spend your day on the loo if you are nosy but every so often lurking in the loo can give you an insight into the realities of what is taking place on the bank of desks near by….
The kitchen or communal area…
A little bit too obvious but often people talk in code in this location. I have noticed the office gossip checks this area on a regular basis and follows certain people into the area to see what juicy bits she can catch up on to plan her extraction strategy by mentioning that she already knows something from someone else.
The canteen.
Anywhere that people can form queues and fold their arms will produce gossip. The longer the queue, the more potential for gossip. Obviously sitting down at the table provides the potential for social interaction. Sitting down at a table beside a pair that are already gossiping provides potential for gossip absorption…
The cakes desk of disclosure.
When cakes are brought in or any type of share food – they seem to stimulate conversation. If someone is leaving it seems that people who have never actually talked to them before circle the area take some food and then feel it is perfect to delve into the intricacies of that person’s life. What’s more, when a person leaves everyone always seems stunned, curious and asks why.
When a temp leaves, even if they have not been talked to by the majority of the permanent staff, they still eat their cakes, ask them about their personal history and act like they are their best friend. This is all in order to get a cake. Of course the temp is going to go to London and become an international star, live an extra ordinary life and become a millionaire! In conclusion cake seems to be a gossip catalyst. By eating cake there is a whole load of disclosure… Maybe in comfort food we make our confessions…
Smoker’s hut.
This is the area where those who inhale bonfire disclose most information. I have never been privy to this; however, one of my friends began smoking so she could find out various information… It seemed that the smokers had a specialist knowledge and a network that involved inhalation, fire and disclosure.
The bus
Travelling to and from work is the prime area to catch up. I have noticed an array of office gossips who sit on the bus absorbing everything they can from those in the vicinity. For some reason people do not think they can be heard talking on a bus. The truth is everyone can hear. It is just that they appear to be listening to music but that is just a decoy… They are listening, absorbing and forming an opinion about everything that is being said!
The thing is all of the above is actually fascinating; however, being privy to gossip observation – I have noticed the Chinese whisper phenomenon. It amazes me how stories get exaggerated over time and gossip becomes malicious. I have even known someone who was gossiping over the e-mail to be picked up on her gossip. Her mails were used as evidence of bullying and she was actually fired… As much as gossip can be humorous – it is also someone’s life.
Alternatives make up gossip about an imaginary person / or imaginary friend. Or gossip about yourself in third person… Brilliant!
Okay I have to be involved in the call now – but a little mental wander gave me the escape I needed from mundanity!
Today is another international conference call of doom. This is my prime opportunity to glance about the room and consider the intricacies of office life…
Today I have the feeling that gossip seems to be my focus. Thinking about it… There is always at least one gossip, two supporters and numerous others who are interested in other people’s lives and stories. It is like watching planets come into alignment and gravity pulls the gossiptorial group together. Such activity is what gives the office gossip her status and value. She alleviates the tedium and the dull repetition of the office grind.
In terms of gossip, there has to be specific locations for gossip other than instant messaging… These are the communal hubs where people have the opportunity to congregate and appear to be working. It seems that the various locations provide different levels of gossip potential depending on location and privacy… It is kind of like a gossip gathering… In my personal study and investigation I have come up with the following:
The photocopier…
The photocopier is the prime area to catch up on the general happenings. There is not too much actual gossip on the surface but people do have a tendency to reveal how they feel about others and tell you what is going on in their lives. Although, when the paper gets jammed it seems that while people perform the gynaecological operation on the machine, something stimulates them to share actual gossip. I believe that something must happen when the person is bent over and rummaging about the copier’s innards. My assumption is that there is a rush of blood to the head which results in the gossip release… In terms of photocopier disclosure – the collation of actual paper or paper shuffling will disclose the potential for a full confession. The speed and action of the paper shuffle is directly proportionate to what is about to be released. If you notice an increased rate of paper shuffle I suggest you find something to photocopy and get to that machine pretty quickly.
By sitting close to the copier I have learned about bunion removals… Births and birthing techniques. At other times I have been provided with numerous strategies for pulling… The photocopier is not the prime area for full reveals unless there is a massive paper shuffle, but the photocopier provides an entertaining place to catch up and gain insight into other people’s lives.
The lift.
As soon as those lift door shut – that is it! It is as if someone has shot the starters’ gun on the Olympic 100m race. For those who work on the higher floors there is potential for at least three floors of comprehensive gossip off-load. The lift is the prime area for power talking. This is stimulated by the fear that someone will join the lift mid-flow. Have you noticed that other people always enter the lift at the most juicy part of the conversation and it has to be continued in the loo?
The water cooler and /or coffee machine.
The locations of the water coolers vary but those that are in remote places are a hub for office chat. The bigger the bottle you take with you the longer you can chat. Although bringing a ten litre container to the work may indeed reveal a very obvious intention. The answer is to bring ten one bottles and confess that you get very very thirsty. The only problem is that the more water you drink the more time you spend in the loo – which again is another prime location for chat.
Lavatorial gossip.
This is the prime place. I have watched people check every cubicle to make sure that there are not ears a wiggin'. Once clear that is where the gossip off-load takes place. Did you hear… My God so and so… It is amazing. Sometimes people are not so careful in the cubicle check and I have been witness to the beginnings of an office mutiny. After one girl had been crying in the loo her colleague stamped her foot and made a plan for a mass resignation of the whole team. Within the month nine people left a team of ten… I am not saying spend your day on the loo if you are nosy but every so often lurking in the loo can give you an insight into the realities of what is taking place on the bank of desks near by….
The kitchen or communal area…
A little bit too obvious but often people talk in code in this location. I have noticed the office gossip checks this area on a regular basis and follows certain people into the area to see what juicy bits she can catch up on to plan her extraction strategy by mentioning that she already knows something from someone else.
The canteen.
Anywhere that people can form queues and fold their arms will produce gossip. The longer the queue, the more potential for gossip. Obviously sitting down at the table provides the potential for social interaction. Sitting down at a table beside a pair that are already gossiping provides potential for gossip absorption…
The cakes desk of disclosure.
When cakes are brought in or any type of share food – they seem to stimulate conversation. If someone is leaving it seems that people who have never actually talked to them before circle the area take some food and then feel it is perfect to delve into the intricacies of that person’s life. What’s more, when a person leaves everyone always seems stunned, curious and asks why.
When a temp leaves, even if they have not been talked to by the majority of the permanent staff, they still eat their cakes, ask them about their personal history and act like they are their best friend. This is all in order to get a cake. Of course the temp is going to go to London and become an international star, live an extra ordinary life and become a millionaire! In conclusion cake seems to be a gossip catalyst. By eating cake there is a whole load of disclosure… Maybe in comfort food we make our confessions…
Smoker’s hut.
This is the area where those who inhale bonfire disclose most information. I have never been privy to this; however, one of my friends began smoking so she could find out various information… It seemed that the smokers had a specialist knowledge and a network that involved inhalation, fire and disclosure.
The bus
Travelling to and from work is the prime area to catch up. I have noticed an array of office gossips who sit on the bus absorbing everything they can from those in the vicinity. For some reason people do not think they can be heard talking on a bus. The truth is everyone can hear. It is just that they appear to be listening to music but that is just a decoy… They are listening, absorbing and forming an opinion about everything that is being said!
The thing is all of the above is actually fascinating; however, being privy to gossip observation – I have noticed the Chinese whisper phenomenon. It amazes me how stories get exaggerated over time and gossip becomes malicious. I have even known someone who was gossiping over the e-mail to be picked up on her gossip. Her mails were used as evidence of bullying and she was actually fired… As much as gossip can be humorous – it is also someone’s life.
Alternatives make up gossip about an imaginary person / or imaginary friend. Or gossip about yourself in third person… Brilliant!
Okay I have to be involved in the call now – but a little mental wander gave me the escape I needed from mundanity!
Saturday, 9 April 2011
IN THE JAWS OF A FRIENDLY PITBULL!
Evening escapades…
Well as we know I am currently working on the Resonance but thanks to the world of technology and my net book I can take a stroll down to the pier, edit, people watch and eat a sausage. There is a diner on Boscombe pier, which sells rather tasty long sausages… I just walked up to the counter and the chap smiled at me… ‘I remember you – you’re the solitary sausage eater.’
What does that mean? That I am solitary or that I ate a lonely sausage… If so… I apologise now – I did not realise the sausage had emotions… Gosh – guilt trip! The thing is I have not had one of those solitary sausages for dinner for eight months so why have my sausage eating habits made such an impression on the man? I certainly hadn’t eaten one of his products near him, so there was no witnessing of the masticatory act.
‘Baps,’ he said.
What did he mean baps?
‘You don’t eat them with baps. You eat the sausage by itself. That is why I remember you. Dogs usually do that.’
Is it me, or was that not so complimentary? Therefore, not only had he remembered my sausage eating habits but also he now had likened them to a dog…. Can it get any better?
‘When I say dogs – the dog owners buy the solitary sausage for their dogs.’
I wonder if that makes them sausage dogs…
I just had one of ‘those’ thoughts – I just saw a French poodle and wondered if dogs have accents or bark in different languages… I wonder how a Chinese dog sounds in comparison to a Peruvian.
Well after such stimulating insight into dog owner’s habits, I have taken a seat on the pier deck. The beach has numerous sunshine loving opportunists who have made the dash down here after work too. To my right the world of chav is manifesting and multiplying as they do. Each carries a beer can, wears a tracksuit and is already spawning a child without even trying. To my left families wipe sand from children, attempt to control their children or simply shout at them… That is what happens when the sun shines in Beautiful Boscombe!
Boscombe pier is a place that is a hub of human zoological display. We have numerous runners, posers, drinkers, randomers and dog walkers all amalgamated into one specific area – next to the surf reef which is the kings new clothes of surfing. Oooh hang on I think I have just spotted boy totty with tight botty… oh typical – girlfriend trailing along behind pretending that she loves doing the 10k run when in actual fact she could better focus her energies on power shopping…
Oh I do love it here. Boscombe pier is just a walk down the hill from my flat and is a place that inspires… I do love Boscombe even though it is considered the grittiest part of Bournemouth… Where else can you people spot, be remembered for your sausage eating habits and where else can people shout the word relax in an aggressive tone? Where else can weirdo scream expletives at their non-existent dogs named Scampi? I am a lucky woman to live here…. There is so much to inspire my writing including the plastic orange sprayed women and the men with stupid haircuts…There are people on tandem bikes, drunken teenagers chasing each other and a dog owner trying to stop his pit-bull terrier from eating a King Charles Spaniel. He was trying to justify it by saying ’she is just very friendly,’ whilst prizing the small dog’s head from its mouth… Maybe he should have bought his dog a solitary sausage…. Maybe that sausage could actually save the world from all its ills.
The reality of this place is simply brilliant!
Right I have just been kicked off the pier… Apparently it is closing time.
Unfortunately my sausage reflection has had the chop and the chap next me is using glasses to drum the most annoying tune. It isn’t even a tune, more of an aggravating ensemble of noise… See… Where else can you get that? Actually, I think I am going to go back to editing… The resonance is in progress and I want to finish it so that I can read it in book form…
Woops… Maybe not, I have just seen one of my male friends in his van – I think the reality is more likely to be - visit the pub, discuss life, watch more people and just be ‘normal’. Ha! Then I will do some more editing… Just a little bit…
Well as we know I am currently working on the Resonance but thanks to the world of technology and my net book I can take a stroll down to the pier, edit, people watch and eat a sausage. There is a diner on Boscombe pier, which sells rather tasty long sausages… I just walked up to the counter and the chap smiled at me… ‘I remember you – you’re the solitary sausage eater.’
What does that mean? That I am solitary or that I ate a lonely sausage… If so… I apologise now – I did not realise the sausage had emotions… Gosh – guilt trip! The thing is I have not had one of those solitary sausages for dinner for eight months so why have my sausage eating habits made such an impression on the man? I certainly hadn’t eaten one of his products near him, so there was no witnessing of the masticatory act.
‘Baps,’ he said.
What did he mean baps?
‘You don’t eat them with baps. You eat the sausage by itself. That is why I remember you. Dogs usually do that.’
Is it me, or was that not so complimentary? Therefore, not only had he remembered my sausage eating habits but also he now had likened them to a dog…. Can it get any better?
‘When I say dogs – the dog owners buy the solitary sausage for their dogs.’
I wonder if that makes them sausage dogs…
I just had one of ‘those’ thoughts – I just saw a French poodle and wondered if dogs have accents or bark in different languages… I wonder how a Chinese dog sounds in comparison to a Peruvian.
Well after such stimulating insight into dog owner’s habits, I have taken a seat on the pier deck. The beach has numerous sunshine loving opportunists who have made the dash down here after work too. To my right the world of chav is manifesting and multiplying as they do. Each carries a beer can, wears a tracksuit and is already spawning a child without even trying. To my left families wipe sand from children, attempt to control their children or simply shout at them… That is what happens when the sun shines in Beautiful Boscombe!
Boscombe pier is a place that is a hub of human zoological display. We have numerous runners, posers, drinkers, randomers and dog walkers all amalgamated into one specific area – next to the surf reef which is the kings new clothes of surfing. Oooh hang on I think I have just spotted boy totty with tight botty… oh typical – girlfriend trailing along behind pretending that she loves doing the 10k run when in actual fact she could better focus her energies on power shopping…
Oh I do love it here. Boscombe pier is just a walk down the hill from my flat and is a place that inspires… I do love Boscombe even though it is considered the grittiest part of Bournemouth… Where else can you people spot, be remembered for your sausage eating habits and where else can people shout the word relax in an aggressive tone? Where else can weirdo scream expletives at their non-existent dogs named Scampi? I am a lucky woman to live here…. There is so much to inspire my writing including the plastic orange sprayed women and the men with stupid haircuts…There are people on tandem bikes, drunken teenagers chasing each other and a dog owner trying to stop his pit-bull terrier from eating a King Charles Spaniel. He was trying to justify it by saying ’she is just very friendly,’ whilst prizing the small dog’s head from its mouth… Maybe he should have bought his dog a solitary sausage…. Maybe that sausage could actually save the world from all its ills.
The reality of this place is simply brilliant!
Right I have just been kicked off the pier… Apparently it is closing time.
Unfortunately my sausage reflection has had the chop and the chap next me is using glasses to drum the most annoying tune. It isn’t even a tune, more of an aggravating ensemble of noise… See… Where else can you get that? Actually, I think I am going to go back to editing… The resonance is in progress and I want to finish it so that I can read it in book form…
Woops… Maybe not, I have just seen one of my male friends in his van – I think the reality is more likely to be - visit the pub, discuss life, watch more people and just be ‘normal’. Ha! Then I will do some more editing… Just a little bit…
Friday, 8 April 2011
Cake and the art a cake resistance....!
CAKE ABSORBTION AND THE ART OF BACK CHATTING A CAKE.
Put the cake in the mouth… Go to the gym and burn it off…
That seems to be the common belief within the office. However I am in a period of anti-cakism… I am resisting that cake urge because summer is coming and when it comes to the local beach, I am not going to be the one who has save the whale campaigners dowsing me with water…
What is it with offices and the need to bring cake in at every opportunity? We have had charity cake, birthday cake, cakey cake and hoorah someone has run a long way – let’s celebrate with a cake! Actually there is even a look we have a cake let’s celebrate a cake with a cake hoorah!!!
Admittedly cake and chocolate is my kryptonite. What makes it increasingly difficult is that my desk is located in eyeshot of the cake launch-pad desk… It is not fair! So the cake battle is quite paramount. I have been found in the chocolate isle of the local supermarket wrestling myself over a box of chocolate lint… Yes it was like a toddler having a tantrum where the angel voice in my head said virtue and the naughty voice said do it who cares? Well the angel and the demon had a bit of a wrestle themselves and left me with chocolate scarring! Advice to all – do not talk to the chocolates in the chocolate isle and do not shout, mutter of grab your self in anyway in plain view of the security camera!
Yesterday was a particularly difficult cake struggle. The cakes were in direct view. With little voices screaming eat me… I realised why some cakes are known as fairy cakes because the little voice calling sounds like a fairy!
Anyway the majority of people in the office know that I am on a pound shifting mission. So in honour of this they have arranged the cake along my desk divider. Now they are all clearly eating cake in plane view and wafting in front of my face. Oh let’s make the cakes dance in front of my face… Obviously jamming cake up my nose is going to tempt me…
I did not give in…. So finally my boss came over and advised me that by sitting at the desk in close proximity to the cake meant that I was absorbing the particles of cake through my skin therefore I had succumbed… Unfair? So my response was the following by mail:
Obviously not wanting to disagree with my manager, I would like to apply this theory to other things… To test it if you like. If your theory is correct then the office comedian and office reliable (to omit names) are sitting relatively close, plus we have chairs and desk furniture… If we apply that particular theory to them that would suggest that I was technically absorbing all this through my skin which would therefore suggest I was a living black hole.
Apparently my boss has generated his own alternative universe of cake absorption… The rules are only known to him and his imaginary followers…
Moral of the story: do not tell anyone you are not eating cake because it will create office uproar!
Second moral of the story: do not talk to the cakes in front of your work colleagues, ask whether they can hear the fairies or write about your cake issues.
Third moral of the story do not unintentionally absorb cake through your skin! Or allow anyone to convince you that it is possible!
CAKE ABSORBTION AND THE ART OF BACK CHATTING A
Put the cake in the mouth… Go to the gym and burn it off…
That seems to be the common belief within the office. However I am in a period of anti-cakism… I am resisting that cake urge because summer is coming and when it comes to the local beach, I am not going to be the one who has save the whale campaigners dowsing me with water…
What is it with offices and the need to bring cake in at every opportunity? We have had charity cake, birthday cake, cakey cake and hoorah someone has run a long way – let’s celebrate with a cake! Actually there is even a look we have a cake let’s celebrate a cake with a cake hoorah!!!
Admittedly cake and chocolate is my kryptonite. What makes it increasingly difficult is that my desk is located in eyeshot of the cake launch-pad desk… It is not fair! So the cake battle is quite paramount. I have been found in the chocolate isle of the local supermarket wrestling myself over a box of chocolate lint… Yes it was like a toddler having a tantrum where the angel voice in my head said virtue and the naughty voice said do it who cares? Well the angel and the demon had a bit of a wrestle themselves and left me with chocolate scarring! Advice to all – do not talk to the chocolates in the chocolate isle and do not shout, mutter of grab your self in anyway in plain view of the security camera!
Yesterday was a particularly difficult cake struggle. The cakes were in direct view. With little voices screaming eat me… I realised why some cakes are known as fairy cakes because the little voice calling sounds like a fairy!
Anyway the majority of people in the office know that I am on a pound shifting mission. So in honour of this they have arranged the cake along my desk divider. Now they are all clearly eating cake in plane view and wafting in front of my face. Oh let’s make the cakes dance in front of my face… Obviously jamming cake up my nose is going to tempt me…
I did not give in…. So finally my boss came over and advised me that by sitting at the desk in close proximity to the cake meant that I was absorbing the particles of cake through my skin therefore I had succumbed… Unfair? So my response was the following by mail:
Obviously not wanting to disagree with my manager, I would like to apply this theory to other things… To test it if you like. If your theory is correct then the office comedian and office reliable (to omit names) are sitting relatively close, plus we have chairs and desk furniture… If we apply that particular theory to them that would suggest that I was technically absorbing all this through my skin which would therefore suggest I was a living black hole.
Apparently my boss has generated his own alternative universe of cake absorption… The rules are only known to him and his imaginary followers…
Moral of the story: do not tell anyone you are not eating cake because it will create office uproar!
Second moral of the story: do not talk to the cakes in front of your work colleagues, ask whether they can hear the fairies or write about your cake issues.
Third moral of the story do not unintentionally absorb cake through your skin! Or allow anyone to convince you that it is possible!
CAKE ABSORBTION AND THE ART OF BACK CHATTING A
Wednesday, 6 April 2011
A question of nuts!
Retina Blue (Volume 1)
My colleague has just been asked what his favourite nut is - he replied doughnut! Brilliant!
My colleague has just been asked what his favourite nut is - he replied doughnut! Brilliant!
Two morals of the story!!!
Retina Blue (Volume 1)
Okay this is the last past blog re-visit...
It seems that it isn’t just me that has many an interesting thing happen to them, my lovely friend endures such incidents. For the new year she decided she wanted to get fit, gyms are dull, running can be long and arduous, so she thought she would do something fun: roller-blading. Roller blading looks smooth, quite feminine and involves wheels. That is where I would put a stop to it… Yep right there. I learned very early on that when you are escorted across the road by an eighty year old with a limp because he fears for you, you know your skating style is probably a little naff. Also when you go over a wall and land in someone’s rose bush- that is a good sign you don’t have talent- listen to your intuition. Finally when the only way you can stop is to hit a lamp-post it is time to say no and move on. So I learned my lesson early and have since stopped balancing on a line of wheels, in public, at speed. To me it the same as tight-rope walking in a gale- who in their right mind would do that?
Anyway the tangent bi-sected me. So my lovely friend, in hope of achieving fitness, ventured down her road to a local park on the ‘said’ skates. Fair enough. Her best friend followed her, he can already skate. Please note this.
Anyway at the park a rugby team are in full scrum, roaring, grappling and being too close to each other’s behinds for my liking. Now as a girl, it is common to be aware of a bunch of jostling, sweaty men on a field, each man handling an odd shaped sack, which ironically they call a ball. My friend was aware of such mass interaction and thought she would glide past like a princess, purposefully ignoring the testosterone fest. This is where it usually goes wrong and it did. She glided, tripped and landed on her behind in the middle of the road. It was a park- there is no traffic right? No. Of course there was traffic: one solitary car and a narrow road. Luckily the car had seen the full arm waving, skidding foot decent to the ground. The car stopped and patiently waited for her to get up. The rugby team stopped scrumming and noticed a girl flat on her back in the middle of the road with a car waiting. Her friend laughed. Did anyone help her? No. Why is it at any such point people stand and stare and laugh? Well her best friend found the situation side-splittingly funny and held onto a lamp-post because he was laughing so hard. In the mean time she tried to co-ordinate her feet or should I say wheels. But under pressure nothing was going to work. Every time she tried she fell. She flayed about in the road legs everywhere, everyone laughing. The driver turned off his engine and still didn’t help, instead he just waited. The rugby team made comments, the friend laughed, but finally she gathered herself. There was one thing for it: enact the motion of a dog with worms- that would save the day. It did, the poor girl dragged herself across the ground looking like a worm-infested hound on wheels. And as if by magic the moment was over. Grass was there, no more slipperly surface and a post available to lever herself up. Not one gentleman or saviour amongst the onlookers. Instead a number of lessons learned: take off the boots if in trouble.
Don’t rely on laughing friends.
If all else fails adopt the worm-infested hound position and drag yourself to safety. This may be worth knowing for many other life situations.
Moral of the story: if we were meant to have wheels we would have evolved with them.
2nd Moral of the story, dogs probably learned the worming maneouver from girls in difficult situations on roller blades and thought that was a great idea in dog language. I figure that because it happened in a park and dogs get to walk, mark territory and leave messages.
3rd Moral of the story: If a girl is floundering about on the road in front of a car- maybe we could possibly put the odd shaped ball down and help her?
I hope it makes you smile.
Okay this is the last past blog re-visit...
It seems that it isn’t just me that has many an interesting thing happen to them, my lovely friend endures such incidents. For the new year she decided she wanted to get fit, gyms are dull, running can be long and arduous, so she thought she would do something fun: roller-blading. Roller blading looks smooth, quite feminine and involves wheels. That is where I would put a stop to it… Yep right there. I learned very early on that when you are escorted across the road by an eighty year old with a limp because he fears for you, you know your skating style is probably a little naff. Also when you go over a wall and land in someone’s rose bush- that is a good sign you don’t have talent- listen to your intuition. Finally when the only way you can stop is to hit a lamp-post it is time to say no and move on. So I learned my lesson early and have since stopped balancing on a line of wheels, in public, at speed. To me it the same as tight-rope walking in a gale- who in their right mind would do that?
Anyway the tangent bi-sected me. So my lovely friend, in hope of achieving fitness, ventured down her road to a local park on the ‘said’ skates. Fair enough. Her best friend followed her, he can already skate. Please note this.
Anyway at the park a rugby team are in full scrum, roaring, grappling and being too close to each other’s behinds for my liking. Now as a girl, it is common to be aware of a bunch of jostling, sweaty men on a field, each man handling an odd shaped sack, which ironically they call a ball. My friend was aware of such mass interaction and thought she would glide past like a princess, purposefully ignoring the testosterone fest. This is where it usually goes wrong and it did. She glided, tripped and landed on her behind in the middle of the road. It was a park- there is no traffic right? No. Of course there was traffic: one solitary car and a narrow road. Luckily the car had seen the full arm waving, skidding foot decent to the ground. The car stopped and patiently waited for her to get up. The rugby team stopped scrumming and noticed a girl flat on her back in the middle of the road with a car waiting. Her friend laughed. Did anyone help her? No. Why is it at any such point people stand and stare and laugh? Well her best friend found the situation side-splittingly funny and held onto a lamp-post because he was laughing so hard. In the mean time she tried to co-ordinate her feet or should I say wheels. But under pressure nothing was going to work. Every time she tried she fell. She flayed about in the road legs everywhere, everyone laughing. The driver turned off his engine and still didn’t help, instead he just waited. The rugby team made comments, the friend laughed, but finally she gathered herself. There was one thing for it: enact the motion of a dog with worms- that would save the day. It did, the poor girl dragged herself across the ground looking like a worm-infested hound on wheels. And as if by magic the moment was over. Grass was there, no more slipperly surface and a post available to lever herself up. Not one gentleman or saviour amongst the onlookers. Instead a number of lessons learned: take off the boots if in trouble.
Don’t rely on laughing friends.
If all else fails adopt the worm-infested hound position and drag yourself to safety. This may be worth knowing for many other life situations.
Moral of the story: if we were meant to have wheels we would have evolved with them.
2nd Moral of the story, dogs probably learned the worming maneouver from girls in difficult situations on roller blades and thought that was a great idea in dog language. I figure that because it happened in a park and dogs get to walk, mark territory and leave messages.
3rd Moral of the story: If a girl is floundering about on the road in front of a car- maybe we could possibly put the odd shaped ball down and help her?
I hope it makes you smile.
ANOTHER CLASSIC!
Retina Blue (Volume 1)
When I looked through my past postings on REDBUBBLE
I almost fell about laughing at this one:
Well adventures are never adventures unless there is a worthwhile story at the end. This weekend as always was fruitful in terms of endeavours.
Saturday I spent at a horse show in Exeter where I found a baby of nine months riding a horse. Yes they start them young. In fact the child was so young that it was riding the horse in a basket. So effectively it was a baby in a basket! i know. They day was lovely, baking and the horses took rather a liking to me. It was when I was photographing that a horse decided to have a nibble at my hair. Yes it is red and quite shinny but I did not think that it looked like hay.
Sunday was where it all went wrong, well kind of. I thought it was great.
Bovington is a military camp where there are quite a number of tanks. Now each year Bovington, because it has a lot of land, holds horse trials here. I was lucky enough to be invited to photograph. After spending most of the day sat in a bush I decided to get some great shots of horse jumping a wooden tank. I then went for a wonder to photograph the horses. Horses are incredibly clever and have their own personalities. It was then I realised that one said horse was playing a game with me. Every time I went to photograph it, it turned its bottom towards me. The final blow was when it passed wind rather loudly in my direction. Just as it did this someone passed by and said ’it’s trying to tell you something.’
What would it be trying to tell me? Was that horse language for sod off. Or was it cleverly speaking through its arse?
I soon lost interest in the horse and posterial conversation and it was then I noticed a field of dandy lions. I thought to myself ah here is a chance to get some creative imagery. So I took a little wonder across to the field. Admittedly it was the end of the day and people were packing up. Now when you get creative it seems that time disolves, well it does for me. Anyway once I had got the wonderful shot I was looking for I turned around and all the gates had been locked. No-one had seen me because I had been laying in long grass. Ideal for the profession of sniper, not so ideal if you would like to go home. So I did my best attempt at not panicking and went for a stroll along the fence to find a way out. Unfortunately the fence is covered in barbed wire to stop people getting in. I tell you at this point I thought I was going to have to camp out. The sun started making its decent to the horizon and there was really no way out.
So what did you do? Make a tunnel? Too much work? Work out ways to scale the fence or maybe start shouting. I didn’t do any because as luck would have it, the land keeper was driving along in his tractor. Well that was it, I gathered up all my equipment and ran like fury to the part of the field he was on. To say he was surprised to see me was an understatement. ‘What you mean they left you in here?’ he said. ‘I knows what you were upto – you were mislead into the forest by a young soldier weren’t you?’ The answer to that was no. I was mislead by a small plant in some grass. I was not going to tell him that, he might think that I was insane. Anyway he kindly made me stand on his trailer, told me to hold on and then drove me through the military base. Was it embarrassing standing on the trailer and being paraded through numerous soldiers milling around? Well the answer was yes! Anyway I was lucky enough to be taken to a gate where my car was parked. And the land keeper smiled. ‘I reckon you did that on purpose. you’re not a spy are you?’
Well if you were you would hardly say yes. If you said no they would suspect you.
When I looked through my past postings on REDBUBBLE
I almost fell about laughing at this one:
Well adventures are never adventures unless there is a worthwhile story at the end. This weekend as always was fruitful in terms of endeavours.
Saturday I spent at a horse show in Exeter where I found a baby of nine months riding a horse. Yes they start them young. In fact the child was so young that it was riding the horse in a basket. So effectively it was a baby in a basket! i know. They day was lovely, baking and the horses took rather a liking to me. It was when I was photographing that a horse decided to have a nibble at my hair. Yes it is red and quite shinny but I did not think that it looked like hay.
Sunday was where it all went wrong, well kind of. I thought it was great.
Bovington is a military camp where there are quite a number of tanks. Now each year Bovington, because it has a lot of land, holds horse trials here. I was lucky enough to be invited to photograph. After spending most of the day sat in a bush I decided to get some great shots of horse jumping a wooden tank. I then went for a wonder to photograph the horses. Horses are incredibly clever and have their own personalities. It was then I realised that one said horse was playing a game with me. Every time I went to photograph it, it turned its bottom towards me. The final blow was when it passed wind rather loudly in my direction. Just as it did this someone passed by and said ’it’s trying to tell you something.’
What would it be trying to tell me? Was that horse language for sod off. Or was it cleverly speaking through its arse?
I soon lost interest in the horse and posterial conversation and it was then I noticed a field of dandy lions. I thought to myself ah here is a chance to get some creative imagery. So I took a little wonder across to the field. Admittedly it was the end of the day and people were packing up. Now when you get creative it seems that time disolves, well it does for me. Anyway once I had got the wonderful shot I was looking for I turned around and all the gates had been locked. No-one had seen me because I had been laying in long grass. Ideal for the profession of sniper, not so ideal if you would like to go home. So I did my best attempt at not panicking and went for a stroll along the fence to find a way out. Unfortunately the fence is covered in barbed wire to stop people getting in. I tell you at this point I thought I was going to have to camp out. The sun started making its decent to the horizon and there was really no way out.
So what did you do? Make a tunnel? Too much work? Work out ways to scale the fence or maybe start shouting. I didn’t do any because as luck would have it, the land keeper was driving along in his tractor. Well that was it, I gathered up all my equipment and ran like fury to the part of the field he was on. To say he was surprised to see me was an understatement. ‘What you mean they left you in here?’ he said. ‘I knows what you were upto – you were mislead into the forest by a young soldier weren’t you?’ The answer to that was no. I was mislead by a small plant in some grass. I was not going to tell him that, he might think that I was insane. Anyway he kindly made me stand on his trailer, told me to hold on and then drove me through the military base. Was it embarrassing standing on the trailer and being paraded through numerous soldiers milling around? Well the answer was yes! Anyway I was lucky enough to be taken to a gate where my car was parked. And the land keeper smiled. ‘I reckon you did that on purpose. you’re not a spy are you?’
Well if you were you would hardly say yes. If you said no they would suspect you.
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