IT'S A WRAP FOR THE CLANGERS.
I've spent most of the last two weeks wrapping parcels to help my father become the next eBay/GAME. Of course, it's not quite like the blokes who invented Wikipedia from a laptop in somebody's shed, as both eBay and GAME already exist, and that lack of original concept is always going to be a hindrance to a business. Still, he seems to be implementing a rather sneaky practice that works on a local level; he's buying every single computer game in the South of England, so that people have no choice but to order them from him. Quite clever really, though as with every one-man bid to take over the world: he has two women helping him. (And with all the traipsing about buying games that Sam has done, if she doesn't get a foot spa for Christmas then he may just be in trouble.)
He's not the only one that may be in trouble. All this exposure to sellotape can't be doing me any good. A report was recently published in science journal 'Nature', that said scientists (well it wouldn't be clowns would it) have discovered that sellotape emits enough radiation to take an x-ray.
"The technical term for the X-Ray phenomenon is something called triboluminescence. As the sticky tape unrolls, the adhesive becomes positively charged, while the plastic tape takes a negative charge.
In a vacuum, this causes an electric field to be generated and 100 milliwatts of X-Rays to be released in a pulse lasting a billionth of a second."
This is vaguely worrying, because in Spiderman Peter Parker is bitten by a radioactive spider and inherits arachnid characteristics. Now, I'm not concerned about becoming a superhuman roll of sellotape – that'd be stupid – but I find it really difficult to sleep if there's too much light in a room, so don't think it'd help my insomnia if I was to glow in the dark. (Don't tell me radiation doesn't glow, either, because I've seen the trailer to The Simpsons - and on there it does - which is good enough for me.) The only benefit to being a superhuman anything would be the Catwoman-esque leather catsuit. Not that there's much opportunity to wear one unless a person is either a hells angel or a Dominatrix, and I can't drive. (And I'd be a shit dominatrix; I feel guilty ordering the dog to do as she's told.)
Tuesday, 9 December 2008
Saturday, 29 November 2008
A Cruel and Unusual Punishment
This week it was on the news that some teenagers in America have been punished for their noise violations by being sentenced to listen to Barry Manilow songs. I think this is a bit harsh, but it reminded me that I have had several conversations about noses lately. (Four and a half, actually. How one can have a conversation about half a nose, or half a conversation about a whole one is rather complex and long winded, and it’s probably best you don’t ask.) However, I have disliked my nose for years – most especially since it went a bit weird after being broken. I am not certain that ‘bulbousness’ is a word, but regardless of semantics, it is for its unfortunate bulbousness that I am less than enamoured with my nose.
I'm not the only one of my acquaintances that feels this way (about their nose – if they all felt that way about my nose I'd not admit it here, I’d just sneak off to have it shrunk a bit. Fortunately the generalised olfactory paranoia relates to individual body-image issues, and isn't all focused in my direction.) It seems that disliking one's nose is common to my circle of friends, and this had me wondering why. Do people with issues surrounding their distinctly Roman profile instantly share some subconscious bond, triggered by subtly insecure body language signals? Or is it that people with freakish nasal landscapes naturally congregate together, like all the fat kids at school who sit at one table, whilst all the gingers sit in another (shadier) corner?
Of course, it could just be that I have noticed that body-image issues are commonplace in society in general, and that my micro-study serves to do nothing more than back up the statistics that rhinoplasty is the most often performed elective/cosmetic surgery. (I prefer still to think it's because people who hate their noses send out secret nose-twitching signs; recognised only by other members of the elite, in a clandestine crossover between the Masons and 'Bewitched'.)
The other songs played to the troublesome-teenagers in America are performed by childhood favourite Barney the Dinosaur. I used to think he was alright in a "will never be as good as Sesame Street" sort of a way; but then my sister went overboard in her fanatic appreciation of him, and there are only so many times one can hear those songs without wanting to rip the stuffing out of that big purple dinosaur and let an untidy gerbil nest in it. It is because of the trauma associated with my memories of Barney that I sympathise with the kids who are being forced to listen to him. My other gripe with Barney is that it’s because of him that I came to watch what must surely be classed as The Most Disturbing Film In The World, Ever.
That film is called Death To Smoochy. I actually shuddered when I typed that. Properly shuddered! That would have been brilliantly timed for dramatic effect if this was a video and not a written blog. I'm glad it's not being filmed though, as I washed my hair half an hour ago and it's still a bit damp, so I look like a drowned rat. …Come to think of it, that's probably why I am shivering. It's not repressed terror, I'm just a bit cold.
I was subjected to this film a few years ago when having a DVD marathon with my friend Tom, and after mentioning my phobia of Barney the Dinosaur he thought I'd like to watch a movie about the twisted backstage goings-on behind the scenes of a show like Barney. Now, there is technically nothing wrong with the film. It has Ed Norton and Robin Williams in it, and is directed by Danny DeVito. But it remains - for me - The Most Disturbing Film In The World, Ever. It's just too weird. I have tried to block a lot of it out, most especially the fuchsia-coloured rhinoceros "Smoochy," played by the aforementioned Eddie N.
I quite enjoyed the film in some respects, but only in the way people on I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here say they "enjoy" the bush tucker trials where they have to crawl through slime, and then roll in ants and let spiders crawl into their anus whilst they are doused in brandy and set on fire like some icky invertebrate-ridden Christmas pudding, (which not a single one of you will now eat this year. Good. Less chance of me setting anything else on fire when carrying a burning cake then.)
I just found the film very uncomfortable to watch (though I admit that having spiders scrabble into my arse would be worse.) Robin Williams' character "Rainbow Randolph" was a spiteful, bitter, bastard – which is not what I have come to expect from the man who brought the Genie to life with such aplomb in Aladdin – and Ed Norton's was naïve, embarrassing, and well, just a bit mental to be honest. The whole film was a bit mental! I think people who liked the surreal madness of Fight Club might like Death To Smoochy, as it did similar things to my already fragile sanity. I blame movies like that for a lot of the bonkers-randomness that goes on in my head actually.
Here’s a short, funny scene from the film (this doesn't showcase its nightmarish, insanity-provoking potential but I couldn't bring myself to watch other clips of the movie when sat here on my own with no chance of them not just running round and round my head like an evil version of the Moomins, (who I found a bit weird in their non-satanic format; so can only imagine the psychological scarring that could be caused by a malicious remake.)
Death To Smoochy: Get You Off've That Smack:
imdb blurbs for Death To Smoochy:
"Fired in disgrace, kids show host Randolph Smiley finds himself out on the street, while his replacement Sheldon Mopes, finds himself on the fast track to success with a new hit show as the proud purple rhino Smoochy. But things take a turn for the worst when Sheldon finds out that some of the people that he works with, and some he doesn't know he's working for, are all in it for the money. Meanwhile, Randolph is slowly turning insane with his only thoughts focusing on killing Smoochy and getting back to his life of luxury."
Link To Trailer
"In the cutthroat world of children's television, Rainbow Randolph, the corrupt, costumed star of a popular children's TV show, is fired over a bribery scandal and replaced by squeaky-clean Smoochy, a puffy fascia rhinoceros. As Smoochy catapults to fame - scoring hit ratings and the affections of a jaded network executive Randolph makes the unsuspecting rhino the target of his numerous outrageous attempts to exact revenge and reclaim his status as America's sweetheart."
After other – unrelated – events this week, I also blame my confuzzledness on my father. I'm not crazy; I have just inherited some of his talent for saying the most inappropriate and incredibly stupid thing possible, in any given situation. This week for example, he went to order Nan's new washing machine with his partner Sam (for the sake of clarity I could have said 'girlfriend' there, but I like the fact that some of you will have assumed the words "Dad," "partner," and "Sam," mean some kind of Biblical slash-fiction scenario.) Anyway, they went into the shop (which for the sake of argument we will say was Curry's, though I have no idea which electronics store they actually purchased the appliance from,) and after selecting a couple they liked, decided to take advantage of a sales promotion on an Indesit model. This would have been fine, had the sales clerk not queried the offer, protesting its very existence and denying all knowledge of the promotion. It was at this point that my Dad totally eclipsed all of my own recent ramblings, to commit a faux-par that left him cringing with the same depth of visceral dread that might accompany a viewing of Death To Smoochy, or an hour's exposure to Barry Mannilow.
Now, Dad – who really needs to get his eyes tested, but is too recalcitrant to do so (another trait I intend to henceforth blame on my DNA) – was pretty frazzled after a day working at a very busy time of year, countered the sales clerk's claims that the offer was not valid until the following day by pointing out a large sign on the other side of the shop and exclaiming "It says it is over there. Even I can see that!" to which the clerk replied; "I can't... I'm partially sighted."
It was then – somewhat too late – that Dad and Sam noticed the man's name badge also bore the words 'Please be patient, I am visually impaired.'
That spectacularly surpasses the only stupid thing I said today, and my stupid thing is only considered to be so by other people. I think it makes perfect sense. Well... It makes slightly imperfect sense, but that's sensible enough that I don't feel the need to change. The 'thing' currently the point of reference is that I have left the clock on my DVD player running an hour fast. This sounds a little odd, but I only made it worse when trying to explain to someone why I do so.
The thing is, if I have somewhere to be at a specific time, I need constantly jogging along to keep the motivation I need to not be lazy, and actually make the effort to ensure my life is moving at the correct pace, and in the right direction, to get me where I need to be. I often don't really experience the surge of determination needed until it appears that I am running out of time. Having the clock an hour fast means that I get that little panicked prompt 'not to be late,' early enough that I stand a chance of being on time. This is apparently a little unconventional, but it prevents me from succumbing to lethargy and constant tardiness.
As I typed that I noticed that my DVD Player thinks it is 5:30am. 5:30AM!!! I now want to get offline and go to sleep, despite having checked the alarm-clock and the one on my computer to reassure myself that I have an hour before it reaches that time. It's good motivation to unwind. Honest…
Don't look at me like that. It works. And if you really think it's weird, then from now on don’t blame medication or occasional bouts of misanthropic seclusion for my behaviour: know it is the fault of my paternal genetics and the influence of The Most Disturbing Film In The World, Ever.
Don’t have nightmares…
I'm not the only one of my acquaintances that feels this way (about their nose – if they all felt that way about my nose I'd not admit it here, I’d just sneak off to have it shrunk a bit. Fortunately the generalised olfactory paranoia relates to individual body-image issues, and isn't all focused in my direction.) It seems that disliking one's nose is common to my circle of friends, and this had me wondering why. Do people with issues surrounding their distinctly Roman profile instantly share some subconscious bond, triggered by subtly insecure body language signals? Or is it that people with freakish nasal landscapes naturally congregate together, like all the fat kids at school who sit at one table, whilst all the gingers sit in another (shadier) corner?
Of course, it could just be that I have noticed that body-image issues are commonplace in society in general, and that my micro-study serves to do nothing more than back up the statistics that rhinoplasty is the most often performed elective/cosmetic surgery. (I prefer still to think it's because people who hate their noses send out secret nose-twitching signs; recognised only by other members of the elite, in a clandestine crossover between the Masons and 'Bewitched'.)
The other songs played to the troublesome-teenagers in America are performed by childhood favourite Barney the Dinosaur. I used to think he was alright in a "will never be as good as Sesame Street" sort of a way; but then my sister went overboard in her fanatic appreciation of him, and there are only so many times one can hear those songs without wanting to rip the stuffing out of that big purple dinosaur and let an untidy gerbil nest in it. It is because of the trauma associated with my memories of Barney that I sympathise with the kids who are being forced to listen to him. My other gripe with Barney is that it’s because of him that I came to watch what must surely be classed as The Most Disturbing Film In The World, Ever.
That film is called Death To Smoochy. I actually shuddered when I typed that. Properly shuddered! That would have been brilliantly timed for dramatic effect if this was a video and not a written blog. I'm glad it's not being filmed though, as I washed my hair half an hour ago and it's still a bit damp, so I look like a drowned rat. …Come to think of it, that's probably why I am shivering. It's not repressed terror, I'm just a bit cold.
I was subjected to this film a few years ago when having a DVD marathon with my friend Tom, and after mentioning my phobia of Barney the Dinosaur he thought I'd like to watch a movie about the twisted backstage goings-on behind the scenes of a show like Barney. Now, there is technically nothing wrong with the film. It has Ed Norton and Robin Williams in it, and is directed by Danny DeVito. But it remains - for me - The Most Disturbing Film In The World, Ever. It's just too weird. I have tried to block a lot of it out, most especially the fuchsia-coloured rhinoceros "Smoochy," played by the aforementioned Eddie N.
I quite enjoyed the film in some respects, but only in the way people on I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here say they "enjoy" the bush tucker trials where they have to crawl through slime, and then roll in ants and let spiders crawl into their anus whilst they are doused in brandy and set on fire like some icky invertebrate-ridden Christmas pudding, (which not a single one of you will now eat this year. Good. Less chance of me setting anything else on fire when carrying a burning cake then.)
I just found the film very uncomfortable to watch (though I admit that having spiders scrabble into my arse would be worse.) Robin Williams' character "Rainbow Randolph" was a spiteful, bitter, bastard – which is not what I have come to expect from the man who brought the Genie to life with such aplomb in Aladdin – and Ed Norton's was naïve, embarrassing, and well, just a bit mental to be honest. The whole film was a bit mental! I think people who liked the surreal madness of Fight Club might like Death To Smoochy, as it did similar things to my already fragile sanity. I blame movies like that for a lot of the bonkers-randomness that goes on in my head actually.
Here’s a short, funny scene from the film (this doesn't showcase its nightmarish, insanity-provoking potential but I couldn't bring myself to watch other clips of the movie when sat here on my own with no chance of them not just running round and round my head like an evil version of the Moomins, (who I found a bit weird in their non-satanic format; so can only imagine the psychological scarring that could be caused by a malicious remake.)
Death To Smoochy: Get You Off've That Smack:
imdb blurbs for Death To Smoochy:
"Fired in disgrace, kids show host Randolph Smiley finds himself out on the street, while his replacement Sheldon Mopes, finds himself on the fast track to success with a new hit show as the proud purple rhino Smoochy. But things take a turn for the worst when Sheldon finds out that some of the people that he works with, and some he doesn't know he's working for, are all in it for the money. Meanwhile, Randolph is slowly turning insane with his only thoughts focusing on killing Smoochy and getting back to his life of luxury."
Link To Trailer
"In the cutthroat world of children's television, Rainbow Randolph, the corrupt, costumed star of a popular children's TV show, is fired over a bribery scandal and replaced by squeaky-clean Smoochy, a puffy fascia rhinoceros. As Smoochy catapults to fame - scoring hit ratings and the affections of a jaded network executive Randolph makes the unsuspecting rhino the target of his numerous outrageous attempts to exact revenge and reclaim his status as America's sweetheart."
After other – unrelated – events this week, I also blame my confuzzledness on my father. I'm not crazy; I have just inherited some of his talent for saying the most inappropriate and incredibly stupid thing possible, in any given situation. This week for example, he went to order Nan's new washing machine with his partner Sam (for the sake of clarity I could have said 'girlfriend' there, but I like the fact that some of you will have assumed the words "Dad," "partner," and "Sam," mean some kind of Biblical slash-fiction scenario.) Anyway, they went into the shop (which for the sake of argument we will say was Curry's, though I have no idea which electronics store they actually purchased the appliance from,) and after selecting a couple they liked, decided to take advantage of a sales promotion on an Indesit model. This would have been fine, had the sales clerk not queried the offer, protesting its very existence and denying all knowledge of the promotion. It was at this point that my Dad totally eclipsed all of my own recent ramblings, to commit a faux-par that left him cringing with the same depth of visceral dread that might accompany a viewing of Death To Smoochy, or an hour's exposure to Barry Mannilow.
Now, Dad – who really needs to get his eyes tested, but is too recalcitrant to do so (another trait I intend to henceforth blame on my DNA) – was pretty frazzled after a day working at a very busy time of year, countered the sales clerk's claims that the offer was not valid until the following day by pointing out a large sign on the other side of the shop and exclaiming "It says it is over there. Even I can see that!" to which the clerk replied; "I can't... I'm partially sighted."
It was then – somewhat too late – that Dad and Sam noticed the man's name badge also bore the words 'Please be patient, I am visually impaired.'
That spectacularly surpasses the only stupid thing I said today, and my stupid thing is only considered to be so by other people. I think it makes perfect sense. Well... It makes slightly imperfect sense, but that's sensible enough that I don't feel the need to change. The 'thing' currently the point of reference is that I have left the clock on my DVD player running an hour fast. This sounds a little odd, but I only made it worse when trying to explain to someone why I do so.
The thing is, if I have somewhere to be at a specific time, I need constantly jogging along to keep the motivation I need to not be lazy, and actually make the effort to ensure my life is moving at the correct pace, and in the right direction, to get me where I need to be. I often don't really experience the surge of determination needed until it appears that I am running out of time. Having the clock an hour fast means that I get that little panicked prompt 'not to be late,' early enough that I stand a chance of being on time. This is apparently a little unconventional, but it prevents me from succumbing to lethargy and constant tardiness.
As I typed that I noticed that my DVD Player thinks it is 5:30am. 5:30AM!!! I now want to get offline and go to sleep, despite having checked the alarm-clock and the one on my computer to reassure myself that I have an hour before it reaches that time. It's good motivation to unwind. Honest…
Don't look at me like that. It works. And if you really think it's weird, then from now on don’t blame medication or occasional bouts of misanthropic seclusion for my behaviour: know it is the fault of my paternal genetics and the influence of The Most Disturbing Film In The World, Ever.
Don’t have nightmares…
Sunday, 23 November 2008
Mutant Moggies and The (Very) Early Spring Clean.
Today I have been on an epic mission to de-clutter my living environ by reorganising my quarters to better embrace the principles of feng shui, and delight Laurence Llewellyn Bowen. It has been a long, arduous journey that began at the birth of day, and continued 'til it was, well, about primary-school age. (Okay, so I cleaned out the cupboard under the sink and it took up several morning-hours and one or two afternoon ones.) I also shuffled round stuff that my grandparents – who have lived in this house for 50 years – had stuffed in the back of drawers and forgotten in the deepest, darkest recesses of the pantry.
My grandmother is notorious for not throwing away food that she thinks may still be edible. She also has what she calls a "healthy suspicion of expiry dates." She sees them more as guidelines. In fact she sees the guidelines, and then chooses to pretend they are merely scurrilous rumours about when the food might go off, and by accepting them she would be pandering to gossip. My late grandfather and I used to pick out tins from the back of a stack and challenge each other to guess how many years out of date they were, before throwing them away while she was out. She claims it's because she was born in 1939, during WW2 and because rationing continued into the 50's she was hardwired to never waste ye olde vittles.
Today when clearing out the cupboards, I discovered she had bottles of children's cough syrup that expired in 1992, and some medicated ear drops with my name on which had a warning printed on the prescription label that read; "Discard one month after opening." She'd only kept them a little while longer than recommended. If you can call fourteen bloody years a "little while!" There was also a large can of Heinz Cream of Tomato Soup that was bowed and bulging as all sorts of nasty chemical-y things happened inside of it. It looked about ready to explode, so of course I delicately wrapped it in newspaper and placed it in the wheelie bin gently, didn't I? Well... No. I peered at it warily before removing it from the cupboard rather gingerly – grasping it as one might a grizzly, flailing toddler covered in drool – and then dropped it unceremoniously into a bin liner, right onto a dusty jam-jar with a desiccated daddy-long-legs in it, where it burst open and filled the sack with fermenting tomato crème.
I also discovered this brand new saucepan which was still in its box and was sporting what I thought was "cool retro packaging." It's not: it just really has been sat on the shelf in its box since the 60's when Nan was still working for a local hardware shop called "Light's." I questioned the logic of remembering purchasing a saucepan but never remembering that it was in the cupboard when she needed to use one, and was told to "go and make a cup of tea."
60's Saucepan:
After removing all the tins that were past their sell by date (including a jar of frankfurters that contained enough bacteria to have successfully invaded Poland,) and re-discarding half the tins Nan rescued as "perfectly edible," I had cleared about half the kitchen. I have so far discovered several packets of tea-light candles, nine large boxes of "these will come in handy if there's a power-cut" candles, three soap dishes, seven large bottles of fairy washing up liquid, four and a half china teapots and three stainless steel ones; including one designed to make twenty cups of tea which was last used at a street party for the Queen Elizabeth's jubilee. It had so much dust on it that I'd not like to guess which jubilee – or even which Queen Elizabeth. I suggested giving it to the charity shop, but Nan wanted to keep it "in case we have a family party." I added up all the people in our immediate family, and even including their kids and spouses there's no way we'd need to make 20 cups of tea. Besides which, full up it'd be bloody heavy. Whoever was making the tea in that would e inevitably scald themselves and need rushing to the burns unit. (Which in itself would mean there were two less people who'd be having a brew; further proving my point that we don't need that huge teapot.)
I chucked out about 40 cans of food that were past their expiration dates, and a dead mouse (though I don't know when that expired. I have been watching the first and second series of Bones this week and did poke it with a party cocktail stick to see if I had learned anything about forensic science that might help me determine when the mouse had met its end, but not wanting to get too close in case it stank, and not really knowing enough about rodent pathology to determine if it had rigor mortis, my Quincy Jones moment was scuppered when the cat tried to eat it and nearly set the other mousetrap off.)
Tuppence "helping" me to sort the cupboards:
I also found a box of kids’ toys that had been packed away for years, and which had been favourites of mine when I was very little. There was a little yellow rabbit in the collection which I have seen photographs of myself with in the pram when I was only about the same size as the cat. I also discovered one of a trio of puppets that were given to my sister and I when we were very young and my grandparents dog died. We were too little to understand, and so the powers that be (who in that Orwellian kindergarten-era were pretty much just ‘Nan and Grandad’) decided that we should be fed the "she's gone to live on a farm" tale so many kids are presented with when a parent wishes not to corrupt their children’s innocence with mammalian bereavement. Only in this case, they were well aware that if they told me that the dog had gone to live on a farm I'd want to visit, so they paid me off with Sooty, Sue and Sweep puppets – which were supposedly leaving presents from the dog, but which I suspect were indeed not bought by her at all. That she purchased toys to soften the blow of her departure would be leap enough, but would also involve my believing her to have foretold her own death: and a psychic dog is a little far-fetched even for me.
Rabbit, and 'Sue' puppet in the background to the right:
All in all it was a reasonably productive day, though I still have half of the kitchen to sort and will undoubtedly encounter lots more things that either need dusting down, throwing away, or re-lubricating with a few well aimed squirts of Mr Muscle.
I did take a moment out of my busy cleansing ritual to discuss this weeks’ oddest news items; which comprised of a lingerie model who has not got a navel and finds herself constantly refuting claims she is an alien, and a kitten with two faces. By that I do not mean that it was duplicitous; telling its owner how much it loves the new jingly-ball toy and then slagging off their paltry attempts at entertainment every time it had a check up with the vet – no, I mean it was some sort of freaky conjoined twin-thing, or chimera, and had two distinct faces attached to the one head and body. Because it is a kitten (or would that be because "they are kittens?") it was still cute though, even though its face was mental. It will probably be an ugly cat though.
Double-Headed Kitten:
(Note to anyone who comments to bring me bad news of this kitten's fate: I am aware that mutant animals don't usually live very long, but I am not going to Google it to see if it has gone to live on a farm somewhere, and particularly do not wish for you anti-agriculturalists to tell me there is no farm, and that it's a lie perpetuated by the Vatican to make people more receptive to the panic buying of carrots.)
YouTube link to freaky-cat:
If the kitten hires Max Clifford as its agent, it could probably use its story of a tragic childhood to launch a perfume and take over the Iceland adverts job from Kerry Katona. She was in Atomic Kitten, so they are obviously a company willing to employ increasingly ugly-looking ageing felines of no discernable talent but much publicised personal misfortune.
Oooh, “meow.”
My grandmother is notorious for not throwing away food that she thinks may still be edible. She also has what she calls a "healthy suspicion of expiry dates." She sees them more as guidelines. In fact she sees the guidelines, and then chooses to pretend they are merely scurrilous rumours about when the food might go off, and by accepting them she would be pandering to gossip. My late grandfather and I used to pick out tins from the back of a stack and challenge each other to guess how many years out of date they were, before throwing them away while she was out. She claims it's because she was born in 1939, during WW2 and because rationing continued into the 50's she was hardwired to never waste ye olde vittles.
Today when clearing out the cupboards, I discovered she had bottles of children's cough syrup that expired in 1992, and some medicated ear drops with my name on which had a warning printed on the prescription label that read; "Discard one month after opening." She'd only kept them a little while longer than recommended. If you can call fourteen bloody years a "little while!" There was also a large can of Heinz Cream of Tomato Soup that was bowed and bulging as all sorts of nasty chemical-y things happened inside of it. It looked about ready to explode, so of course I delicately wrapped it in newspaper and placed it in the wheelie bin gently, didn't I? Well... No. I peered at it warily before removing it from the cupboard rather gingerly – grasping it as one might a grizzly, flailing toddler covered in drool – and then dropped it unceremoniously into a bin liner, right onto a dusty jam-jar with a desiccated daddy-long-legs in it, where it burst open and filled the sack with fermenting tomato crème.
I also discovered this brand new saucepan which was still in its box and was sporting what I thought was "cool retro packaging." It's not: it just really has been sat on the shelf in its box since the 60's when Nan was still working for a local hardware shop called "Light's." I questioned the logic of remembering purchasing a saucepan but never remembering that it was in the cupboard when she needed to use one, and was told to "go and make a cup of tea."
60's Saucepan:
After removing all the tins that were past their sell by date (including a jar of frankfurters that contained enough bacteria to have successfully invaded Poland,) and re-discarding half the tins Nan rescued as "perfectly edible," I had cleared about half the kitchen. I have so far discovered several packets of tea-light candles, nine large boxes of "these will come in handy if there's a power-cut" candles, three soap dishes, seven large bottles of fairy washing up liquid, four and a half china teapots and three stainless steel ones; including one designed to make twenty cups of tea which was last used at a street party for the Queen Elizabeth's jubilee. It had so much dust on it that I'd not like to guess which jubilee – or even which Queen Elizabeth. I suggested giving it to the charity shop, but Nan wanted to keep it "in case we have a family party." I added up all the people in our immediate family, and even including their kids and spouses there's no way we'd need to make 20 cups of tea. Besides which, full up it'd be bloody heavy. Whoever was making the tea in that would e inevitably scald themselves and need rushing to the burns unit. (Which in itself would mean there were two less people who'd be having a brew; further proving my point that we don't need that huge teapot.)
I chucked out about 40 cans of food that were past their expiration dates, and a dead mouse (though I don't know when that expired. I have been watching the first and second series of Bones this week and did poke it with a party cocktail stick to see if I had learned anything about forensic science that might help me determine when the mouse had met its end, but not wanting to get too close in case it stank, and not really knowing enough about rodent pathology to determine if it had rigor mortis, my Quincy Jones moment was scuppered when the cat tried to eat it and nearly set the other mousetrap off.)
Tuppence "helping" me to sort the cupboards:
I also found a box of kids’ toys that had been packed away for years, and which had been favourites of mine when I was very little. There was a little yellow rabbit in the collection which I have seen photographs of myself with in the pram when I was only about the same size as the cat. I also discovered one of a trio of puppets that were given to my sister and I when we were very young and my grandparents dog died. We were too little to understand, and so the powers that be (who in that Orwellian kindergarten-era were pretty much just ‘Nan and Grandad’) decided that we should be fed the "she's gone to live on a farm" tale so many kids are presented with when a parent wishes not to corrupt their children’s innocence with mammalian bereavement. Only in this case, they were well aware that if they told me that the dog had gone to live on a farm I'd want to visit, so they paid me off with Sooty, Sue and Sweep puppets – which were supposedly leaving presents from the dog, but which I suspect were indeed not bought by her at all. That she purchased toys to soften the blow of her departure would be leap enough, but would also involve my believing her to have foretold her own death: and a psychic dog is a little far-fetched even for me.
Rabbit, and 'Sue' puppet in the background to the right:
All in all it was a reasonably productive day, though I still have half of the kitchen to sort and will undoubtedly encounter lots more things that either need dusting down, throwing away, or re-lubricating with a few well aimed squirts of Mr Muscle.
I did take a moment out of my busy cleansing ritual to discuss this weeks’ oddest news items; which comprised of a lingerie model who has not got a navel and finds herself constantly refuting claims she is an alien, and a kitten with two faces. By that I do not mean that it was duplicitous; telling its owner how much it loves the new jingly-ball toy and then slagging off their paltry attempts at entertainment every time it had a check up with the vet – no, I mean it was some sort of freaky conjoined twin-thing, or chimera, and had two distinct faces attached to the one head and body. Because it is a kitten (or would that be because "they are kittens?") it was still cute though, even though its face was mental. It will probably be an ugly cat though.
Double-Headed Kitten:
(Note to anyone who comments to bring me bad news of this kitten's fate: I am aware that mutant animals don't usually live very long, but I am not going to Google it to see if it has gone to live on a farm somewhere, and particularly do not wish for you anti-agriculturalists to tell me there is no farm, and that it's a lie perpetuated by the Vatican to make people more receptive to the panic buying of carrots.)
YouTube link to freaky-cat:
If the kitten hires Max Clifford as its agent, it could probably use its story of a tragic childhood to launch a perfume and take over the Iceland adverts job from Kerry Katona. She was in Atomic Kitten, so they are obviously a company willing to employ increasingly ugly-looking ageing felines of no discernable talent but much publicised personal misfortune.
Oooh, “meow.”
Monday, 3 November 2008
Hope for Tomorrow
Tomorrow – or today for most of you reading this – is the day of the US Presidential Election. God that's narcissistic; there will be all that going on tomorrow – papers full of it and coverage on every single news channel – and I still anticipate that you will have taken time to read the witterings of a slightly-bonkers-but-officially-not-mad woman. If any of you are reading this on November 4th 2008 then for goodness' sake go and put BBC News 24, Sky News or CNN on or something! Not Fox News though. If you watch Fox News then you shouldn't be reading this bloggy-thing at all, because you'll believe every damned thing I say – however preposterous. You probably even believe John McCain's camp when they tell you that Barack Obama is a "muslim terrorist baby-killer," and you will also have (on at least one occasion) fantasised about the homicidal-librarian-alike Sarah Palin spanking you with a novelty gun-club bookmark. If you answered yes to any of those questions then go and read the Daily Mail or something and delete this site from your browser favourites. (More of the old narcissism I see. I don't presume you clicked a link – which I probably sent you anyway – I assume you have it saved and are notified by a fanfare of emails whenever I update this page.)
Anyway, I am not voting for Barack Obama because I can't. There’s some stupid law about British people not being allowed to vote for American politicians. I think it's the same law which states that all our politicians have to be ugly bullshitting bastards that we don't particularly want to vote for – and sometimes don't even get the chance to vote for! …Yes Gordon, I mean you. (I know what you're thinking, but hinting that the PM reads this is not narcissism, it’s fact.) If I could vote for Obama however, then I most definitely would. I have been seduced by his charisma, and the glitz and glamour he has brought to proceedings with his campaign. "Oooh, they could have their first black president! Lets get rid of the retarded cowboy and let this charming mixed-race chap have a go. I'm not entirely clear on his policies but he's a damn fine looking guy and has a profile that will look marvellous on collectable coinage in the future. But for gawd's sake someone board up the White House cat-flap so Monica Lewinski can't get back in."
Barack Obama
You will by now know who won the election, whether you're reading this the day of – or the year after – the event. (Modesty, see it? The "year after." I have obviously grown as a person in the space of two paragraphs. Okay... only a little bit, but progress is progress.) I'll not bore you with political musings, as I'd only make a fool of myself. The other day I completely forgot about Al Gore because when I watched that election I was focused so intently on being annoyed at losing Bill Clinton from the political stage that I paid very little attention to the pair vying to succeed him. Actually, I think that's how George Bush got in. (Again, somebody make sure that bloody cat flap is secure, will you?)
As I was exhausted today and plan to stay up all night tomorrow to watch the coverage of the election, I stayed offline most of this evening planning to rest. So, in place of prowling the internet making a prat of myself as I usually do, I watched a host of shamelessly romantic and saccharine films instead. They're so utterly without cinematic merit that they're even considered tawdry examples of that much maligned genre the 'chick-flick'. So why do I watch them? And moreover, why do I continue to enjoy them (even if it is accompanied by a large helping of self-loathing for having such pedestrian – not to mention oestrogen-friendly -- tastes in movies.)?
I have been asking myself that question and really don't think it's as straightforward as being a daft-and-romantic girly. I've never protested my daftness, but I do often find myself having to justify myself as an 'unromantic.' In a woman that's not generally expected, and people often think I eschew it because of feminist ideals (and I'm pretty sure my mother still occasionally wonders if I am a lesbian, purely and simply because I didn't cry at Dirty Dancing and can't quote it from beginning to end.)
My mothers ludicrous misconceptions aside, there is still the question of why – if I am as unromantic as I claim to be – do I watch films made entirely for those whose hearts sit desperately close to their sleeves? I think the answer lies in my previous description of these movies as being "saccharine." If romance is sugar, then idealism is artificial sweetener; both have the same effect, but whilst one is notoriously bad for you, the other likes to consider itself to be the more virtuous option.
I know I am an idealist, and whilst my belief in god is vague, and my faith in humanity often tested; the thing I believe in above all else is hope. Hope that things will get better, or hope that they will not get worse. For me, these sorts of films buy right into that set of values. A romantic sees the protagonist stroll off into the sunset with their one true love and bathes in the afterglow of a happy ending. An idealist such as myself witnesses that same scene, and is more comforted by the message of hope: the idea that whatever may be around the corner for the loved-up pair heading out toward the dimming golden light, they hope that their lives will improve now that they have found each other. That is, I feel, always the underlying sentiment I am left with when watching this genre of movie. Whatever the set of circumstances on which the credits roll, they always end with the characters feeling they now have a little more hope for a better tomorrow.
I also think it has a little bit to do with overcoming obstacles. That is a predominant theme in many movies, not merely the 'chick-flicks' of which I speak tonight. There is always some endeavour; something or someone standing between the man and his true love; the woman and her dream job (yes, I did deliberately have the man be the one looking for love and the woman as the career driven one. It may only be an example but that doesn’t mean it has to conform to traditional stereotypes.) Back to the point: a lot of my own life has been given over to "beating the odds" and whilst there are lots of genres of film where the protagonist has trials to succeed in if they are to meet their ultimate goal, in many they chart the story of little people doing very big things. The scale is often far too grand for someone like myself to feel I can identify with, whereas in a 'chick flick' the triumph over adversity tends to come in the form of ordinary people fighting toward an aim that is shared by many other ordinary folk. Whether portrayed as family, friends, career, or soulmate – the pursuit of love is the underlying theme of all this type of film – and that to me represents something far less hopeless, and far more attainable: the extraordinary achievement of a commonplace desire.
(...That said, I still wouldn't recommend 'The Lake House.')
After typing that, I went downstairs and made a cup of tea and while passing through the living room (on the most direct route there is to the kettle without jumping out of the back bedroom window,) and I heard a muffled swishing noise coming from behind the redundant gas fire, which probably means it will all need to be unscrewed tomorrow because a bird has fallen down the chimney again. This occurrence is not nearly as frequent now as when our neighbour bred racing pigeons; as when it was the season for all his young birds to fledge, they seemed suicidally drawn to dive-bomb our chimney like little fluffy kamikaze pilots.
Just for once I'd like to go into the kitchen at night and not be accosted by a cat, a dog, a tortoise, a mouse, a pigeon or a bloody great big spider with 86 million legs and a murderous gleam in its eyes.
When other people complain about living in an "Orwellian State" they usually mean Big Brother, so why did I get Animal Farm?
(Yes, I am aware that Animal Farm is a bit darker and more intellectual than 'the bit in Snow White where the sparrows help to do the washing up' - but this bloggy thing isn't ironically called 'Meretricious Nonsense' you know.)
Anyway, I am not voting for Barack Obama because I can't. There’s some stupid law about British people not being allowed to vote for American politicians. I think it's the same law which states that all our politicians have to be ugly bullshitting bastards that we don't particularly want to vote for – and sometimes don't even get the chance to vote for! …Yes Gordon, I mean you. (I know what you're thinking, but hinting that the PM reads this is not narcissism, it’s fact.) If I could vote for Obama however, then I most definitely would. I have been seduced by his charisma, and the glitz and glamour he has brought to proceedings with his campaign. "Oooh, they could have their first black president! Lets get rid of the retarded cowboy and let this charming mixed-race chap have a go. I'm not entirely clear on his policies but he's a damn fine looking guy and has a profile that will look marvellous on collectable coinage in the future. But for gawd's sake someone board up the White House cat-flap so Monica Lewinski can't get back in."
Barack Obama
You will by now know who won the election, whether you're reading this the day of – or the year after – the event. (Modesty, see it? The "year after." I have obviously grown as a person in the space of two paragraphs. Okay... only a little bit, but progress is progress.) I'll not bore you with political musings, as I'd only make a fool of myself. The other day I completely forgot about Al Gore because when I watched that election I was focused so intently on being annoyed at losing Bill Clinton from the political stage that I paid very little attention to the pair vying to succeed him. Actually, I think that's how George Bush got in. (Again, somebody make sure that bloody cat flap is secure, will you?)
As I was exhausted today and plan to stay up all night tomorrow to watch the coverage of the election, I stayed offline most of this evening planning to rest. So, in place of prowling the internet making a prat of myself as I usually do, I watched a host of shamelessly romantic and saccharine films instead. They're so utterly without cinematic merit that they're even considered tawdry examples of that much maligned genre the 'chick-flick'. So why do I watch them? And moreover, why do I continue to enjoy them (even if it is accompanied by a large helping of self-loathing for having such pedestrian – not to mention oestrogen-friendly -- tastes in movies.)?
I have been asking myself that question and really don't think it's as straightforward as being a daft-and-romantic girly. I've never protested my daftness, but I do often find myself having to justify myself as an 'unromantic.' In a woman that's not generally expected, and people often think I eschew it because of feminist ideals (and I'm pretty sure my mother still occasionally wonders if I am a lesbian, purely and simply because I didn't cry at Dirty Dancing and can't quote it from beginning to end.)
My mothers ludicrous misconceptions aside, there is still the question of why – if I am as unromantic as I claim to be – do I watch films made entirely for those whose hearts sit desperately close to their sleeves? I think the answer lies in my previous description of these movies as being "saccharine." If romance is sugar, then idealism is artificial sweetener; both have the same effect, but whilst one is notoriously bad for you, the other likes to consider itself to be the more virtuous option.
I know I am an idealist, and whilst my belief in god is vague, and my faith in humanity often tested; the thing I believe in above all else is hope. Hope that things will get better, or hope that they will not get worse. For me, these sorts of films buy right into that set of values. A romantic sees the protagonist stroll off into the sunset with their one true love and bathes in the afterglow of a happy ending. An idealist such as myself witnesses that same scene, and is more comforted by the message of hope: the idea that whatever may be around the corner for the loved-up pair heading out toward the dimming golden light, they hope that their lives will improve now that they have found each other. That is, I feel, always the underlying sentiment I am left with when watching this genre of movie. Whatever the set of circumstances on which the credits roll, they always end with the characters feeling they now have a little more hope for a better tomorrow.
I also think it has a little bit to do with overcoming obstacles. That is a predominant theme in many movies, not merely the 'chick-flicks' of which I speak tonight. There is always some endeavour; something or someone standing between the man and his true love; the woman and her dream job (yes, I did deliberately have the man be the one looking for love and the woman as the career driven one. It may only be an example but that doesn’t mean it has to conform to traditional stereotypes.) Back to the point: a lot of my own life has been given over to "beating the odds" and whilst there are lots of genres of film where the protagonist has trials to succeed in if they are to meet their ultimate goal, in many they chart the story of little people doing very big things. The scale is often far too grand for someone like myself to feel I can identify with, whereas in a 'chick flick' the triumph over adversity tends to come in the form of ordinary people fighting toward an aim that is shared by many other ordinary folk. Whether portrayed as family, friends, career, or soulmate – the pursuit of love is the underlying theme of all this type of film – and that to me represents something far less hopeless, and far more attainable: the extraordinary achievement of a commonplace desire.
(...That said, I still wouldn't recommend 'The Lake House.')
After typing that, I went downstairs and made a cup of tea and while passing through the living room (on the most direct route there is to the kettle without jumping out of the back bedroom window,) and I heard a muffled swishing noise coming from behind the redundant gas fire, which probably means it will all need to be unscrewed tomorrow because a bird has fallen down the chimney again. This occurrence is not nearly as frequent now as when our neighbour bred racing pigeons; as when it was the season for all his young birds to fledge, they seemed suicidally drawn to dive-bomb our chimney like little fluffy kamikaze pilots.
Just for once I'd like to go into the kitchen at night and not be accosted by a cat, a dog, a tortoise, a mouse, a pigeon or a bloody great big spider with 86 million legs and a murderous gleam in its eyes.
When other people complain about living in an "Orwellian State" they usually mean Big Brother, so why did I get Animal Farm?
(Yes, I am aware that Animal Farm is a bit darker and more intellectual than 'the bit in Snow White where the sparrows help to do the washing up' - but this bloggy thing isn't ironically called 'Meretricious Nonsense' you know.)
Tuesday, 14 October 2008
There's A Rat In Me Kitchen, What Am I Gonna Do?
Today my head has been full of that Ali G song from a few years ago. Actually, that wasn’t the song: it was just what he was singing at the start of the video for another song I think. I’d better not look it up, or I’ll have two songs competing for the limelight in my brain, and it’s hard enough to concentrate on living life with half a dozen Jamaican rats scampering about, without wondering which of them is called Julie.
I’m not mental, there’s good reason for there to be rats in my brain - just like I’m sure they had good reason to be in Ali’s kitchen. Thing is – they’ve moved out of his cuisine and into mine. Only they probably aren’t the same ones (because they’d be used to a celebrity lifestyle after all those years with Sasha Baron Cohen – especially after the success of Borat – and would never downsize to a Pompey terrace,) and they’re not rats. They, or rather ‘it,’ is a mouse.
The first sign that there was a “rat in me kitchen” was when we came downstairs one morning to find lots of bits of silver foil in the carpet. We couldn’t work out where they’d come from, but they appeared ‘nibbled’ - rather than torn or chewed by the dog. Later that day I grabbed a packet of crisps from the cupboard and soon realised there weren’t actually any crisps in it. In fact, the dominant feature of the packet was no longer the “foil sealed freshness” but the ‘mouse nibbled emptiness.’ It certainly solved the puzzle about where the foil bits had come from. They were Ready Salted flavour, if you're interested. (I know, I thought they'd go for Cheese & Onion too, but I don't like them either.)
It’s probably quite a good advert for the crisps, that the mouse ate all of them, because they say animals won’t eat anything that’s ‘off.’ My first cat – Fluffy – saved me from eating mouldy chicken once when my mother tried to poison me. (Well, it may not have been that deliberate, but apathetic neglect puts you on the same path to food-poisoning as intent to sicken would.) Neglect might be a bit strong too, she just couldn’t be bothered to cook so said the chicken that smelled funny would be fine. I took the skin off (being all fussy) and it was mouldy. Mum said it would be fine, but I knew animals have better noses than people so I said I’d only eat it if the cat would. Fluffy refused to go near it, and actually looked quite disgusted at the prospect. So the fact that the mouse actually made the effort to chew through the packet to get to the crisps suggests they must be a quality foodstuff. Even so, I don’t think that’s a slogan that will help Gary Linneaker sell many.
Alternatively, I think the mouse may have had post-intoxication munchies, in which case crisps would be an obvious choice. You see, whenever we have mice, they go after foil. Our previous mouse got caught when it ate an oxo cube and left the foil shards strewn about the kitchen, and the one before that ate some tin-foil, which was how we discovered its presence. This leads me to the obvious conclusion that the mice are not after the food in this house at all; they’re after the foil. The only people who have a sustained use for sneaking foil in the middle of the night are drug users, so I am beginning to suspect that my kitchen might be some kind of rodent crack-den.
We tried putting some traps down, though think we made a mistake in putting cheese on them and not silver foil, as that’s what they are really after. I’m not sure why we bothered with traps – they have eaten so much foil that they are probably magnetic by now. If we put a powerful magnet on a string and dangled it behind the worktop it’s probably come back up choc-full of smack-mice.
This was actually filmed in my kitchen: Mouse Party
As the traps didn’t work (which, as I say, I wasn’t surprised about) we put down some bright blue poison. Today we checked to see if it had been eaten and it had. In another bit of the kitchen in a corner there were some mouse droppings, which prove the critter is still alive because they were the colour of the poison. That’s not what the poison is supposed to do. It’s supposed to kill the mouse not just turn its shit turquoise. Maybe we bought joke-shop mouse poison.
Dad has a mouse in his kitchen too, though it may just be the same one bringing its laundry here like all his other lodgers while their washing machine is broken. Or it’s our mouse’s dealer. That would make more sense. Why would a mouse do its washing in a crack-den? He has a more novel way of catching his mouse. He suggested ambushing it in the night with darts. I’ll know if dad’s mouse ever comes down here to skin up with our mouse, because his will look like some sort of miniature commercialised porcupine; covered in Union Jacks and adverts for Guinness, and whatever other dart-flights he’s got now.
I don’t know why we’re fussing over ousting these rodents. I think we should have just given them some old chicken. That’d poison them. They probably wouldn’t have eaten it though; mice aren’t as daft as me mother.
On a less infested sort of a note, it’s eight years since I had my operation this week, and I received an invite to a Christmas lunch with the IA – the organisation I have done some writing for. Now, the IA are all tied up with the rather unpleasant business of IBS – and the associated effects and accoutrements – so I can’t imagine that going to a Christmas lunch with a room full of people suffering in that way would be much fun. Though I suppose everyone in the room would have a legitimate excuse to avoid the sprouts for once. Even so, it’s not really the way I’d like to mark all this ‘being incredibly difficult’ that I’ve been perfecting for more than three-quarters of a decade. I was hoping for a letter from the Queen, or notification of getting onto the Christmas Honours List or something. There’s a bit of me that would like to turn down an MBE. It’s more rock and roll, and the daft hierarchy of the honours system annoys me. I like the royals as a tourist attraction, and because the pomp and ceremony is traditional and amusing. It all contributes to maintaining a British identity. If actually given an opportunity to meet the Queen though, I’d be there like a shot. My ego couldn’t live with turning it down. I’d want to go just for the anecdote.
That is possibly my most dangerous trait. There are lots of things I’d do “just for the anecdote,” because I sometimes get bored when telling people stories of the life I’ve lived, and could use a few things to liven it up a bit. I know other people think it’s interesting, but I think that if I’d had lunch with Her Majesty - or woken up in a field with Kate Moss, Johnny Depp, a tin of Ambrosia custard and 50yds of bubble-wrap or something - then I’d not find my narcissistic self-promotion so repetitive.
And I probably wouldn’t get so obsessed with why there are mice smoking heroin in my kitchen.
...I did look that song up, it was bugging me too much. Here’s the video:
I’m not mental, there’s good reason for there to be rats in my brain - just like I’m sure they had good reason to be in Ali’s kitchen. Thing is – they’ve moved out of his cuisine and into mine. Only they probably aren’t the same ones (because they’d be used to a celebrity lifestyle after all those years with Sasha Baron Cohen – especially after the success of Borat – and would never downsize to a Pompey terrace,) and they’re not rats. They, or rather ‘it,’ is a mouse.
The first sign that there was a “rat in me kitchen” was when we came downstairs one morning to find lots of bits of silver foil in the carpet. We couldn’t work out where they’d come from, but they appeared ‘nibbled’ - rather than torn or chewed by the dog. Later that day I grabbed a packet of crisps from the cupboard and soon realised there weren’t actually any crisps in it. In fact, the dominant feature of the packet was no longer the “foil sealed freshness” but the ‘mouse nibbled emptiness.’ It certainly solved the puzzle about where the foil bits had come from. They were Ready Salted flavour, if you're interested. (I know, I thought they'd go for Cheese & Onion too, but I don't like them either.)
It’s probably quite a good advert for the crisps, that the mouse ate all of them, because they say animals won’t eat anything that’s ‘off.’ My first cat – Fluffy – saved me from eating mouldy chicken once when my mother tried to poison me. (Well, it may not have been that deliberate, but apathetic neglect puts you on the same path to food-poisoning as intent to sicken would.) Neglect might be a bit strong too, she just couldn’t be bothered to cook so said the chicken that smelled funny would be fine. I took the skin off (being all fussy) and it was mouldy. Mum said it would be fine, but I knew animals have better noses than people so I said I’d only eat it if the cat would. Fluffy refused to go near it, and actually looked quite disgusted at the prospect. So the fact that the mouse actually made the effort to chew through the packet to get to the crisps suggests they must be a quality foodstuff. Even so, I don’t think that’s a slogan that will help Gary Linneaker sell many.
Alternatively, I think the mouse may have had post-intoxication munchies, in which case crisps would be an obvious choice. You see, whenever we have mice, they go after foil. Our previous mouse got caught when it ate an oxo cube and left the foil shards strewn about the kitchen, and the one before that ate some tin-foil, which was how we discovered its presence. This leads me to the obvious conclusion that the mice are not after the food in this house at all; they’re after the foil. The only people who have a sustained use for sneaking foil in the middle of the night are drug users, so I am beginning to suspect that my kitchen might be some kind of rodent crack-den.
We tried putting some traps down, though think we made a mistake in putting cheese on them and not silver foil, as that’s what they are really after. I’m not sure why we bothered with traps – they have eaten so much foil that they are probably magnetic by now. If we put a powerful magnet on a string and dangled it behind the worktop it’s probably come back up choc-full of smack-mice.
This was actually filmed in my kitchen: Mouse Party
As the traps didn’t work (which, as I say, I wasn’t surprised about) we put down some bright blue poison. Today we checked to see if it had been eaten and it had. In another bit of the kitchen in a corner there were some mouse droppings, which prove the critter is still alive because they were the colour of the poison. That’s not what the poison is supposed to do. It’s supposed to kill the mouse not just turn its shit turquoise. Maybe we bought joke-shop mouse poison.
Dad has a mouse in his kitchen too, though it may just be the same one bringing its laundry here like all his other lodgers while their washing machine is broken. Or it’s our mouse’s dealer. That would make more sense. Why would a mouse do its washing in a crack-den? He has a more novel way of catching his mouse. He suggested ambushing it in the night with darts. I’ll know if dad’s mouse ever comes down here to skin up with our mouse, because his will look like some sort of miniature commercialised porcupine; covered in Union Jacks and adverts for Guinness, and whatever other dart-flights he’s got now.
I don’t know why we’re fussing over ousting these rodents. I think we should have just given them some old chicken. That’d poison them. They probably wouldn’t have eaten it though; mice aren’t as daft as me mother.
On a less infested sort of a note, it’s eight years since I had my operation this week, and I received an invite to a Christmas lunch with the IA – the organisation I have done some writing for. Now, the IA are all tied up with the rather unpleasant business of IBS – and the associated effects and accoutrements – so I can’t imagine that going to a Christmas lunch with a room full of people suffering in that way would be much fun. Though I suppose everyone in the room would have a legitimate excuse to avoid the sprouts for once. Even so, it’s not really the way I’d like to mark all this ‘being incredibly difficult’ that I’ve been perfecting for more than three-quarters of a decade. I was hoping for a letter from the Queen, or notification of getting onto the Christmas Honours List or something. There’s a bit of me that would like to turn down an MBE. It’s more rock and roll, and the daft hierarchy of the honours system annoys me. I like the royals as a tourist attraction, and because the pomp and ceremony is traditional and amusing. It all contributes to maintaining a British identity. If actually given an opportunity to meet the Queen though, I’d be there like a shot. My ego couldn’t live with turning it down. I’d want to go just for the anecdote.
That is possibly my most dangerous trait. There are lots of things I’d do “just for the anecdote,” because I sometimes get bored when telling people stories of the life I’ve lived, and could use a few things to liven it up a bit. I know other people think it’s interesting, but I think that if I’d had lunch with Her Majesty - or woken up in a field with Kate Moss, Johnny Depp, a tin of Ambrosia custard and 50yds of bubble-wrap or something - then I’d not find my narcissistic self-promotion so repetitive.
And I probably wouldn’t get so obsessed with why there are mice smoking heroin in my kitchen.
...I did look that song up, it was bugging me too much. Here’s the video:
Friday, 29 August 2008
How Much Is That Katie In The Window?
It seems that "being tired" is of interest to certain members of the medical profession. Now, I don't mean they spend years studying yawns until they can decipher their hidden meaning like those people who think they can understand cats' meows, or read bottoms. That would be ridiculous. There are, however, those who choose to specialise in what (as far as I can see) amounts to little more than 'watching me get more and more sleepy/bonkers while asking me questions that require me to not be sleepy/bonkers if I stand any hope of answering them correctly.'
This sleep-science epiphany occurred some time between arriving at the Chronic Fatigue Services Centre, and leaving it. I can't be any more specific than that, because the actual appointment is a little blurred. There's a good reason why they call the generalised befuddlement that accompanies M.E/CFS "brain fog" - it obscures anything that's just out of reach, cannot be easily cleared, and descends quickly. I get confuzzled very easily at the moment, and I'm not sure the specialist (who calls herself Julie, but looks like a Cynthia so I think she is probably lying. Possibly in witness protection or hiding from the FBI. Though I don't think you could really do her for any more than possession of wheatgrass and too many hippie skirts.)
Anyway, she wanted a basic family history and life story - a tale I regaled her with rather reluctantly, after telling her to "wait for the book like everyone else" sank like one of the rose-quartz stones from her peace garden. I shouldn't really be so dismissive of her - she's very nice - and there's nothing wrong with hippie types either. I'm descended from them! When my blood is viewed under a microscope you can see little daisies printed into each cell, and I have made a life-long study of recreating John Lennon's 'Bed-In" protest. (I just haven't decided what I am protesting against yet, ok?!) It's just that the whole place smacks of duplicity. It is a hospital facility that is trying very hard not to be a hospital facility, but no amount of pan-pipe music and pastels can hide the fact that behind at least one of the multiple unmarked doors there is almost certainly someone colonising MRSA cultures on their heart chakra, or spraying TB all over the inoffensively bland stationery.
I don't do myself any favours once I have passed from articulate-and-lucid into rambling-and-detached. I managed to avoid talking about pigeons or sausages this time, but blathered on for longer than was reasonable about lamas and woodlice. Over the course of the previous evening I had nurtured an affinity with woodlice that peaked about 45mins into the consultation when I was asked how I feel about currently being nocturnal. I repeated the thoughts I'd had the night before: that it is fine to be nocturnal in the summer when the days are too hot and bright, but late afternoon/evening is perfect. I adore the freedom of the night-time, and when it's warm and I can have all the windows open and just relax I love the night. At this time of year it starts to be different, as the nights are simple dank, dark and cold. Living my life in the damp, dark and cold is what makes me feel less like an insomniac and more like a woodlouse. It was in trying to explain this that they diagnosed the "brain fog" symptom, though even if I had avoided likening myself to a 'chuggypig' they would have noticed my bemusled state of being soon enough, as I clumsily attempted to fill out the last questionnaire with liquid-eyeliner instead of a pen.
I did accomplish one of my goals from last week, which was to get a sneaky photo of the rather unfortunate sign blue-tacked to the entrance of the facility: (It made me laugh anyway.)
After getting home I remembered that I had to get passport-sized photo's done for my disabled parking badge (which I've never had before, but decided I would arrange when I got stuck having to trek across a bloody-great car-park in the pouring rain not so long ago. If there are papers that say I don't have to do anything so ridiculous as negotiate potentially Nessie-harbouring puddles whilst wearing stilettos that aren't exactly well designed for *walking* in - let alone swimming - then it's just about enough to persuade me to have a photo taken. Bearing in mine it takes a lot for me to agree to being snapped - by man or machine. But, it needed doing. The local firm that I've had my ID with since I was (briefly) a student have closed down and it's no longer valid, so I have had to send that off too. So I had to sit in that stupid little booth in the post-office, denied permission to smile, and with every flaw highlighted by a light so bright I think it may have actually neutralised any pigment in my skin. As well as having the light-bleach to contend with, it was that hideously white background - the consequence of which being that I blended right into it and ended up with four photographs of little more than floating lip-gloss.
I thought my last ID card was gormless, but it turns out that I was capable of looking even more like I had survived a botched lobotomy. It's because I hate it so much I think. I sit there grumbling and glowering and wanting to leave, and then right in the middle of my surly stream of "ihatethiswhythefuckamIherelet'sjustgetitoveranddonewith," the camera flashes and I look like something off a dodgy website for cheap Czech escorts. "Each girl come with own goat. Very good deal. Buy now."
Proof that the missing link was better suited for eastern-european sex-trafficking than sentient thought:
As far as anything else is concerned I have done little more than buy shoes - and avoid writing a proper pitch for a regular column in the medical journal because it requires actually going to the gym. My editor John knows I'm lazy, but as I have another appointment at the M.E clinic next Friday, I can still call it "research."
This sleep-science epiphany occurred some time between arriving at the Chronic Fatigue Services Centre, and leaving it. I can't be any more specific than that, because the actual appointment is a little blurred. There's a good reason why they call the generalised befuddlement that accompanies M.E/CFS "brain fog" - it obscures anything that's just out of reach, cannot be easily cleared, and descends quickly. I get confuzzled very easily at the moment, and I'm not sure the specialist (who calls herself Julie, but looks like a Cynthia so I think she is probably lying. Possibly in witness protection or hiding from the FBI. Though I don't think you could really do her for any more than possession of wheatgrass and too many hippie skirts.)
Anyway, she wanted a basic family history and life story - a tale I regaled her with rather reluctantly, after telling her to "wait for the book like everyone else" sank like one of the rose-quartz stones from her peace garden. I shouldn't really be so dismissive of her - she's very nice - and there's nothing wrong with hippie types either. I'm descended from them! When my blood is viewed under a microscope you can see little daisies printed into each cell, and I have made a life-long study of recreating John Lennon's 'Bed-In" protest. (I just haven't decided what I am protesting against yet, ok?!) It's just that the whole place smacks of duplicity. It is a hospital facility that is trying very hard not to be a hospital facility, but no amount of pan-pipe music and pastels can hide the fact that behind at least one of the multiple unmarked doors there is almost certainly someone colonising MRSA cultures on their heart chakra, or spraying TB all over the inoffensively bland stationery.
I don't do myself any favours once I have passed from articulate-and-lucid into rambling-and-detached. I managed to avoid talking about pigeons or sausages this time, but blathered on for longer than was reasonable about lamas and woodlice. Over the course of the previous evening I had nurtured an affinity with woodlice that peaked about 45mins into the consultation when I was asked how I feel about currently being nocturnal. I repeated the thoughts I'd had the night before: that it is fine to be nocturnal in the summer when the days are too hot and bright, but late afternoon/evening is perfect. I adore the freedom of the night-time, and when it's warm and I can have all the windows open and just relax I love the night. At this time of year it starts to be different, as the nights are simple dank, dark and cold. Living my life in the damp, dark and cold is what makes me feel less like an insomniac and more like a woodlouse. It was in trying to explain this that they diagnosed the "brain fog" symptom, though even if I had avoided likening myself to a 'chuggypig' they would have noticed my bemusled state of being soon enough, as I clumsily attempted to fill out the last questionnaire with liquid-eyeliner instead of a pen.
I did accomplish one of my goals from last week, which was to get a sneaky photo of the rather unfortunate sign blue-tacked to the entrance of the facility: (It made me laugh anyway.)
After getting home I remembered that I had to get passport-sized photo's done for my disabled parking badge (which I've never had before, but decided I would arrange when I got stuck having to trek across a bloody-great car-park in the pouring rain not so long ago. If there are papers that say I don't have to do anything so ridiculous as negotiate potentially Nessie-harbouring puddles whilst wearing stilettos that aren't exactly well designed for *walking* in - let alone swimming - then it's just about enough to persuade me to have a photo taken. Bearing in mine it takes a lot for me to agree to being snapped - by man or machine. But, it needed doing. The local firm that I've had my ID with since I was (briefly) a student have closed down and it's no longer valid, so I have had to send that off too. So I had to sit in that stupid little booth in the post-office, denied permission to smile, and with every flaw highlighted by a light so bright I think it may have actually neutralised any pigment in my skin. As well as having the light-bleach to contend with, it was that hideously white background - the consequence of which being that I blended right into it and ended up with four photographs of little more than floating lip-gloss.
I thought my last ID card was gormless, but it turns out that I was capable of looking even more like I had survived a botched lobotomy. It's because I hate it so much I think. I sit there grumbling and glowering and wanting to leave, and then right in the middle of my surly stream of "ihatethiswhythefuckamIherelet'sjustgetitoveranddonewith," the camera flashes and I look like something off a dodgy website for cheap Czech escorts. "Each girl come with own goat. Very good deal. Buy now."
Proof that the missing link was better suited for eastern-european sex-trafficking than sentient thought:
As far as anything else is concerned I have done little more than buy shoes - and avoid writing a proper pitch for a regular column in the medical journal because it requires actually going to the gym. My editor John knows I'm lazy, but as I have another appointment at the M.E clinic next Friday, I can still call it "research."
Wednesday, 9 July 2008
Just A Firestarter, Crazy Fire Starter
I have neglected this blog somewhat because I've had several publishers of anthologies who want me to submit work, and can't write for fun when I need to channel all this nonsense into work. I have also been resting up because I have had lots of dull hospital-related things to attend to the last couple of weeks.
It started when I had to go for a pre-dietary-clinic-appointment blood test. They are always busy in the afternoons so I had to go during early AM hours. Well, early for me. Because I have been rather nocturnal of late I had to stay awake overnight and not sleep at all before the blood test at 9:30. I was fine until 6am when I'd usually start to think about sleep, so I began watching Ghost Whisperer to keep my mind occupied. It worked, but one of the episodes was set in a hospital, and Melinda (the medium) is approached by lots of dead patients - and another addressed the early days of exploring her gift when she still wasn't able to tell who was real and who was a spirit by just looking. I didn't have a problem with this until I got through the doors of the hospital and - feeling rather woozy and spaced out from sleep depravation by then - I convinced myself that not all the people I could see were real, and that I had better try and ignore the ones I considered to be suspect phantoms. Sat in the waiting room I was trying not to acknowledge an old woman in a purple bed-jacket, because she didn't look well and I thought that she might have been a candidate for 'walking dead.' (I realised I might be wrong about her when she took a ticket, but there was a middle-aged man with a strange moustache who I also tried to ignore.) If you make eye contact with people in those places they feel that a sort of shared-hospital-experience gives them the right to talk to you, and I didn't want to look mad by talking to an empty chair if he was really a ghost. I thought in the end that it was better not to talk to anyone, but kept thinking of the line from Sixth Sense: "I see dead people," and giggling for no apparent reason - trying to stifle it and just looking like I was having some kind of seizure.
When it was my turn to see the phlebotomist and have blood taken, I entered the little consulting room and immediately felt inadequate. She was a bronzed, blonde, incredibly pretty nurse in sexy naval uniform. It was like something out of a cruel Fedde le Grand music video - juxtaposed over some sort of awkward, ugly-duckling teen movie. I expected to trip over and end up in a humiliated little heap at her feet as I spilled a bag full of tampons and flashed mismatching underwear. Fortunately I made it to her chair without such a display of inelegance, but then made myself look like I had nefarious intentions when she routinely asked me to check my name and D.O.B before she drew blood. That would have been fine under normal circumstances when I have had enough sleep to remember that on my hospital records they use my 'official' name, but at 10:45am after having been awake all night, I just couldn't remember it. Eventually I blurted out the right combination of Kate/Katie-Sue/Katrina Lawrence, and stumbled over myself to try and explain that I am not thick - just have been called so many different things in my two-and-a-bit decades of life that I had forgotten which version was on her bit of paper. She accepted the story with the sort of understanding (yet simultaneously pitying) sigh that suggests she had recently done a psychiatric rotation, and proceeded to prepare for the blood test. She didn't need to prepare me - she needed to manoeuvre herself into position; which given how tight her uniform was meant a lot of wiggling and adjusting while she complained that the dresses must have been designed by a man, because they did not accommodate "real women with real breasts." She then went on to demonstrate exactly how little room she had in the garment; making me feel even more inadequate as she pointed out all the places where the fabric was straining.
So there I am: sleeve rolled up and tourniquet slowly turning my hand purple, gazing down the heaving clevage of a stunning south-african who thinks I am either a psycho or a terrorist, while trying to ignore the little boy clinging to his mothers legs in the other phlebotomists chair because I think he may not be real.
This is not THE nurse: but a jealous-brunette's approximation. (I am also not searching "sexy nurse" with Google Safe-Search off again. That is not what she did to me with the needle...)
On the way out Dad and I were squirted with alcohol-gel in an anti-MRSA drive - run I am sure by the women who spray you with perfume in John Lewis - and they were no less over-zealous in their efforts with the disinfectant moonshine than they are with Paris Hilton's latest fragrance (which probably smells just as much like paint stripper.) The fumes from the gel were bad enough, but dad decided to wipe the excess off his hands and onto my hat. That was tolerable until he decided to stand over me and light a cigarette. I don't appreciate nearly being set on fire by someone who looks like a cross between Jason Lee and a dip-dyed Jesus.
The week after that I had the now-infamous-and-immortalised-on-film Nutritionist appointment that told me the blood tests were fine. As ever, the Consultant was a bit odd. When he had done all the boring medical stuff he explained that he'd traded me with a psychologist colleague of his, in exchange for her services with another couple of patients. He said she'd heard about me because of the funding project I'd been part of 3months ago, and had taken a look at my notes. She wanted me to participate in some study she's running regarding body-image and self-esteem issues that occur in patients who experience illness and/or major surgery in their teenage years. She's interested in me because I am "slightly atypical." She has enough screwed up people, and is interested because I have never needed counselling, and don't appear to have too many major hang-ups. (Apart from being too short, too skinny, etc - but that's dissatisfaction with being plain, not medically related psychological problems.)
The nutritionists explained that they'd agreed to "lend me to her" in return for her letting two of their 'effed up patients onto her regular counselling list. He told me he didn't think I needed her help, but that it would be useful if I could let them know what I thought of her style, how she interacts with patients and generally review the service she provides - because she's an expensive shrink and they want to be sure she's worth the funding! The consultant was, as usual, his less than PC self - despite best efforts to the contrary. When explaining that I wasn't going to be a "patient" of the psychologists, he said: "You don't need to be under her care professionally because you're not, well, how do I say this... Bloody mad!" I said I think I am a little bit, and he told me that in his opinion I am "perfectly sane." I don't think that telling the room full of dieticians and nutritionists that I was disappointed and wanted a second opinion was the reaction they anticipated to a diagnosis of sanity.
Dad gave me a lift home, and we went to get a cup of tea in the canteen so I could tell him what they'd said. Now, I am not quite sure how it happened - because by then my brain had given up and I was pretty knackered - but I found myself sitting in the canteen of the Queen Alexandra half-finished-super-hospital, eating spotted dick and custard after having been to a clinic full of anorexics, chatting to my father about monkeys that had gotten hooked on sponge cake by David Attenborough. Somehow, it was generally accepted as being my fault.
On the way out, after being accosted by the germ-crusaders (whom we were this time far more ready for,) there was a tramp in the car-park who saw dad light up and asked for a cigarette. Dad offered him one of his menthols and the guy turned it down, because he said he didn't like them. He's a tramp! He had blood on his t-shirt and he was wearing a coat with so many tears in that it was more like a 'hole occasionally interrupted by coat.' No one with that much oil and mud on themselves should be in a position to be that choosy over his path to lung cancer.
I've pretty much been asleep since then, but I did look out of the window when I woke up today to see a woman leaving the bingo hall with a goldfish. (Not accompanied by a giant goldfish, just carrying one in a water-filled bag - like you used to get at the fair before the RSPCA complained.)
It's comforting to know that however unusual the circumstances I find myself in actually are - it's the rest of the world who are mad. I am officially not.
It started when I had to go for a pre-dietary-clinic-appointment blood test. They are always busy in the afternoons so I had to go during early AM hours. Well, early for me. Because I have been rather nocturnal of late I had to stay awake overnight and not sleep at all before the blood test at 9:30. I was fine until 6am when I'd usually start to think about sleep, so I began watching Ghost Whisperer to keep my mind occupied. It worked, but one of the episodes was set in a hospital, and Melinda (the medium) is approached by lots of dead patients - and another addressed the early days of exploring her gift when she still wasn't able to tell who was real and who was a spirit by just looking. I didn't have a problem with this until I got through the doors of the hospital and - feeling rather woozy and spaced out from sleep depravation by then - I convinced myself that not all the people I could see were real, and that I had better try and ignore the ones I considered to be suspect phantoms. Sat in the waiting room I was trying not to acknowledge an old woman in a purple bed-jacket, because she didn't look well and I thought that she might have been a candidate for 'walking dead.' (I realised I might be wrong about her when she took a ticket, but there was a middle-aged man with a strange moustache who I also tried to ignore.) If you make eye contact with people in those places they feel that a sort of shared-hospital-experience gives them the right to talk to you, and I didn't want to look mad by talking to an empty chair if he was really a ghost. I thought in the end that it was better not to talk to anyone, but kept thinking of the line from Sixth Sense: "I see dead people," and giggling for no apparent reason - trying to stifle it and just looking like I was having some kind of seizure.
When it was my turn to see the phlebotomist and have blood taken, I entered the little consulting room and immediately felt inadequate. She was a bronzed, blonde, incredibly pretty nurse in sexy naval uniform. It was like something out of a cruel Fedde le Grand music video - juxtaposed over some sort of awkward, ugly-duckling teen movie. I expected to trip over and end up in a humiliated little heap at her feet as I spilled a bag full of tampons and flashed mismatching underwear. Fortunately I made it to her chair without such a display of inelegance, but then made myself look like I had nefarious intentions when she routinely asked me to check my name and D.O.B before she drew blood. That would have been fine under normal circumstances when I have had enough sleep to remember that on my hospital records they use my 'official' name, but at 10:45am after having been awake all night, I just couldn't remember it. Eventually I blurted out the right combination of Kate/Katie-Sue/Katrina Lawrence, and stumbled over myself to try and explain that I am not thick - just have been called so many different things in my two-and-a-bit decades of life that I had forgotten which version was on her bit of paper. She accepted the story with the sort of understanding (yet simultaneously pitying) sigh that suggests she had recently done a psychiatric rotation, and proceeded to prepare for the blood test. She didn't need to prepare me - she needed to manoeuvre herself into position; which given how tight her uniform was meant a lot of wiggling and adjusting while she complained that the dresses must have been designed by a man, because they did not accommodate "real women with real breasts." She then went on to demonstrate exactly how little room she had in the garment; making me feel even more inadequate as she pointed out all the places where the fabric was straining.
So there I am: sleeve rolled up and tourniquet slowly turning my hand purple, gazing down the heaving clevage of a stunning south-african who thinks I am either a psycho or a terrorist, while trying to ignore the little boy clinging to his mothers legs in the other phlebotomists chair because I think he may not be real.
This is not THE nurse: but a jealous-brunette's approximation. (I am also not searching "sexy nurse" with Google Safe-Search off again. That is not what she did to me with the needle...)
On the way out Dad and I were squirted with alcohol-gel in an anti-MRSA drive - run I am sure by the women who spray you with perfume in John Lewis - and they were no less over-zealous in their efforts with the disinfectant moonshine than they are with Paris Hilton's latest fragrance (which probably smells just as much like paint stripper.) The fumes from the gel were bad enough, but dad decided to wipe the excess off his hands and onto my hat. That was tolerable until he decided to stand over me and light a cigarette. I don't appreciate nearly being set on fire by someone who looks like a cross between Jason Lee and a dip-dyed Jesus.
The week after that I had the now-infamous-and-immortalised-on-film Nutritionist appointment that told me the blood tests were fine. As ever, the Consultant was a bit odd. When he had done all the boring medical stuff he explained that he'd traded me with a psychologist colleague of his, in exchange for her services with another couple of patients. He said she'd heard about me because of the funding project I'd been part of 3months ago, and had taken a look at my notes. She wanted me to participate in some study she's running regarding body-image and self-esteem issues that occur in patients who experience illness and/or major surgery in their teenage years. She's interested in me because I am "slightly atypical." She has enough screwed up people, and is interested because I have never needed counselling, and don't appear to have too many major hang-ups. (Apart from being too short, too skinny, etc - but that's dissatisfaction with being plain, not medically related psychological problems.)
The nutritionists explained that they'd agreed to "lend me to her" in return for her letting two of their 'effed up patients onto her regular counselling list. He told me he didn't think I needed her help, but that it would be useful if I could let them know what I thought of her style, how she interacts with patients and generally review the service she provides - because she's an expensive shrink and they want to be sure she's worth the funding! The consultant was, as usual, his less than PC self - despite best efforts to the contrary. When explaining that I wasn't going to be a "patient" of the psychologists, he said: "You don't need to be under her care professionally because you're not, well, how do I say this... Bloody mad!" I said I think I am a little bit, and he told me that in his opinion I am "perfectly sane." I don't think that telling the room full of dieticians and nutritionists that I was disappointed and wanted a second opinion was the reaction they anticipated to a diagnosis of sanity.
Dad gave me a lift home, and we went to get a cup of tea in the canteen so I could tell him what they'd said. Now, I am not quite sure how it happened - because by then my brain had given up and I was pretty knackered - but I found myself sitting in the canteen of the Queen Alexandra half-finished-super-hospital, eating spotted dick and custard after having been to a clinic full of anorexics, chatting to my father about monkeys that had gotten hooked on sponge cake by David Attenborough. Somehow, it was generally accepted as being my fault.
On the way out, after being accosted by the germ-crusaders (whom we were this time far more ready for,) there was a tramp in the car-park who saw dad light up and asked for a cigarette. Dad offered him one of his menthols and the guy turned it down, because he said he didn't like them. He's a tramp! He had blood on his t-shirt and he was wearing a coat with so many tears in that it was more like a 'hole occasionally interrupted by coat.' No one with that much oil and mud on themselves should be in a position to be that choosy over his path to lung cancer.
I've pretty much been asleep since then, but I did look out of the window when I woke up today to see a woman leaving the bingo hall with a goldfish. (Not accompanied by a giant goldfish, just carrying one in a water-filled bag - like you used to get at the fair before the RSPCA complained.)
It's comforting to know that however unusual the circumstances I find myself in actually are - it's the rest of the world who are mad. I am officially not.
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