Everyone in the office had chips at lunchtime yesterday - I snoozed and lost on that front so stopped in a troublingly spelled establishment called Flavas on the way home to make it up to myself.
Offered the choice of a sauce to go with my order of chips, I went with mayonnaise - at which point the guy behind the counter looked at me pointedly and said 'you'll get fat if you eat mayonnaise'.
The personal boundary issues of this statement aside, I was mostly rendered speechless by the situation - a vendor of dubious deep-fried battered chicken parts felt that the condiment I'd chosen was the most comment-worthy element of my meal.
Irony, it appears, is wasted on the ironic.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Food for thought
Why aren't bananas classified as 'tropical' fruits? They're grown in tropical climes aren't they?
Or are they so classified? If so, why has this information been kept from me for so long?
And why do banana flavoured products taste nothing like real bananas?
Or are they so classified? If so, why has this information been kept from me for so long?
And why do banana flavoured products taste nothing like real bananas?
Thursday, September 03, 2009
The company I keep
Really starting to wonder if it is indeed me, not them.
Was talking to a couple of friends the other day about cars - hardly my area of expertise, as demonstrated by the ineptitude displayed during the GM years - and threw out the observation that if I could have any car in the world, I'd like an Aston Martin DB9.
To which, one friend said, 'But the insurance on an Aston Martin would be so high.'
She raised a valid point. Because, you know, that IS why I don't already have an Aston Martin...
Was talking to a couple of friends the other day about cars - hardly my area of expertise, as demonstrated by the ineptitude displayed during the GM years - and threw out the observation that if I could have any car in the world, I'd like an Aston Martin DB9.
To which, one friend said, 'But the insurance on an Aston Martin would be so high.'
She raised a valid point. Because, you know, that IS why I don't already have an Aston Martin...
Monday, July 13, 2009
Going postal
Sent my previous landlords a rent cheque a few weeks ago - the last one, in fact, in a long line of cheques I've been sending them for (a personal record) nine months. The envelope (and the cheque within) got returned to me with no significant action taken such as postmarking the stamp (or indeed, cashing the cheque). No evidence whatsoever to indicate that it had ever left my possession. Or that it was any different than the several other cheques I've had to send over to the nincompoops at the previous landlord's office.
Mysterious you say? Indeed it was.
Although often content to leave mysteries well enough alone (I've seen the films, I know what happens to girls who go nosing around business that isn't their own), somehow I couldn't bring myself to leave this one unsolved. So I took the envelope down to the post-office and put the problem to the lady behind the counter.
She examined the envelope as thoroughly as I'd hoped she would. She looked at it forward and backwards, upside down and right way round. She might even have smelled it. She took it away and brought it back. And in the end, she said 'so why have they sent it back to you?'
To which I replied, incensed and justifiably so I feel, 'I don't know, THAT'S WHAT I JUST ASKED YOU'.
In the end we agreed on sending it as a recorded delivery and no more was said about the mystery of its return.
This incident has left me wondering if, just as Toosy is the keeper of the madness moths, I am the flame to which stupidity moths are drawn.
Mysterious you say? Indeed it was.
Although often content to leave mysteries well enough alone (I've seen the films, I know what happens to girls who go nosing around business that isn't their own), somehow I couldn't bring myself to leave this one unsolved. So I took the envelope down to the post-office and put the problem to the lady behind the counter.
She examined the envelope as thoroughly as I'd hoped she would. She looked at it forward and backwards, upside down and right way round. She might even have smelled it. She took it away and brought it back. And in the end, she said 'so why have they sent it back to you?'
To which I replied, incensed and justifiably so I feel, 'I don't know, THAT'S WHAT I JUST ASKED YOU'.
In the end we agreed on sending it as a recorded delivery and no more was said about the mystery of its return.
This incident has left me wondering if, just as Toosy is the keeper of the madness moths, I am the flame to which stupidity moths are drawn.
When our boots they hit the ground...
My, what a busy few weeks it has been.
Despite the best concerted efforts on behalf of all the estate agents I met with to try and keep me from finding a place that ranks even poorly on the habitability scale, I managed to locate and secure one such dwelling and am now cosily unpacked and settled into my very own studio flat in Balham. It shares the approximate dimensions of one of my less roomy shoeboxes, but now that I'm growing accustomed to tripping over my own belongings, the place is definitely starting to feel like home. Plus, blessed as I am with a truly appalling memory, I can't remember what it was like not to live here, which is surely a sign of some deeper sense of calm? In any case, I love the new place, creaky floorboards, tiny shower and all.
Unfortunately Claude did not take so well to his new surroundings and after a mere 3 days in the new homestead I came home to his lifeless little body lying on the bottom of the fishbowl. (If I'd looked closer I'd probably have found a little note saying 'I told you I was ill' but I was too distraught at the time to examine closer.) His absence seems to have affected Eustace's nervous system too, as he now zips around the bowl with a somewhat startled expression every time he hears any sound at all. Fortunately, unlike Claude, Eustace has always been smart enough to know that when food falls your head from the sky, it's best to eat first and ask questions later, so his overall health does not seem to have suffered significantly.
The highlight of the summer so far has been in music festivals, seeing the mighty (Def) Leppard at Download followed swiftly by Bruce himself at Hard Rock Calling a couple of weekends ago. Needless to say, Bruce rocked but for me the real gem of the day (and possibly of this year) has been discovering and seeing live a band called The Gaslight Anthem who have swiftly become one of my all-time favourites. Mixing Springsteen-esque blue collar storylines with punk sensibilities, and throwing in an endearing grin and tattooed (ch)arms, Brian Fallon is seriously vying for a place on my Friends 5 list. I only wonder if Matthew Perry will ever forgive me...
Despite the best concerted efforts on behalf of all the estate agents I met with to try and keep me from finding a place that ranks even poorly on the habitability scale, I managed to locate and secure one such dwelling and am now cosily unpacked and settled into my very own studio flat in Balham. It shares the approximate dimensions of one of my less roomy shoeboxes, but now that I'm growing accustomed to tripping over my own belongings, the place is definitely starting to feel like home. Plus, blessed as I am with a truly appalling memory, I can't remember what it was like not to live here, which is surely a sign of some deeper sense of calm? In any case, I love the new place, creaky floorboards, tiny shower and all.
Unfortunately Claude did not take so well to his new surroundings and after a mere 3 days in the new homestead I came home to his lifeless little body lying on the bottom of the fishbowl. (If I'd looked closer I'd probably have found a little note saying 'I told you I was ill' but I was too distraught at the time to examine closer.) His absence seems to have affected Eustace's nervous system too, as he now zips around the bowl with a somewhat startled expression every time he hears any sound at all. Fortunately, unlike Claude, Eustace has always been smart enough to know that when food falls your head from the sky, it's best to eat first and ask questions later, so his overall health does not seem to have suffered significantly.
The highlight of the summer so far has been in music festivals, seeing the mighty (Def) Leppard at Download followed swiftly by Bruce himself at Hard Rock Calling a couple of weekends ago. Needless to say, Bruce rocked but for me the real gem of the day (and possibly of this year) has been discovering and seeing live a band called The Gaslight Anthem who have swiftly become one of my all-time favourites. Mixing Springsteen-esque blue collar storylines with punk sensibilities, and throwing in an endearing grin and tattooed (ch)arms, Brian Fallon is seriously vying for a place on my Friends 5 list. I only wonder if Matthew Perry will ever forgive me...
Friday, May 22, 2009
When a man is tired of London...
... he is tired of life.
So says Samuel Johnson and I'm inclined to agree with him.
Yet, that precisely is what Gareth has announced his intention of doing. Apparently the hills and vales of Wales (if there are any) have called to the deeps in his soul and are beckoning him homewards in July.
That's right, I have to move house.
Again.
So says Samuel Johnson and I'm inclined to agree with him.
Yet, that precisely is what Gareth has announced his intention of doing. Apparently the hills and vales of Wales (if there are any) have called to the deeps in his soul and are beckoning him homewards in July.
That's right, I have to move house.
Again.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Head like a hole
I have a bump on my head that hurts when I prod it. Putting aside the question of whether the key here is not to prod it, the important thing is that I don't remember bumping my head.
But maybe that's because the bump erased part of my short-term memory.
I believe I have reached what the French call an impasse...
But maybe that's because the bump erased part of my short-term memory.
I believe I have reached what the French call an impasse...
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