Sunday, January 30, 2011

P.S I hate you

Anyone know the definition of 'A walk?' I'm pretty sure it's a casual affair, at a considerably leisurely pace, which involves the inhalation of scenery and clean air. Unfortunately, a few friends of mine mistook 'walk' for mountain climbing, for wilderness survival, for army bootcamp. It's a miracle I'm alive. And what a loss that would be for the world - like losing J K Rowling, if she was slightly less famous, and was poor again, and hadn't had anything published.

It's lucky one of them was asthmatic. I stole his inhaler.

And you know what the conversational topics we covered were? Just your usual young professional banter: yawn rape, acid, pushing your other half off the cliff as a slightly less confrontational method of ending a relationship.

One of them gave me a creme egg and then hit me in the face. They all laughed.

I stepped in a bog. I tore my leather gloves on a rock. I had my focused face on and was labelled a 'sour faced cow.'

We went to a pub, starving, clothes torn, blistered, we ordered, salivating. They'd stopped serving food.

Thank God the weekend is picking up. Ginger Beard's only decided we're watching P.S I Love you. l think I'll just cry my way to Monday.

Hysterically yours, WriterAtLunch

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Said The Fat Man

There was a fat man at the gym. I noticed him whilst pedalling on the bike.  His balled up towel was on the floor next to his ankle and he was staring at it with a mixture of despair and disgust. He couldn’t seem to lift any of the weights. He moved onto the next weight machine. I didn’t have my glasses on, but I’m pretty sure he was crying, and having a Facebook chat with his mum. He then went back to the previous machine, tried to lift something, failed to lift it again, glared at a fit man in a vest.
Then, dear reader, he noticed that I was watching him. Now, in my defence, I have to observe the world, and its many tragic things, in order to write about it. I was harmlessly writing a blog commentary in my head, and leaning over the handles of the bike, thoroughly entertained. He then came and sat on the weight machine next to me, in what I originally saw as his first stage of attack, but what I now realise was him trying to drag morale from the fat people sticking together. He sat there, this fat man, watching me, taking comfort in two fat people against this aesthetics obsessed world.
I was a little upset. I looked to the girl next to me, and realised she was hardly using the cross trainer, more exhibiting her lean body across it. I quickly realised that she paid £30 a month to make me feel bad, which is extortionate, even for a recession
I went over to the treadmill. I listened to a bit of Katie Perry.  When I wanted to stop, my brain sighed, ‘well you’ll never look like Katie Perry if you do that’. I wondered why the fat man was still watching me, and hoped he was not now cheering me on, on behalf of the fat race.
I ran. I looked at my heart rate at the end, expecting it to say ‘dead’. Luckily, it was only a few beats off my estimated maximum heart rate, so I was only almost dead. Look at me fat man, you have been mistaken in your analysis. I am not dissimilar to that skinny girl, reading Heat Magazine, and provocatively rubbing her thighs at fit vest man. Go home. Have a burger. Leave me be.
So just to conclude, I’m very athletic, and my possession of a chubby face does not necessarily provide a fat man with the rite to ogle/ follow me, whilst also assuming that my asthmatic breathing combined with his inability to lift his own towel, united us.
Good, I’m glad I cleared that up.

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Operation Compensation

Please do join me on my little consumer experiment. I am trying to work out if a combination of complete bullshit and an obvious competence with the English Language can score me some cash/ a free pair of tights. This is the email I sent off this afternoon:

Unfortunately I have still not received my purchases, or any notification of the delivery status. As you can imagine I'm quite upset to realise that I received my original dispatch email on the 13th of December - a month ago! This is the second time I've had to chase up my order, and seemingly notify yourselves of this problem. I ordered these items for my sister, for Christmas, and though I appreciate the poor weather made deliveries difficult, it doesn't seem my package has even made it to dispatch. As someone who is a regular customer of Arcadia group stores, I'm very disappointed in the quality of customer service, and considerably put off from making any further purchases. Please refund the amount charged to my account as soon as possible.

I look forward to hearing from you,

Regards,

The lies: Timescales, the idea that I'd spend that much money on anyone but myself, being a regular customer, that I'll stop shopping.

The truth: Well, it is a bit late.

So let's see how much they value my middle-class complaining abilities. If I don't get offered double my money back/a good old game of Supermarket Sweep in store, including Dale or a job, my next email will be dripping with sarcasm.

I don't know about you guys, but I don't know of anywhere you can spend an apology.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Injured? Have you been left to cope with the costs?

So we're comfortably sitting in January, and look at me with the whole resolution thing! I'm not a complete failure; I can still achieve things beyond basic dental hygiene, and tying my shoe laces. And thank God I didn't attempt more than one, because I'm already going steady with Terry's chocolate orange and some of his friends. Oh, and the gym? I walk past it all the time. It seems to be doing just fine without me.

I can be fat and write. It's the same as having a face for radio.

I've got some bad news about our good friend Ann Potts - she's only gone and had an accident at work! Maybe she had the wrong ladder? Luckily, she's a member of GBM Compensation. Unluckily, all the forms have come to me. They've enclosed a rather detailed letter about some poor chap called Daniel who fell through a skylight. I can only assume this same fate has befallen my beloved Ann. It's okay though, because Daniel's employer was imprisoned. That didn't seem fair to me, until I read that Daniel was dead. I guess that balances out. Ann, be you dead or crippled, I shall hold on to these forms for you, or your carer, worry not.

In other news, Ginger Beard decided enough was enough with all my shoes, and hid the majority of them in a bin bag. Imagine my dismay on Monday morning facing the rain and ice, with a choice of my high heels or my gripless boots. This was not a problem the cag in a bag could fix. I chose the boots. I fell over in Morrison's car park. The staff saw, and not one of them came to help, despite my numerous purchases, and general store loyalty. Ann would understand, probably feeling abandoned by her loved ones, no christmas cards this year, no road to compensation, just her crooked legs and her imprisoned boss. Hard times for us all.

Sunday, January 02, 2011

Sort yourself out love

Oh the delightful month of January, where we are forced into a kind of reluctant ambitiousness; I will drink more water, and keep in touch with old friends, and I will spend less. I say start with the small things and work backwards; I will retain all four of my limbs, get in a good eight hours every night with my television, and I will spend a disproportionate amount of mirror time working on my photo face. Step it up in February, stop biting people. By March you'll have learnt to use coasters, arranged the DVDs alphabetically, and even turned off the odd light in a room you're not using! Well done you!

I've yet to achieve a resolution, yes, not a single one of the slimy buggers. And that's because we're pressured to make a whole list, a blabbering, bullet-pointed, badgering list of improvements. This year, I'm going for one, so that their pestering voices aren't competing for room, and I can focus. And that's to keep this blog going for the entire year. Even though, I know, it's basically a self-indulgent diary, which leaves Ginger Beard waiting for the day our personal life slowly seeps in and he has to go into Witness Protection.

I urge you to do the same, and something, you know, like remotely attainable. Or else we're all just a bunch of unrealistic wishful thinkers who never change much of much. And don't let the cheeky ones bludgeon their way in as the months drag on, where you think, might as well achieve world peace and feed the hungry while I'm at it. One clear, reasonable goal. Then you can have yourself a smug, victory party in December, because for a whole twelve months, you have managed to wear clean underwear. (Aimed at no one in particular. You know who you are.)

So go forth my thrill seeking, hormonal little readers, and at least for this year - sort yourself out love.

xx