Friday, October 21, 2011

Have you packed your own bags?

The stages of life with a Laptop Backpack (soon to me made into an animated feature film, coming to cinemas near you).

Stage one: Receive said bag. Phone father. Issue forth bag, and subsequent laptop as proof of succeeding in life. Point out array of compartments. Talk at length on necessity of travel. Establish self as that woman on the train, typing, drinking coffee, being important. Try to brush off chip from shoulder re crap, waste of time degree. Have made it. Smug, smug smug.

Stage two: Realise that cannot fully wear backpack as intended, as will not look cool. Must look cool at all times, in order to retain self-imposed idea of high status. Use one strap only, off right arm. Have handbag on left arm. Strut back and forth to station. Look very cool indeed.

Stage three: Slight issue with shoulder and back pain. Newly attained status is very heavy. Glare at laptop when not on back in bag, resent lap top. Cannot be that woman on the train, as hardly ever get seat. When do get seat, get seat next to smelly man, crying baby, old woman with too many bags. Experience severe travel sickness when trying to work on train.

Stage four: Recall previous battle with high heels as very similar. Convinced self could wear high heals for years. Drunkenly hobbled around city, fell down stairs, whinged, but wanted to be like other, normal girls and glamorous. Gave in. Bought flats. Now live in boots. Give in, now wear backpack fully. Do not look remotely cool. Do not even look geek chic. Is particularly fetching when matched with pencil skirt. Hate back pack. Hate laptop. Have not excelled in career, have gone backwards. Have started writing like Bridget Jones, and knocking people unconscious when turning round in small spaces.

To note: Do not have a lengthy meeting about appearing professional, go and visit your colleagues, sit on a table, and allow that table to collapse. Is not a good look, and combined with full on backpack, is very damaging to street cred.

Monday, October 10, 2011

Shitty Shitty Bang Bang

This just in - food poisoning is hilarious, more so when the realisation hits you in Debenhams.

Three weeks until Thailand! Now, I really can't stand it when people brag about their impending holidays on Facebook, so I'll just say this - It's gonna be frickin awesome, and you can't go, and I'm going, and you're not. Sucks.

On the bright side, you may very well avoid a painful death. There are numerous ways to die in Thailand, and many of them very common. Unfortunately I want to grab adventure by its inflated testicles, and so may encounter such an end. I'm hoping for a drugged tiger, not as drugged as previously thought, escaping and mauling me.

Also, you'll save a lot of money by not stocking up on immodium (unless you suffer from extreme diarrhoea without the help of a dodgy curry). We have many, many boxes of this, and they're not cheap. So much so, that I'm going to pop the bastards out, and put them in a personal Gemma bag. Then I'm going to replace them with Ibuprofen and glue the foil back down.

Ginger Bead won't notice because Ginger Beard is an underdeveloped monkey.

One of us is going to have a really great time in Thailand, and one of us is going to have an uphill battle with the shits.

Luckily for you guys, we'll both be keeping a travel journal during the trip, some of which I'll try to type up whilst there (if I can get away from that tiger). I've offered to share my blog temporarily with Ginger, but I think he wants to keep his thoughts about 'life stuck to the toilet', 'wearing socks with sandals', and how annoyed he is about the incredible amount of money I've spent on hotels, private.

My travel journal will map his bowel movements, purely for entertainment purposes. I'll also be covering the estimated temperature, taking photos of bowls of nicely arranged rice, and commenting on how I like, really feel about stuff.

Wednesday, October 05, 2011

Gymtastic

So I went to the gym last night (I know, I know you can't improve on perfection), and I was attacked, that's right, attacked, by the ghost of Michael Jackson.

Firstly, I'll set the scene. The gym at work is in the basement. It is a place set up purely as a murder location. There is a box of white chalk ready for CSI. There's hardly ever anyone there but me. Which makes me really angry when anyone does think of turning up. It's pretty much my private gym, so stay out of my private gym you bastard!

In my own, private gym , if you want to run on a treadmill, you run at the wall. It's very nice. You have to jerk your neck around every five minutes to make sure you're not about to be murdered, because it could happen at any time. There's a lot of old, dusty machines, the whir of the air con, and you, practically murdered.

So, I went into the changing room last night, and there was a pile of ladies clothes, and some neatly folded pants. I was like, 'Who the frick is using my gym, and why have they removed their pants?!' I got ready, and walked into the gym. There was no one in the gym! Theory one - Shape shifter. (Documentaries like True Blood show that Shape shifters remove their clothes before shifting). Theory two - Invisible woman. No other theories at present time.

I was having an enjoyable bike ride, when 15mins in, all the lights go off. Complete darkness. And what song comes on at that exact second? I'll tell you - it was a Michael Jackson song. I pretended that everything would be okay, and continued to pedal. But then I realise, that even beyond the desperate plea of the room, I was now, technically requesting to be murdered.

Adding insult to injury, many people came in and out of the changing room (which I could only hear). Now, they are either having a quiet shit in the toilet of MY PRIVATE GYM, which means they are all dirty, shitty scum. Or, they are playing clothes swap. If it's the latter, whose clothes does the first woman wear? I was also very concerned that they thought my clothes were involved. Luckily, this was not the case.

I did some very stressful sit ups, and after each one, sprawled out on the carpet exhausted. I kept adjusting my shorts. And I sang along to a lot of Brit-ney. I then realised, after three weeks of this ritual, there are security cameras. Security have always been very friendly to me. Now, I know why.

I am currently developing a new, organic language for everyone. These words have very naturally occurred in conversations and you may utilise them:

Minggyner (pron Ming-gyn-er) (Meaning - that is disgusting)
Use: That is minggyner!

Minggyne (pron Ming-gyne) (Meaning - that's worse than disgusting)
Use: That is 100% minggyne

Piscuit (pron Piss-kit) (Can only be used in phrase: That takes the piscuit! Something which takes the piss, and also the biscuit.

Horrendie (pron whore-end-I) (Meaning - totally horrendous)
Use: What you're wearing is horrendie!

Thanks for listening.

Sunday, October 02, 2011

Can you say 'Ahhhh'?

This week, I decided to let a dentist prod me in the mouth several times. And as that sounds horrendously inappropriate, I'll put it another way: I went to the dentist. Did I anticipate getting mowed down by a little boy on a tricycle? No, I didn't. Why was he on the pavement? There are cycle lanes now. Pop a fluorescent jacket on him, and sit him on the yellow line.

I'm joking. But I'm completely serious.

Regardless of your age, you renegade cyclists, my feet are not yours for the crushing. Do I drive my car on the pavement? Well, yes, but only by accident. And what I saw in that little boys eyes was not only total disregard for my safety and personal well being, but also cold, hard intent. Age 7 and already a complete bastard.

Ginger Beard has informed me that you have to pay for x-rays at the Dentists. I didn't. I just walked out. Is that so wrong? No one tackled me to the floor, so hopefully I'll get off with a strongly worded letter - which being British myself, I would obviously appreciate.

Dentists love their special jargon. You open your mouth, and they tap round it muttering, 'A32, 6P, 7X7.' It's like battleship, only with no opponent, and no ships, and like, plastic thing with holes and pegs. Only mine went like this, '6% of 8, upper 32, missing'. Missing? Everything was intact when I arrived. But suddenly I'm lying back, staring at a Simpson's poster on the ceiling, lacking an important part. Missing I understand. Missing suggests the notable absence  of something which really should be there.

No choice with the x-ray. I'm having one. Very assertive these men with their bleached white jackets. So I sit in the waiting room for 5-10 reading Country Living (ditsy prints are still very 'in'). Then we look at a charming picture where I'm all skeletal. My bones 'n' shit are in order, but do I want a £220 gum guard? I say I'll think about it. I won't think about it. I will fake a rather beige interest in the idea, due in part to the manners instilled in me as a middle-class child. Thank you Mum. I will peer inquisitively at the price and arrange my eyebrows in a thoughful fashion. I will then, vacate the premises without paying and get hit by a tricycle hooligan.