Whoops

Writer At Lunch, learning about life so you don't have to................

It turns out that you can't separate frozen chipolata sausages with a glass pepper grinder and a knife. Which is shocking really. Because I thought it looked quite reasonable at the time.

Approach:

Leave sausages in plastic tray. Place on chopping board. Apply tip of large knife between first two sausages. Turn pepper grinder upside down. Smash base repetitively down on knife handle.

Voila!

Glass all over your sausages and a kitchen floor of peppercorns. You really should try this at home.

I'm sure you know what it's like - you really want some fucking sausages, and you'll employ any means necessary to get them. We've all been there.Thanks for understanding.

ALSO,

I walked into this man. He was a pretty normal man in a nice grey suit. Potentially, it could've been quite romantic. We both would've laughed, faux brushed one another down, and looking deep into my dull blue eyes, he would've exclaimed, 'Why, I do believe I'm in love' (because he's quite posh). Sadly though, a girl walked immediately into me, and you know what they say, three's a crowd. It's all because another girl, had decided to abruptly stop, and tousle her hair using a a police van window. She was so into it, she didn't even glance at our human pile up.

You know what though, it was totes worth it: her hair looked great. CHEERS.

And then there was this construction man, talking to this other construction man, and I was walking past with my headphones in, and he suddenly turned to me and said something.

So I stopped.

And I said, 'Sorry?'

And he said, 'What?'

And I said, 'You just shouted at me.'

And he said, 'I would never should at anyone.' And turned to his friend, who nodded, supporting this.

So I said, 'I had my music on, so I couldn't hear. But you said something.'

So he said, 'I didn't'.

And then we just stood there for a bit. Which was really uncomfortable, and then I left. The moral of the story is, if you think someone's trying to get your attention, ignore them, because you might just end up extending your work commute by four minutes, having no choice, but to avoid the Leeds Trinity Shopping centre, until they've finished it.

I'm completely plagued by social awkwardness at the moment. I don't like leaving the flat.

Oh! I really wanted to talk to you about Fifty Shades, but I can't be bothered now,  because I'm so effing tired, so..........

Here's my new favourite video instead. I watch it when life gets too painful.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YCiY1y3uJ3o&feature=g-all-u

Throw the dice

Times are desperate. I've started gambling.

For the first time ever, in my life, I'm playing the lottery.

It started with a work syndicate in Leeds. And believe it or not, we won. I almost handed in my notice, but decided instead (after counsel from close friends) to invest it. It was £2.80 between five of us.

The Manchester office also has a syndicate. I cheated on my syndicate. I couldn't help it! The possibility that they would hit the jackpot, and my whole life would suddenly snag on the small moment that I'd said, 'No,' was too painful.

I think I've finally acknowledged that I'm not likely to get rich via this blog, via being spotted in the street by a model scout, or via marrying a rich, vulnerable old man (though I'm not sure whether or not Ginger can be considered in this category if we're looking five years ahead).

ALSO

The bus is becoming my new playground for odd experience. The train's still mighty cack, don't get me wrong. But the bus has opened up a whole new world of possibility. Take yesterday for example. I'm looking out the window, at some poor bastard's crippled bike. He's locked it up in front of a church, and someone, under the watchful eyes of God, has stolen a tyre. My soundtrack, is one man, informing another, that he often feels like he's almost shitting his intestines. Then, a skinny fella, in tight pants, forces his crotch into my arm. I say forces, because I've never had a clearer impression of the shape of someone's penis against my shoulder. I felt so dirty, I had to confess to Ginger Beard that I'd cheated on him.

 (Mum- I'm really sorry about writing the word 'penis', but it did happen, and it's very therapeutic for me to share. Also Mum, do you remember the days when you would comfort me, over say, a cut knee, or tonsillitis, and now, strange men on buses are assaulting me with their genitalia. I bet you feel helpless. It's okay, that's normal. We can't protect our children forever.)

ALSO

I got on a train to Manchester with this blonde woman, and then, she was sat next to me on the way back too. Wow! I felt like we were friends! I wanted to ask her if she'd had a nice day. I wanted to be all like, 'Hey! What are the chances?! And what kind of job lets you wear flip flops to work?'  Then she phoned her boyfriend to tell him exactly how she wanted her eggs cooked, and I wanted to shout, 'Hey! I actually prefer my eggs scrambled.' But I realise many of my inclinations are, in the main, inappropriate.

It's kind of like when you see a group of strangers everyday at the bus stop, and you start to believe that you know them. Is that just me? SHUT UP.

Bye.

Chump-lympics

Is anyone else too hot?

I've been too hot for like, ten days.

Remember when it was too cold? Bring that back! I miss that.

It is however proving to be a rather fabulous excuse about why I can't exercise. These days I have to get the bus home (or as Ginger calls it, 'The Peasant Wagon'). Currently, you settle in for a good twenty minutes of being boiled alive. You depart, a red, sweaty mess, and fall into your apartment, muttering a word which sounds vaugley like 'water'. It's very nice. I really can't recommend it highly enough. Your Ginger will then make several comments expressing his sheer disbelief at how destroyed you are.

No shit Sherlock, my Taxi man quit.Sometimes in the mornings, I eat really loud, and bang into everything, and sing horribly, just to let him know how I feel about it.

ALSO, I hit my mum in the face with a coat hanger at the weekend (accident), and it worries me that I found it so amusing. Honestly. My priority, above checking she was okay, was giving it to a good bout of hysterical laughter.

I'm not a good person.

I also read this book in two days called 'The perks of being a wallflower' which was completely absorbing. When I was younger I used to opt out of life in favour of a good book, and it really took me back to the rosy old days. Reading it was like being under hypnosis. It seemed much more real. I also watched this film, called, 'The Thirteenth Floor' which was all about fake realities within fake realities.

Is this what a nervous breakdown feels like?

Somehow, and I really don't know how, this abomination, called the Olympics, has been allowed to continue. I thought our combined British cynicism would weigh it down, and it would just like, sink to the bottom of the ocean. Ginger said he watched the opening ceremony and he might as well have been watching someone repetitively set five to wads of money.

I really don't know how every resident of London hasn't killed themselves due to the looped announcement from Boris Johnson in the tube stations, 'MILLIONS of people are coming, PLAN your journey carefully, or be trampled under their eager, sport loving feet.' Thanks Boris.

Why don't they get it, that all British people really want is a well made cup of tea? It would be soooooooo much cheaper. I mean, I never really excelled in mathematics. I barely dragged my number-challenged brain into the C grade bracket at GCSE, but I bet it would save a fortune.

Philip was right

The bus journey yesterday taught me two valuable things:

1.Charlotte got chinned by Luke, and her mates are like totes going to hunt Luke down and kill him.

2: Some peoples' lives are a lot worse than mine. Like the guy who initially couldn't take the call, because he was on the bus, but then five minutes later was screeching 'Stop being such a fucking bitch' with real gusto into his phone.

I hope this wisdom also aids you on life's journey.

ALSO, I'm sorry I've left you alone for so long. It's been a demanding few weeks, and yours truly looks like sleep-deprived shit.

On the plus side, I did sent a spam email to everyone I've ever emailed. That was a real hoot. I looked lovingly into my inbox one day to note that my father had sent me a personal message. How lovely, and on my birthday! I then proceeded to re-enter my password in pursuit of assumed amusing/affectionate message. Love really does make you blind, and a complete tard at that. My disloyal inbox then fired off the same trick to my whole address book. Thanks.

The real bastard here, is that my farther already knew that he'd been hacked. He's just so damn chillaxed, that he forgot to mention it. He did inform me that his computer is now clean, so he doesn't really know what the problem is. And I'm sure all the individuals I'd previously emailed about writing jobs will feel the same.

To quote Philip Larkin, 'This be the verse' -

'They fuck you up your Mum and Dad
They may not mean to, but they do.'

Well said Philip, well said.

I've got this other issue at the moment, where I keep trying to buy things in shops without any money. it always goes like this:

Shop Assistant: Great, that'll be £7.15 please.
Me: Oh no. Oh crap. I've not got enough money.

I'm so special. I keep leaving my debit cards around the flat to fend for themselves.

Recently, I looked over my attempted purchases and was like,

'Okay, put the toothpaste back, and put the butter back.'

You know what this left me with? You know what I'd decided was essential over toothpaste?

Three packets of Brivita Breakfast Biscuits (on offer).

Try cleaning your teeth with that.

I give up on myself completely.

You're my hero

I was walking down the road. A man came off his motorbike turning the corner before me, and slid across the tarmac.

I've always asked myself, 'What would you do? Are you the kind of person who would jump right in there, cape billowing at your shoulders, a red S stitched across your chest? Or would you just stand there, helpless, struck dumb?

I stood there.

For a few seconds, I watched other people, better people, run over to him.

The road was puddled with purple oil, and it terrified me. It made me think of blood.

When I made it over, the better people were already asking the right questions:

'Are you okay? Can you move? Should I call an ambulance?'

The better people helped him up, and held him up.

What did I do? I took his helmet and gloves off the road, and put them on the wall. And then I too, desiring to be one of these better people, resenting my slowness, furious that I had fallen victim to a paralysing shock, attempted to be a better person. I peeled his jacket off, not very effectively though, my hands were shaking.

Under the jacket, his left arm had begun to swell and bruise. He didn't want an ambulance. He wanted to call his girlfriend and say, 'I've come off my bike, but I'm okay.' Because in his near-death, he was suddenly very alive. He wanted his own voice to reinstate him as very much here, a boyfriend, a father, survived.

The other people left. I said I'd wait with him. I don't know what we were waiting for. We watched his arm. It grew worse with every minute, black from his wrist to his elbow, angry. His ribs were suffering too. He asked me what I thought. Are you supposed to lie? Maybe yet again, a better person would've said, 'It will be fine.' I said:

'God, it looks awful, horrendous. We need to get you to the hospital.'

When Ginger Beard arrived, he helped move the bike out of the road. The man wouldn't accept a lift. We weren't far from the hospital and he wanted to walk.

I didn't blame him. I bet everything looked instantly incredible. I bet he wanted to be with his working legs, his working brain.I bet he wanted to call everyone and announce himself as a small miracle.

Mostly, we find ourselves saying, 'It could've been worse', about everything we face. And it could have. Luckily there wasn't a car to collide with, lucky the bike didn't end up on top of him. Lucky, lucky, lucky. Probably just a broken arm and a second chance.

Other than making me realise that my reactions to emergencies are somewhat lacking, it also inevitably fills you with a 'live for the moment' whim, a kind of appreciation.

So take it, do something you wouldn't normally do. Don't take it all for granted. Try harder. We all need reminding that it's short, and it's special, so make something of yourself now.

Into the jungle

If you live in Leeds, you'll probably know about Tropical World. And I highly recommend that on some lazy Sunday, you grab your kids (or someone elses' - it's just important that children accompany you.), and mooch over to let the fun begin. It's £3, and I'll tell you exactly what you'll get for your money:

*Prams, everywhere. Prams of every colour and configuration - mostly manned by people who really shouldn't be parents (I know this, because although it's difficult to pin point how to go about being a great parent, it's very obvious to spot a bad one). And trying to hit a giant butterfly with your baby, while your wife chases you with a Kodak, is not a good start.

*Heat, 40'c to be exact. It was never going to go well for me. When I was eleven, my family and I travelled to America. The moment we left the air conditioned airport, I decided I couldn't breathe, and panic attacked/screamed/cried my way into the hire car.I don't like hot air - air so hot, that you can't feel the oxygen entering your body, and the carbon dioxide escaping it. It's like someone's holding a pillow over your face. Well, in Tropical World, your skin melts. Your skin turns to wax. The denim of your Jeans becomes one with your thighs. Enjoy.

*Assault - You and everyone else is packed in there. Don't know that strange man over there very well? You do now! You've never been this close to anyone! Now you know what his hair tastes like. Yum.

 The children are the worst. They walk over your shoes. They use your arms and hands as hanging vines, and swing their way through crowds. I'm sure children have their good points - but what most of them lack, at that young, E number riddled age, is manners. Squeezing their skinny bodies in between you and the glass, banging their sweaty fists on the wood and shouting at the Meerkats. Will someone please restrain this monster? No, no one will, because kids will be kids won't they. I don't think they will, not if you leave them in the car (recommended).

ALSO, because I'm sure you miss hearing about my train journeys as much as I miss talking about them: I had a right belter last night. First, I approached my seat to find three people discussing it.

Man: Oh, no, please, you take it.
Woman: I couldn't possibly, go ahead (to woman 2)
Woman 2: It's fine, really, I'm getting off at the next one.
Man: (gesturing to woman 1) I insist.

What I then said was:

Me: Sorry guys, that's my seat.

And strode past assaulting each in turn with either one or a combination of the items I was holding: lap top rucksack, water bottle, handbag.

Now, judging by the subsequent glaring, I can only assume what I really said was,

'Look, you mole-eyed degenerates. IT'S MINE;'

And finally, if you want to read an incredibly well written book, about a woman who forgets who she is everyday (and as Ginger Beard rightly suggests, is pretty much 'Memento' on the page), then pick up 'Before I sleep.' I read it in a few hours, and had horrendous nightmares. But it really does make you appreciate your working noggin, and the writer can really spin one hell of a story. WriterAtLunch stamp of approval.



Good news for you, if like Ginger, you can't read:

Officer, I've never seen this gun before in my life

At the moment, I'm spending a rather odd amount of time with the Police.

Now, as much as I'd love to tell you why, I can't. Because I'd have to change my name to Billy Bob and move to the American outback.

The first thing they wanted to know yesterday, was what we'd had for dinner, as the array of leftovers present on the table baffled them (I almost suggested that they send away the remaining crumbs for testing - such is the technology at their disposal, but did not wish to impose). Regrettably, I told them the truth, which was, 'Soup with Pizza.' I then tried to justify the combination, but I could see their training kicking in. It didn't help that the room is covered in bunting and hanging paper things (in preparation for a party), and the largest object is a giant pink and black hula hoop (exercise). Also Ginger Beard has tied my hair up while I was doing the washing up, and has done a poor to awful interpretation of what a bobble's for.

After this, it was hard to have a nice conversation. We looked like mentals. The very same mentals they were hunting.

They keep leaving me voicemails, and when I phone back, no one's ever heard of the Officer in question. This makes me the worst prank phonecaller ever:

'Oh. hello, I was just returning the call of a PC Jones.'
'PC Jones?'
'Yes.'
'Reference number?'
'Um, I wasn't given one.'
'Why not?'
'It was a message.'
'Well, they would've left a reference number, and besides we don't have a PC Jones.'
'Okay.'
'We have a PC Mcendrick.'
'Right.'
'But she doesn't work Mondays.'

SORRY FOR BLOODY TRYING TO HELP. WHY DON'T YOU JUST ARREST ME?

Yeah, so before this call they caught me in my grey. furry slippers, green pyjama bottoms, and maroon hoody, then the call, then the soup with pizza.

It's like when the Police walk past me in the street, and my face automatically arranges itself in the exact expression which projects, 'Not only do I have drugs, but I killed a man, and cut him up, and the bits of him are in my pockets.'

I automatically assume a position of guilt.

Why?


 I forget how to be normal as soon as they're around. I don't stand a chance. I'm going to get 15 to 20, in an all women unit with packet mash and ill fitting shoes. I'm getting dandruff, and a nail to scratch the slow passage of days into the floor, and, AND I'm going to have to be someone's (inevitable) bitch.

Write to me.