Miss L and me decided to enter our massive intellect into a pub quiz.

For the record, out of 27 teams, "Hogs on the Run" came a smashing 23rd. Perhaps we have trouble with memory retention, but we remain blissfully unaware of the name of whoever won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1984, or who the oldest footballer ever to make a debut on the national team was. Shame, one of the prizes was described as "other bit and bobs". Note the lack of a plural there, had to be something good, I reckon. But we did get the question about horses right, and the one about who played Dirty Harry. And, most importantly, we were not last.

In lieu of entertainment, we spent our time doodling pictures of spaceships, beasts, cowboys and genitals on a spare bit of paper. Good to see we've matured nicely over the years.

When we skulked back to the car, I noticed that a strange slimy streak of matter appeared to have oozed, like ectoplasm, from the metal and glass. It glistened sickeningly in the street light. I goggled at it for some time before I realised someone had egg'd the damn thing, and it wasn't anything we needed to call TV's "Most Haunted" in to inspect. Which led us to wonder who the hell carefully packs an egg, takes that egg into town, nestled deep in a soft pocket, chooses a car, unwraps the precious chicken ova, aims and throws? Did it offend them like a politician might? Perhaps it was a drive-by egging?

One single egg, mark you. I hope they chose correctly, and did not regret the decision later, when they were eggless. At any rate, it seemed like a judgement of sorts - fare crap in Pub quiz, receive eggs. On your windscreen and bonnet. So there.

Office Fun

When bored out of your tiny mind, why not send letters to people who don't even exist?

Mr C
38 Pootle Lane
Ferckley in the Wold
Botswanadon
BB5 4RR


25 May 2007

Dear Mr Cheese & Onion

Please find enclosed a timetable for eyeball pain / headaches this year.

On the 8th of June, a shower of bastards is expected in the morning. Be sure to take the necessary precautions.

Please contact me if this change causes any difficulties for you.

Yours Sincerely

La Receptionista
Office Ham Sandwich

Messages for the Unhearing

To the aging professor who cut me up in Asda's car park:
I hate you. I do not care how new your pathetic car is. I do not care that I may have driven within 20 foot of it.

When your pale, moon shaped, beard wreathed face rose like a guppy's from the gloom I felt disgust, and bowel clenching fury. Why did you goggle at me? Your beady little eyes fixed upon me as if seeing the world for the first time, but surely, with your driving skills, this must happen all the time. And your Paddington Bear hard stare? My God, I swear, I was so scared, no, really.

Thank the unlucky star that shone down on your unfortunate birth that I didn't just ram the back of your precious motor. Believe me, I was imagining doing it, and it was good.
Next time I see you, all bets are off, sucker!

Thanks. I feel better now.

Today, the following exchange took place:

Me: Sorry for being so grumpy. I'm probably just a bit hormonal.

Sidekick: ........You think?

Me: WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!

Then I ruined a perfectly good and workable strop by sniggering to myself. Dern it, I was 21 to 13 spats and pulling away too.*

*Gratuitous Princess Bride reference

Delusions of Terror

As usual, I was wasting time skipping merrily amongst the Blogger blogs when I was brought up short by this statement pasted right across the top of the page. Weird:

"Note from the paranoid author of this blog: Due to my increasing (though variable degrees of) paranoia, please refrain from linking to this blog. This is not due to any misconceptions of superiority (even though I may be better than you or anyone else out there), but only to a severe dread of being discovered by my friends or family. If you are my friends or family, please stop reading this blog. If you cannot stop, please do not ever let me know that you know about this blog. If you have to let me know, hypnotize me first, and then make me forget what you tell me. Otherwise, read on."

It was all I could do not to link to this blog just to be contrary. Not sure what that says about me, but it can't be good.
The worst thing is that now I can't find the page again in order to check for salacious and dirty reading matter, although I can reveal that the current post contained......a recipe for........SOUP.

Nasty little munchkin.

I Hear Dead People

I am not entirely convinced that I achieve full consciousness until quite late on in the day. Generally, I stumble around in a fog for several hours before the world around me resolves itself into a comprehensible whole. Mostly this does me little harm, although I have attempted to make coffee by adding fizzy water from the fridge to sugar and coffee granules. The major difficulty is that anyone who talks to me before, say, 10am seems to be uttering prophecies, or speaking in tongues. Things I have misheard this week:

"Fargle, the Binman cometh!" ("Remember, I'm playing badminton tonight.")

"Mixmag, has the cat gone?" ("Did you feed the cat?")

"Give it to Ahab, he'll return the pox forthwith." ("Give me the number, I'll fax it.")

I see two possibilities:

1. I am channeling some long dead seer
2. I need my ears cleaned

Procrastination

"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by."
Douglas Adams

It's amazing just how long I can put off doing something. My approach tends towards leaving it until it is a) too bloody late by a long shot or b) pointless. I now believe myself to actually be incapable of just getting on and finishing it. It is for this very reason that it took me four and a half years to finish a three year university degree. Do I need to explain that playing Zelda on my Un-intendo 64 was infinitely more necessary to me than completing a 4000 word essay on the political effects of the printing press? Or that discussing porn in the pub was more interesting than dissecting the history of the romantic novel (providing a comprehensive list of all references)? Or that seeing Rolf Harris in concert was more vital than revising? Actually, I never went to that concert, stayed home "to revise", but instead had a two hour bath and watched a documentary on the SAS. Bloody typical.

Even right at this moment, I am completely failing to tidy the bedroom in any way. Look at me. I'm still not moving, despite the fact that it would really make Sidekick happy if I would just have at it.

The point to all this is how enjoyable procrastination can be. Every now and then, if you just can't be arsed, let it go. After years of practice I can take not being arsed-ness to a whole new level of slothful inadequacy. It's my art.

Suppose I'll go put some clothes away and hoover. But first I need to read this book I got yesterday, smoke a few and then perhaps a face mask? So many fabulous ways to waste time, so little excitement in the things I should do.

In other news: today I consistently typed "pumpls" instead of "pumps" and "chimney bresty" instead of "chimney breast". I feel sure my brain is doing this on purpose, with the sole intention of preventing death by complete boredom. Is sniggering a sackable offense?
Pumpls. I like it. *Snigger*