What do you get when two ditsy blondes walk home together?

Hello all,

                     Hope everyone is getting excited about Christmas. I have only been subjected to Cliff Richard once so far; that's pretty good going for less than a week til xmas I'd say.

This incident involves a good friend of mine, who is the only other individual I have found to be on equal footing with me in terms of my general ditsy, clueless, adorable (I hope) nature. Now, the two of us were walking back from the train station after a night out (I don't know why our other friends left us unsupervised, very bad move on their part) and we were nattering away, as girls like to do. So, we'd been walking for a good half an hour, and I'll admit, I didn't recognise where we were. We weren't going the way I would normally walk back from the station, but I just assumed my friend would know where she was going. In general, I have a tendency to rely on other people's sense of direction what with my own malfunctioning so frequently, so I just assumed we were taking some sort of short cut I didn't know about. Trouble was, my friend had assumed the exact same thing. So we walked a good distance, before I stopped and questioned;
"Is this the right way?"
To which my friend, wide eyed as realisation dawned, replied; "I don't know, I was following you."
"Oh. I was following you."
"Oh."

It was hilarious. We had no idea where we were, we might not even have been in York still for all I knew. We ended up having to get a taxi home we had wandered so far. And it is difficult getting a taxi to come to a place when you yourself don't know the place. Eventually a taxi found us, shivering in some random street near a pub. And as we got in, the taxi man asked if we had come to visit York and got lost. I was perfectly happy to go along with this story and save any dignity I had left, but my friend happily replied;

"Oh no, we live here. We just went the wrong way out of the station."

Nope, the truth was out, we were that silly.

So, to answer the question, what do you get when two ditsy blondes walk home together? The answer is lost, a taxi and a good deal of giggling. Perhaps I should put that in a Christmas cracker. Or perhaps I should keep stories that reveal me to be a foolish individual to myself....

But where's the fun in that?

Making a boob of things - Part One

Hello everyone. Hope you are all well and not too chilly with winter coming in, freezing over our cars/pathways/faces. Here is a heart warming blog to warm your hearts.

So, a few weeks ago, I was at my friend's house, and she was babysitting her little nephew, only a few months old. Now I have to admit, if they aren't crying, pooing or vomiting, I am a fan of babies and can be as slushy as the best of them. So I asked if I could hold said baby. And he really was very cute, very calm, big blue eyes, no poos or tears. And he was super warm like a hot water bottle, which I found surprisingly pleasant. It seemed to be going well. Then his face started to crease. His little eyes looked distraught. His fists clenched. Oh no, I thought, it's coming. He's going to cry. I'm not a baby person. Luckily he didn't have a very loud or distressing cry like some babies do, but still, it's not nice to see the little things upset, is it?

My friend suspected he might have been hungry and went off to prepare some milk for him. In her absence, the baby started trying to suckle my boob, which was quite amusing and did not get him anywhere. So my friend returned with some food and took the baby from me.

Now, some time later, I look down at my top and realise there is a hole slap bang in the boob region. Now this might not have been so bad, had I not been wearing a bright pink bra underneath, which was now gaping through proudly for all the world to see. And it might not have been so bad if the hole hadn't been there for a good few hours before I had noticed it.

Now I can't be sure, but I'd like to believe that it was this baby's sheer determination that put a hole in my top. So a bit of advice, by all means hold a baby if it smells alright and looks like it will be vaguely content for the next five ten minutes. But makes sure you have their bottle close to hand. And if you don't, wear a sturdy top. Or a really nice bra. One of the two.

A whole new concept to the term; "Toe-ring"

Hello all. Hope you are all having a good December the 1st, and have eaten today's chocolate from your calendar (why does it taste so much better than regular chocolate??) and have fished out the old woolly hats and gloves and socks and are generally feeling festive. I expect you think I'm about to tell you a cute little embarrassing festive story involving fighting with a Christmas tree or mistaking an oddly dressed person for an elf. Well I'm not.

A few years back when I was only a wee young squidlet, I was running round the playground with my best friend at break time. Suddenly, I noticed that the back of my earring had gone missing, and I was very concerned about losing the earring, as it was a pair I was particularly fond of. I had no pockets to speak of or suitable small cases, it was quite a conundrum. My friend suggested that I put the earring in my shoe, claiming that she did it all the time. Thinking nothing of it, I popped it in my shoe and carried on with my game. Now, I will admit, I did feel a small amount of pain, but I just assumed it was just the earring bashing about in my shoe.

That wasn't all it was. By the time I got inside and was getting changed for P.E, I realised my tights weren't coming off one of my feet and felt a sharp, tugging pain. Inspecting the foot, I realised that my earring had gone directly into my big toe. Concerned, I hobbled over to my teacher and presented her my foot. Worriedly, she went and informed another teacher, and the two of them lifted me and placed my on the sofas in the reception area, foot elevated and bandaged up to the ankle (perhaps a little melodramatic, but hey, there's no taking chances when it comes to a small person's toe). They called my mum, who came straight away. After spending a good five, ten minutes unravelling the pointless bandage, mum inspected my foot. She looked at me. I, no doubt, looked pretty agitated by this stage. She thought about the long wait at A and E. She thought about me crying and wailing in fear. She made a decision. She yanked it out.

My toe is now fine (well, except for the fact in more recent years I dropped a brick on it, but that's another story for another day) and healed well, in case you were worried. I expect the story spread round the school pretty quickly, and mum still takes delight in telling it. I, however, was not best pleased, as I lost my favourite pair of tights and earrings in one go. It's not easy being a kid. Especially a ditsy one. And those who tell you that you get wiser with age clearly haven't met anyone like me.

The hardship of hearing

Hello readers. How are you today?

Today is a good day as I have finished work early and have the rest of the day off... and have decided to spend my time blogging for you lot. Yes, I am that kind.

Have you ever had one of those awkward moments in which you can't understand what someone is saying, and you ask them to repeat it and you don't hear it again? It seems to happen to me a lot, I don't know if I have bad hearing or I just seem to make a habit of associating myself with mumblers, but I just frequently don't catch what someone is saying. And like I heard a comedian say once (I can't remember which one, perhaps one of you can enlighten me) there is a rule of three. You can apologise and ask them to repeat it three times and after that, you're pretty screwed and just have to pretend you have understood, which is always a bit of a gamble. I mean, if someone was telling me that they just found out they have a terrible bladder condition and I just nod and smile warmly I am not going to come across incredibly well there.

Anyway, on this particular hearing fiasco, I was working in an Italian restaurant and I had a big table of about 20 and the room was already very noisy. And I got to a young gentleman and asked him what he wanted to drink and he told me and I noticed he had a bit of a lisp. Then I asked what he wanted for his mains. And I have absolutely no idea what he said. And now I felt just awful, but I had to say "Beg your pardon" as I had no idea what he had said. And he said it again. Nope, not a clue. Now I decided that the rule of three actually diminishes to two when the person you are talking to has a lisp, as you don't want to come across as if you are mocking them in any way by getting them to repeat it. So I asked one more time, "I'm really sorry, it is so loud in here, I missed it again, what was it?"

Still didn't have a clue. With a shaky hand, I made a squiggle on my pad and nodded, smiled, and moved onto the next person. Got back to my till and panicked. What on earth was I going to do now? I tried process of elimination. It didn't sound like pasta or salad, so it was probably a pizza. In the end I chose a pizza that was the right amount of syllables and put the check on. The pizzas came out. I watched apprehensively as another waitress put the plates down one by one. She got to the mystery order. My heart was thumping. And...nothing happened. He just started eating. I checked later on, there were no complaints. So, did he just decide he liked whatever I brought him and didn't want to make a fuss? Or, as I like to believe, did I just somehow manage to get  the right pizza in a choice of 15?

So, if you find yourself in a similar situation to me, my advice is, just have a bash at a guess and see what happens. You could end up saying the completely wrong thing and look like a total buffoon, or you might get it right. Either way, I'm sure it will be most amusing.

The Missed Stop

'Allo 'Allo.

Today's blog is an unfortunate account of how stressful train journeys can be if you're blonde and have no common sense. (Also, just thought I'd let you know spell check is underlining 'blog' in red as an incorrect spelling. On a blog page. ...I thought it was amusing anyway.)

So, this fateful day, my friend and I had been out all day in Leeds together looking for costumes for a show we were putting on, and were heading back to York. We were chatting away as females like to do, the train pulled up, we got on, still nattering. And we were on this train for a good twenty minutes until we heard an announcement for a stop that we didn't recognise. Thinking it strange, we had a peek outside and saw we were at the wrong station. Realisation dawned on us; we had gotten on the wrong train. The doors starting bleeping; get off the train now or  else! So my friend and I hurriedly shuffled our way down those ridiculously narrow aisles to get off. But then, to my horror, I realised I had forgotten my suitcase full of costumes which I had hauled into the baggage area above the seats. I legged it back to retrieve my bag, but my friend did not see I wasn't behind her and got off. As I got to the doors they closed in my face. I pressed the open door button, panicked. The train ignored me. And as the train started to pull away taking me to some unknown destination, the last thing I saw was my friend's distraught and bemused face...

I managed to change trains back to Leeds at the next stop, goodness knows where I was. I also enjoyed the comments of a man who witnessed what had occurred, who stated; "She's a bit of a bad friend isn't she, running off and leaving you like that."

Getting to places has never been my strong point. But at least my persuasion skills and sad face have been fully practised and perfected on many ticket inspectors and train conductors. It's amazing what magic wide eyes and feigned innocence can work. Remember that if you ever find yourself on the wrong train.

The Mystery Box

Oi! You! Read this. It's funny.

Now we've just had Halloween and given significant amounts of sugar to small children ('cos we all know how calm and un-irritable it makes them) and soon it shall be bonfire night. So I thought I'd tell a bonfire related tale of amusement, you know, 'cos its nice to fit in around calendar themes and that.

So, a few years ago, we held a community bonfire night extravaganza in the small town my family and I used to live in. We would all gather together to supply food and drink and a straw ragged man for the bonfire. And, we all used to club together to get fireworks (except me as I was only seven and so had no monies to speak of).

So, this year we are all huddling round the fire, and the stars are crawling out of their shells, and we're all swaddled in lots of layers and everyone is excited. And the fire works begin. I have always loved fireworks myself; I love the sound they make, especially those crackly ones, oof, amazing! And they are all shimmering gold like champagne. This year we had a few of the regular ones, the big ones that come down like sparkly umbrellas and the ones that shoot up impressively but then just seem to evaporate without any big climax. However, this year, dad and some of his friends had decided to get a big box, which was covered in Chinese writing and we had no idea what it did. It cost a fair bit, and it was a big mysterious box, so we were expecting a fantastic finale of sparkle and crackle and pop.

So, dad lit the box and ran away abruptly. Everyone was silent in anticipation. BANG. Everyone jumped. Ok, perhaps that firework malfunctioned slightly. We continued to wait hopefully.

BANG.

We hear a dog whimpering.

BANG.

A child begins to cry.

BANG.

It continued to do nothing but let out obscenely loud bangs for a good ten minutes. By the time it had stopped banging, children and dogs were highly distressed and everyone's jump reflexes were thoroughly worn out. It was quite possibly the worst end to a firework display I have ever witnessed. Turns out all the box did was bang extremely loudly. I don't think my father was very popular that evening.

So, have fun on your bonfire nights, but let me advise you, if you are DIYing it, make sure you know it definitely does what it says on the tin, before your dogs age ten years over night.

The Alcohol Related Fail (Part One)

Now, before I give out the wrong impression here, happy readers, I do not make a habit of getting very drunk. Mainly because when I do, the following embarrassing events tend to occur. However, it was Freshers week at uni, and alcohol seems to be a good way to forget that you are stuck in a strange place with people you don't know trying to pretend you are having the time of your life.

So, one night I am at a house party with my friend, and I make the terrible, terrible mistake that is to mix drinks. I don't have a lot of memories of this night (clearly I killed off a few brain cells) but the ones I do have are quite amusing. For instance, I remember going to the toilet and finding it quite a stressful ordeal having to figure out how to undo my jeans. This should have been a warning sign.

My friend decided I was a bit too merry to be, well, speaking to other individuals. So she kindly took me home, sadly not before I left a nice 'leaving present' on their doorstep. I do recall being incredibly surprised that I was sick, as I was convinced I was fine and taking me home was nonsense because I wasn't even drunk, not really, and even asking;

"Was that me?"

For any normal student this alone would be embarrassing enough. But not for me. I was feeling a little queasy when I got to the top of the stairs, and insisted on sitting down for a bit on the toilet. My friend decided this wasn't a bad idea (I expect she was also a little merry herself). So sit down I did. I still don't quite know how this happened. I don't know if it is the angle I sat down at, or I am much heavier than I look, but I broke the toilet seat. I have a very vague memory of my drunken self standing up and seeing blurry, black shards in the toilet bowl and stating; "I broke it".

And my friend replying in a slurring voice; "Yes, never mind. It's only a toilet seat."

In the morning, body aching, head pounding, I was little impressed to see the state of the toilet and my other housemates' bemused expressions. But what can I say? When Squids party, they party hard. But before you invite me over for a wild, crazy night, just make sure your bathroom is sturdy.

Shoes are not always our friends

Harro :)

Today, aunt Squid is going to tell you a funny little story proving that mums really do always know best.

I came home one day and saw my darling mother in the kitchen. I went in to go and have a chat with her (because I'm just nice and friendly like that) and proceeded to take my shoes off and leave them in the kitchen doorway. Now, for those of you who don't know my mum, she is a bit of a clean freak (when I say a bit, I mean  you can see her eye twitch when you put a cup down on a table without a coaster. Goodness knows what inner turmoil takes place in her head when her children are inconsiderate like this).

So, mum being mum, she asked me to put the shoes away. And me, playing annoying daughter role, said I'd do it later.

Mum's face twitches ever so slightly.

"You ought to put them away."
"And I will."
"If you leave them there, someone might trip over them."
"No they won't. You can clearly see shoes there, no-one is going to trip over them."

This went on for a little while, and then we got distracted chatting about cars and dead plants ("I swear I did water it when you and dad were on holiday!") and the shoes were forgotten. I turned to go and watch TV, and on my way out of the kitchen, what do you think happened? I tripped and fell on my own shoes. Mum was literally GLOWING with smugness. I was shamefaced. I refused to admit that she was right at the time, as I was embarrassed at how successfully I  managed to set myself up for a fall (gettit? gettit?). But I think its about time.

Mother. You were right about the shoes. You were right about needing to take a coat. You were right about needing to put sun cream on. You were right about the journey taking longer than Google maps suggested. But you know what makes me feel better? You are the one who made me. You are the one who managed to produce a child that is possibly the ditsiest human to ever walk the earth. Ha.

The Locked Door Conundrum

Hallo munchkins,

                                 I hope that all those unemployed young people out there (1 in 5 fifteen to twenty-five year olds according to my sources..) aren't getting too bogged down with all the applying and working for free and shizz. Here's a tale from one of my work experience experiences to cheer y'all up...

I'd just started work at a theatre in London. As I have mentioned in my previous blogs, I am not great at coming across as calm and confident when I first start work, mainly because I am not calm and confident when I first start  work. And when I feel a little apprehensive, I tend to do stupid things, which naturally I would never do in any other context... ahem.

On this fateful day, my boss left me alone to work in the office as she had meetings all day. She  left me a key to get into my office, which on previous days was unlocked when I arrived. So in the morning I toddled along to reception, smiled my most confident seeming smile, picked up my key, no problem.. However, when I got to my door, I realised the lock was silver and small, whereas my key was big and fat and rusty gold. Baffled, I gave the lock a few jabs anyway. It definitely didn't fit. Most perplexed, I headed back to reception.

"Erm, are you sure this is the key left  for me? It doesn't seem to work."
"That's the only key I have here".

She must have given me the wrong key. Sheepishly, I texted my boss informing her I was having trouble getting into my office. She told me not to worry, she'd come back at lunchtime and help me out. After killing some time eating chips I didn't really want in the cafe, my boss came back. I handed her the key, and off we went to the offending office. My boss put the key in the lock, giving me a confused look. It was at this point I realised that there were two locks on the door, the silver one that I had seen, and a few centimetres below this lock, a large, glaringly obvious gold lock. How.did.I.not.see.it.???

Oh dear me. My poor boss had come back from her meetings and all because I had failed to lower my gaze. She thought I just hadn't been able to turn the key in the lock properly. I'm not sure which is worse, that she thought I was too much of a spazz to be able to unlock a door, or that I had tried to get a key into a lock which it clearly didn't belong in, whilst failing to see the big gold lock that was practically screaming; "It's me, you idiot!"

So if you don't have a job yet and are having to tick that evil 'unemployed' box on a regular basis, take comfort in the knowledge that you definitely have more common sense than I do, and can use said common sense to identify and operate keys to open doors.

The Cheese Sandwich Fail

'Ello. :)

This week I am on work experience at a primary school (Miss Goodyear, he hit me, Miss Goodyear, can I sit on your knee? Miss Goodyear, why is your name so weird?) and all these memory pockets I had tucked away are all starting to unfold. Remember the little plastic chairs and handwriting pens, and white boards and pens that you just wanted to write on all the time because it felt so satisfying?

Anyhoo, this memory lane trip is when I myself was an infant and my mum used to promise me 'a bedtime surprise' (food) if I went to bed. Sometimes my surprises were very ambitious, such as crisps shaped like an animal, but some nights (I'm guessing when mum couldn't be bothered) it was just food on a plate. This night I had a cheese sandwich, standard. Only problem being I fell asleep before I ate the sandwich. Now you may think this story isn't so bad, I forgot to eat a sandwich, that's not so embarrassing. The thing is, I fell asleep ON my sandwich. And when sandwiches get hot (say, when they are stuck beneath a six year old) they tend to melt. Yeah. You see where this is going.

So, in the morning, to mum's horror, she finds a child with cheese that has moulded and set in her hair. Yes, that's right, I had a cheese head. Literally, stuck. Mum tried everything to try and get it out; washing, brushing, pulling. In the end she just had to cut a big chunk of my hair off. This story reminds me of those videos when children fall asleep and land face first in their food. Only I had to take it to that next level.

My family still find this story very amusing. However, if I do become a teacher, and a child comes to my classroom with a big chunk of hair missing, I shall solemnly bow my head to that child in sympathy. For being the one with hair filled with cheese is no amusing matter.

The Backfiring Joke Present

I saw an advertisement for Christmas the other day (only three months away, everyone panic!) and it reminded me of an amusing present anecdote that I wish to share with you all....

A few years ago, me and one of my friends had gotten into a habit of getting each other slightly foolish gifts. I had received a back scratcher (which could have been useful had the scratching section of the back scratcher not fallen off when in use), I had given him some underwear labelled with his name, you know, just so you know you're wearing the right pants.

Anyway, this particular occasion was his birthday, and whilst shopping with a friend, we thought we'd go and look in Ann Summers and giggle childishly at the rude things. Whilst browsing, I came across a candy thong, and thought it would be the perfect hilarious birthday gift. However, when I got to the till I suddenly felt a little sheepish, in the way that all young, shy women do when purchasing underwear made of candy. To counteract my embarrassment, I placed the box faced down, in the hope that somehow whilst scanning my purchases she wouldn't notice what I had bought. She did notice. Not only did she notice, she informed me that there was a two for one sale on candy thongs, did I want a matching bra or another thong?

Flustered, I replied that I wanted another thong (I'm not entirely sure why, somehow it just seemed less embarrassing than getting an entire candy ensemble) trying to lower my voice as I could see a queue forming behind me. The woman nodded, smiled, then shouted out:

"Kelly, can you pass me another candy thong please?"

(I'm not entirely sure her name is Kelly, this did happen a long time ago, and the details I remember are more how red my face was than what the staff were named). Needless to say I got a few bemused looks from other customers.

I think the worst thing about embarrassment is that you feel it much worse than anyone else does. The Ann Summers girls didn't care that I was buying a candy thong (I'm sure its not the craziest item they have seen people buy) but the more you try and avoid being embarrassed the more it invites itself in, has a cup of tea and then slaps a pie in your face on the way out.

My friend did find the thong very amusing though. So there is a little hope at the end of the story.

It's as easy as riding a bike...oh wait.

Hello hello hello.

I don't know if you've ever met one of those bizarre people who get to their twenties and still don't know how to do basic things like swim, or boil an egg, or ride a bike? I was one of those people. I was 20, I couldn't ride a bike, and to be quite honest, it made me quite sad. The thing was I had tried to learn a long time ago. My dad got me out and we took the stabilisers off and he was helping me wobble along the pavement. And then it got to that crucial moment, where dad made a decision to let go and see if I could ride it by myself, despite PROMISING not to let go.

It was the wrong decision.

I fell off, grazed my knee and didn't forgive my dad for a long time (In all honesty I still have not forgiven him and will have my revenge when he is too old to fight back...)

ANYWAY, I told my house-mate this little sob story and he decided that I had to learn. So one day we went down to the field near our student accommodation, and my poor house-mate wore himself out running along next to me whilst I went "weeeeee!"    At the end of the day, I was riding all by myself, and feeling very proud. My house-mate suggested that since I had done so well that I should try and cycle all the way back to the house. I agreed, I mean, I was feeling like superwoman at this stage. Cycling all the way home, no problem! The only thing was, when I reached the tarmac ground instead of my safe, spongy grass, I panicked somewhat, turned sharply, and went head on into a bush. Quite a prickly one too, I recall. I went home slightly dazed, picking bits of foliage off my body, with my house-mate laughing hysterically the whole way. He said the funniest part wasn't even that I had gone into the bush, but the fact that I didn't break, I didn't attempt to turn away - I knew I was heading into the bush and calmly accepted my fate.

Whilst the event was a little embarrassing, I have to admit, I wish somebody had managed to film it. It would have been so funny to witness. Definitely worthy of a 'You've been Framed' clip. Perhaps this could be a future career of mine; I get someone to follow me round all day and record my every move, waiting for an inevitable slip, fall or skid. I sell it off to TV and Youtube and we split the proceeds. Any takers? I'll be waiting, shin pads and a helmet at the ready.

Learning the important lesson that waitressing and squids do not mix

Hello folks,

                        Today, having been searching online for jobs, applying for jobs, and generally overusing the words 'reliable' and 'passionate', it has got me thinking back over previous jobs I have had, and of course, previous embarrassing moments.

I used to work in a restaurant, which on one hand is a great job for me because I love being around people. On the other hand, it is a terrible job for me, because I am about as clumsy and lacking in common sense as any human being can be. Now I had several 'mishaps' over my waitressing career, but one in particular always comes to mind and makes me shudder. I had just started my shift and it was incredibly busy, and needless to say, I was in a bit of a tizz. In this case, there was a big table of ten people, and I, rather ambitiously, was trying to balance a dozen heavy plates on my arm (not a good idea as I have very weedy arms). The pile was teetering a little, and some of the more sober of the group were looking on rather anxiously as I shakily added their plate to the collection. (Can I add here, it really doesn't make a waitress feel any more confident when a whole table falls into absolute silence to watch her clear the plates).

As I tried to pick up the last plate, my tower of plates wobbled  dangerously, to the gasps of the horrified customers. In panic, I grabbed hold of the plates with my other hand, but it was too late for one dirty knife, which fell out of my hand... and into the customer's beer. Beetroot red by this point, I assured the customer I would get him a new beer (he was quite happy with this, luckily for me it wasn't his first beer of the evening by far). After dumping the plates and quickly getting another beer, I rushed back to the table. But unfortunately for me, the story didn't end there. My shoes were ones with the little cat heel (the kind that get stuck in grates and break any lady-like demeanor you had going on) and on the top step I tripped, letting out an unstoppably loud squeal, and spilling the fresh beer all over the wall. Tell me, how can you get back any pretense of calm, confident waitressing after that debacle? At the end of the shift I discovered the table had left me a rather large sympathy tip. Unfortunately it wasn't enough to cover the price of humiliation.

So the moral of this story, children, is, when your mum advises you to buy comfortable footwear, you do it. Because whilst big, square sensible shoes may not look pretty, they are a whole lot prettier than falling on your face. Something to think about.

For your amusement today... the awkward first day at work

Hello happy readers,

                                  With there being so much stress and pressure in the world, I have decided to relieve all your woes, sadness and angst, by posting embarrassing things that have occurred to me. Or at least give you a little chuckle once a week. So, without further ado...

Last week I was on work experience with a theatre company in London. Now I don't know about you, but I always feel a bit like a lost child on her first day of school when I do work experience, and this occasion was no exception. So, I arrive a few minutes early, having waited round the corner for ten minutes so I wasn't too early and appeared frighteningly eager. I meet the director, meet the other volunteers, follow him around awkwardly whilst he shows me the building - it's all going ok so far. Then the director takes me into the dressing room, and in the middle of the room is a pair of big, chunky army boots. The director looks confused, picks them up, turns vaguely in my direction and says:

 "This is strange. Are these yours?"  

Now, unbeknown to me, an actor has walked in and was stood directly behind me. But I must stress, to my knowledge, I was the only one in the room he was talking to. Of course, I was a little confused by this question, but not wanting to be rude I replied;

"Um, no. No I don't think those are mine."

The director looked very confused and explained he was talking to Jerry, the actor who had snuck in behind me. OH DEAR. What had possessed me to answer? Of course they weren't my shoes! I had never even been in the room before. What, did I think the director may have assumed that I'd have sent some men's army boots in the post to arrive at work before me, just in case the admin job involved any hiking/marching? Needless to say the embarrassment didn't help calm my first day nerves, but you'll be glad to know the director didn't bring the boots up again in the two weeks I was there (at least not to my face anway). I can't explain how or why my weird mind works, all I can do is write up it's bad judgement for your personal amusement.

So... Until the next embarrassing moment, have a nice, shame-free week!
Squid