Hello peoples.
Hope everyone is dandy as dandelions today. I am aware I have not provided you with some light comical relief at my expense recently. I can only apologize, and grovel with this brand new shiny post of snippety goodness.
Have you ever tried 'mexting'? It is a new phrase I have just coined, because I'm brilliant like that. 'Mexting' means moving while texting, and whilst some people seem to be able to achieve this multi-tasking challenge with grace and skill, surprisingly, I am not one of these people.
I mext quite frequently, which isn't a good idea, but based on the amount of blogs I have written about my life choices and abilities, it is clear that I don't/choose not to catch on fast. Whilst mexting I do tend to slow down inadvertently, and occasionally find myself cruising into the direction of another human being and mumbling my apologies, but usually it is no worse than this. Usually.
On this particular fateful day, I was mexting away. I was also walking fast as I was late for meeting someone, its not an excuse for what happened, but do bear it in mind when you scoff at my silliness. So I was hot footing it down this road, mexting and mistening (moving whilst listening to an mp3/iPod if you're more fancy than me). This essentially means that my vision, (texting) hearing (mp3) and judgement (mental problems) were impaired. Not ideal. Suddenly, I felt a sharp scratching sensation across my face.
Argh!!
I lifted my hands in horror, unsure what was going on, getting my fingers tangled into my mp3 wires in the process and ripping the music out of my ear in a most unpleasant fashion. Whilst trying to twist my way out of the wire web I had created, failing and flailing, I managed to crane my head to see what had attacked me unawares. It was a petruding branch with thorns on it that was the culprit. (Honestly, keep those hedgerows clear from the paths people!) But this was not the end of the tale. Oh no.
Dazed, confused and still trying to de-tangle myself from my own device, I stumbled out into the road. At this moment a large van, merely metres away from me at the time, came screeching to a halt and began honking indignantly. Oops. Embarrassed and stunned by the drama of the last 30 seconds, I continued to saunter across the road like a confused pheasant. This unfortunately gave me the opportunity to lip read what the lorry driver was saying in response to my little slip into the road. It wasn't pretty.
The saddest thing is, I really can't remember who I was texting, or if I even sent the text with all that kerfuffle going down. So, if anyone hasn't received a reply to a text they sent me and is feeling a bit miffed, you should know I suffered thorny brambles and was almost squished by an oncoming vehicle whilst trying to contact you. Perhaps you could be more polite and email next time.
Tuesday 20 November 2012
Thursday 23 August 2012
The Involuntary Giggles
Hello, sorry its been a while folks. I was washing my hair.
So it occurs to me that, through this blog, I am starting to get a bit of a reputation for being a ditz. What, I hear you cry? Squid, the very essence of elegance and grace is getting a clumsy reputation? Why, how? Well I'll tell you. Recently I was staying with a big group of friends at the Edinbrugh Fringe, and we were playing a game in which you point to the person you think most likely fits the question. I got a pretty much unanimous vote for "Who is most likely to wall paper themselves to a wall whilst decorating" and "Who is most likely to throw themselves down a bowling alley instead of the ball". I feel I should set the record straight. My life is not so disastrous, and to prove it, here is a list of non clutsy things I did today:
1.) I walked downstairs. I didn't fall over.
2.) I made a cup of tea.
3.) I wrote some emails.
4.) I printed and stapled several CVs effectively.
5.) I dressed myself.
Well, I think that successfully set the record straight. Now for the embarrassing tale...
So, in Edinburgh, some of us decided to go and see a performance of '"Wuthering Heights." It was one of those intimate theatre spaces where you are literally right next to the cast as they perform. Just as the audience started to go quiet, I heard a funny gargling throat noise. I look at my friend sat next to me. She looked back, with a deer-in-headlight's look in her eye. Her expression was so funny that I spluttered into laughter, but just at that moment, the lights went down, and the performance began. I had not had chance to laugh. I needed to laugh. I tried so very hard to keep a straight face, I mean, we were on the front row! And Wuthering Heights is not a comedic story, the actors would think we were laughing at them! I tried to think of something serious, I put my jumper in front of my face to hide my inane grin, but every time I thought about my friend's startled face, I would let out an involuntary snort, and then in the corner of my eye see my friend crease up into silent laughter. It took us about 10 minutes to stop setting each other off, a good fifth of the show. If anyone from that production happens to be reading this, it was not you I was laughing at. It was my incredibly embarrassing friend. I can only apologise.
Hello, sorry its been a while folks. I was washing my hair.
So it occurs to me that, through this blog, I am starting to get a bit of a reputation for being a ditz. What, I hear you cry? Squid, the very essence of elegance and grace is getting a clumsy reputation? Why, how? Well I'll tell you. Recently I was staying with a big group of friends at the Edinbrugh Fringe, and we were playing a game in which you point to the person you think most likely fits the question. I got a pretty much unanimous vote for "Who is most likely to wall paper themselves to a wall whilst decorating" and "Who is most likely to throw themselves down a bowling alley instead of the ball". I feel I should set the record straight. My life is not so disastrous, and to prove it, here is a list of non clutsy things I did today:
1.) I walked downstairs. I didn't fall over.
2.) I made a cup of tea.
3.) I wrote some emails.
4.) I printed and stapled several CVs effectively.
5.) I dressed myself.
Well, I think that successfully set the record straight. Now for the embarrassing tale...
So, in Edinburgh, some of us decided to go and see a performance of '"Wuthering Heights." It was one of those intimate theatre spaces where you are literally right next to the cast as they perform. Just as the audience started to go quiet, I heard a funny gargling throat noise. I look at my friend sat next to me. She looked back, with a deer-in-headlight's look in her eye. Her expression was so funny that I spluttered into laughter, but just at that moment, the lights went down, and the performance began. I had not had chance to laugh. I needed to laugh. I tried so very hard to keep a straight face, I mean, we were on the front row! And Wuthering Heights is not a comedic story, the actors would think we were laughing at them! I tried to think of something serious, I put my jumper in front of my face to hide my inane grin, but every time I thought about my friend's startled face, I would let out an involuntary snort, and then in the corner of my eye see my friend crease up into silent laughter. It took us about 10 minutes to stop setting each other off, a good fifth of the show. If anyone from that production happens to be reading this, it was not you I was laughing at. It was my incredibly embarrassing friend. I can only apologise.
Monday 28 May 2012
The Forgotten Pants
Hello everyone!
Hope everyone is enjoying the glorious sunshine. Actually scratch that, I hope everyone is inside on their laptops enjoying my blog.
Today's tale of hilarity focuses on an issue that I expect all parents have to go through; at what point is your child capable of dressing themselves?
When I was a wee squirt just starting primary school, my mum decided that it was time for me to start dressing myself. The first few days went without a hitch, I was fully dressed for school and proud of my garment assembling achievements. However, after a few weeks went by, it seems I had a little set back. I was in school assembly one afternoon, singing my little heart out to "All things bright and beautiful", legs crossed, as was the norm back then. My father was holding the assembly (he was headmaster of my primary school at the time) and at the end was discreetly informed by another teacher that his daughter did not appear to be wearing any pants. Awkward.
Luckily there were lots of pants on stand by for those anxious children who couldn't hold it in 'til break time, so I was taken by the hand and assisted into a pair of pants. My mum still finds it bizarre to this day that after weeks of dressing myself perfectly, I forgot to put my pants on. I like to think it was a conscious decision on my part; I was making a statement, speaking out against the lack of freedom for our bits and bums, constantly tucked away and restricted in underwear and the like. I have to admit though, the likelihood is, I just forgot.
I am rather pleased my parents chose not to tell me this story until I was grown up, as I would probably have been too mortified to show my face in front of the teacher who noticed my lack of underwear ever again.
So, the moral of this story is, always check your child is wearing pants before they leave the house. And after that, check you have remembered yourself.
Hope everyone is enjoying the glorious sunshine. Actually scratch that, I hope everyone is inside on their laptops enjoying my blog.
Today's tale of hilarity focuses on an issue that I expect all parents have to go through; at what point is your child capable of dressing themselves?
When I was a wee squirt just starting primary school, my mum decided that it was time for me to start dressing myself. The first few days went without a hitch, I was fully dressed for school and proud of my garment assembling achievements. However, after a few weeks went by, it seems I had a little set back. I was in school assembly one afternoon, singing my little heart out to "All things bright and beautiful", legs crossed, as was the norm back then. My father was holding the assembly (he was headmaster of my primary school at the time) and at the end was discreetly informed by another teacher that his daughter did not appear to be wearing any pants. Awkward.
Luckily there were lots of pants on stand by for those anxious children who couldn't hold it in 'til break time, so I was taken by the hand and assisted into a pair of pants. My mum still finds it bizarre to this day that after weeks of dressing myself perfectly, I forgot to put my pants on. I like to think it was a conscious decision on my part; I was making a statement, speaking out against the lack of freedom for our bits and bums, constantly tucked away and restricted in underwear and the like. I have to admit though, the likelihood is, I just forgot.
I am rather pleased my parents chose not to tell me this story until I was grown up, as I would probably have been too mortified to show my face in front of the teacher who noticed my lack of underwear ever again.
So, the moral of this story is, always check your child is wearing pants before they leave the house. And after that, check you have remembered yourself.
Thursday 10 May 2012
Drowsy Driving Fail
Hello again.
It's me, the funny blog lady. My car wouldn't start this morning (dead battery) and it occurred to me that perhaps it is rebelling against me and my occasionally dodgy driving ways. Today's story may explain why dear Maximus quakes in fear whenever I get into the driver's seat and start the engine...
As some of you know I used to be a carer, and this job involved getting up at the crack of dawn most days (6am usually - especially painful in winter). Now I would not say I am the best morning person. I am one of those people who wanders round the house, bleary eyed and unable to form a sentence or change facial expression until I've had a cup of tea and time to recover from my slumberous state. This particular, bitter cold, February day was no exception. Waking at the harsh, uncaring trill of the alarm, my heart sank, knowing soon I would have to get out of my warm, cosy bed haven and into the cold, dark world. I munched my breakfast, slumped on the sofa. I put on my uniform. I tied my hair up and put my contact lenses in, as best one can when their eyes are 90% closed. And I wandered outside to get into my car. Now, our drive is complicated as we have four cars; normally two are in the garage and two side by side on the drive. This time, I noticed that dad's car was next to mine on the drive, as usual, but my sister's car was parked at an angle behind my dad's car, presumably she had come home too tired to bother getting it in the garage. Some small, almost awake part of my brain let out a tiny, faded glow of light, almost registering that I should be careful when reversing not to catch it. Almost.
I got into Maximus. I turned the heater up to full, shivering. As I started to reverse back, (without looking in my side mirrors) I was just trying to remember whether my ID card was in my pocket or not, when...
SCRAAAAAPE.
Oh no.
I got out, waking up abruptly. That had been quite an ugly noise. I felt along my sister's car worriedly. Yep, sure enough, I had scratched my sister's car. It was still too dark to see the extent of the damage yet. Pants. After standing in the cold for a couple of minutes, flailing, I decided, being the grown up, responsible adult that I am, that the best thing to do was to drive away and text my sister the bad news when I was far, far away.
Luckily for me, my sister had a rainbow of scratches already on her car and said she couldn't tell which one I had done, so she let me off. As for my Maximus, he has a fresh new dint in him, with a few red specks wedged in there that had been peeled off my sister's car. Oops.
What I learnt from this experience, which I hope will help you all in life too, is that operating a vehicle, or heavy machinery, is not advised whilst still half asleep. However, if you are going to attempt it, park it near a car that is already scratched, and maybe the owner won't notice the difference.
Have a good day everyone, and careful driving.
Kind regards,
Your loving squid.
It's me, the funny blog lady. My car wouldn't start this morning (dead battery) and it occurred to me that perhaps it is rebelling against me and my occasionally dodgy driving ways. Today's story may explain why dear Maximus quakes in fear whenever I get into the driver's seat and start the engine...
As some of you know I used to be a carer, and this job involved getting up at the crack of dawn most days (6am usually - especially painful in winter). Now I would not say I am the best morning person. I am one of those people who wanders round the house, bleary eyed and unable to form a sentence or change facial expression until I've had a cup of tea and time to recover from my slumberous state. This particular, bitter cold, February day was no exception. Waking at the harsh, uncaring trill of the alarm, my heart sank, knowing soon I would have to get out of my warm, cosy bed haven and into the cold, dark world. I munched my breakfast, slumped on the sofa. I put on my uniform. I tied my hair up and put my contact lenses in, as best one can when their eyes are 90% closed. And I wandered outside to get into my car. Now, our drive is complicated as we have four cars; normally two are in the garage and two side by side on the drive. This time, I noticed that dad's car was next to mine on the drive, as usual, but my sister's car was parked at an angle behind my dad's car, presumably she had come home too tired to bother getting it in the garage. Some small, almost awake part of my brain let out a tiny, faded glow of light, almost registering that I should be careful when reversing not to catch it. Almost.
I got into Maximus. I turned the heater up to full, shivering. As I started to reverse back, (without looking in my side mirrors) I was just trying to remember whether my ID card was in my pocket or not, when...
SCRAAAAAPE.
Oh no.
I got out, waking up abruptly. That had been quite an ugly noise. I felt along my sister's car worriedly. Yep, sure enough, I had scratched my sister's car. It was still too dark to see the extent of the damage yet. Pants. After standing in the cold for a couple of minutes, flailing, I decided, being the grown up, responsible adult that I am, that the best thing to do was to drive away and text my sister the bad news when I was far, far away.
Luckily for me, my sister had a rainbow of scratches already on her car and said she couldn't tell which one I had done, so she let me off. As for my Maximus, he has a fresh new dint in him, with a few red specks wedged in there that had been peeled off my sister's car. Oops.
What I learnt from this experience, which I hope will help you all in life too, is that operating a vehicle, or heavy machinery, is not advised whilst still half asleep. However, if you are going to attempt it, park it near a car that is already scratched, and maybe the owner won't notice the difference.
Have a good day everyone, and careful driving.
Kind regards,
Your loving squid.
Monday 9 April 2012
The Wrong Cord
Hello all. Did you miss me? I thought so.
The moral of today's story is the importance of checking before doing, girls and boys. This is a useful thing to do in several areas of life; before crossing the road, before buying a carton of eggs, before eating a pie that a four year old child has made. Checking is extremely important folks. And here is what happens when caution is overlooked...
So, as some of you know I used to work as a carer, and in some houses people have emergency cords attached. This is so that if they are in trouble for any reason (ie, a fall, sickness) they can pull the cord and it will alert the on-call warden, who, if needs be, can come over and check if they are alright.
So I was in a lady's house and I was desperate for a pee (one of those situations where it niggles at you early on, and you think, huh, I'm busy, I'll go later on. And it goes away. And then it comes back, MEGA strong, and you end up adopting a funny walk, and get a worrying sense that if you don't find a loo within the next few minutes, you will be going regardless). The lady kindly said I could use hers and that it was just down the hall. Down I waddled. Now, it's worth mentioning that the bulb in the corridor light had gone, so it was very dark on approaching the bathroom. I reached the toilet, uttering a sigh of happiness at my imminent relief. I yanked the light cord. Only, it wasn't the light cord. It was the emergency cord.
Immediately a box started beeping loudly. Panic, panic! My original crisis now put on hold, I had to head over to the box and try to figure out how to stop the scary bleeping I had started.
"Hello! Do you need assistance?" Said the box.
"Umm... No, I'm just the carer and I needed to pee... Sorry."
"Ok, good bye then."
It was a little humiliating. I sheepishly headed back to the room where the lady was to see if she was worried about all the curfaffle. She hadn't noticed a thing (I think 'The Cube' was on, and I can vouch that it is a very gripping show.)
I went back into the toilet, as cautious as I could be whilst crossing my legs for fear of going on the carpet. I could see now as my eyes adjusted that the cord I had pulled was red. Avoid that one this time! I could see another thinner, white cord next to it so I pulled that one. Nothing happened. Darn, it must have been the shower cord. This bathroom was booby trapped with misleading cords! By this point I could mess about no longer. I hobbled blindly in the dark, whimpering, located the toilet and sat down abruptly.
What utter relief I felt to finally go!
I don't know what the lady thought I was doing all that time, probably suspected a number 2. It is irritating how the more pressure you feel to do something, the less capable you are of actually doing it. So, here are my words of wisdom. Even in an 'emergency' situation, do not assume that the cord/switch/face you are touching is what you think it is. Or, God forbid, you could end up with a blog just like mine.
The moral of today's story is the importance of checking before doing, girls and boys. This is a useful thing to do in several areas of life; before crossing the road, before buying a carton of eggs, before eating a pie that a four year old child has made. Checking is extremely important folks. And here is what happens when caution is overlooked...
So, as some of you know I used to work as a carer, and in some houses people have emergency cords attached. This is so that if they are in trouble for any reason (ie, a fall, sickness) they can pull the cord and it will alert the on-call warden, who, if needs be, can come over and check if they are alright.
So I was in a lady's house and I was desperate for a pee (one of those situations where it niggles at you early on, and you think, huh, I'm busy, I'll go later on. And it goes away. And then it comes back, MEGA strong, and you end up adopting a funny walk, and get a worrying sense that if you don't find a loo within the next few minutes, you will be going regardless). The lady kindly said I could use hers and that it was just down the hall. Down I waddled. Now, it's worth mentioning that the bulb in the corridor light had gone, so it was very dark on approaching the bathroom. I reached the toilet, uttering a sigh of happiness at my imminent relief. I yanked the light cord. Only, it wasn't the light cord. It was the emergency cord.
Immediately a box started beeping loudly. Panic, panic! My original crisis now put on hold, I had to head over to the box and try to figure out how to stop the scary bleeping I had started.
"Hello! Do you need assistance?" Said the box.
"Umm... No, I'm just the carer and I needed to pee... Sorry."
"Ok, good bye then."
It was a little humiliating. I sheepishly headed back to the room where the lady was to see if she was worried about all the curfaffle. She hadn't noticed a thing (I think 'The Cube' was on, and I can vouch that it is a very gripping show.)
I went back into the toilet, as cautious as I could be whilst crossing my legs for fear of going on the carpet. I could see now as my eyes adjusted that the cord I had pulled was red. Avoid that one this time! I could see another thinner, white cord next to it so I pulled that one. Nothing happened. Darn, it must have been the shower cord. This bathroom was booby trapped with misleading cords! By this point I could mess about no longer. I hobbled blindly in the dark, whimpering, located the toilet and sat down abruptly.
What utter relief I felt to finally go!
I don't know what the lady thought I was doing all that time, probably suspected a number 2. It is irritating how the more pressure you feel to do something, the less capable you are of actually doing it. So, here are my words of wisdom. Even in an 'emergency' situation, do not assume that the cord/switch/face you are touching is what you think it is. Or, God forbid, you could end up with a blog just like mine.
Thursday 15 March 2012
The Giving Blood Fail
Yo.
So, today's story involves giving blood, and don't worry, it's not groce so the squeamish are safe. No images of blood squirting or screams of agony are going to be described in this blog, I assure you.
My mum had been giving blood for years and I could see it was a very worthwhile thing to do. She had even just received a certificate for donating so much, and gotten a free pen - definitely worth it. So I decided, what the heck, I'll be a good citizen, I'll generously give 'em a bit of the old squiddly blood if they want it. Little did I know, it was me that would be jumping through hoops to try and get them to take it in the first place...
Attempt One
Arrived at Leisure Centre. My name is called. I go into one of those little booths, I get asked all the funny questions ("Have you ever had sexual intercourse with a man who had sexual intercourse with a ferret that had HIV?")
It's all going well so far. Then they take the iron sample; for those of you who have never been, the iron sample is where they place a drop of your blood into a small tube of liquid and if it sinks to the bottom in under 15 seconds, you have enough iron in your blood to donate. So the nurse puts the blood in the tube, and starts the timer. I'm telling you, you feel like you're being judged, I was inwardly urging my blood on; Go on! You can do it, just sink!
But it did not listen to me. It meandered around half heartedly, and the time ran out. But sadly, this was not the end of the test. I then had to have a proper needle (boo hoo) and they took a larger sample of my blood and put it on this machine thingy to give us a more accurate reading of my iron count. After a tense few seconds, the machine bleeped, 129. One below what was required to give blood. Pants.
I went home with a sore arm feeling sorry for myself and my poor, rejected blood.
Attempt Two
Arrived at leisure centre. My name was called. I went into the booth. I explained to the nurse what happened last time, and also told her that I tried taking iron tablets but they made me feel sick so I had to stop. The nurse said in that case don't take them then, every body has its own natural level of iron and mine was healthy but still too low to give blood. Not news I wanted to hear. She took some of my blood, into the tube, waited. Same thing happened again. Blood no sinky, nurse no takey, squid no happy. Onto the machine, needle in arm (ouchy) and my reading this time was 134. I was elated, yes! I can give blood now! But my elation was short lived as the nurse said sadly;
"Well you would have been able to give blood with that reading in the past, but unfortunately they raised the iron count required by 5 last month."
Great. Another hurdle in my quest to be helpful.
Attempt Three
Turned away because they had too many people giving blood.
Attempt Four
This time, I was not taking any chances. I ate spinach, I ironed up, I manned through the mild feeling of nausea. I was going to do it. It wasn't even about giving blood any more, it was about beating the nurses.
I got into the booth. The nurse looked at me. I looked back. She took my blood. I twitched. She put it in the tube. Silence as we both watched in anticipation. 10 seconds left, it was falling slowly. 5 seconds left, it was falling quicker...
"Congratulations, you have passed the test!" said the nurse. Well, she didn't actually say that but in my head that is the scenario.
I was going to do it! Finally! I had a huge beam on my face as I walked over to the temporary beds with all the other winners, my nurse came along and attached my bag, attached me to a machine that monitored my blood flow, asked how I was doing, I replied that I was great. The nurse said everything was going smoothly so she was going to leave me alone for a bit. I said no problem. I lay back, a smile on my face, soaking up my victory...
BEEP BEEP!
I opened my eyes. That was strange. It was my machine. My nurse came over and looked at it, she told me it was beeping because the blood flow had slowed down. She moved my arm a bit and the flow picked up. Satisfied, she left me again. I started to relax.
BEEP BEEP!
Oh-oh. The nurse came back, checked me again, said the blood flow was slow again. If it didn't pick up, I wouldn't fill the bag within the 15 minute slot, and my blood wouldn't be able to be used by a patient. In desperation, I asked if there was anything I could do to help. She said I could move my hands and feet to keep the flow going. I started twitching my fingers and toes.
BEEP BEEP!
I started waving my hands.
BEEP BEEP!
I started waving my arms and legs about manically. Other doners were staring.
BEEP BEEP!
The nurse looked at my sympathetically.
I'm sorry, but we will have to stop this donation.
Noooooo! I had failed. For the third time I had failed to give blood. I went home that day deeply saddened by my blood's inability to do as it is told.
The funny thing is, they keep sending me letters saying "Please come back and give us your blood. We really appreciate your support." It's like they're taunting me. You know what, mine is the finest blood around. Any person would be lucky to have it, you mean, rejecter people. There is another session next week and I'm intending to go. Even if I have to jump up and down on a pogo stick whilst donating, I'm going to do it. They will not defeat me.
So, today's story involves giving blood, and don't worry, it's not groce so the squeamish are safe. No images of blood squirting or screams of agony are going to be described in this blog, I assure you.
My mum had been giving blood for years and I could see it was a very worthwhile thing to do. She had even just received a certificate for donating so much, and gotten a free pen - definitely worth it. So I decided, what the heck, I'll be a good citizen, I'll generously give 'em a bit of the old squiddly blood if they want it. Little did I know, it was me that would be jumping through hoops to try and get them to take it in the first place...
Attempt One
Arrived at Leisure Centre. My name is called. I go into one of those little booths, I get asked all the funny questions ("Have you ever had sexual intercourse with a man who had sexual intercourse with a ferret that had HIV?")
It's all going well so far. Then they take the iron sample; for those of you who have never been, the iron sample is where they place a drop of your blood into a small tube of liquid and if it sinks to the bottom in under 15 seconds, you have enough iron in your blood to donate. So the nurse puts the blood in the tube, and starts the timer. I'm telling you, you feel like you're being judged, I was inwardly urging my blood on; Go on! You can do it, just sink!
But it did not listen to me. It meandered around half heartedly, and the time ran out. But sadly, this was not the end of the test. I then had to have a proper needle (boo hoo) and they took a larger sample of my blood and put it on this machine thingy to give us a more accurate reading of my iron count. After a tense few seconds, the machine bleeped, 129. One below what was required to give blood. Pants.
I went home with a sore arm feeling sorry for myself and my poor, rejected blood.
Attempt Two
Arrived at leisure centre. My name was called. I went into the booth. I explained to the nurse what happened last time, and also told her that I tried taking iron tablets but they made me feel sick so I had to stop. The nurse said in that case don't take them then, every body has its own natural level of iron and mine was healthy but still too low to give blood. Not news I wanted to hear. She took some of my blood, into the tube, waited. Same thing happened again. Blood no sinky, nurse no takey, squid no happy. Onto the machine, needle in arm (ouchy) and my reading this time was 134. I was elated, yes! I can give blood now! But my elation was short lived as the nurse said sadly;
"Well you would have been able to give blood with that reading in the past, but unfortunately they raised the iron count required by 5 last month."
Great. Another hurdle in my quest to be helpful.
Attempt Three
Turned away because they had too many people giving blood.
Attempt Four
This time, I was not taking any chances. I ate spinach, I ironed up, I manned through the mild feeling of nausea. I was going to do it. It wasn't even about giving blood any more, it was about beating the nurses.
I got into the booth. The nurse looked at me. I looked back. She took my blood. I twitched. She put it in the tube. Silence as we both watched in anticipation. 10 seconds left, it was falling slowly. 5 seconds left, it was falling quicker...
"Congratulations, you have passed the test!" said the nurse. Well, she didn't actually say that but in my head that is the scenario.
I was going to do it! Finally! I had a huge beam on my face as I walked over to the temporary beds with all the other winners, my nurse came along and attached my bag, attached me to a machine that monitored my blood flow, asked how I was doing, I replied that I was great. The nurse said everything was going smoothly so she was going to leave me alone for a bit. I said no problem. I lay back, a smile on my face, soaking up my victory...
BEEP BEEP!
I opened my eyes. That was strange. It was my machine. My nurse came over and looked at it, she told me it was beeping because the blood flow had slowed down. She moved my arm a bit and the flow picked up. Satisfied, she left me again. I started to relax.
BEEP BEEP!
Oh-oh. The nurse came back, checked me again, said the blood flow was slow again. If it didn't pick up, I wouldn't fill the bag within the 15 minute slot, and my blood wouldn't be able to be used by a patient. In desperation, I asked if there was anything I could do to help. She said I could move my hands and feet to keep the flow going. I started twitching my fingers and toes.
BEEP BEEP!
I started waving my hands.
BEEP BEEP!
I started waving my arms and legs about manically. Other doners were staring.
BEEP BEEP!
The nurse looked at my sympathetically.
I'm sorry, but we will have to stop this donation.
Noooooo! I had failed. For the third time I had failed to give blood. I went home that day deeply saddened by my blood's inability to do as it is told.
The funny thing is, they keep sending me letters saying "Please come back and give us your blood. We really appreciate your support." It's like they're taunting me. You know what, mine is the finest blood around. Any person would be lucky to have it, you mean, rejecter people. There is another session next week and I'm intending to go. Even if I have to jump up and down on a pogo stick whilst donating, I'm going to do it. They will not defeat me.
Friday 2 March 2012
The Missing Key
Hello everybody :) What time is it? Blog time! (...yay.)
So, this story begins in Derbyshire, where I, being the fantastic and brilliant girlfriend that I am, had taken my boyfriend for his birthday for a couple of days. We were staying in a nice quaint countryside inn, and we were enjoying the countryside and sickening the waiting staff with our loved up state ('No darling, I love you more!!')
It was all going swimmingly, until we were packing up to leave. We had just put everything in the car and had to check out before 11am. It was around 10:45am. The car was ready. We were ready. We just needed to hand in our room key at reception. Now, I thought I had taken the key when we left our room,and I thought I had put it in my coat pocket, but when I checked, alas, it was not there. I looked in my bag, I looked on the car seat.
We were perplexed. Perhaps we had accidentally left it inside the room? If so, that was a complete disaster, it was one of those irritating self lock doors which are just like Kryptonite to the ditsy. I went round the side of the room and peered in through the window to see if I could spot it. I couldn't. I was getting a bit het up now. It was 10:55am. Only 5 minutes left until our check out time ran out. I didn't know what happened after check out time elapsed, but I was guessing it wasn't good. Especially without the key. Perhaps they would hold our luggage as hostage or take back our complimentary breakfast. It didn't bear thinking about.
Stressed, I started pulling bags apart, re-checked my coat pocket, re-traced my steps in case it had fallen out my coat pocket. Nothing. Then Tom said something very condescending.
"You said it was in your pocket."
"Yes, but it's not there, I checked."
"Can I check please?"
I mean really, what did he think of me? I knew I had a bad reputation, but I was perfectly capable of determining whether a key was in my pocket or not. As he started rifling through my pockets I decided it was best to let him know how foolish this venture was;
"Look, I think I can check my own pock-"
At that exact moment, Tom brandished the key from my jeans pocket and held it in front of me, a look of amusement and incredulity on his face. I really, really hate it when your boyfriend is right and you are wrong. Of course this triggered a lot of 'my poor, ditsy blonde girlfriend' comments for the journey back. And I certainly won't expect to be trusted to check my own pockets next time. And yes, sadly I can say with certainty, there will be a next time. Still. At least in a time of feminism and female independence, it makes them feel needed, eh?
So, this story begins in Derbyshire, where I, being the fantastic and brilliant girlfriend that I am, had taken my boyfriend for his birthday for a couple of days. We were staying in a nice quaint countryside inn, and we were enjoying the countryside and sickening the waiting staff with our loved up state ('No darling, I love you more!!')
It was all going swimmingly, until we were packing up to leave. We had just put everything in the car and had to check out before 11am. It was around 10:45am. The car was ready. We were ready. We just needed to hand in our room key at reception. Now, I thought I had taken the key when we left our room,and I thought I had put it in my coat pocket, but when I checked, alas, it was not there. I looked in my bag, I looked on the car seat.
We were perplexed. Perhaps we had accidentally left it inside the room? If so, that was a complete disaster, it was one of those irritating self lock doors which are just like Kryptonite to the ditsy. I went round the side of the room and peered in through the window to see if I could spot it. I couldn't. I was getting a bit het up now. It was 10:55am. Only 5 minutes left until our check out time ran out. I didn't know what happened after check out time elapsed, but I was guessing it wasn't good. Especially without the key. Perhaps they would hold our luggage as hostage or take back our complimentary breakfast. It didn't bear thinking about.
Stressed, I started pulling bags apart, re-checked my coat pocket, re-traced my steps in case it had fallen out my coat pocket. Nothing. Then Tom said something very condescending.
"You said it was in your pocket."
"Yes, but it's not there, I checked."
"Can I check please?"
I mean really, what did he think of me? I knew I had a bad reputation, but I was perfectly capable of determining whether a key was in my pocket or not. As he started rifling through my pockets I decided it was best to let him know how foolish this venture was;
"Look, I think I can check my own pock-"
At that exact moment, Tom brandished the key from my jeans pocket and held it in front of me, a look of amusement and incredulity on his face. I really, really hate it when your boyfriend is right and you are wrong. Of course this triggered a lot of 'my poor, ditsy blonde girlfriend' comments for the journey back. And I certainly won't expect to be trusted to check my own pockets next time. And yes, sadly I can say with certainty, there will be a next time. Still. At least in a time of feminism and female independence, it makes them feel needed, eh?
Wednesday 22 February 2012
The Alcohol Related Fail (Part Two)
Hello men, women and sea life,
Hope you are all well and enjoying February immensely. What's not to love about a month that changes its mind about how long it is every few years?
So, today's blog, I am ashamed to say, involves myself having drunken a wee bit too much alcohol. I shall say at this point that drinking excessive amounts is not a good idea, especially whilst in the public arena where there are cameras and sober friends present.
Anyway, this particular night I had gone out with my friends and gotten very drunk, I don't really know how, I think when you aren't accustomed to drinking (which I wasn't at the time) you get lulled into a false sense of security. You've had a bit to drink, the world is looking good and rosy, and you start to think, yeah, I can handle one more glass of wine, I feel completely fine, and I'm making great conversation and I feel great. Then you stand up and the world shifts and you realise maybe four glasses of wine and a shot of tia maria wasn't such a fantastic plan. I won't go into the hairy details, but needless to say the dinner I had consumed that night didn't make it to my digestive system.
I was driven home to a friend's house, complaining and woozy, and ushered into bed where I fell into a heavy slumber. The next day I felt pretty awful, my mouth tasted disgusting, my head was throbbing, and I was getting horrendous flashbacks of attempting to get into a club and being informed that I was not in my best state and should probably go home (as you can imagine, I took it well). All I wanted to do was go home and rest in my own bed, snuggle up under the covers and act like last night had never happened. However, when I got back to my house, I could not find my house key anywhere. Worriedly, I emptied my bag, I checked my pockets, checked in the car, nope, nowhere to be seen. Oh no. I had work the next day, and I suspected turning up in a miniskirt and reeking of sick wasn't appropriate waitress etiquette. My parents were away on holiday in Filey. There was no spare key. I had no choice but to ring my father, who very begrudgingly drove three hours to let me into the house, and then drove all the way back to Filey. Needless to say I was not in his best books that day.
The thing was, later on I found the key wedged in my trainer. I'm not really sure what it was doing there, but I learnt a long time ago not to question the logic of my brain. I didn't dare admit to my dad that I had the key all along. I wasn't sure it would go down too well. So I would just like to take a moment now to say I'm sorry father. You drove all that way for nothing. But hey, you told me you'd never let go of me when I was learning to ride a bike and you did. I'd say this makes us about even, agreed?
Hope you are all well and enjoying February immensely. What's not to love about a month that changes its mind about how long it is every few years?
So, today's blog, I am ashamed to say, involves myself having drunken a wee bit too much alcohol. I shall say at this point that drinking excessive amounts is not a good idea, especially whilst in the public arena where there are cameras and sober friends present.
Anyway, this particular night I had gone out with my friends and gotten very drunk, I don't really know how, I think when you aren't accustomed to drinking (which I wasn't at the time) you get lulled into a false sense of security. You've had a bit to drink, the world is looking good and rosy, and you start to think, yeah, I can handle one more glass of wine, I feel completely fine, and I'm making great conversation and I feel great. Then you stand up and the world shifts and you realise maybe four glasses of wine and a shot of tia maria wasn't such a fantastic plan. I won't go into the hairy details, but needless to say the dinner I had consumed that night didn't make it to my digestive system.
I was driven home to a friend's house, complaining and woozy, and ushered into bed where I fell into a heavy slumber. The next day I felt pretty awful, my mouth tasted disgusting, my head was throbbing, and I was getting horrendous flashbacks of attempting to get into a club and being informed that I was not in my best state and should probably go home (as you can imagine, I took it well). All I wanted to do was go home and rest in my own bed, snuggle up under the covers and act like last night had never happened. However, when I got back to my house, I could not find my house key anywhere. Worriedly, I emptied my bag, I checked my pockets, checked in the car, nope, nowhere to be seen. Oh no. I had work the next day, and I suspected turning up in a miniskirt and reeking of sick wasn't appropriate waitress etiquette. My parents were away on holiday in Filey. There was no spare key. I had no choice but to ring my father, who very begrudgingly drove three hours to let me into the house, and then drove all the way back to Filey. Needless to say I was not in his best books that day.
The thing was, later on I found the key wedged in my trainer. I'm not really sure what it was doing there, but I learnt a long time ago not to question the logic of my brain. I didn't dare admit to my dad that I had the key all along. I wasn't sure it would go down too well. So I would just like to take a moment now to say I'm sorry father. You drove all that way for nothing. But hey, you told me you'd never let go of me when I was learning to ride a bike and you did. I'd say this makes us about even, agreed?
Thursday 9 February 2012
The Lost Chocolate
Hello and welcome. It is very chilly here in good ol' Britain, and weather like this always makes me look back nostalgically on summer holidays. Which leads me nicely into today's blog, which is set on a plane on the way back from a holiday. Ooooh, I hear you all say, sounds good, tell me more. ...Well, I will.
So, my parents, my friend and I had been on a beautifully warm holiday abroad in Tenerife, and we were aboard the plane ready to return to our homeland. It's annoying going from different climates as you never know what you should wear; should you wrap up so you're snug when you land, but risk melting waiting at the airport for your flight for two hours? Or should you go bare legged, and risk sitting next to an air-con happy passenger on the plane and catching an unpleasant draft? It is a conundrum. I had gone for jeans, a T Shirt and a back-up cardigan. It was Easter so it wouldn't be too cold in England, but I was prepared just in case.
So, the journey was going alright, although I'm not a big fan of planes (how do they take off? Just, how??) and as it was a longish flight we got fed lunch (yum) and for pudding we got these little chocolate Easter bunnies (the only kind of bunny I wouldn't feel sad to eat). Now, my mum being the kind and thoughtful woman she is, gave me her chocolate, which I decided to save for later on. However, after dinner a film came on and me and my friend got chatting and I forgot all about my chocolate. Until I got up at the end of the flight, and realised there was a big brown stain on the seat I had just vacated. At first I was a bit confused as to what it was, had I shat myself without realising? I mean, I did get a bit nervous during take off, but surely I would have noticed such an occurrence...
Then I remembered.
The chocolate mother had so kindly donated, melted into the seat by my warm buttocks. Oh deary me.
Goodness knows what the air hostesses must have thought it was. I got off the plane pretty sharpish in the hope they wouldn't know it was me. But sadly the embarrassment didn't end there. My friend was stood behind me when getting off the plane, and she discreetly informed me that there was a noticeable amount of chocolate stuck to my bum. As soon as we got into the airport I dashed to the toilets to take a look. It did not look good, and no amount of desperate scraping and wiping would shift it. In the end, my cardigan came to my rescue; I had to tie it round my waist for the rest of the journey home. Even though it was blooming cold, it was better than people thinking I hadn't made it to the toilet in time.
So, if you are ever stuck with the conundrum of what clothes to wear on the plane journey home, always pack a cardigan. You never know what humiliation it can be used to cover up.
So, my parents, my friend and I had been on a beautifully warm holiday abroad in Tenerife, and we were aboard the plane ready to return to our homeland. It's annoying going from different climates as you never know what you should wear; should you wrap up so you're snug when you land, but risk melting waiting at the airport for your flight for two hours? Or should you go bare legged, and risk sitting next to an air-con happy passenger on the plane and catching an unpleasant draft? It is a conundrum. I had gone for jeans, a T Shirt and a back-up cardigan. It was Easter so it wouldn't be too cold in England, but I was prepared just in case.
So, the journey was going alright, although I'm not a big fan of planes (how do they take off? Just, how??) and as it was a longish flight we got fed lunch (yum) and for pudding we got these little chocolate Easter bunnies (the only kind of bunny I wouldn't feel sad to eat). Now, my mum being the kind and thoughtful woman she is, gave me her chocolate, which I decided to save for later on. However, after dinner a film came on and me and my friend got chatting and I forgot all about my chocolate. Until I got up at the end of the flight, and realised there was a big brown stain on the seat I had just vacated. At first I was a bit confused as to what it was, had I shat myself without realising? I mean, I did get a bit nervous during take off, but surely I would have noticed such an occurrence...
Then I remembered.
The chocolate mother had so kindly donated, melted into the seat by my warm buttocks. Oh deary me.
Goodness knows what the air hostesses must have thought it was. I got off the plane pretty sharpish in the hope they wouldn't know it was me. But sadly the embarrassment didn't end there. My friend was stood behind me when getting off the plane, and she discreetly informed me that there was a noticeable amount of chocolate stuck to my bum. As soon as we got into the airport I dashed to the toilets to take a look. It did not look good, and no amount of desperate scraping and wiping would shift it. In the end, my cardigan came to my rescue; I had to tie it round my waist for the rest of the journey home. Even though it was blooming cold, it was better than people thinking I hadn't made it to the toilet in time.
So, if you are ever stuck with the conundrum of what clothes to wear on the plane journey home, always pack a cardigan. You never know what humiliation it can be used to cover up.
Thursday 26 January 2012
The Awkwardness of avoiding Awkwardness
Hello you.
Hope everything is great in your life right now. And if it isn't, I'm going to tell you a funny story to make it that little bit rosier. Yeah, I'm just that kind of person.
A few months ago I met up with a writer in Leeds who had kindly agreed to give me some feedback on a script I had written. We met up for coffee, I was all nervous; what would she say about my script? Did she hate it? Was she embarrassed I had written such a monstrosity and couldn't comprehend why I thought anyone might want to sit listening to my drivel for two hours?
Thankfully if she did think any of these thoughts she made a very good effort at hiding it. I got some extremely useful feedback and felt inspired to edit and improve my script afterwards. The writer wished me luck in the future (I expect I shall need it) and off I went. I wandered around the shops in Leeds aimlessly for a bit and then decided I was thirsty. I came across a Waitrose, bit upmarket for me, but hey, I thought, just this once I'll get some organic, overpriced water as a little treat. Problem was, when I got in there, who should I see? The writer I had just said goodbye to. Now I don't know if I'm the only one who feels that its REALLY awkward when you bump into someone after having said a long, drawn out, standard British goodbye. Well, I felt very awkward. So, did I man up, smile at her in a friendly manner, make some witty banter about Waitrose food stock and thank her warmly again for all her help?
No, I hid in the preserves section.
Trouble was, she was stood right near the exit, so I couldn't make a slinky get away, and besides, I still had the bottle of water and some would call that shop lifting. So, as she moved round the shop, I had to move accordingly, pretending to look at jars of organically grown pesto and attempting to look nonchalant. Oh dear, how foolish I felt. She even ended up close behind me in the queue. I don't know if she saw me. Perhaps she was pretending not to have seen me either.
I haven't spoken to her since, so I guess it will be one of those unanswered mysteries as to whether we were both saving face or if it was all in my head. Probably the latter. Ah, the joys of being an awkward British person. Got to love it.
Hope everything is great in your life right now. And if it isn't, I'm going to tell you a funny story to make it that little bit rosier. Yeah, I'm just that kind of person.
A few months ago I met up with a writer in Leeds who had kindly agreed to give me some feedback on a script I had written. We met up for coffee, I was all nervous; what would she say about my script? Did she hate it? Was she embarrassed I had written such a monstrosity and couldn't comprehend why I thought anyone might want to sit listening to my drivel for two hours?
Thankfully if she did think any of these thoughts she made a very good effort at hiding it. I got some extremely useful feedback and felt inspired to edit and improve my script afterwards. The writer wished me luck in the future (I expect I shall need it) and off I went. I wandered around the shops in Leeds aimlessly for a bit and then decided I was thirsty. I came across a Waitrose, bit upmarket for me, but hey, I thought, just this once I'll get some organic, overpriced water as a little treat. Problem was, when I got in there, who should I see? The writer I had just said goodbye to. Now I don't know if I'm the only one who feels that its REALLY awkward when you bump into someone after having said a long, drawn out, standard British goodbye. Well, I felt very awkward. So, did I man up, smile at her in a friendly manner, make some witty banter about Waitrose food stock and thank her warmly again for all her help?
No, I hid in the preserves section.
Trouble was, she was stood right near the exit, so I couldn't make a slinky get away, and besides, I still had the bottle of water and some would call that shop lifting. So, as she moved round the shop, I had to move accordingly, pretending to look at jars of organically grown pesto and attempting to look nonchalant. Oh dear, how foolish I felt. She even ended up close behind me in the queue. I don't know if she saw me. Perhaps she was pretending not to have seen me either.
I haven't spoken to her since, so I guess it will be one of those unanswered mysteries as to whether we were both saving face or if it was all in my head. Probably the latter. Ah, the joys of being an awkward British person. Got to love it.
Thursday 12 January 2012
Making a boob of things - Part Two
Harro,
Hope everyone is well and not finding January too much of a slog. Today I shall tell thee a second embarrassing tale that arose out of misplaced garments. Those of you who are true squid snippet loyalists will remember I have already shared an amusing (I hope) boob story with you, and whilst this story contains a similar theme, I felt it was just too good a story not to share. Here goes.
So a few years ago I went on holiday with my family and a friend of mine in Tenerife. It was beautiful weather, and we had an amazing time. However one event was less welcome in my holiday memory file. We had gone to a water park as it was a fantastically sunny day, and whilst my parents sunbathed my friend and I tried out all the slides, ate food and were generally having a hoot. There was one particular slide we both loved; it was one of those curvy drop ones that look like camel humps and it ended with a big whoosh of water. We decided we wanted to take a picture of us in full swing (or should I say, full slide) so I got my mum to stand at the end of the slide and take pictures. The two of us went down the slide, squealing with child-like delight. I was hit with the forceful but not unpleasant whoosh of water, and I stood up, beaming. I walked past the queue of people and up to my mum to see the picture, and as I got close my mum quickly yanked my bikini top. Oh-oh. I became aware that my bikini must have been wonky and revealed a bit too much. Horror dawned on me as I realised I had walked past a queue of at least 20 people plus a life guard before mum had had chance to notice what had happened. How very embarrassing.
Naturally I refused to go back on that slide, and generally avoided that section of the water park in the hope that the people who saw my boob pop out would all stay congregated in the same place, far, far away from me. Unfortunately the shame didn't end with leaving the car park. When my friend got her pictures developed a few weeks later (remember the days of developing pictures??) they put them onto a CD disc for her, and as she handed the photos to me, she added discreetly;
"You might want to get rid of one of these."
Oh dear. Worriedly I got the pictures onto my computer and started sifting through them. Beach. Sunset. And sure enough there it was, me with my boob fully out, proud and greeting the world. Photographic evidence of my humiliation.
If you have had a similar swimsuit malfunction, you have my sympathies. Especially if there is also photographic evidences of your peaches/plums/mangoes. Let's just hope I don't do anything to annoy my friend, as let's face it, she has a heck of a blackmail tool at her disposal.
Hope everyone is well and not finding January too much of a slog. Today I shall tell thee a second embarrassing tale that arose out of misplaced garments. Those of you who are true squid snippet loyalists will remember I have already shared an amusing (I hope) boob story with you, and whilst this story contains a similar theme, I felt it was just too good a story not to share. Here goes.
So a few years ago I went on holiday with my family and a friend of mine in Tenerife. It was beautiful weather, and we had an amazing time. However one event was less welcome in my holiday memory file. We had gone to a water park as it was a fantastically sunny day, and whilst my parents sunbathed my friend and I tried out all the slides, ate food and were generally having a hoot. There was one particular slide we both loved; it was one of those curvy drop ones that look like camel humps and it ended with a big whoosh of water. We decided we wanted to take a picture of us in full swing (or should I say, full slide) so I got my mum to stand at the end of the slide and take pictures. The two of us went down the slide, squealing with child-like delight. I was hit with the forceful but not unpleasant whoosh of water, and I stood up, beaming. I walked past the queue of people and up to my mum to see the picture, and as I got close my mum quickly yanked my bikini top. Oh-oh. I became aware that my bikini must have been wonky and revealed a bit too much. Horror dawned on me as I realised I had walked past a queue of at least 20 people plus a life guard before mum had had chance to notice what had happened. How very embarrassing.
Naturally I refused to go back on that slide, and generally avoided that section of the water park in the hope that the people who saw my boob pop out would all stay congregated in the same place, far, far away from me. Unfortunately the shame didn't end with leaving the car park. When my friend got her pictures developed a few weeks later (remember the days of developing pictures??) they put them onto a CD disc for her, and as she handed the photos to me, she added discreetly;
"You might want to get rid of one of these."
Oh dear. Worriedly I got the pictures onto my computer and started sifting through them. Beach. Sunset. And sure enough there it was, me with my boob fully out, proud and greeting the world. Photographic evidence of my humiliation.
If you have had a similar swimsuit malfunction, you have my sympathies. Especially if there is also photographic evidences of your peaches/plums/mangoes. Let's just hope I don't do anything to annoy my friend, as let's face it, she has a heck of a blackmail tool at her disposal.
Thursday 5 January 2012
The Unexpected Present
Hello peeps and poops.
Hope you all had a good new year. And what better way to start the new year than becoming a follower of my blog (SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT). While you are doing that here is a good story for you.
As some of you may know, my birthday is very near Christmas, only a week before in fact. And this has been a very unfortunate blip on behalf of my parents, as it means the excitement comes all at once. It also means that some mean individuals give you a present whilst saying airily "Oh, that's your Christmas present too by the way." I mean really. Just because their birthday is in June.
So anyway, this particular year it was my 16th birthday, and I came downstairs with that happy, special feeling one gets when it is their birthday. I got hugs from the family, I got a cup of tea, I got a big pile of presents. It was all going marvellously well. I began to open my presents, a nice scarf, a book, etc. However, whilst nearing the end of my pile of presents I got a bit of a shock. When I opened the present, it revealed a large leather thong. I held it up in surprise and confusion, at which point my mum quickly snatched it away.
"Oh! That's not for you. That's a Christmas present for your dad."
Oh dear.Not only had I been given the wrong present, I had been given completely the wrong present which had left me seeing my parents in a entirely new light. A light which I have to say wasn't preferable to the old, softer, less knowing light I had before the thong had come about.
Mum does like to joke around and get silly presents sometimes. I am sure it was just a joke present. It was a joke present. It was.
Just make sure you label your presents everyone. That should be everyone's new year's resolution.
Hope you all had a good new year. And what better way to start the new year than becoming a follower of my blog (SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT). While you are doing that here is a good story for you.
As some of you may know, my birthday is very near Christmas, only a week before in fact. And this has been a very unfortunate blip on behalf of my parents, as it means the excitement comes all at once. It also means that some mean individuals give you a present whilst saying airily "Oh, that's your Christmas present too by the way." I mean really. Just because their birthday is in June.
So anyway, this particular year it was my 16th birthday, and I came downstairs with that happy, special feeling one gets when it is their birthday. I got hugs from the family, I got a cup of tea, I got a big pile of presents. It was all going marvellously well. I began to open my presents, a nice scarf, a book, etc. However, whilst nearing the end of my pile of presents I got a bit of a shock. When I opened the present, it revealed a large leather thong. I held it up in surprise and confusion, at which point my mum quickly snatched it away.
"Oh! That's not for you. That's a Christmas present for your dad."
Oh dear.Not only had I been given the wrong present, I had been given completely the wrong present which had left me seeing my parents in a entirely new light. A light which I have to say wasn't preferable to the old, softer, less knowing light I had before the thong had come about.
Mum does like to joke around and get silly presents sometimes. I am sure it was just a joke present. It was a joke present. It was.
Just make sure you label your presents everyone. That should be everyone's new year's resolution.
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