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.
Thursday, 5 January 2012
Monday, 19 December 2011
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?
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?
Thursday, 8 December 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, 1 December 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, 22 November 2011
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.
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.
Friday, 11 November 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, 1 November 2011
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.
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.
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