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.
Monday, 9 April 2012
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.
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