Monday, 17 October 2011

"You Could Knock Me Down With a Feather!" "Well, Maybe If You Got Laser Fat Removal, I Could."

You know when you buy someone a gift, and then you eat it yourself (assuming it's food, of course), and then they ring you as you are eating it to tell you they are in hospital after slicing through their hand at work, is it a given that the karmic consequences will be seriously severe? (I'm asking for a friend, by the way. I would never do that to someone. Especially not my own sister...). So anyway, Kezia has sliced through the tendons in her hand and I came up top as sibling of the year by taking the morning off work and taking her to the hospital. (I would have done it anyway, but it did ease the Malteser induced guilt I was feeling, which was an added bonus). Whilst we were there, I realised that five years worth of watching medical dramas and sitcoms has somewhat warped my view of what actually occurs in a real hospital. Subconsciously, as we walked through the doors, I think I really did expect to be met by a handsome doctor hand in hand with a glamorous nurse, and then sit and watch in suspense as they both run in slow-motion to save the life of a young, widowed father who is 'coding' (who actually knows what that means?) whilst How to Save a Life by The Fray plays in the background. In reality, however, all I saw were tired looking nurses who looked nothing like Elliot from Scrubs, stressed out doctors and a 14 year old boy who had fallen off his bike. I also (probably unfairly) slightly questioned the competence of the doctors after they drew an enormous black arrow on Kezia's hand pointing to the wound as if the bloody tendon hanging out of it was not indication enough as to where it was... I always get slightly terrified in hospitals in regard to mobile phone/MP3 player rules. Part of me thinks it's a myth they made up for their own convenience, but then another part of me (the dominating, cowardly part) is terrified of taking the risk and accidentally screwing up 'hospital waves', consequently killing someone. This is the part of me that also tells me to move my phone away from my stomach incase the invisible waves are making me infertile or giving me cancer.  The same goes for electrical items on planes - once, on the way to Lanzarote, I realised that I'd left my CD player on throughout take off and spent the next four hours shitting myself thinking we were going to crash in the middle of the Atlantic ocean and all our lives would be over because of a Ricky Martin album. Needless to say, we did not, but that album still gives me cold sweats whenever I listen to it. (Which is never, by the way...)

I heard something at work this week which made me want to crawl into my articulate shell and stay there forever. A customer actually used the phrase, "he ran like a house on fire". Seriously? Have people become so stupid that not only do they struggle to string together a sentence of their own creation, but they somehow manage to butcher the ones that are already made for them? That's the beauty of a cliché: you don't have to think about what you're saying, your point has already been articulated by someone else and all you have to do is reproduce it and sound like you know what it means. Some clichés annoy me, like the ones that do not make logical sense, for example, "You could knock me down with a feather!" Could I really? Because the last time I checked, being shocked does not miraculously cause dramatic weight loss - I'm pretty sure if somebody told me I'd won a million pounds, it would still take someone of significant size and strength to knock me over. I also like, "I'm eating for two now!" Is a fetus really going to eat an entire adult sized portion of curry? If you're not careful, it'll need laser fat removal before it's even born... I actually saw a sign at work the other day for laser fat removal. Who even thought to invent that? Where do these ideas come from? I don't doubt that it will be a fabulous money maker, but I don't think they've fully thought through the consequences of this. What if The War of the Worlds actually happened? A spaceship would land, and, instead of a city running for shelter, there'd just be a herd of fatties (probably led by me) waddling towards the laserbeams, all limbs a-flailing, hoping to come out looking like Kate Moss and instead coming to a sticky, chronically obese end. It's a disaster waiting to happen, you mark my words...

Monday, 10 October 2011

"That's Kids For You, Isn't It?" "Er... I Don't Know, Is It?"

So, this week's big news (in the world, not my actual life, which is quite boring) comes in the form of the death of Steve Jobs. It's odd how people of different generations react to this news - the majority of my generation are like, "Oh my God, did you hear about Steve Jobs? So sad, technology innovation will never be the same", and then we all hug our iPods ever closer for an added bit of comfort. With my parents' generation, however, I doubt that the majority of them even know who Steve Jobs is. When you think about it (which I do, because my life is boring), technology actually creates a massive divide between people of different ages (when I say massive, I mean slight, but I am embellishing for dramatic detail). For example, when I text my friends it is always with perfect diction, spelling and punctuation. My mother, on the other hand, texts like this: "where R u?!1 x w y y w x y". I mean, I know it's only a text, but a bit of proof reading wouldn't go amiss, would it? And to think she's educating our next generation... Well, I say educating, I came in from work the other day to be greeted by some kind of angel floating in our hallway. After praying that I hadn't been chosen to be the bearer of the second coming, my mother informed me that it was her old wedding dress and she would be wearing it for 'medieval week' at school (waste not, want not, and all that). I think trying to explain the medieval period to children that can't even write their own name is a bit ambitious myself, but there you go. I thought that it was some kind of tradition to hand down your wedding dress to your daughters so they can wear it on their wedding day, but given that this one will probably end up covered in crisps and playdough, I guess I'll be wearing off the rack...

It does bother me a little bit that my generation is no longer considered the 'young' generation; a customer at work the other day laughed as her child flailed around like an idiot, then rolled her eyes at me and said, "that's kids for you, isn't it?" I just sort of gave her a blank look and said, "er... I don't know, is it?" - Have I become of an age where it is acceptable, granted even, that other adults think I have children? Personally, I don't think that, at the ripe age of twenty one, I qualify for this, which must mean that this woman thought I looked a lot older than I am... Bitch. It's not even like I act particularly mature at work, or mature at all actually. The other day I spent a good ten minutes walking around behind the counter pretending to be a pterodactyl. I was doing the legs and wings and everything - my boss just looked me up and down and said, "well, at least she's here..." I was also caught by a customer (presumably not the woman who thought I was 35. Bitch.) shouting, "BACK WHENCE YOU CAME!" at a rogue sausage roll that had fallen off of its tray. I'm surprised we still have so many customers considering how weird some of the staff are (admittedly, mainly me). The other week we were doing sausage tasting and, after being wrongly informed as to what stout was, I accidentally told a significant amount of customers that it was "sort of like a small weasel". We realised (the next day) that stout was actually beer and we had it confused with a stoat, so, if you bought any stout sausage from my work and thought you were eating weasel, I apologise profusely. The worrying thing is, no one seemed particularly surprised to be eating weasel, which leads me to wonder whether or not my work has a reputation for being somewhat 'eccentric'...

Tuesday, 4 October 2011

My Inner Criminal Has Finally Emerged.

As is the case with my everyday life, things tend to go from the average mishap, to bad, and then to worse. This week's 'bad' consisted of a well avoided (until now) trip to the dentist where I was informed (after at least two sudokus worth of waiting) that I would be forced, yet again, to voluntarily sit in a chair for an hour and cry whilst someone drills into my gum and casually asks me how life is going.  I don't really know what root canals are, but I know that I am not overly fond of them. I also got treated (why does 'tret' sound right?!) to a series of x-rays, throughout which my dentist struck up various topics of conversation and then proceeded to look at me expectantly, waiting for a answer. How he expected me to reply when I had a mouthful of plastic, I do not know, so I looked up and gave him my best deadpan stare instead. (I'm not entirely sure it had the desired effect as I was, at the time, drooling, but still.) It's times like this I really wish I hadn't ripped my front teeth out as a child, a story I'm aware I probably can't skip over as casually as I would like, so here it is:
As a child, I was always rather clumsy, or accident prone, or unlucky, or basically just any adjective that isn't as harsh but really just means stupid. Until I was about thirteen, I was one of the aforementioned children from my  previous blog that needs entertaining every minute of the day. Due to this, I often ended up getting myself stuck in various unfortunate situations as a result of some experiment or other that had gone somewhat awry - for example, the time I stuck my thumb in the end of a recorder to see what would happen and got it stuck, or the time I sucked 1cm of coca-cola from the bottom of a 2 litre bottle for about twenty minutes, thus resulting in my lips swelling to twice their average size and not returning to normal for another hour and a half. Anyway, on this particular day, I obviously thought that it would be fun to see if the light pull in my dad's bathroom could hold my entire body weight (I was only seven at the time, but I still weighed the equivalent of an underdeveloped whale). In short, it couldn't (not that I really expected it to...) and thus I lost forever the majority of my front teeth. In hindsight, it hasn't been one of the most successful experiments I've ever conducted, but I have learnt from it - mainly that chew bars are not really an option anymore, but I'm sure somewhere there is an actual moral to the story.

Anyway, onwards and upwards, my day gradually got worse when I received a message from my dad telling me I had been fined for driving in a bus and taxi lane. It always baffles me how cameras detect these things - my dad's car is so big that it's practically a bus, a large taxi at the very least, but apparently we do not meet the required criteria (the standard is just so much higher these days), and so instead I was sent not only a nice little letter asking for money, but also a lovely photograph of myself in said bus and taxi lane. I'm half tempted to pin it to the door of my house with the caption, "Beware: Criminal" to frighten off any unwanted guests. It depressed me so much that I went to Morrisons, bought (and subsequently ate in two minutes) an entire swiss roll. You'd think that after my trauma God would leave me to eat my feelings in peace, but no, I was joined by an entire secondary school Geography class wanting me to fill out a questionnaire about Guiseley and the surrounding environment. I told them I didn't live here and could they please leave me alone to cry into my swiss roll in peace. Thankfully, they obliged, although I'm sure one of them made some kind of snide remark about my walkman as they did so... I almost went and bought another swiss roll, but seeing as I had a motoring offence fine to pay I decided my money would be better saved than spent.