Christmas Jumper
Friday is dress-down day at work. Today someone has come in wearing a "christmas" jumper. The sort of sweater your great aunt thinks would suit you. This person is surprisingly not Julian (the someone is just a Blog Extra). My double-take at the nasty knitted garment caused me to walk into the door.
Julian is wearing a sweatshirt with an Aylesbury duck on the front. As usual he has made the fashion faux pas of tightly tucking his sweatshirt into his trousers.
I am starting to agree with stick-in-the-mud management who believe casual Fridays are a bad thing.
Friday, November 15, 2002
Thursday, November 14, 2002
After Six O'Clock You Risk Incineration
So the national fire strike kicked off last night. Doomgoblins will be happy. Three burning-building deaths last night (that's up on the average of 1.63 deaths per day when the firemen are working normally). No doubt the Daily Mail will blame the frefighters for all three.
Vic is paranoid about going up in flames at the best of times, so last night saw her making a few special preparations before bed time:
1) She checked that both of our smoke alarms were operational and in optimal locations.
2) She unplugged the TV, as they are apparently at risk of randomly exploding into balls of plasma even when switched off.
3) She checked the torch that is kept at the side of the bed.
4) She donned her asbestos pyjamas, welders mask, motorcycle crash helmet and divers lung.
She did forget to fish out an axe from the shed, so I shall remind her to do so tonight. I will also prompt her to uncoil the emergency escape ladder that is still in its box in the cupboard.
Better to be safe than sorry.
So the national fire strike kicked off last night. Doomgoblins will be happy. Three burning-building deaths last night (that's up on the average of 1.63 deaths per day when the firemen are working normally). No doubt the Daily Mail will blame the frefighters for all three.
Vic is paranoid about going up in flames at the best of times, so last night saw her making a few special preparations before bed time:
1) She checked that both of our smoke alarms were operational and in optimal locations.
2) She unplugged the TV, as they are apparently at risk of randomly exploding into balls of plasma even when switched off.
3) She checked the torch that is kept at the side of the bed.
4) She donned her asbestos pyjamas, welders mask, motorcycle crash helmet and divers lung.
She did forget to fish out an axe from the shed, so I shall remind her to do so tonight. I will also prompt her to uncoil the emergency escape ladder that is still in its box in the cupboard.
Better to be safe than sorry.
Wednesday, November 13, 2002
We're Off To See The Wizard
Vicster has booked us in to see Harry Potter on Friday. I can't say that I'm really looking forward to it, as I didn't think the first movie was much cop (didn't do the book any justice), and this will be much of the same. To make matters worse, we are apparently sitting in row B, which is about six feet away from the screen. I cannot sit that close to the screen for three minutes, let alone the three hours that Chamber of Secrets will run for. My eyes will fall out. A few months back when we went to watch Attack of the Clones and were ushered into row A (four feet from the screen), I kicked up such a fuss (i.e. I politely asked the Duty Manager if we could change seats), that we were moved into the "House Seats" - the best in the cinema.
I am practising my "Kicking up a Fuss" spell.
Muggles and Duty Managers beware!
Help
How can I get comment boxes on this blog?
Suggestions, html code or whatever to nobby_dobscrub @ hotmail.com please!
Vicster has booked us in to see Harry Potter on Friday. I can't say that I'm really looking forward to it, as I didn't think the first movie was much cop (didn't do the book any justice), and this will be much of the same. To make matters worse, we are apparently sitting in row B, which is about six feet away from the screen. I cannot sit that close to the screen for three minutes, let alone the three hours that Chamber of Secrets will run for. My eyes will fall out. A few months back when we went to watch Attack of the Clones and were ushered into row A (four feet from the screen), I kicked up such a fuss (i.e. I politely asked the Duty Manager if we could change seats), that we were moved into the "House Seats" - the best in the cinema.
I am practising my "Kicking up a Fuss" spell.
Muggles and Duty Managers beware!
Help
How can I get comment boxes on this blog?
Suggestions, html code or whatever to nobby_dobscrub @ hotmail.com please!
Tuesday, November 12, 2002
A Cruel Design Fault
Our toilets here at work suffer from a distressing design fault. When you flush after use, any toilet paper floating in the bowl balloons up as the flushing water forces air underneath it. The wet paper then traps little pockets of air, which in turn prevent the paper from flushing away: it dances and spins on the top of the water in all of its sh*tty glory and doesn't get sucked away through the pipe.
It is embarassing when you're in the cubicle flushing for the second or third time. They must think King Kong's in there.
More distressing though is when you jump into a cubicle and discover that the previous occupant didn't bother to wait around for a second (or sometimes even first) flush.
I face this every day. Please rescue me.
Our toilets here at work suffer from a distressing design fault. When you flush after use, any toilet paper floating in the bowl balloons up as the flushing water forces air underneath it. The wet paper then traps little pockets of air, which in turn prevent the paper from flushing away: it dances and spins on the top of the water in all of its sh*tty glory and doesn't get sucked away through the pipe.
It is embarassing when you're in the cubicle flushing for the second or third time. They must think King Kong's in there.
More distressing though is when you jump into a cubicle and discover that the previous occupant didn't bother to wait around for a second (or sometimes even first) flush.
I face this every day. Please rescue me.
The Name's Bond. Sticky Bond.
I'm writing this entry through red eyes. Although not quite "welled-up", there has been sufficient moisture generated that I've had to blink back the emotional mists. The reason?
You know how you have just a handful of friends who you really connect with. People who share the same sense of humour, enjoy the same things, and have a similar out-look on life as you do. Brightly coloured shiny fish in your personal pond. People who you love spending time with, love seeing - no matter how short the time, and indeed usually love full stop.
When your connections with these special people are broken, it can be very upsetting. For example, having my best mate (and best man) Rob living out in Chicago means I just don't see him anymore. We used to be like brothers, as thick as thieves, even closer than the Mitchell family. A few short trips, quick telephone conversations and email lines can never make up for the lack of quality time spent together. As time passes, it naturally becomes harder and harder to instantly "reconnect" when we do see each other. Seeing and feeling the strong bonds that tied weaken is sad and traumatic.
These feelings normally arise from friends within your first Circle of Friends. The Inner Sanctum of people you see regularly and are very close to. Sometimes they arise with those outside of this group.
Yesterday I got melancholy when I began thinking about how I hadn't seen Tony Boydell for a while. Tony and I are friends from Magic. We share the same sense of humour, enjoy the same things, share a similar-ish out-look on the world. We shouldn't be that close, and on paper aren't - Tony has never met my wife or visited my home, I haven't met Tony's wife and small army of children or visited his home - but for some reason I LOVE TONY, and would trade much to spent a hour in his company.
But Tony has given up Magic, and my interest isn't what it was. The realisation dawned that I'm unlikely to see much of Tony in the future. Our big connection - meeting up at Magic tournaments and playing our silly games - is broken. Our regular email correspondence - poked along by Magic sticks - has petered out to a few lines now and again.
I was beginning to mourn the demise of our short friendship. I was getting sentimental and foolish.
It was therefore very exciting and uplifting * to discover a new referral to my blog from www.tonyboydell.blogspot.com this morning. I can now catch up on what Tony is doing and thinking every day to my hearts content. A thread of the bond has been reconnected. I'm a happy bunny and now realise the true power of blogs.
The power to (re)connect people. Whether friends or strangers.
If you're a stranger to Tony, I'd recommend keeping an eye on his blog. He's a fab writer - his legacy to Magic is being the best internet writer the hobby has ever known (he always pushed the envelope). He's a sensitive soul and a cuddly family man. He's also extremely funny once he gets his humour engine up and running...
Happy Birthday Tony and start your engine please!
* no, not uplifting (or exciting) in THAT sense!
I'm writing this entry through red eyes. Although not quite "welled-up", there has been sufficient moisture generated that I've had to blink back the emotional mists. The reason?
You know how you have just a handful of friends who you really connect with. People who share the same sense of humour, enjoy the same things, and have a similar out-look on life as you do. Brightly coloured shiny fish in your personal pond. People who you love spending time with, love seeing - no matter how short the time, and indeed usually love full stop.
When your connections with these special people are broken, it can be very upsetting. For example, having my best mate (and best man) Rob living out in Chicago means I just don't see him anymore. We used to be like brothers, as thick as thieves, even closer than the Mitchell family. A few short trips, quick telephone conversations and email lines can never make up for the lack of quality time spent together. As time passes, it naturally becomes harder and harder to instantly "reconnect" when we do see each other. Seeing and feeling the strong bonds that tied weaken is sad and traumatic.
These feelings normally arise from friends within your first Circle of Friends. The Inner Sanctum of people you see regularly and are very close to. Sometimes they arise with those outside of this group.
Yesterday I got melancholy when I began thinking about how I hadn't seen Tony Boydell for a while. Tony and I are friends from Magic. We share the same sense of humour, enjoy the same things, share a similar-ish out-look on the world. We shouldn't be that close, and on paper aren't - Tony has never met my wife or visited my home, I haven't met Tony's wife and small army of children or visited his home - but for some reason I LOVE TONY, and would trade much to spent a hour in his company.
But Tony has given up Magic, and my interest isn't what it was. The realisation dawned that I'm unlikely to see much of Tony in the future. Our big connection - meeting up at Magic tournaments and playing our silly games - is broken. Our regular email correspondence - poked along by Magic sticks - has petered out to a few lines now and again.
I was beginning to mourn the demise of our short friendship. I was getting sentimental and foolish.
It was therefore very exciting and uplifting * to discover a new referral to my blog from www.tonyboydell.blogspot.com this morning. I can now catch up on what Tony is doing and thinking every day to my hearts content. A thread of the bond has been reconnected. I'm a happy bunny and now realise the true power of blogs.
The power to (re)connect people. Whether friends or strangers.
If you're a stranger to Tony, I'd recommend keeping an eye on his blog. He's a fab writer - his legacy to Magic is being the best internet writer the hobby has ever known (he always pushed the envelope). He's a sensitive soul and a cuddly family man. He's also extremely funny once he gets his humour engine up and running...
Happy Birthday Tony and start your engine please!
* no, not uplifting (or exciting) in THAT sense!
Monday, November 11, 2002
No Dead Dog On The Road
My prayers were answered: the little dog wasn't converted to road pizza [phew!]. My wife told me that what I'd written was "terrible". I thought she meant terrible as in "you should have rescued that poor little doggy!", but she actually meant "your grammar and spelling was awful!".
The joys of living with an editor...
The Goose Is Getting Fat
The shops - including the Sainsburys garage at the end of our road - are already decked out with the full load of Christmas decorations and piping out the usual array of Christmas tunes. It's a pet hate of mine: Christmas stuff should not be seen or heard until December, and even then, 3 weeks of it is 3 weeks too many. It is my opinion that the earlier Christmas tat goes up, the more it devalues the meaning of Christmas and dilutes the excitement of the Christmas holiday itself. Down with decorations is what I say.
That being said, I spent some of the weekend burning copies of my favourite Christmas CDs - including the complete Maddy Prior and The Carnival Band back catalogue (essential listening) - whilst Vic went into food-preparation overdrive: Christmas Day canapes, a big fruit pie, etc, etc. However, the cake wasn't baked because the supermarket ran out of glace cherries, claiming that the second weekend in November was apparently the weekend on which EVERYONE bakes their Christmas cakes and steams their puddings...
It's obviously not a disaster - the glace cherries can be bought next week - but in order to test Waitrose's explanation for their lack of stock, I took a quick straw-poll in the office.
Of 6 people asked, not one had made their Christmas cake at the weekend. So either Waitrose were lying in an attempt to disguise their stock mismanagement, or someone somewhere is stockpiling huge quantities of glace cherries.
Perhaps when David Blunkett warned us about a possible Dirty Bomb attack on London, he really meant a possible Glace Cherry ice cream Bomb instead.
Actually, that's stupid. Much more likely is:
[al-Qaeda Terrorist Man #1 in Tora Bora cave]: "How can we disrupt the Christmas celebrations of those stupid, evil, christian, western fools?!"
[al-Qaeda Terrorist Man #2 in Tora Bora cave]: "We could use Osama's billions to buy up all of their glace cherries... so they can't make any cakes, pies and puddings. That would wipe the festive Ronald McDonald smiles off their foolish western faces!"
Be vigilant. Sinister plots lurk everywhere.
My prayers were answered: the little dog wasn't converted to road pizza [phew!]. My wife told me that what I'd written was "terrible". I thought she meant terrible as in "you should have rescued that poor little doggy!", but she actually meant "your grammar and spelling was awful!".
The joys of living with an editor...
The Goose Is Getting Fat
The shops - including the Sainsburys garage at the end of our road - are already decked out with the full load of Christmas decorations and piping out the usual array of Christmas tunes. It's a pet hate of mine: Christmas stuff should not be seen or heard until December, and even then, 3 weeks of it is 3 weeks too many. It is my opinion that the earlier Christmas tat goes up, the more it devalues the meaning of Christmas and dilutes the excitement of the Christmas holiday itself. Down with decorations is what I say.
That being said, I spent some of the weekend burning copies of my favourite Christmas CDs - including the complete Maddy Prior and The Carnival Band back catalogue (essential listening) - whilst Vic went into food-preparation overdrive: Christmas Day canapes, a big fruit pie, etc, etc. However, the cake wasn't baked because the supermarket ran out of glace cherries, claiming that the second weekend in November was apparently the weekend on which EVERYONE bakes their Christmas cakes and steams their puddings...
It's obviously not a disaster - the glace cherries can be bought next week - but in order to test Waitrose's explanation for their lack of stock, I took a quick straw-poll in the office.
Of 6 people asked, not one had made their Christmas cake at the weekend. So either Waitrose were lying in an attempt to disguise their stock mismanagement, or someone somewhere is stockpiling huge quantities of glace cherries.
Perhaps when David Blunkett warned us about a possible Dirty Bomb attack on London, he really meant a possible Glace Cherry ice cream Bomb instead.
Actually, that's stupid. Much more likely is:
[al-Qaeda Terrorist Man #1 in Tora Bora cave]: "How can we disrupt the Christmas celebrations of those stupid, evil, christian, western fools?!"
[al-Qaeda Terrorist Man #2 in Tora Bora cave]: "We could use Osama's billions to buy up all of their glace cherries... so they can't make any cakes, pies and puddings. That would wipe the festive Ronald McDonald smiles off their foolish western faces!"
Be vigilant. Sinister plots lurk everywhere.
