Anyone reading this blog regularly know that strange things tend to happen to me. Occasionally they involve pigeons. Every so often I have a day where so many moments of WTF occur, my brain shuts down trying to process it. For your reading pleasure, I present : Thursday. (Note - although weird stuff happened during the day, it was mainly job related, so not included. Although threatening to head-butt your PC screen gets you very disapproving looks from IT.)
Moment 1 :
Reaching the train station, looking down, and realising I'm wearing my new slippers. These aren't the type of slippers that can pass as shoes if you squint either; they have fluff. And ears. Go home to change into actual boots, and realise that I can now feel every stone, slimy puddle, and bit of nastiness that doubles as a London pavement, even in this little outpost of the city. The slippers are unsalvageable.
Moment 2 :
Get home from work, and can't get my key to turn in the front door. This door has been a pain since we moved into the flat; the wood swells and warps every time it rains and I've had a few moments of struggling to get it open. Choice: call a locksmith (mucho, mucho money would go winging it's way out of my bank account. I can see the wingbeats when I think about it) or call Mandy and Tim. Tim is a big lad - I'm five three by the skin of my teeth, and the top of my head doesn't quite reach his chest. Mandy send Tim thundering down the road to my place, and I spend the time waiting visualising what sort of superhero cape he'd wear.
Tim crosses the road, rolling his shoulders in anticipation; I need in that door. My bladder is singing Ave Maria, my feet hurt, and my Nando's is staring up at me. Either we get that key turned or the door is saying fare-thee-well to this world. Tim shoves the door a few times. He doesn't want to kick it in and turns sad, puppy dog eyes on me. Then he reaches through the letterbox, pulls the door in, and turns the key in one easy motion, opening the door. I feel remarkable stupid at this point in time. My bladder thinks he's a god.
Moment 3 :
I climb into bed at the end of a long day and hear a ping. Followed by a clunk. Then another ping. When I turn on the light and look under the bed, there are a couple of bolts lying on the floor. My bed base appears to be dismantling itself. As I watch, another washer answers the call of gravity and drops, missing my nose by an inch. The bolt that follows doesn't miss at all. At which point I utter a phrase that would have my mother reaching for the soap. I picture myself trying to fix it, and decide that if the bloody thing does collapse, it's not that far to the floor anyway. I put a plaster on my nose and get back into bed. Every couple of hours I wake up to a creak-ping-clunk noise, although the bed is still standing in the morning.
My theory? Thursday was the day this week that the Universe made itself some popcorn and settled in to watch me, while pointing and laughing. The Nando's was pretty good, though.
Moment 1 :
Reaching the train station, looking down, and realising I'm wearing my new slippers. These aren't the type of slippers that can pass as shoes if you squint either; they have fluff. And ears. Go home to change into actual boots, and realise that I can now feel every stone, slimy puddle, and bit of nastiness that doubles as a London pavement, even in this little outpost of the city. The slippers are unsalvageable.
Moment 2 :
Get home from work, and can't get my key to turn in the front door. This door has been a pain since we moved into the flat; the wood swells and warps every time it rains and I've had a few moments of struggling to get it open. Choice: call a locksmith (mucho, mucho money would go winging it's way out of my bank account. I can see the wingbeats when I think about it) or call Mandy and Tim. Tim is a big lad - I'm five three by the skin of my teeth, and the top of my head doesn't quite reach his chest. Mandy send Tim thundering down the road to my place, and I spend the time waiting visualising what sort of superhero cape he'd wear.
Tim crosses the road, rolling his shoulders in anticipation; I need in that door. My bladder is singing Ave Maria, my feet hurt, and my Nando's is staring up at me. Either we get that key turned or the door is saying fare-thee-well to this world. Tim shoves the door a few times. He doesn't want to kick it in and turns sad, puppy dog eyes on me. Then he reaches through the letterbox, pulls the door in, and turns the key in one easy motion, opening the door. I feel remarkable stupid at this point in time. My bladder thinks he's a god.
Moment 3 :
I climb into bed at the end of a long day and hear a ping. Followed by a clunk. Then another ping. When I turn on the light and look under the bed, there are a couple of bolts lying on the floor. My bed base appears to be dismantling itself. As I watch, another washer answers the call of gravity and drops, missing my nose by an inch. The bolt that follows doesn't miss at all. At which point I utter a phrase that would have my mother reaching for the soap. I picture myself trying to fix it, and decide that if the bloody thing does collapse, it's not that far to the floor anyway. I put a plaster on my nose and get back into bed. Every couple of hours I wake up to a creak-ping-clunk noise, although the bed is still standing in the morning.
My theory? Thursday was the day this week that the Universe made itself some popcorn and settled in to watch me, while pointing and laughing. The Nando's was pretty good, though.
Another typical day for you then? ROFL!!!!
ReplyDeletePretty much par for the course, really.
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