Death to Edutainment

Today I visited the Natural History and Science Museums with my sister and four-year-old niece.

Let me make my position clear: when I go to a museum I want to see a mummy, a three-headed goat preserved in formaldehyde, and all manner of freakish exhibits in dusty glass cabinets.

I do not want to see a fun interactive installation depicting how a volcano works, a video with a child-friendly actor explaining how earthquakes happen, and an entire wing devoted to different varieties of rocks. When did museums become so repellently kiddified? Quite some time ago, probably. As my sister observes, a trip to the museum now ranks a close second behind musical theatre in the all-time league of Least Favourite Entertainment.

A proper museum.

Happily, my niece broke up the kid-centric monotony by needing the toilet every 8 minutes. She quickly tired of the 'touch & explore' crap and we brought the educational tour to an end.

The three of us then spent a very happy 45 minutes browsing the lovely artwork and grown-up consumer durables for sale in the shop of the V&A.

Sand which?

They get off their pedestals and walk around at night.

Straying from the beaten tourist track can be quite rewarding. This afternoon a friend and I tramped the former south-east London docklands of Southwark, Rotherhithe and Surrey Quays.

It was a bleak and windy day, the perfect backdrop for these tragically peeling statues of an orphan girl and boy, standing over the entrance to a former charitable school for children of the poor. For sure, nothing says 'childhood' like a crumbling, hollow-eyed, 18th century, bible-clutching plaster effigy.

Then there was the gourmet hotspot of H's Café, "Where you KNOW you've had a sandwhich". And it probably is quite hard to forget that fact as you make your sixteenth visit of the evening to the big white telephone.

Another killer slogan for the collection.

Next stop Redhill

A pleasant day of wandering in Notting Hill, despite significant transportation challenges. Much of the underground service was suspended today, and many buses were operating as a (poor) substitute for trains.

The consequence of this was a lot of time spent hanging around on windswept platforms at train stations, exposed to travelling freaks. Changing trains at Gatwick on the way back to home base, I raced to board the connecting train at Platform 1. Although the train was still there, the doors refused to open and the lucky people inside stared smugly out at me while it began, with infinite slowness, to pull away.

I was left behind in the gloomy dusk to wait 25 minutes for the next train. Even though I had my headphones on (the universal symbol for 'don't speak to me'), a middle-aged woman in a leopard-print headscarf approached me. She appeared to be wearing a lot of shiny vaseline around her eyes, which meant that her mascara was unable to cling to her eyelashes in the usual way. Black segments of mascara like spider legs were making their way off her eyelashes and around the rest of her face.

Mascara Lady was going to Redhill and wanted to know from me whether the next train would be going there, even though the ticket office had advised her of this, a voice over the PA was announcing it, and the sign hanging over the platform also made the destination clear. She thought I looked like I might be going there, and wanted me to give the final verdict. I confirmed that the train was, indeed, going to Redhill.

When it arrived I noticed she still didn't get on it.

Crap Santa

Oh dear. Great disappointment this morning - although an enormous amount of presents had been left under the tree, Father Christmas somehow forgot to eat the provisions specially left out for him and the reindeer. Difficult to explain this to the children's satisfaction, but a strongly-worded email to the North Pole has been promised.

The day passed in an orgy of rampant wrapper-shredding consumerism, bickering and gluttony; followed by the inevitable post-frenzy afternoon slump and oppressively huge clean-up operations. Without which it just wouldn't be Christmas.

The Odyssey

That was the best flight I've ever had. We were an hour and fifteen minutes late in taking off because refueling is not allowed during an electrical storm. Then 2 of the 4 canisters of insecticide needed for the hold went missing and had to be found or the baggage would not be permitted to be unloaded at Heathrow.

We then took our place in the take-off queue behind 25 other aircraft. There was no in-flight entertainment, the food was the worst I've ever tasted on a plane (which is saying something), and when we landed the parking brake failed so we had to wait to be towed. The most-repeated phrase over the PA was 'Please bear with us...'

This was, however, all immaterial. Because due to a check-in fluke, I had a row of 4 EMPTY SEATS to myself. This was the closest I ever have, and undoubtedly ever will, come to business-class travel. I shall treasure the memory forever.

At my sister's house I was ready to luxuriate in a much needed-bath, but nobody mentioned that the timer on the immersion heater would allow only tepid water, rapidly cooling to a bracing absolute zero. So rather more on the 'endurance' than 'luxury' end of the bathing experience.

My brother-in-law has been stricken with a debilitating sinus infection, and my 18-month old nephew is having 'sleep issues', ie. shrieking his head off for an extended period when being put to bed. And then again in the middle of the night, resulting in all members of the household being sleep-deprived.

But the carrot, saucer of milk and mince pie have been set out for Father Christmas, so all is in readiness for the Big Day tomorrow. We are amped!

FREEDOM

The last few painful hours at the office have been suffered through, and tonight I fly to London to spend the Christmas break with my sister and her lovely family.

I can't wait, although flying long-distance does bring with it some inevitable anxieties. Will the airport scales agree that my luggage is just a shade under the 23kg allowed? Will sniffer dogs detect the lovingly-baked Christmas cake my mother has made me pack?

Last time I was at the airport I saw some poor woman having her muffins confiscated when a treacherous beagle parked itself next to her suitcase, staring accusingly up at her and waiting for the reward from its handler.

Also, I hope they don't attempt to weigh my hand luggage. It looks like a normal cabin trolley, but is in fact packed with the density of solid plutonium. When pulled along, the wheels could leave grooves in a concrete floor.


Further holiday updates to follow from the Other Side...

Lunchcrime

While rummaging around in the office fridge, I just accidentally flung someone's tupperware lunchbox onto the floor, spewing somebody's bizarre meal of noodles, baked beans and big chunks of meat onto the already-grubby kitchen floor.

I did consider shovelling it back into the tupperware, but in the end I binned it and cleaned up the mess. I then performed a half-hearted tour of the office to find out whose lovingly-prepared meal I had destroyed, but nobody claimed ownership of the lunchbox.

This has been the most significant event of the day so far...

SOS

Events at the office are conspiring to wreck the Christmas vibe in a big way. One of our (few remaining) clients put in their next big campaign brief about 2 months too late, and what with the film industry closing down for about a month over this period, it is proving virtually impossible to meet the mid-January deadline for TV.

 

This is the cause of recriminations, infighting, stress, rage and general pandemonium. Every day brings a fresh letter of resignation, leading to the unthinkable scenario of me ending up here on my own, clinging to the railings of the sinking Titanic with only the unemployable MAM for company. No danger of him going anywhere, apart from a drug & alcohol treatment centre. And that is a very remote possibility indeed.

Please God no

Concerns of the bed chamber

I really, really have to get some new pillows. Usually they are masked by presentable pillow cases, but this morning while awaiting fresh bed linen the full horror was revealed.

The origin of these pillows is uncertain, but I probably got them from my mum when I moved into my own place. If they are from the family home they could well be in excess of twenty-five years old.

All the stuffing in them has migrated into unyielding clumps, resulting in some interesting patterns on the face in the morning. They are also covered in disturbing mystery stains, to the degree that a self-respecting tramp would reject them for reasons of hygiene.

But the thing is, they are exactly the right height for me to sleep on. It's impossible to find pillows of the correct slenderness in any shop. Ordinary plump pillows give me neck ache, so I'll just have to keep inhaling the corpses of decades-deceased bedbugs a bit longer.

The Birds

It's been a serene and restful long weekend (apart from that bit when I had to go to work). Reading, present-wrapping and dining with friends have been the main activities. The general tranquility has, however, been a tiny bit marred by the local wildlife.

While buried in a book on the patio it dawned on me that for well over an hour, a mystery bird somewhere nearby had been twittering hysterically in a way that must have been causing great strain to its larynx: "AAAAKAaaakAaaakAaaakAAAAAKAaakAaaakAAAAKaaakAAAAK!!" Once I'd noticed the barrage there was no ignoring it.

I went out to look for the problem, and spotted a small Crested something-or-other flitting between trees and shrieking incessantly. Watching it for a while, I couldn't see any reason for it to be indulging in this behaviour, and my appearance on the scene did nothing to shut it up. Even a stick flying in its direction did not encourage it to move on.

Eventually I glanced at a section of wall partially hidden by leaves and saw the neighbour's evil yellow-eyed tabby cat draped along the top, surveying the scene regally as though staking out a baby warthog on the savannah. I can't reach the bird, but I can definitely get my hands on the cat.

Zeitgeisty!

Found out yesterday that the punchline from one of our TV ads is being borrowed to get laughs in the annual Janice Honeyman Christmas pantomime at the Joburg theatre.

This is especially gratifying since the Red Queen had despised our humble little ad when shown it earlier this year, condemning it as the worst thing she'd ever seen and not in the least bit funny.

This pushed myself and the co-creator into an abyss of professional despair and self-loathing, or more accurately snipped the fraying rope that we were dangling from, in the aforementioned abyss she'd long since kicked us into.

We had been told recently by media that the ad was tracking well with viewers, but you can't demonstrate more mass-appeal than being referenced in a Christmas panto, right? Right? Take that Your Majesty, you stuck-up, humourless harpy. Unfortunately the chances of her seeing this or any other panto are zero, unless it's a panto held on a yacht on the Côte d'Azur with costumes designed by Yves Saint Laurent.

Surrounded by Turkeys

I was in the midst of a pre-movie dinner at a nice restaurant around 7pm last night, serene in the knowledge that the following day was a public holiday, when my phone rang. After ignoring a couple of calls (I had a dark suspicion it might be work), I relented and answered. Fatal mistake, naturally.

It was indeed work-related, and my presence would be required at the office at 8am this (holiday) morning to sort out some job, the original creator of which had disappeared on leave. I would be briefed on arrival by client service people. Begrudgingly I set the alarm last night, dragged myself out of bed for a slice of toast and entered the unhallowed halls of the office at five minutes to eight this morning.

Picture my irritation as 15 minutes, then half an hour went by without the promised client service or production people showing up. After several frustrated calls (other people are more astute about switching their phones off), it emerged that my sole reason for being there was to drag a folder containing the job from one server onto another server.

Because heaven knows, anybody else might be electrocuted if they touched the computer. And it's not like I could have told them over the phone where the job was filed, what an outlandish notion. Then of course there's the fact that the instigators of this plan all had more important things to do than BE AT WORK AT 8 O' CLOCK ON A NATIONAL HOLIDAY JUST BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

green curtain update

Green curtain still missing.
Police baffled.

Is it just me...

...or is there something peculiar about this? I found it attached to the gate when I got home this evening.

I am convinced it's a coded message. Somebody arriving at the front entrance to my townhouse estate will see this and know to take the suitcase of amphetamines to the disused warehouse near the gasworks.

Or else it's a haiku. There's something strangely zen about the composition. I think it's the enormous gap after 'AND..............................', giving the reader time to reflect. Then there are those tiny, tiny words at the bottom left which contradict the sentiment, 'It would be greatly appreciated'.

The third possibility is that Marguerite has a strong emotional attachment to a green curtain which someone accidentally removed, presumably when they accidentally leaned in through a window and accidentally detached a hundred curtain hooks.

You better believe I'm on the lookout for that green curtain.

I'm with the Zzz Team

Another session of flogging ye old brain on the giant brand ad today. A couple of hours of deep and painful thought resulted in a grand total of 1(one) idea which could be profound genius, or then again may be utter crap. More likely the latter.

I fear we may be in for a lukewarm reception at our review tomorrow anyway. When our creative director looked in on us during our brainstorming session she discovered the slumbering and unresponsive body of one of our party, fallen asleep face-down on a bench after consuming a bottle of cider at lunch. Oh yes, we're the consummate professionals alright.

Hard time

I seldom take leave in the run-up to Christmas, reasoning that things at the office will be quiet enough to provide a virtual holiday anyway. Year after year this hypothesis is proven to be hopelessly deluded, as some enormous and urgent job always gets briefed in by one of our inconsiderate clients before they take off for the beach.

This leaves precious little spare time to devote to the soul-destroying task of Christmas shopping. Even as we speak, I lie crippled on the sofa after a gruelling Sunday spent at the shops. The crowds, the noise, the doubt, the exhaustion, the inevitable misplacing of the parking ticket when wishing to make an exit.

Next year I will definitely get my act together and do it all online. And perhaps not use up every nano-second of my annual leave before reaching December.

W is for Woe.

Oh yeah - I forgot to mention our new business pitch was not successful, as we found out yesterday. Short-sighted potential clients seem to be holding the departure of our top management team against us, for some reason.

On principle I can never again eat at a certain burger-based restaurant chain whose name begins with a 'W'. Unless really desperate, of course.

In other news, my badminton bruise has gone from a brightly attractive red & blue to a clashing yellow & purply-black mess. Also there was another painful trip to the dentist this morning.

I was warned not to eat until the anesthetic had worn off, which is good advice since I once contentedly chewed up a section of my tongue along with the steak and kidney pie I was eating unwisely soon after an injection.

I grow Weary of this Week.

In the Lair of the MAM

Received an invite out of the blue today from an erstwhile friend, and now flatmate of the MAM, to come round for dinner.

In the spirit of a those war correspondents who venture into Darfur and return with tales of pestilence & horror, I accepted this invitation.

Journalists in Sudan, however, never had to deal with the sight of the MAM's soiled underpants flung into a corner of the bathroom during a visit to the loo.

There had recently been a burglary at the flat, but the MAM & friend had been too strung out on pills/alcohol to prevent or notice it. This had caused the friend to become slightly paranoid, hiding any remaining items of value throughout the flat. She told me that she was still looking for the MAM's half of the December rent, four thousand in cash that she'd hidden somewhere in her bedroom (valium plays such tricks on the memory).

Eventually dinner (chicken a la king) was served, the MAM thoughtfully wiping my plate clean with the front of his t-shirt before dishing up. Bon appetit!

Damn you, Karma

Got my comeuppance for sneering at the MAM's 'ailments'. I was at badminton practice this evening playing mixed doubles with Mahesh, who is built like the proverbial sturdy toilet constructed of brick.

I was standing behind him, because it was his turn to receive the service. The shot was heading well to the back of the court and clearly OUT, but Mahesh decided that this was the time to open a Can o' Whup-ass on our opponents. He somehow got behind me and delivered a powerful slashing blow, missing the shuttle completely and hitting me in the side with his racquet.

I now have a picturesque red-and-blue weal over my left kidney shaped like the rim of a racquet.

sicko

God, the bleak abyss of Monday. The high point of the day was the absence of the MAM, since he called in sick this morning. According to his best buddy at the office, the poor bloke is 'man down'. Down at the bottom of a vodka bottle, we cynically speculate?

Far be it from me to besmirch his reputation, but there has been a trend in the past for him to be stricken by 'migraines' following a weekend. Or, as those among us with less medical expertise have called them, 'hangovers'. I wonder whether a sick note will be produced, as per company policy.

Feel the Noize

Went with friends to a skanky dive today where a band called the 'Hip Replacements' was performing. There was really no good reason for subjecting ourselves to this, apart from a misguided feeling that we should be getting out more.

We should definitely not be getting out more. We should be staying in with DVDs and books and cakes and cups of tea.

It was a small and intimate venue. Our table was mere inches from the band and their very large speakers, which seemed to me not all that necessary in an enclosed 3 x 6m space.

The Hip Replacements don't do covers, performing their own material and singing bluesy love songs with a passion that is frankly unseemly in a gang of crusty old men. Mercifully there was too much distortion to be able to make out most of the lyrics. One New Age-looking audience member provided an entertaining diversion with her earnest free-form self-expressing dance moves.

All in all though, probably not worth the hearing impairment we have suffered.

Yet more disturbingly old-maid behaviour

After my evening ablutions, I thought I'd just pop out and check the post box. For this expedition I threw together an über-casual ensemble of paint-spattered tracksuit pants, flip-flops with socks and an offensively bright blue fluffy hooded top, capped by damp & bedraggled hair.

I'd forgotten that this was the evening rush hour, so in the short walk to the post box I was subjected to intense scrutiny by an enormous procession of crawling cars, as roughly 600 people returned home at the same time after their day's labour. 

Striding purposefully along and staring intently at a distant point seemed the only option.

Together Again

A brief respite today from flogging my reluctant brain to think up ways of blowing 8 million on a TV ad, and yanked onto a crisis job with... the MAM. Hurrah! How I had missed him. Not really.

I can report that his mucous membranes are more irritated (and irritating) than ever. Violent coughs now wrack his entire gin-sodden frame. He blames the office air conditioning. Certainly, air conditioning is a greater menace to the lungs than tobacco and crack fumes.

10.45pm

Come on brain, for God's sake.

Eight Miiiillion Rand TV Ad

Advertising; it's a funny old business. Last week I was doing a lowly retail newspaper insert, festooned at the client's behest with a quite amazing quantity of 'FREE!' and 'SAVE!' stars & badges.

This week, I need to think of an idea for a big brand TV commercial with a budget of 8 million. We have carte blanche to come up with an epic, awe-inspiring work of art!

Nothing's springing to mind yet, I have to admit.

The daily review process begins to tomorrow. My formidable brain will no doubt kick into gear shortly.

I love the smell of burning teeth in the morning.

We heard nothing about our new business pitch on Friday last week. Apparently our CEO had got the date wrong, and the decision was not to be announced until the end of the month.

Today though, we were summoned together to be told that our agency has lost its biggest account. It has to be said that this did not come as a complete surprise. They've been with our agency since the dawn of time and must be sick of the sight of us by now. I know I'm heartily sick of them.

It seems our superiors had known that the account was lost on Thursday last week, but withheld the news for fear of spoiling the Christmas party. In my opinion, it's debatable whether any news could have made that party less of a success. Even the news that a rogue meteor was on a collision course for Earth.

This ill-omened day also featured a trip to the dentist, where I underwent a very painful filling while the substitute dentist (my regular's away) tutted and fretted over the state of my teeth, discovering previously unsuspected areas of decay.

I am bitterly resentful about this because I practically live at the fucking dentist. I must have been there at least eight times this year. Could there be something wrong with the X-ray equipment? At first I stared wide-eyed up at the ceiling in terror, body rigid as a plank on the sinister black leather recliner. But I quickly realised that keeping my eyes shut would go a long way towards keeping more powdered teeth from flying into my eyes as the heavy-duty drilling continued.

Another appointment with this sadist has been scheduled in ten days' time. Perhaps a meteor strike will save me.

Partied out.

My hopes for the Miami Beach Party were not high, and yet it still managed to fall short of my modest expectations.

The party venue was a smallholding an hour's drive away from town, complete with dogs, sheep, and ducks which happily floated (and defecated) in the swimming pool.

Deafeningly loud and awful music prevented any conversation on arrival. A welcoming platter of polony sandwiches waited on each table, condensation forming on the clingfilm that covered them as they festered in the sun.

A waiter/farm labourer regularly scooped the empty plastic cocktail beakers from our table into the giant bin-bag he carried with him (the mark of a fine establishment).

I suffered through the obligatory boring speech by the CEO, and the awarding of endless hilarious joke awards to various staff members. Fortunately, many years ago I established this golden rule: Never go to a party without your own transport, no matter how far away it is. This enabled me to sneak off and spend the rest of the afternoon splashing out payday bounty at the shops.

As long as the duck's enjoying itself.

Note:
Credit must go to the MAM, who really went the extra mile with his party costume. He arrived resplendent in a Panama hat, mirrored shades, beaded necklace, loud Hawiian shirt unbuttoned right down to the bulging waistband, and checked Bermuda shorts revealing pale hairy legs that ended in white slip-on shoes.

New career low

I may have scraped rock bottom today, and that's saying something.

We were 'debriefed' by a representative of the client service department to re-work a campaign created by another team. This briefing was something of an ordeal. The client service woman involved is an especially tedious specimen, vacant of expression and monotonous of tone. Although heavily pregnant, she seems to regard warnings about the danger posed by smoking to your unborn child as unsubstantiated rumour, and is often to be found indulging in a cigarette break outside.

This birdbrain passed on the news that the client had dismissed the agency's clean & restrained design offerings as 'unprofessional-looking', and not sufficiently 'hard-sell'.

She then handed over a sheet of paper on which the client had thoughtfully provided their own Powerpoint(!) artwork as a guide for us. This insult to the eye depicted a photo of the product they wish us to flog to the unsuspecting consumer, surrounded by a great many multi-coloured FREE! and SAVE! graphics vying for attention.

Our client is clearly unaware of the principal that when everything stands out, nothing stands out.

Accordingly, I have designed an ad crammed full of shiny buttons with misleading promises of big savings and free stuff.
Dignity, where art thou?

iMood

Ages ago I heard about a conspiracy theory claiming that the iTunes 'shuffle' feature is not as random as you might suppose. How very true.

There you'll be, listening to Roberta Flack's 'The first time ever I saw your face' in a quietly introspective mood. Perhaps reflecting on tender memories and associations, and feeling pleasantly melancholic. The last soft notes die hauntingly away into silence, only to be followed by 'FLASH! AA-AAAAH! SAVIOUR OF THE UNIVERSE!'.

It works the other way round, too. A joyful session of bopping along to 'Good Thing' by the Fine young Cannibals was brought to an abrupt end by the unwelcome appearance of 'Eleanor Rigby - died in the church and was buried along with her name. Nobody came.'

A malevolent intelligence is at work within my iPod.

Friday on my mind

Friday the 25th is payday! An event eagerly awaited by me for at least the last 28 days.

Friday is also the day of the not-so-eagerly-awaited Company Christmas Party (theme: Miami), and it's on Friday that we find out whether or not our recent new business pitch was successful (a potential party buzz-killer).

I plan to stay focused on the aforementioned PAYDAY aspect however, and so will remain unaffected by any drama in Miami.

Trouble in the hood

A couple of weeks ago, some new neighbours moved into the house on my left. I'm not sure of the exact number as they appear to be an ever-changing population. At least three adults and two children, I estimate.

Although the clan carried their possessions into the house in armfuls as opposed to neatly packed boxes, and one of the women sported a wailing baby strapped to her back with a towel, I tried not to give in to a faint sense of apprehension.

To their credit, they have kept a fairly low profile until now. Only some pungent cooking smells, penetratingly loud conversations, and muffled howling from the infant have given away their presence.

However. This morning I decided to eat a bowl of muesli on my patio. This position gave me a good view of the neighbours' kitchen door as a rather matronly-looking woman, completely naked from the waist up, stepped calmly out onto the back porch to take in the morning air. I can't help feeling that a line has been crossed...

How I miss that nice quiet brothel.

PowerPoint, the Revenge

Just when you though it was safe to go back in the water.

My plan to learn as little as possible about PowerPoint in order to avoid being given assignments appears to be backfiring. Far from discouraging the awarding of such assignments, I end up doing them anyway, but in an incredibly slow and laborious manner. 

Today I created one hundred and thirty-three slides, with a squadron of people crowding around my humble little workstation to issue commands. There was a harassed moment or two when the desire to shriek EVERYBODY GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY DESK was almost overwhelming. But eventually the ordeal was over, and I admit to a sneaking sense of satisfaction (oh dear).

12.45am

Just had a slice of burnt toast for dinner. The agency is working on a new business pitch at the moment which has caused a drop in standards of relaxation, entertainment, nutrition and general well-being. But not in the standards of hygiene. Oh no. When the standards of hygiene are allowed to drop, where are we then? In the shoes of the MAM, that's where.

In fact, the lateness of the hour could be attributed to my need to wallow in the bath for at least an hour before actually getting on with any work.

Hmm...er

I hate it when people drive around these understated mystery vehicles. What is it, and where can I get one?

The Kids are Not Alright.

The ease with which I am drifting into a state of cantankerous old maid-ness is really quite alarming. Returning from a shopping trip today, I flung open the patio doors in order to enjoy the balmy air, then flung them closed again when assaulted by the din from the nearby communal swimming pool.

I can't believe kids are still listening to ravey-dance crap. Have there been no developments in the field of music during the last decade or so? With this discordant thudding row going on, there's no way I can do my VERY IMPORTANT WORK (for the benefit of anybody from the office who might be reading this). 

I got out the trusty binoculars and surveyed the area, noting a sign which specifically forbids the playing of music at the pool area. I then phoned security, and watched gleefully from a distance as the plug was pulled on the teen festivities. Mwahahaha!

All I need now are lace curtains to twitch aside, a child to throw a ball onto my porch so that I can confiscate it, and twenty five cats to consume my decaying corpse after I collapse in the bath from an embolism.
Oh, God.

Pep talk

Still in a state of euphoria about the departure of the Red Queen after four painful years to pursue her new (and hopefully doomed) business opportunity.

Unable to keep this exuberance to myself, I have been informing anyone who will listen about my delight with the new status quo.

I couldn't resist unburdening myself to the Human Resources manager when I spotted her in the canteen, but this was a mistake as I had to endure a mini motivational speech about how I had been holding back my full potential under the reign of the Red Queen, and it was now time for me to really step up and start applying myself.

In my view, this is the equivalent of being the ward of a feckless single mother who marries a notorious child abuser, looking on indulgently as your stepfather screws you nightly for four years. When he finally buggers off, your mother informs you that it's time you got over the whole thing and started doing a few more chores around the house.

Okay, maybe it's not the exact equivalent. But it's a bit like that.

Blood work

Two colleagues and I bravely ventured into the local hospital today for a free 'Healthy Heart Awareness' assessment, promoted by the Agency who apparently would prefer us not to suffer inconvenient coronary thromboses on their premises.

I just wonder why, when drawing blood, the cruel pin has to be stabbed into the nerve-filled tip of your finger. Surely there are meatier, less sensitive places on your person to choose from. Nonetheless, I am happy to report that my begrudgingly-given claret reveals a less than 1% chance of dying due to cardiac disease in the next 10 years.

The MAM elected not to take advantage of this free offer, which may be for the best. His advanced cirrhosis, heavy smoking and pie consumption would probably result in a 'Deceased' outcome in the blood test, causing distress for the hospital staff.

Who you gonna call?

Spotted this epic slogan on the van in front of me while driving home this evening. Risked life and limb getting close enough for a photo.

that sinking feeling

What, I wonder, is the earliest possible age for the onset of senility? Last night I started a bath running, then went to do a quick bit of tidying up in the kitchen.

About half an hour later, once the clanging of pots and pans and general splashing had subsided, I realised I could still hear the sound of running water coming from somewhere.

I had no idea what a vast array of ugly old towels were in my possession until I had to fling armfuls of them onto a waterlogged carpet. The bathroom was on its way to becoming a bijou tiled swimming pool, and the warm water lagoon was steadily encroaching across the threshold, making a swamp of the bedroom carpet.

The remainder of Saturday night was devoted to trampling on absorbent fragments of cloth in an attempt to soak up the flood waters. A fan is currently blasting the affected area. These counter-measures are vital. According to the internet, if black mold starts to breed in the carpet I will DIE.

Mayday!

The MAM went rogue on us today. We'd shown our client a cut of their commercial with music track (a) and they'd loved it. But then we came up with music track (b), which we considered to be an improvement. It only remained to convince the client of this, which presented a challenge as they were pretty much married to track (a).

While the sound engineer fiddled about putting the finishing touches on our preferred track, the client waited outside the studio ready for the big reveal.  It was at this point that the MAM wandered outside unsupervised (in a gin trance) and declared to the client, contrary to what we'd all agreed, that his preference was actually for the original track (a).

A scene ensued, during which he was threatened with a kick in the balls should he ever open his big mouth again. I think we managed to salvage the situation though, by the time the client departed we'd talked them round to track (b) being the more pacy and contemporary of the two.
The MAM had better pray that this is the case.

Temptations

Poor MAM. There was a big departmental lunch today, but he is skating on ice thinner than a sheet of recycled toilet paper regarding his alcohol consumption at work.

With so many witnesses on hand, he was forced to stick to ginger beer while those on either side of him guzzled down Tanqueray & tonic in a company-sponsored binge. Imagine his agony.

LATE BREAKING NEWS:
A colleague informs me he was surreptitiously pouring Vodka into his ginger beer. The bastard.





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sensory challenges

Screening of new car commercial for client approval today.
Eagle-eyed client calls attention to a giant steel camera arm which can be seen in the shot of the car.
Client makes this keen observation straight after the director's preliminary speech emphasising that the footage is not yet a finished product, and all booms, arms and other camera paraphernalia will be removed by the magic of special effects.

Out on a limb

A one-armed man has beaten me in a Badminton match. In fact, not only had he got no right arm but also, interestingly, no right shoulder. From the right side of his neck, his body just kind of tapered down to his waist. This was, however, absolutely no impediment to his decisive victory.
The only time it was possible to get a point was when he had to coordinate throwing the shuttle up into the air using the hand that was already holding the racquet, then serve it.
Probably it would have been courteous to let him try again. But to hell with that, frankly.

Contagious

Went to the movies with a friend last night and saw the film 'Contagion', which we enjoyed although the viewing conditions were not ideal. It is a film best watched in an empty theatre, possibly at a morning show, on your own. Not in a crowded movie-house, beset on all sides by coughing mouth-breathers.

I still felt a little twitchy this morning during my appointment at the LegalWise office (the Laptop Saga continues). I was not comforted by the following large poster which occupied an entire wall of the little cubicle. I had plenty of time to study it while the advisor hunted for my file, and can only conclude that life-threatening and wildly infectious disease is the norm amongst LegalWise clients. While I am obviously thrilled at the news that TB can be cured, I did try not to come into contact with any surfaces in the office, or breathe too often.

Truly, I am accursed.

In the police station this morning YET AGAIN, not in relation to the Great Laptop Drama this time, but thanks to a bizarre accident yesterday afternoon. I had intended to go out, but on reaching the communal parking lot it was clear that I was going nowhere. My car (along with my neighbour's car) was trapped in its parking bay by a mystery vehicle which had been parked behind me, a little uphill but leaving no room for maneouvre.

I looked about ineffectually for the owner, at which point my next-door neighbour walked by and informed me the car had already been there for an hour or two. I then called the guardhouse to request a wheel-clamp (warning notices abound on the consequences of illegal parking around here).

The guard promptly arrived, and he seemed to be well acquainted with the owner of the offending Toyota, for he ducked into a nearby house and emerged carrying a car key. As he started up the car, I went into the house to give the owner (a woman) a piece of my mind about her inconsiderate parking habits.  Meanwhile, by the grinding and stalling noises in the background, it sounded as though the security guard was having trouble with the concept of gears.

I dashed over to my neighbour's place to let him know that the culprit had been discovered, and it was from this vantage point that we watched as the security guard rolled the Toyota straight down the hill and smack into the back of my car.

Well, hell hath no fury like someone whose precious jam jar has been bashed thanks to a lazy bitch who can't be bothered walk the extra steps from her actual parking space to her front door, or move her own car a few meters when required. Furthermore, she tried to insist that as hers was a company car, I should not try to involve her insurers as this would reflect badly on her. I should recover the money from the security guard instead. Yeah, right.

I have discovered this article revealing the identity of the only person in world history unluckier than me:

Unluckier than me. Just.

Tsutomu Yamaguchi:
 In 1945 he was on a business trip to Hiroshima when an American atomic bomb detonated above the city, killing 80,000 people in an instant (and many more from the effects of radiation later). He was knocked to the ground and suffered serious burns, and spent a terrible night in an air raid shelter among thousands of his screaming, dying, mutilated compatriots. 

In the morning he negotiated his way through the ruined streets and caught a train back to his home — the city of Nagasaki. Heavily bandaged, he reported to work a day later, and was just relaying the terrible events of Hiroshima to colleagues when he witnessed once more the terrible flash of an exploding atomic bomb. Again, he survived, but being present in the only two cities ever to be attacked with atomic weapons must make Tsutomu Yamaguchi the unluckiest survivor of all.

Grosseries

Denied! And it looked so appealing.

My local supermarket has truly embraced the spirit of Halloween, not shying away from the darker undertones of corruption and decay - witness the attached picture.

Speaking of decay, it's all over between me and bananas. Every week I optimistically buy a bunch, determined to inject some fruity natural goodness into my diet.

Usually I forget I've got them on day one. On day two, I remember them but by that time ominous brown speckles have already appeared. I diligently eat one anyway. On day three, the pestilent speckles have taken over and the bananas are rank, overripe, decomposing brown lepers. At the end of the week I consign the remaining eleven bananas to the dustbin. I put it down to insufficient irradiation and genetic tampering.

I did notice one good sign as I toured the supermarket: my compulsion to buy lottery tickets has disappeared, which is a sign that life at the office has definitely improved.

Bath companion

Tonight's dilemma: should I...
1.) Let the nice, hot, relaxing bathwater out and run a second bath, potentially exhausting the meagre supply of hot water...

Or

2.) Bathe in the dissolving remains of a great big moth that had seized the opportunity to plunge into the bath while my back was turned.

Bathed in the moth soup. Why are they so water-soluble?

Sweet music of nature

Woken this morning at 5.45am by the sounds of buffalo mating in a watering hole. 

My neighbours’ bathroom window faces across from mine, and I really must let them know that a hand-held shower device can easily be obtained for their bath, as opposed to standing up in the tub and emptying buckets of water over themselves as they are apparently doing at the moment.

The Big Cheese

 My, what a busy day. Tried to buy a plane ticket to London, then realised passport would expire imminently making travel impossible.

Downloaded complex and intimidating forms. Had sinister, blotchy passport photo taken which will haunt me for the next TEN YEARS.

Booked a courier to collect the forms the next day, then rushed home to get tarted up to attend the John Cleese Alimony Tour, which he has allegedly undertaken in order to pay his ex-wife the 20 squillion quid he owes her.

JC does indeed seem to be harbouring a fair amount of bitterness towards the ex. He's 71 now and perhaps a shade on the arthritic and croaky side, but the audience hung on his every word and lapped up the classic Python and Fawlty Towers clips he showed. His slide-show could have benefited from the formidable skillz of the PowerPoint maestro, however. A picture of his father was labeled 'Reginald Cheese', and it didn’t seem to be on purpose.

After obligingly answering predictably lame questions put to him by random fuckwits in the audience, he cleared off. A fabulous evening, but my enjoyment of the latter half was marred by my high-heeled shoes that were bloody well KILLING ME.

the party's over

Alas, the MAM is back on the scene. Strangely subdued, but sniffing, snorting, hacking and grunting away with renewed vigour. The only escape is to plug in the headphones and pump up some choons. His throaty troglodyte grunting is still audible no matter how loud the music, but it becomes more distant and therefore bearable.

Today he handed around his new phone number, as his flat was supposedly broken into last week and his phone pinched while he was 'sleeping' (or 'passed out' as it could more accurately be termed).

turn it down!

Unfeasibly hot today. At least 35°C by my estimation.
38° according to my car thermometer, but the car is old and prone to hysteria.

Outdoors is a Gobi desert furnace. Super-heated blasts of air invade the house whenever a door is opened. On the plus side, the washing I put out about 15 minutes ago is dry. Also my bedroom, in which one could lose a toe to frostbite during winter if careless, is now a cool and shady sanctuary.

Tomorrow will be hotter still, it is alleged. Will the feeble office air conditioning cope? Will the MAM return after his mysterious sabbatical? Stay tuned.

Dictatorship 101

With the departure of the Red Queen in a flurry of Louis Vuitton, and the MAM currently MIA (possibly never to return), things at the office have been uncharacteristically tranquil. I am therefore forced to look to world events for a bit of drama.

Big news this week is obviously the (hurrah, we got him) capture and then (oops, we killed him) execution of Colonel Gaddafi, who clearly wasn't paying proper attention in Dictator School.

Nice flamboyant touch with the gold-plated gun he was carrying. But surely every crazed despot knows you need a cyanide capsule concealed in a hollow tooth, ready to deny the baying mob their bloody revenge when they finally corner you.

A few less gilded swans and mermaid-shaped sofas, and a modest investment in a spot of World War II pottasium cyanide would have spared everyone the nasty scene outside the drainpipe. Tsk.