Witness protection programme pizza

Observed in Domino's takeaway this evening: Skinny, twitchy man wearing a chunky gold necklace and bright orange t-shirt, putting in an order to collect.

Female cashier: 'Your name please?'
Twitchy man mutters something unintelligible.
Cashier: 'Pardon?'
Twitchy man (evasive): 'It doesn't matter.'
Cashier: 'But what shall I put?'
Twitchy man (agitated): 'Just put anything.'
Cashier: 'Shall I put "man in the orange t-shirt"?
Twitchy man silently hands over crumpled £20 note.

Can this holiday possibly get any better?

My niece has been waking up in the middle of the night with nightmares lately. She refuses to be placated and feels that the rest of the household should share her pain, so she cries until her brother wakes up and they proceed to sob and howl in tandem until daybreak. This has been putting unbearable strain on sleeping patterns, marriages and people trying to have a holiday.

Apparently they cannot be drugged so we are resorting to bribery. At my sister's behest the afternoon was dedicated to the creation of a fairy-themed reward chart. After 5 unbroken nights of sleep, my niece has been promised a fairy necklace.

Unfortunately, having worked for years in an advertising agency I can barely draw anything. Even though copied from a picture off the net, my portrait of Tinker-bell has come out looking as though her mother smoked during pregnancy. She has extremely stunted legs because I ran out of room at the bottom of the page, along with quite an enlarged jaw, one tiny hand and a rather beefy upper body. My niece seems quite pleased with it though. I just hope it doesn't give her nightmares.

Order your signed limited-edition print today!

The school of hard knocks

This morning I came up with the inspired idea that we visit Priory Park Farm with the children. My sister agreed, but suggested we postpone the trip until the afternoon as the day would warm up to a balmy 24 degrees.

Upon arrival at the farm, the virtually wrought-iron ten-ton door of the family car closed on my little nephew's foot as my sister was extricating him from the baby seat. Amid the shrieking, panic and general horror I'm sad to say the unworthy thought THANK GOD I DIDN'T DO IT did sneak into my head.

After we had established that the foot was not broken, we bought tickets and set out upon the farm walk. Interestingly, 24 degrees in the sunshine when pushing a pram laden with a toddler and his accoutrements up a steep & grassy gradient generates an apparent temperature closer to 45 degrees celsius.

There were many fascinating (to children) features along the route, and we stopped to sample all of them. My niece ran off to join a screaming gaggle of children running back and forth through a sprinkler, and was next spied standing guiltily over the fallen body of a tiny girl who'd come off second best in a collision.

The injured toddler's mother swooped in to the rescue, dabbing at her hysterical child's bloodied mouth as we did our best to appear unconnected to the renegade and her doings. We deemed it best to leave after this incident.

Back at the house, we had fun practicing tennis in the garden with a children's set provided by my sister. For children's rackets, they packed a hefty wallop as my nephew discovered when his sister delivered a mighty forehand to the side of his head as he crawled into the path of her swing. Which leads me to think that childhood is in fact survivable only by sheer luck.

Shopping

Found some new & exciting underwear options in a department store today. Now I just have to decide which is more me: the seductively named 'Doreen', or the slightly more overt "Floozie'.

Too sensual?

Could double as small kitchen curtains

 Decisions, decisions.

The drawbacks of solitude.

I programmed some soulful tunes on the iPod and went for a peaceful walk along leafy, shaded country lanes this evening.

It would have been idyllic were it not for the hundreds of hours I've logged watching the Crime Channel.

Roughly every 10 metres I was compelled to perform a 360-degree surveillance maneuver in case the warbling of Kate Bush was disguising the stealthy approach of a depraved rural serial killer.

Sure, the surrounding hedgerows were draped prettily in summer blossoms and brambles. But wasn't this exactly the kind of secluded woodland I'd seen in aerial police footage as they stretchered away the bleached remains stumbled upon by some unlucky dog-walker?

I could picture the interview with the passing cyclist who'd been the last person to see me alive. It was at this point that I decided to turn around and head back for safety, averting my untimely demise. Or, possibly, just averting a very pleasant country walk.

Lane of certain death?

Le Jardin Dangereux

Today we took advantage of a brief window of sunshine to visit the Royal Horticultural Society garden at Wisley. I actually stripped down to just one of the three jerseys I have been wearing since arrival in the soggy northern hemisphere, such was the summery magnificence of the day. 

Although Mother Nature is generally bountiful and nurturing, the garden was not without hazards. To name but a few examples: spiny 2 metre-high thistles; angry wasps disputing the ownership of our fruit juice; unusually large & aggressive carp beaching themselves in a slurping feeding frenzy.

Also, I dropped a cup of apple juice on my feet in the middle of the restaurant, and then dropped my Chanel sunglasses into the apple juice when pointlessly leaning down to examine the mess. On the whole, a lovely day though.

Stop meeeeeee

Worse than crack.

My new Cadburys Mini Swiss Roll habit is spiralling out of control. I believe I am experiencing the classic signs of addiction as listed here (one or two words have been changed): User needs to consume swiss rolls to avoid experiencing physical withdrawal symptoms like insomnia, feelings of restlessness, anxiousness and depression. Also, when much time is spent, not just using swiss rolls, but thinking about them, planning to obtain them and recovering from them then the situation has taken a major turn for the worse.


Fortunately they are not available where I live, so when I've eaten the suitcase of them I shall be taking back with me, I'll go cold turkey.

Third-world parasite strikes London!

No, I'm not talking about me. My sister had been suffering from a persistent tummy-bug for at least a month before my visit, putting off a trip to the doctor with impressive but ill-advised stoicism.

On the day before I arrived she finally admitted defeat and provided a sample for top medical brains to mull over. The diagnosis is now in - 'Giardiasis: an infection of the small intestine caused by a microscopic organism, Giardia lamblia.' The symptoms include abdominal pain, diarrhea, bloating, headache, loss of appetite, nausea and other afflictions too horrible to mention here (all of which have been suffered by my sister, brother in law and 2 children). Apparently this highly infectious tropical disease is found mainly in the developing world, so this mini-outbreak in Surrey is something of a mystery.

I have found some useful guidelines to help me avoid infection:

Don't drink untreated water from wells, lakes, rivers, springs, or ponds. If there is an outbreak in your community, don't drink untreated water. Avoid using ice or drinking untreated water when traveling in countries where the water supply may be unsafe. If you have to drink untreated water, treat it yourself by heating the water to a rolling boil for at least one minute.


Knew I shouldn't have had that glass of pond-water.

Giardia: quite cute, really.

Things to do in London when you're dead

Somebody made a break for it.

Inspired by gothic sensibilities and a disdain for the usual London attractions, today's highlight was a visit to the Victorian Valhalla of Highgate Cemetery.

The tour ('booking essential!') was led by a suitably eccentric-looking white-haired gentleman in a velvet jacket, and included a pair of young goth lovers in long black many-zippered overcoats and dark glasses.

Naturally the conditions were overcast, with light sprinklings of rain and screeching crows adding to the enjoyable atmosphere of doom and decay. With a small effort, it was possible to wrench our attention away from the loved-up goths and marvel at the final resting places of the good and great (eg. Karl Marx). Pessimistic-looking angels were a popular theme in the area, as were greek columns symbolically broken halfway up and large urns draped in shrouds.

Towards the end of the tour our guide pushed open the huge iron door of a catacomb and beckoned us inside, warning that photography was forbidden as this was an 'open grave'. Revealed in the dank & chilly interior were ancient coffins stacked lengthways in slots in the wall.

Interesting decorative features were pointed out by him whacking the decayed coffin with his torch for emphasis, causing the mouldy 150-year-old wood to disintegrate a little more. Not to worry though, for it was explained to us that inside the wooden shell nestled a second lead casket, the purpose being to trap the vestiges of whatever horribly contagious disease had finished off the occupant.
Well that's all right then.

A nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there.

Thank God I packed the skimpy shorts.

I have single-handedly safeguarded the agricultural economy of Northern Europe from any danger of drought, simply by bringing a summer wardrobe on holiday with me. For complete peace of mind I've even brought along a bikini, guaranteeing persistent rain and low temperatures for the duration of my stay.
I expect no recognition for this sacrifice.

Shampoo smuggling

Despite having access to the airline's entire baggage manifesto beforehand, I managed to overlook the fact that luggage in the hold is restricted to 1(one) item per passenger. Every flight I've ever taken has allowed your paltry 23kg of economy-class possessions to be spread across a couple of bags, as long as the total weight limit is not exceeded.

But that's not how the World's Favourite Airline rolls. At the check-in desk I was informed that I would now be dragging one of 2 my cases around with me until departure, as it would have to be taken into the cabin as hand luggage.

This was a little irksome, but the real problem was that when asked, I had indignantly denied that my hand luggage contained any liquids, aerosols, sharp objects or similar means of inflicting terror in the skies. What idiot would pack that kind of stuff in their hand luggage? Now I realised that I had dispatched the wrong case to the hold and was currently headed for security wheeling a suitcase jam-packed with nothing but sprays, perfumes, gels, nail scissors and other forbidden items.

Throwing out my 250 bucks-a-bottle TIGI shampoo and conditioner was simply unthinkable, and the containers were far too bulky to be squeezed into the transparent little sandwich bags demanded by security protocol. The only course of action left was to set my case on the conveyor belt and hope for the best.

After sternly agreeing that indeed I could not take my half-drunk bottle of Evian water with me, the personnel manning the conveyor belt then mystifyingly added it to the pile on the conveyor belt and and sent it through the X-Ray machine. I scooped it up on the other side and walked off swigging it happily, pulling the Bag of Liquid Death behind me.

An auspicious start to the holiday.

Jailbreak

Tonight I abscond the country. Not in a bid to flee justice after the slaying of a phlegm-snorting sausage-devouring colleague as you might suppose, but on my annual holiday.

Based on my experience of holidays (especially abroad) booked significantly in advance, I present the 7 Stages of Holiday Anticipation:

Stage 1: (3 months to go) - Self-congratulation & excitement.

It’s booked! It’s going to be amazing! The joy of the family reunion, the concerts I’ll attend, the cultural experiences I’ll soak up…

Stage 2: (2.9 months to go) - Crippling feelings of anxiety.

Will stony-hearted employers deny leave? Will an inconvenient volcano spew engine-melting ash into the environment? Will discontented air-stewards strike and force the airline into bankruptcy? Could my passport have treacherously expired unnoticed? Etcetera.

Stage 3: (2.7 months to go) - Complacency.

No imminent threats to the holiday detected. I can relax.

Stage 4: (2.5 months to go) - Depression.

The holiday is so far off in the distant future as to offer no real hope of escape. Daily drudgery continues unabated. This stage persists until…

Stage 5: (2 weeks to go) - Glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.

The longed-for day of departure is now close enough to be a reality. Envious colleagues begin to comment on my imminent absence.

Stage 6: (1 week to go) - Growing excitement.

Time to swing into action, make arrangements, research fun events/tours taking place at my destination.

Stage 7: (1 day to go) - Crippling feelings of anxiety.

Researched and arranged nothing. Luggage exceeding measly airline allowance, possible cold incubating, national petrol shortage threatening trip to the airport.

Further holiday updates to follow.

8.47am - Irritation factor: 7.8

He's staying with the pork theme, but branching out into pastry for variety.
This morning's repast is a sausage roll, consumed with much slurping, grunting and finger-licking enjoyment.

The sounds are putting me right off my yoghurt.
Additionally, the ambient aroma suggests that there might have been a pre-breakfast vodka pick-me-up. Or two.

breakfast of champions

Brothel-watch

The tenants have been busy. Demure net curtains now festoon the windows, hiding any orgies which might be taking place from prying eyes. Disappointing.

8:42am - Irritation factor: extreme

He's sitting across from me, red-eyed and unshaven, slurping down a hotdog drenched in tomato sauce & mustard for breakfast in between sniffing loudly, clearing his tar-clogged throat, and coughing up an unspeakable sound that I will attempt to render into the English language: HAAGHaaaaaarrrUUURRooouuurGGHH.

This is a good idea. Isn't it?

 

Usually I handle my precious MacBook Pro with the care and veneration accorded to one of the 61 surviving Imperial Fabergé Eggs. But on this fatal morning I foolishly pulled it out of the boot in haste.

Picture my anguish when, somehow, the laptop flew out of my hand with the vicious spin applied by an aboriginal hunter when taking down a kangaroo with a boomerang.

Although it was snug inside its protective case, 3mm of Neoprene could not entirely cushion the impact of the cruel bricks, resulting in one horribly bent corner. Having devoted a large portion of the day to online research it seems that replacing the entire aluminium body at heart-stopping cost is the only solution.

Or is it...

Brothel update

I've had a sighting of the brothel madam, and Heidi Fleiss she 'aint.

In the parking lot I encountered a large lady of mature years with pendulous breasts swinging unrestrained at waist level, carrying a pink shopping bag with a cat nestling on her shoulder. She headed into the flat, passing a jaded-looking young woman who lounged smoking on the front doorstep in skimpy pajamas and a towel turban.

Since I was put wise to the nature of the business, it does seem rather obvious.
I now live in a ghetto.

Not all handicaps are physical

Last night a friend and I explored an ambitious new bookshop. It contained multiple levels, many cosy reading areas with designer chairs, a playground, coffee shop, and even a champagne bar.

We'd ascended to the upper level via the stairs, but lazily decided to return to the ground floor in a fancy glass-walled elavator we'd spotted. Once we were inside, I tapped the down button but there was no movement. I noticed the door to the lift was not quite closed, so I pulled it firmly and turned the lock. Still the lift did not spring into action.

Pressing the down button again finally moved us a few reluctant inches, but the lift stopped abruptly when I removed my finger from the button. It was at this point that we noticed the many wheelchair icons helpfully arrayed inside the elevator. But we felt committed now, so with my finger glued to the button we proceeded to crawl to the ground at the roughly the speed of continental drift.

To our dismay though, there was no escape at the bottom because the exit door was locked with no latches or handles on our side. A bit of tentative tapping on the glass failed to attract the attention of some children milling around outside. Outright shrieking and hammering on the walls would be undignified. The only course of action was to begin the tedious journey back up, two non-handicapped idiots trapped in a giant fish tank riding up and down in slow motion, exposed to the gaze of the entire bookshop clientele.

The brothel next door

Visible through the kitchen door of the new tenants at 22, there is a large screen cutting off the living area which is draped in all kinds of clothing and material. From this I had deduced that they were a band of eccentric dressmakers.

Apparently there is a more sinister explanation though.
This morning a concerned resident came to my door to inform me that the annoying vehicles which were being parked in my visitors' spot without permission belonged to the clients of this den of iniquity. The excitement!

Eager to join the community crusade, I immediately arranged for the offending car to be wheel-clamped, and then hid in the house while my orders were being carried out. Although it's not as if they don't know where I live. And of course, my smugly shining car is nestled in the adjoining parking bay, vulnerable to any acts of vengeance...

Classic M.A.M. quote:

On being approached during his lunch hour to perform some small task:
'But it's the only time I get to take a break!'

Apart from the half-hourly cigarette breaks and long afternoons of smirking &
snorting at YouTube videos of people hurting themselves, that is.

Wrong again...

The many-universes interpretation of quantum mechanics implies that all possible alternative histories and futures are real. So in a universe out there somewhere, I am the ultimate arbiter of justice on planet earth.

I think of myself as being relatively humane and benevolent (apart from having a vitriolic secret blog about an innocent colleague, obviously). But my downfall is that I am too easily swayed by outward appearances. I fear my rule would turn out to be an inquisition-like reign of terror with summary executions based on the dress sense of the suspect as opposed to actual evidence.

When police arrested Joanna Yeates's creepy landlord last year on suspicion of her murder, I was utterly convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had done it.

How could he possibly not be a murderer with an insane comb-over like that? That kind of hairstyle seems to point to the wearer having profound mental problems. Plus it emerged that previous tenants had complained about him peeping into their windows at night. Bingo! Arrest without trial, swiftly followed by a public hanging would have been his fate if it were up to me.

How disappointing to discover that it was actually the far more ordinary-looking neighbour instead of the fantastically bizarre landlord who was the culprit.

Now it seems that DSK is about to be released without bail because his accuser has turned out to be hopelessly unreliable. This development would have come too late in Parallel Universe Sigma 720, I'd already have ordered his chemical castration on the grounds of being a bit of a sinister lecherous-looking old goat.

Return of the bio-hazard

Compulsive foot jiggling, multiple smoke breaks and the coughing up of a lung.
He's back!


Salvation is at hand, however. It appears that a vast fortune is within my grasp thanks to a mystery benefactor:

my personal reference number LLP/953/900//316US/UK

From: Yu-Tzu_Tai@dfci.harvard.edu

I have willed 14million usd to you contact my pastor with subject above because
today is my major operation mellisa is my name with this email only please
pastorwaldron@hotmail.com

The information in this e-mail is intended only for the person to whom it is
addressed. If you believe this e-mail was sent to you in error and the e-mail
contains patient information, please contact the Partners Compliance HelpLine at
http://www.partners.org/complianceline . If the e-mail was sent to you in error
but does not contain patient information, please contact the sender and properly
dispose of the e-mail.


My first act of charity will be to bestow a less pungent pair of shoes on the M.A.M.

Painball

Delighted last night to notice that my paintballing bruises are nearly gone, nearly three weeks after the event. The occasion was a birthday party. Being a novice, I had been naturally fearful of the pain which might be involved. How bad could it really be though, there were cammo-clad children swarming the field of combat and young men shooting each other at close range wearing only t-shirts.

But when the first round whacked with flesh-liquidating force into my thigh as I quaked behind a tree, it dawned on me that I might not be getting out of this alive. The three layers of cloth between my fragile limbs and the enemy bullets were not exactly doing a Kevlar-vest job. The visor too proved less than effective when a paintball veered in at the correct angle to smack me a stunning blow on the chin.

A bored-sounding young woman had laid down the ground-rules and safety-tips before the fun commenced. Everything she had told us to avoid as it would be especially painful, I sampled in the first 5 minutes. Getting hit on the head: check. Hands: check. Throat: check. The only thing I managed to avoid was having my eye put out.

Not that I didn't give as good as I got. I savagely raked my friends with brightly-coloured death at every opportunity. After 20 minutes of this mutual punishment, however, I made a desperate dash for the enemy stronghold and captured their flag, motivated by a desire for the pain to end rather than any thirst for victory.

Paintball tip: 
Don't do it, obviously. But if you must, entirely wrap your body in heavy layers of newspaper, tramp-style, under your clothing beforehand.