I hate getting up in the dark every morning. It’s the one thing I dread with the coming of every winter - my pet hate of the season. I feel like I am being robbed of precious sleep hours, taken advantage of. Violated.
The thing I despise even more than waking in the dark though, is being woken by the blinding ceiling light, which some concerned soul decides to use to “help you wake up”. You see, there are two kinds of people in this world of ours:
TYPE 1: These are the people that can wake up at the crack of sparrow fart, alert, bright-eyed, bushy tailed, and kompis mentis (sic) , looking like they have just had a fabulous nights rest, and full body massage. They are able to hold a full conversation. None of their clothes are on inside out. Their socks even match. These are the people who look all perky at breakfast. These people were smurfs in their former lives. Possibly Possums.
TYPE 2: The rest of human civilization. We need a cup of coffee and some quiet time until we can speak intelligently. TYPE 2’s secretly despise TYPE 1’s. Leave us alone until 11am, unless you are holding coffee or chocolate. Or both.
Its when TYPE 1’s take it upon themselves to help you with your morning waking that relationships really take strain. They use various techniques to help you up in the morning, ranging from barely tolerable to homicide.
One the barely tolerable side of the scale, there is breakfast in bed. Chocolate and coffee. Perhaps a gentle nudge to let you know it’s arrived. Perhaps some soothing music.
On the homicidal side, there is the light switch, which is flicked on with what I can only describe as TYPE 1 glee.
The switch not only floods your cozy dark room with the light of 1000 football stadium spotlights, but also initiates the rage of a nuclear bomb. It is accompanied with slitty eyes and the feeling of being born into the world for the first time. Only this time you are wearing pajamas and you have stubble. It’s not a pretty sight.
TYPE 2 reactions can vary.
Some TYPE 2’s stagger all over the place like inebriated hobos, desperately groping at the wall where they think the light switch was yesterday. Others scream in profane rage, albeit from under a blanket. Great quilted, profane humps.
Some have the fortune of having some blunt object nearby which they can throw. The object NEVER makes contact with the TYPE 1, who by this stage is whistling a little ditty from the Sound of Music down the passage. It usually deflects off a wall and occasionally hits a wayward pet or worse, you.
These my friends, are the trials and tribulations of us fellow TYPE 2’s. Which one are you? How have you dealt with your TYPE 1’s? Pesticides? Fungicides? They just keep coming. HELP!
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Childhoodlum
Have you ever played a prank phone-call on someone? When I was younger, a friend of mine used to have a telephone joke that we would play on unsuspecting victims, when we had no other pressing trouble to make. Ah yes, those were the days. No worries – and plenty of time to cause havoc in the ‘hood.
We would pick a number from the telephone directory – preferably one that listed a first name, surname and a decent address.
When the person picked up the ‘phone, we would start the joke as such:
[In a really perky happy voice] “Good Morning Mr Perkins, this is Tom from Exclusive Leather Lounge Suites Limited”
A hesitant Mr Perkins on the other side would normally respond with a vague “Y-yes?” – unable to decide how we knew his name, and unable to decide if he should know who we were. I could just imagine him squinting his eyes, as he tried to fathom who these people were on the line.
“Yes, Mr Perkins, this is just a courtesy call to let you know your leather suite has arrived. From Italy. Would you like us to deliver, or would you prefer to collect?”
Stunned silence. At this stage he knew something was amiss. He needed more information:
“Im sorry…a leather lounge suite….ITALY?” (The Italy part always touched a nerve)
“Yes, Mr Perkins, your couches have arrived.”
By this stage Mr Perkins knows that this company has made a terrible blunder as he had certainly not imported any furniture - from Italy no less!
So, as any good Samaritan would, he tries now to explain that we have inadvertently phoned the wrong client:
“But I have not ordered any couches from you…you have the wrong person/number!”
Now this is where our telephone directory came in very handy.
“Is this Mr Perkins? Mr Harold Perkins”
A moments silence.
“Yes”
“Do you reside at 11 Helmsford Crescent, East End, Winchester?”
“Er..yes but -”
“Well then Mr Perkins your furniture has arrived”
Poor Mr Perkins!
Thinking back, if I caught one of my own kids (if I actually had any of the blighters) doing that I would be forced to ship them off to some remote island occupied only by the waves crashing on the rocky beach and puffins. I would send the occasional food drop, just to keep them going though.
This is where I would also send Possum Woman.
Caused havoc as a child? – lets hear your fondest memories of childhoodlum!
We would pick a number from the telephone directory – preferably one that listed a first name, surname and a decent address.
When the person picked up the ‘phone, we would start the joke as such:
[In a really perky happy voice] “Good Morning Mr Perkins, this is Tom from Exclusive Leather Lounge Suites Limited”
A hesitant Mr Perkins on the other side would normally respond with a vague “Y-yes?” – unable to decide how we knew his name, and unable to decide if he should know who we were. I could just imagine him squinting his eyes, as he tried to fathom who these people were on the line.
“Yes, Mr Perkins, this is just a courtesy call to let you know your leather suite has arrived. From Italy. Would you like us to deliver, or would you prefer to collect?”
Stunned silence. At this stage he knew something was amiss. He needed more information:
“Im sorry…a leather lounge suite….ITALY?” (The Italy part always touched a nerve)
“Yes, Mr Perkins, your couches have arrived.”
By this stage Mr Perkins knows that this company has made a terrible blunder as he had certainly not imported any furniture - from Italy no less!
So, as any good Samaritan would, he tries now to explain that we have inadvertently phoned the wrong client:
“But I have not ordered any couches from you…you have the wrong person/number!”
Now this is where our telephone directory came in very handy.
“Is this Mr Perkins? Mr Harold Perkins”
A moments silence.
“Yes”
“Do you reside at 11 Helmsford Crescent, East End, Winchester?”
“Er..yes but -”
“Well then Mr Perkins your furniture has arrived”
Poor Mr Perkins!
Thinking back, if I caught one of my own kids (if I actually had any of the blighters) doing that I would be forced to ship them off to some remote island occupied only by the waves crashing on the rocky beach and puffins. I would send the occasional food drop, just to keep them going though.
This is where I would also send Possum Woman.
Caused havoc as a child? – lets hear your fondest memories of childhoodlum!
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Dictionary Denial
Have you ever noticed that when you learn a new word – a word you had no idea even existed before – it suddenly appears in every text you read, every billboard you drive past, every sweet wrapper, novel, manuscript, movie, – everywhere! It’s uncanny.
Even the most far flung, way-out words, you would NEVER normally have used in your lifetime, suddenly appear in a commercial after you have learned its meaning.
I think the reason we don’t notice these enigmatic words is largely because we exhibit a certain level of Dictionary Denial. Things we don’t understand, we largely ignore. So when we come across some big adverb, we just gloss over it glibly and pretend it just never happened – at least subconsciously. You feel you have grasped the gist of the sentence, with the help of the surrounding words of course, and carry on without a care in the world.
This works as long as some little upstart doesn’t ask you what the word means, in which case I find it quite effective to suddenly feign death. Once you learn the meaning of the word, you no longer have to subconsciously pretend its not there (or pretend you just had a major coronary), because if some twit asks you for an explanation, you are adequately equipped to enlighten them, and so free another minion from his or her blinkered existence.
The reason I am even bringing up the subject of Dictionary Denial, is because this is what has occurred with Possum Woman. Those of you who have followed the Saga of the Spoon, will know that Possum Woman is the human equivalent of the She Devil. (But I digress).
The thing is, before she robbed me, I never even knew she existed. Now however, she turns up everywhere – like a bad penny. A very bad penny. Like a half-cent. Or monopoly money.
For example, we seem to arrive at work at the same time – this has happened on more than one occasion. Or we will end up being next to each other in the queue to leave the building after work. Everywhere I look, I see possum.
My dictionary denial has been obliterated because I now know what and who she is, so I can no longer linger in the ignorant bliss I was so accustomed to. So, I am now exercising the only option I have left – lifting the blinkers from your eyes, so you too can recognize a possum when you see one:
I found this description on the net:
POSSUM (Pos-im) noun: America’s only marsupial, like a large rat but almost white fur, almost blind, generally disliked, and heard scuffling around outside in the wee hours.
How apt. Now you know.
Know any possums? Tell me about your close encounters. . .
Even the most far flung, way-out words, you would NEVER normally have used in your lifetime, suddenly appear in a commercial after you have learned its meaning.
I think the reason we don’t notice these enigmatic words is largely because we exhibit a certain level of Dictionary Denial. Things we don’t understand, we largely ignore. So when we come across some big adverb, we just gloss over it glibly and pretend it just never happened – at least subconsciously. You feel you have grasped the gist of the sentence, with the help of the surrounding words of course, and carry on without a care in the world.
This works as long as some little upstart doesn’t ask you what the word means, in which case I find it quite effective to suddenly feign death. Once you learn the meaning of the word, you no longer have to subconsciously pretend its not there (or pretend you just had a major coronary), because if some twit asks you for an explanation, you are adequately equipped to enlighten them, and so free another minion from his or her blinkered existence.
The reason I am even bringing up the subject of Dictionary Denial, is because this is what has occurred with Possum Woman. Those of you who have followed the Saga of the Spoon, will know that Possum Woman is the human equivalent of the She Devil. (But I digress).
The thing is, before she robbed me, I never even knew she existed. Now however, she turns up everywhere – like a bad penny. A very bad penny. Like a half-cent. Or monopoly money.
For example, we seem to arrive at work at the same time – this has happened on more than one occasion. Or we will end up being next to each other in the queue to leave the building after work. Everywhere I look, I see possum.
My dictionary denial has been obliterated because I now know what and who she is, so I can no longer linger in the ignorant bliss I was so accustomed to. So, I am now exercising the only option I have left – lifting the blinkers from your eyes, so you too can recognize a possum when you see one:
I found this description on the net:
POSSUM (Pos-im) noun: America’s only marsupial, like a large rat but almost white fur, almost blind, generally disliked, and heard scuffling around outside in the wee hours.
How apt. Now you know.
Know any possums? Tell me about your close encounters. . .
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Base Balls in the Sky
Base Balls in the Sky
Two days ago, the company started installing security cameras all over our building. They are like white baseballs hanging from the ceiling with a moving camera hidden inside. Now wherever you go, someone is watching your every move – your every bum-scratch, your every nose-pick. I’m glad I got my spoon out of this place when I did – imagine being caught stealing your own property – shameful.
These little bulbous eyes everywhere made me think of two true stories I have been fortunate enough to have come across in my lifetime. Both of them involve the thwarting of bad behavior thanks to these base balls in the sky and both, oddly enough involve urine. Yes, this is indeed a strange world in which we live. . .
Story one:
A manager goes away for a day on business.
Upon his return, he finds a foul odour of urine in his office, and embarks on a nose sniffing mission to find out the source. Imagine his surprise when he finally finds himself standing at his comfy office sofa!
Imagine his further surprise when he discovers a wet stain on one of the cushions!
Wisely, he had installed a hidden camera in his office (for situations just like these) and consulted the video archives of the day.
As it turned out, he found himself watching in disbelief as his secretary walked across the small TV screen, across his office to the sofa, pulled down her knickers, and squatted on his sofa. SCANDALOUS! And so she was duly “relieved” of her duties.
I presume she was peed off about something.
Story two:
The second story is a real account from my student days at a prominent university in South Africa. It reads very much like a famous crime solving boardgame: Mrs Peacock, with a bottle in the library.
The story runs as such:
The university library has a special climate-controlled room in which all the very old manuscripts are kept. These books are OLD – 300 years and older, and every time you enter this special enclave, you feel a sort of respect for these artifacts. You can smell the age in the musty air.
One particular day however, one unsuspecting student got a call from nature while browsing through the books in the psychology section. But, instead of heading for the bathroom, as any normal person would, this woman decided she would take her chances in the old book room. That’s right; she cramped her way down the aisles and darted into the revered old book room.
Once inside, she ducked into one of the darker rows of 500 year old books, and whipped out? An empty cool drink bottle. Yup. Cool drink bottle.
Delicately, she must have positioned herself over this vessel and continued to relieve herself. How she didn’t spot on the carpet is beyond me.
Little did she know the little baseball in the sky was recording every second of her relief, and needless to say she was confronted after she had emerged from the reading room with a full bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice. . .
Any stories involving hidden cameras? Keep them rolling.
Two days ago, the company started installing security cameras all over our building. They are like white baseballs hanging from the ceiling with a moving camera hidden inside. Now wherever you go, someone is watching your every move – your every bum-scratch, your every nose-pick. I’m glad I got my spoon out of this place when I did – imagine being caught stealing your own property – shameful.
These little bulbous eyes everywhere made me think of two true stories I have been fortunate enough to have come across in my lifetime. Both of them involve the thwarting of bad behavior thanks to these base balls in the sky and both, oddly enough involve urine. Yes, this is indeed a strange world in which we live. . .
Story one:
A manager goes away for a day on business.
Upon his return, he finds a foul odour of urine in his office, and embarks on a nose sniffing mission to find out the source. Imagine his surprise when he finally finds himself standing at his comfy office sofa!
Imagine his further surprise when he discovers a wet stain on one of the cushions!
Wisely, he had installed a hidden camera in his office (for situations just like these) and consulted the video archives of the day.
As it turned out, he found himself watching in disbelief as his secretary walked across the small TV screen, across his office to the sofa, pulled down her knickers, and squatted on his sofa. SCANDALOUS! And so she was duly “relieved” of her duties.
I presume she was peed off about something.
Story two:
The second story is a real account from my student days at a prominent university in South Africa. It reads very much like a famous crime solving boardgame: Mrs Peacock, with a bottle in the library.
The story runs as such:
The university library has a special climate-controlled room in which all the very old manuscripts are kept. These books are OLD – 300 years and older, and every time you enter this special enclave, you feel a sort of respect for these artifacts. You can smell the age in the musty air.
One particular day however, one unsuspecting student got a call from nature while browsing through the books in the psychology section. But, instead of heading for the bathroom, as any normal person would, this woman decided she would take her chances in the old book room. That’s right; she cramped her way down the aisles and darted into the revered old book room.
Once inside, she ducked into one of the darker rows of 500 year old books, and whipped out? An empty cool drink bottle. Yup. Cool drink bottle.
Delicately, she must have positioned herself over this vessel and continued to relieve herself. How she didn’t spot on the carpet is beyond me.
Little did she know the little baseball in the sky was recording every second of her relief, and needless to say she was confronted after she had emerged from the reading room with a full bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice. . .
Any stories involving hidden cameras? Keep them rolling.
Monday, July 10, 2006
War of the Spoon
War of the Spoon
While working for my last company, I encountered a very strange practice whereby all the cutlery in the staff kitchen – particularly the teaspoons – all had little holes drilled into them.
When I asked why our entire cutlery collection was riddled with holes, I was told it was to “discourage petty theft.” Apparently, teaspoons are right up there with staplers and pencils when it comes to office theft. Bizarre but true.
Somewhere out there, someone has a full collection of holey cutlery.
When I resigned, I decided to take with me a memento. A keepsake, if you will.
So, in a true twist of irony, I took the only spoon in the kitchen that was whole. Un-hole. Hole-less. You get my drift.
After starting at my new company, I discovered that the staff kitchen did not even have cutlery.
Clearly these people had not heard of the wonders of drilling holes in eating utensils…
Never fear, I knew just what to do. I brought my newly stolen spoon to work.
Life was good. We had many breakfasts, my spoon and I. We had a symbiotic relationship. She would shovel granola into my mouth. And I. I would eat it. Absolute bliss.
Then I went through a period of having breakfast at home, so my spoon went un-used for about a week or so. This is where everything went positively pear shaped.
After my spoon-less period, I reverted back to eating breakfast at the office. So, one frosty Monday morning, I went through to the kitchen to pour my bowl of granola. There I was, doing my oats – literally - while in the corner (all possum-like) stood The Woman. She was peering (again, all possum-like) into the microwave, transfixed by her little bowl of fiber-packed goop doing the circuit.
It came to spoon time. Where is my spoon? WHERE WHERE WHERE – ahhhhhh there it is – on the sink – clean and sparkling and ready to do my bidding. I took it in my hot little hands and headed for the door.
That’s when it happened. This possum of a woman turned and exclaimed – “Hey that’s MY spoon” and with that, she swooped down and literally just took the spoon out of my hot little hands.
This Possum Woman had taken my spoon like taking the proverbial candy from a baby. I felt mugged!
I went into kind of a state of shock – I call it spoonshock – the inability to speak, move or jab a sharp object in the heart of my aggressor.
Spoonshock turned to outrage. The war is ON. That was MY stolen spoon and NO ONE is going to steal it from me, I thought as I shoveled my granola with a hideously bendy plastic spoon, left over from the previous days takeout.
I hatched my plan. . .
That afternoon, I crept back to the kitchen and re-stole what was rightfully mine, all the while sniggering my evil snigger. Back home it went, and once again everything was right in the world. Justice had been served.
I watched with utter glee the next day as The Possum searched in vain for “her spoon” and eventually had to settle for one of theses unwieldy plastic jobs. Ah yes, I thought as I peered at her from my desk. Ferret 1, Possum 0.
I am planning to leave an anonymous ransom note on her desk with cutout letters
“I have your spoon. Do you have the money?” along with a picture of the spoon in some compromising position. I will threaten to drill a whole in the concave head if she refuses to meet my demands, and am hoping to become a serious menace to her. Perhaps I should steal her bowl too – that would really cause her to lose some possum-sleep. Bloody thief. I stole it first.
Have you had a war at work? People steal your food? Got revenge? Tell me your story.
While working for my last company, I encountered a very strange practice whereby all the cutlery in the staff kitchen – particularly the teaspoons – all had little holes drilled into them.
When I asked why our entire cutlery collection was riddled with holes, I was told it was to “discourage petty theft.” Apparently, teaspoons are right up there with staplers and pencils when it comes to office theft. Bizarre but true.
Somewhere out there, someone has a full collection of holey cutlery.
When I resigned, I decided to take with me a memento. A keepsake, if you will.
So, in a true twist of irony, I took the only spoon in the kitchen that was whole. Un-hole. Hole-less. You get my drift.
After starting at my new company, I discovered that the staff kitchen did not even have cutlery.
Clearly these people had not heard of the wonders of drilling holes in eating utensils…
Never fear, I knew just what to do. I brought my newly stolen spoon to work.
Life was good. We had many breakfasts, my spoon and I. We had a symbiotic relationship. She would shovel granola into my mouth. And I. I would eat it. Absolute bliss.
Then I went through a period of having breakfast at home, so my spoon went un-used for about a week or so. This is where everything went positively pear shaped.
After my spoon-less period, I reverted back to eating breakfast at the office. So, one frosty Monday morning, I went through to the kitchen to pour my bowl of granola. There I was, doing my oats – literally - while in the corner (all possum-like) stood The Woman. She was peering (again, all possum-like) into the microwave, transfixed by her little bowl of fiber-packed goop doing the circuit.
It came to spoon time. Where is my spoon? WHERE WHERE WHERE – ahhhhhh there it is – on the sink – clean and sparkling and ready to do my bidding. I took it in my hot little hands and headed for the door.
That’s when it happened. This possum of a woman turned and exclaimed – “Hey that’s MY spoon” and with that, she swooped down and literally just took the spoon out of my hot little hands.
This Possum Woman had taken my spoon like taking the proverbial candy from a baby. I felt mugged!
I went into kind of a state of shock – I call it spoonshock – the inability to speak, move or jab a sharp object in the heart of my aggressor.
Spoonshock turned to outrage. The war is ON. That was MY stolen spoon and NO ONE is going to steal it from me, I thought as I shoveled my granola with a hideously bendy plastic spoon, left over from the previous days takeout.
I hatched my plan. . .
That afternoon, I crept back to the kitchen and re-stole what was rightfully mine, all the while sniggering my evil snigger. Back home it went, and once again everything was right in the world. Justice had been served.
I watched with utter glee the next day as The Possum searched in vain for “her spoon” and eventually had to settle for one of theses unwieldy plastic jobs. Ah yes, I thought as I peered at her from my desk. Ferret 1, Possum 0.
I am planning to leave an anonymous ransom note on her desk with cutout letters
“I have your spoon. Do you have the money?” along with a picture of the spoon in some compromising position. I will threaten to drill a whole in the concave head if she refuses to meet my demands, and am hoping to become a serious menace to her. Perhaps I should steal her bowl too – that would really cause her to lose some possum-sleep. Bloody thief. I stole it first.
Have you had a war at work? People steal your food? Got revenge? Tell me your story.
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