They've started advertising "slaw" in our work canteen. I had some the other day. Delicious slaw.
They've always had coleslaw, of course. That's old hat. That's par for the slawcourse. But simple slaw is a whole different animal.
It seems dryer.
Is slaw just an abbreviation? If so, I won't abide it. If you're going to abbreviate something, you should start at the beginning of the word. It's why I hate the abbreviation "baccy" for tobacco. I much prefer toby.
I suppose you couldn't really shorten coleslaw to "cole". Cole isn't appetising, no matter how it's spelled. Even Helmut Kohl. I wouldn't eat him if you paid me.
But I choose to believe that slaw isn't an abbreviation. there's no apostrophe for one thing. And if the sign-makers in our cafeteria are known for one thing, it's proper punctuation.
If we turn to the Online Etymology Dictionary, which is the first Google result for "coleslaw etymology" (and so must be the most trustworthy), we see that the word is a compound. It comes from the Dutch koolsla. "Kool" is cabbage. "Sla" is salad.
This tells us two important things.
Firstly, the band Kool & the Gang were formed on an allotment ("Gang" is Danish for carrots).
Secondly, "slaw" is not an abbreviation of coleslaw. It's just a term for general salad. Perhaps the canteen people couldn't come up with a specific name for their dry coleslaw, so decided to go vague. The dish has no name. It's just salad. It's just slaw.
No-one can complain if you stay general. They should have called it "food" or "matter". I'd love a bowl of delicious matter.
I'm a big fan of salad bar salad, which is why I've taken such a strong interest in this issue. I've written about it at length. Slaw is a big change. It's like having a new step dad. You want him to love you, but you feel guilty because you miss your old spicy orzo or whatever.
But education can allay any fear. I now know all about slaw. I know what it is, and I know what it was. And I know why there's no apostrophe.
From now on, I won't be eating salad bar salad.
I'll be eating slaw bar slaw.
I also know that slaw doesn't have anything to do with Gozer, no matter what Rick Moranis may try to tell me.
He does make me ponder the last of the Meketrex Supplicants though.
A straw man takes off his straw hat, and conducts a straw pole vault. You can't argue with that. You can't argue with him. He broke the world record and the camel's back.
We could spend another two hours editing and honing that little vignette, but there are more important issues to consider.
More important than the straw hat, and whether he might take off the hat, and then "take off" in a jumping sense. More important than whether the camel was being used in place of a crash mat. More important than whether conducting a straw pole vault would require a straw pole or a straw baton.
There are bigger fish to fry. Don't get bogged down in the minutiae. It will only keep you from what's truly important. The poll has been conducted. The minutiaes are out of luck. The minutiNAYs have it.
Right. Those paragraphs should have weeded out a few readers. To have made it this far, you must have an iron constitution. Sometimes I'll begin a blog post with my most oblique writing, just as a test. I don't want anyone reading this who might be afraid of imaginative and linguistic experimentation.
Some people will come here thinking "I like blogs; I like reading about events and opinions". If that's what you like, you've come to the wrong place. Events don't interest me and I don't have any opinions. Events are like shredded carrot at the bottom of a pre-packed supermarket pasta salad snack. They fill up a lot of space, but nobody wants them.
Opinions are like the little collapsible compact black plastic fork you get in a pre-packed supermarket pasta salad snack. Everyone feels obliged to use them, but you'd be much better off just sticking your face in there and snuffling around like a pig.
This blog has no events and no opinions. It's 100% snuffle. And if you're too precious or too cowardly to stick your face in something, there's no place for you here.
My writing is a journey to the unknown. You have to be willing to take risks. You have to wander not just off the beaten track, but into an alternative dimension where nothing is beaten and tracks are extinct.
You need to be willing to follow me, even when I'm making no sense. For AGES.
Each blog post I write is a training exercise. They are training you to think in different ways, and to commit to things that no-one could possibly find useful. I'm pushing you in mental directions that don't show up on any compass.
I'm literally changing the shape of your brain.
That's why you're feeling so nauseous right now.
***
I'm back from lunch. I had proper salad bar salad. I didn't have any shredded carrot (though it was available) and I ate it with a full-sized metal fork.
Pretty standard, all in all. Pretty standard.
Beauty isn't always dewy tulips and Tea Leoni. Sometimes it can be found in the banal. The beauty of repetition, the beauty of the drudge, the beauty of the default, the plain, the nothing.
The beauty of slowly getting older, like a leaf unfurling, almost imperceptibly, into a urinal.
The beauty of a blog post, sagging further and further down the screen like
an
old
man's
eye
bags.
You just need to know where to look. It's everywhere.
The thing is, gentle reader, when I came back from lunch, I re-read that stuff at the beginning and resolved to be a bit more normal. I thought I'd counterbalance the opening nonsense with something that made sense. I thought I'd write like a normal person writes.
But it didn't pan out that way. I still seem to be the same person I was before lunch. I thought I might have had my madness pickled out of me by thousand island dressing, but apparently not.
I want to be coherent. I do. I want to be a member of society. I want to deal in events and opinions. I want to eat with a little plastic fork. But desire cannot change my course.
All of this is genetic. It's the fault of my DNA.
The same DNA is going to force me to publish this, even though there aren't any good bits in it. Even the straw man thing at the beginning doesn't work. I wouldn't even tweet it - that's how bad it is.
But I've spent so much time writing that I can't afford to delete it all.
We've been here before. I'm covering old ground. That's what I do.
Who am I kidding? This isn't an anomaly. I should stop apologising for what I am.
I'm a person who writes whatever my brain tells me to. I always have done.
For me to claim that this is all "weird" or "unexpected" or "incoherent" is missing the point. It is me.
I can't disown this. It would be like Eagle-Eye Cherry disowning 'Save Tonight'. You can't throw your essence on the fire without getting charred.
I need to accept that this blog - the blog called Headscissors - is its own animal.
Cut its chains. Let it roam free. Put down a dish of water in case it gets thirsty.
This brings the total number of supermarkets up to four in a very small area. There are now more supermarkets in Summertown than there are human hairs. You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a reduced pasta salad snack or interrupting a mumbled tobacco request.
The choice is a difficult one. Do you go for price? For product diversity? For product quality? For basket design? For colour scheme? For bag policy? For Jamie Oliver dearth?
You can tell that the new orange kid on the block has caused the existing supermarkets to raise their game. They don't want to be defeated by this trolley-come-lately. In such a competitive market place, you can't get complacent. To quote Nigel Adkins misquoting Sun Tzu: "Never underestimate your opponent".
So, what did the competitors do?
The Tesco Metro put some banners outside. Or flags. Those tall, thin banner flags. What are they called? Flanners. Flanners are inspirational and celebratory. Mr Tesco is saying: "Shop with us or the Nazis have won."
They're trying to draw the eye away from the shiny new store with its fancy colours and lack of blood stains. The Tesco Metro is the proud veteran, sitting with legs dangling over the cliffs of Dover, shooting David Walliams with a sniper rifle and offering cut-price garlic bread.
M&S have tried to not show their fear. They have flags too, but I think these are for the jubilee celebrations. I didn't notice any explicit attempts to curry favour with the easily-swayed consumer. I suspect that M&S has such an elite clientèle that they don't care who they lose. In fact, anyone crass enough to shop at Sainsbury's is not welcome anyway. Anyone who's ever considered shopping at Sainsbury's is identified by the in-store telepathy drones and is taken into the back to be drowned in taramasalata.
But the biggest response has come from the Co-Op. Previously the worst supermarket in Summertown, they've pulled out all the stops.
The most obvious step they've taken is in rearranging their shelves. Previously, the shelves were organised in such a way that you could only navigate them by leaving a trail of breadcrumbs and Nicolas Cage. It was a maze designed by a madman. If you wanted to buy a smoothie you'd have to loop around, away from the checkout, past the salad, through the forbidden mists of Arakam-Shah, then take a turn through the condiment aisle and then feebly fish around for your money with shaking hands. By this time, you'd have drunk the smoothie and filled the bottle with any fluids that might facilitate a future cloning.
But now, things have changed. They've straightened everything out. Nice clear, straight aisles. More room (I think they've knocked through, demolishing the faun orphanage round back), more order, fewer Minotaurs.
But this isn't all. They've trumped the new Sainsbury's. They've killed it in the cot with two simple words:
salad
bar.
That's right. We have a salad bar, and nothing will ever be the same. Everything we thought we knew has turned out to be an apocalyptic underestimate of coleslaw.
The salad bar is a wonderful thing: healthy, colourful, varied, fun. It's like a playground. A creamy, crisp playground. I don't need an Xbox. I've got a salad bar box. The cherry tomatoes are beautifully rendered.
If I was Sainsbury's, I'd be quaking in my boots. All of their hard work may come to nought. The Co-Op have put up quite the defence.
It's a bit like that famous battle in a historic war that I should have specific knowledge of but don't. In fact, it's exactly like that.
What do Sainsbury's have to offer?
I don't know. I've only been in there once. They had balloons.
I should have done some more research.
They do have Pieminster pies there, which is something new. I haven't ever had one, but I bought one. It's a fish pie. It's called 'Pietanic'.
You know, like that famous ship that crashed and killed over a thousand people.
Mmm! Delicious!
I'm looking forward to trying some more of their 'Our Deepest SymPIEthy' range, including the spicy Dresden FirePie and the Princess PieAnna something something something
Huh. I assumed I'd be able to come up with some hilarious tragedy pies, but it didn't really go very well. The fact that one of the tabs on my web browser is currently showing the Wikipedia entry for the Dunblane school massacre shows that I might have been grasping at offensive straws.
Still, you can imagine what someone funny might have made of that!
Anyway, what are my conclusions about this four-way supermarket brawl?
I think it's too early to tell. I'll probably continue to spread my custom around. There's no need to make snap decisions (unless you have osteoporosis).
I'll see what each has to offer. Though the salad bar is a big factor in support of the Co-Op. And there's the whole 'ethical economics' thing too. Not quite as important as diced cucumber, but important nonetheless.
If any one shop really wants my exclusive attention, they should work on improving their loyalty cards. All of the shops have them already, but the benefits are obscure and intangible. I want a real loyalty card that rewards each visit with a melon that can predict the future. Or a free lighter.
That would keep me coming back.
I'll let you know if there are any further developments. For all I know, a fifth chain will throw their corporate hat into the grocery ring.
They might bring their own flanners. Or a larger salad bar.
That's the good thing about capitalism: everyone is crippled by choice, independent stores have no chance of survival, and our tenuous, fluctuating patronage is won only by flags.
God bless whatever country this. Competition makes the whole world angry, but we can have as many hard-boiled eggs as we can squeeze into a non-biodegradable tub.
***
I like that. I'm going to finish all of my blog posts on the word 'tub'.
My productivity is like Spider-Man after being caught in bed with J. Jonah Jameson's dead wife.
It's out the window.
***
There are several problems with that as an opening salvo. Long, clumsily constructed sentence? Yes. Reference to obscure character's even more obscure wife? Yes.
Not very funny joke in the first place?
Yes. I mean, no. I mean... what was the question?
But the point (laboured and incoherent though it may be) remains: I have been unproductive. I haven't written a proper blog since for ages.
And I was doing so well in June!
I feel like an alcoholic who has accidentally murdered someone in a brewery. It's a step back.
But never mind. I can improve myself. I've always believed that willpower is rewarded. Especially if you have telekinetic powers.
I'm not saying I do have telekinetic powers. But look at your mug. Twisted 60° left? Who could have done that? There's no-one else in the room.
WILLPOWER.
***
Yesterday I was really embarrassed.
And everyone likes a story of embarrassment.
I think it was probably unwarranted. But I blushed. I think I blushed. I didn't have it verified by a mirror or outside human. But I reckon I blushed.
That's why I grew a beard. To cut down on potential blush area.
It was lunchtime, and I was in the canteen at work. I was serving myself some food.
I have a fairly rigid lunch plan, based on taste, cost, availability, pescetarianism and Pagan Superstition.
MONDAY: Salad bar salad, pot of tuna mayonnaise
TUESDAY: Roast potatoes and vegetables (usually carrots and cabbage), pot of tuna mayonnaise
WEDNESDAY: My day off, so ICING SUGAR AND VALIUM
THURSDAY: Salad bar salad, pot of tuna mayonnaise
FRIDAY: Chips, carrots, mushy peas, pot of tuna mayonnaise (if the peas are unmushed, I am nonplussed)
WEEKEND: Humble pie, pot of tuna mayonnaise
That's it. There are exceptions. Sometimes fate takes a hand and will force my hand (possibly to replace the hand it has taken). But that's a general rule of mealthumb.
Yesterday was Tuesday. So I was going to have roast potatoes, carrots, cabbage, and a pot of tuna mayonnaise.
I dished out some potatoes. I dished out some carrots. I dished out some cabbage.
It was only when the cabbage hit the plate that I realised I'd served myself a MOUNTAIN of food. The portions were enormous. It barely fit on the plate. This meal could have fed Africa. I looked like I was carrying a leafy volcano.
Now, my portion sizes are usually quite big. I'm not Johnny Frugal. But even by my standards, this was embarrassing.
How had I done it? How did I not realise when I was shovelling on potatoes and carrots that I was all out of scale? I can only put it down to a terrible brain injury.
The last cabbage leaves were still settling when I noticed. But what could I do? You can't start unloading food back into the serving bowls. People don't want food that has already touched another man's plate.
So I was stuck with it.
I forewent my pot of tuna mayonnaise. That would have been ridiculous.
I sheepishly went to pay for my meal, trying to apologise with my eyes (without making eye contact).
The nice woman at the check-out apologised, but said she had to charge me extra for all the food.
OF COURSE SHE DID!
THAT'S THE LEAST I DESERVED!
I HAD ALMOST EMPTIED THE CANTEEN OF EDIBLE WARES!
I wanted to make a remark. But what can you say?
"Sorry. I didn't mean to. My quantity judgement faculties must have been on the blink. Ha. Ahaha."
I said nothing. I was embarrassed.
Needless to say, I couldn't eat it all. Of course I couldn't. Godzilla couldn't.
I felt quite the fool.
Now, I'm not sure why I was so embarrassed there. It's not the worst thing can happen to me. They didn't catch me putting my dick in the soup.
(I mean, I didn't put my dick in the soup. But if I had done, and they'd caught me, it would have been embarrassing)
I think my embarrassment threshold has gone down as I've got older. Or up. Whichever one is better.
As a teenager, I was embarrassed by everything: my clothes, my face, my atoms. But recently I have mellowed.
I didn't even feel awful when I was introduced to two important work people from a foreign office, and they caught me watching a Beyoncé video. Now that should have been embarrassing. But I brushed it off. (I said brushed)
(In my defence, I don't even like Beyoncé. I was only watching it because a colleague has said that one of her sexy dancers was a transvestite. It was research.)
But for some reason, the overburdened plate made me feel like I was 13 again, cringing at my own idiocy.
I hope it was just an isolated incident. To make sure nothing like that happens again, I'm going to start carrying cabbage scales to lunch and will stop putting my (hypothetical) dick in the (genuinely scalding) soup.
I wanted some salad bar salad for lunch, so I went to the salad bar. There was a little sign next to one of the dishes. They have these signs from time to time, usually to say if a dish contains meat - a warning to fleshphobes.
So, having some time to kill, I decided to read the sign. I was curious. And curiosity is known to hold no risk for any mammal. This is what it said:
This beans sprouts are
English
I was confused.
Obviously, there are a couple of typos in there. I don't mean to criticise the sign on those grounds. It's certainly possible that it was written by someone for whom English is not their first language. It's reasonable to make such a mistake.
I imagine if I had to write a salad bar sign in Taiwanese, notifying the locals of the nationality of their food, I would make many more blunders. I wouldn't even be close.
But the typos do make the sign's assurances of domestic trustworthiness a bit suspicious.
Like a Russian spy trying to convince you of his Englishness by claiming to eat jellied owls and Cornland paystees.
I was befuddled when I saw that sign. Befuddled indeed.
Because, even if we accept the sign, it still raises questions. Why is it important the bean sprouts are English? Why, out of all the ingredients in all the dishes, is this one important?
Maybe it's part of an ongoing initiative to identify specific foods. You couldn't do them all at once, but if you chipped away at it over a period of time, soon everything would be clear.
Perhaps tomorrow it will be:
This potatoe is Brummie
Moving on to:
Orange juice not foreignge juice
And then perhaps:
Beef like St George is
I took a photo of the sign.
The photo looks a lot like the photo above (the one of the sign). I thought: "This insanity needs to be discussed! The world has gone cuckoo! What a world!"
Then I thought "what a world" again, but a bit more quietly.
But just as I was getting ready to pat myself on the back for being so great (also, my back was on fire - BONUS), I remembered that people were dying.
The sign was completely justified. I felt quite the mug.
[I'm writing E coli in italics because that's what they've done on the Guardian. I am a format sheep.]
Luckily, I realised before being corrected by a grieving German.
It is a bit odd that they needed the sign, I suppose. I'd like to think they wouldn't serve poisoned food. I generally make that assumption. As far as I'm concerned, 'not-poisoned' is the default state of salad. At least in this neck of the woods.
A sign would only be needed if they were German bean sprouts. Just so people could make their own choices. I know I'd be willing to risk serious illness if it meant I had some delicious bean sprouts. Mmm!
I had the bean sprouts in the end. And I think the sign provided me with some subconscious comfort.
I feel absolutely fine.
No problems here.
Imagine the cruel irony!
If I was to be infected!
After saying all this!
Imagine it!
***
I like writing things like that. Fate won't know what to do!
I've just re-read them all. There are some significant events contained therein. An account of my interview for my current job, the origins of my (now legendary) stand-up routine about selfish genes, a haiku, and a picture of me naked.
(Actually there is no picture of me naked. I just thought it might encourage you to look at the links. Because that's what you all want to see.
Of course, I've given the game away now. So I'll have to include an actual picture of me naked in this post, just to live up to my promise. Stay tuned.)
Indulgence is the watchword.
I have the word "indulgence" engraved on my watch, alongside a picture of me, my initials, and a picture of the watch itself, stretching into infinity.
H Samuel didn't sell many of that model.
So strap yourselves in for an exciting thrill-ride of words, punctuation marks, line-breaks and remarks so meaningless, you assume they must be references to something obscure, but are actually just pointless whimsy.
***
Ooh, I just caught this from Post #400:
Ooh, I just caught this from Post #300:
It's odd to have a dialogue with my past self. I suppose it's not really a dialogue - just an extended monologue. But when different parts of a monologue collide, it creates a whole new conversation. And given that time isn't an absolute linear construct, and I'm reacting to myself and anticipating myself, I think we can classify it as a dialogue. It's a solipsistic metaphysical chat, where we're both simultaneously bored and fascinated by each other.
Isn't that right, Post #400 Paul?
Yes. Yes it is.
Post #500 Paul - are you wearing a hat?
No, I'm not. But I do have a woolly hat in my coat pocket. I might put it on later.
Post #600 Paul - what did you have for dinner last night? Also, do you have a Blu-Ray player yet?
(I'm a brilliant conversationalist - I can't wait to see my response in 100 posts' time)
***
Mood: Monday.
Listening to:Jack Jones - Wives and Lovers
This is the most incredibly sexist song I've ever heard, which includes a lot of mainstream hip-hop and all those Motown songs in the 70s that seemed to essentially advocate domestic abuse.
Here are the lyrics (it's written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David, so they deserve most of the blame/credit):
Hey! Little Girl Comb your hair, fix your makeup Soon he will open the door Don't think because there's a ring on your finger You needn't try anymore
[I like that even the first line is incredible patronising. I also like picturing the scenario of an exasperated 60s businessman coming home to a slob wife and being exasperated.]
For wives should always be lovers too Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you I'm warning you...
["I'm warning you"? Thanks for that. I'm sure it's friendly advice. Rather than a threat.
Remember to run to his arms the MOMENT he comes home. Even if he's carrying lots of bags and a cake. Don't give him time to put them down. Run to his arms. RUN TO THEM.
DON'T PAUSE, OR HE'LL LEAVE YOU.
DON'T EVEN TALK TO HIM. DO YOUR MAKE-UP AND RUN FLAT-OUT INTO HIS FACE BEFORE HE CAN EVEN GET HIS KEY OUT OF THE LOCK.]
Day after day There are girls at the office And men will always be men Don't send him off with your hair still in curlers You may not see him again
[Remember there are other girls in the office. This is your fault. Especially if you've let yourself go. The other girls don't have any say in the matter. They can't help but be drawn to your husband because of his power and testicles.
Men will always be men. So if you complain about his infidelities and various sexually transmitted infections, you're going AGAINST NATURE.
MEN WILL BE MEN.
CUNTS WILL BE CUNTS.
IT'S YOUR FAULT. YOU AND THOSE CURLERS OF YOURS, YOU SOW!]
For wives should always be lovers too Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you He's almost here...
[If you're in a wheelchair, you might as well kill yourself.]
[I hope that last sentence isn't taken out of context. Remember, this is SATIRE.]
Hey! Little girl Better wear something pretty Something you'd wear to go to the city and Dim all the lights, pour the wine, start the music Time to get ready for love Time to get ready Time to get ready for love
[PREPARE FOR COPULATION. YOU ARE FEMALE. YOU MUST WORK HARDER TO JUSTIFY OUR MAGNANIMOUS TOLERANCE OF YOUR EXISTENCE.
DIM THE LIGHTS TO HIDE YOUR WITHERED FACE. POUR THE WINE SO THAT THE ALCOHOL MAY DULL YOUR POOR HUSBAND'S PERCEPTIONS. SHIELD HIM FROM YOUR HIDEOUSNESS.
PLAY LOUD MUSIC TO DROWN OUT YOUR INFANTILE PRATTLE. PLAY A BURT BACHARACH SONG. THEN YOU CAN LEARN AS YOU'RE JUSTLY PENETRATED BY YOUR BENEFACTOR.
ALL WOMEN MAKE ME SICK.
YOU MAKE ME SICK.]
by Burt Bacharach and Hal David
They don't write 'em like that anymore.
Reading: the instructions on the back of this bottle of bleach. It doesn't provide a serving suggestion, but as it's lemon scented I assume it's one of your five a day.
I won't get my hopes up, though. Last week I had some Toilet Duck in a Hoisin wrap and it tasted disgusting.
Watching: my previous post, where I forgot to say what I was watching. I just missed it out.
It wasn't intentional.
I haven't been watching people die, and subsequently trying to hide the fact.
I just forgot.
I wouldn't watch people die. I'd call an ambulance.
Unless my phone was broken. That couldn't be helped.
In addition to not watching people die, we also watched quite a lot of a TV show called Pretty Little Liars.
I can't tell you if it's any good, or indeed what it's about, because we watched it on mute.
That's what we do.
We decided there were too many attractive people in it. There was no-one below an 8. That's too attractive for me to relate to.
So I imagine it's terrible.
Playing:Bubble tennis.
It's so good, I almost don't want to tell people about it. But I suppose this is a special occasion.
Lucy and I discovered this a while ago.
You'll need two bottles of bubble-mixture (that's what it's called, right?) and two bubble-hoops (that's what they're called, right?)
The premise is simple: whilst bubbles burst in contact with hard objects (floor, table leg, Michelangelo's David etc), they don't burst in contact with other bubbles.
So you need a bubble stuck to the end of each bubble-hoop, and then to blow some bubbles. (Actually, blow the bubbles first. Find whichever method suits you best.)
Then, use your bubble-hoop bubbles to bat a third, loose, bubble back and forth. Like tennis.
You can even create your own net.
This probably hasn't been well explained. Perhaps some video proof is necessary.
[I tried to video bubble tennis, but it was a disaster. I don't think it can be filmed. Like ghosts. Or The Invisible Pete Sampras.]
It is amazing.
Eating: Salad bar salad again. I don't mean to be repetitive. Maybe I should start eating some more exotic things. Like cocktail bar salad, salad bar napkins, or salad glorious salad.
Drinking: Certainly no cleaning products. I don't know who has started that rumour mill. Probably Mr Muscle, that four-eyed little square. Screw him.
***
There's not going to be a picture of me naked.
Sorry.
(Or is there?)
No.
***
Hilarious Tweets:@diamondbadger
I haven't done any good tweets lately. This isn't a tweet. Honestly. This isn't some clever postmodern tweet. If it was, I'd write more conc
*** I'm starting a hobby. It's called zeal clubbing. It's like seal clubbing, but involves beating enthusiastic people to death.
Especially if they're enthusiastic about seals.
Then you club some seals.
We're meeting on Weds afternoons in the Town Hall. Anyone who shows up early will become a training dummy.
***
This is a trailer for the new film by Duncan Jones, the guy who directed Moon. It looks good. Like Groundhog Day meets Inception.
Though the only way I'd like to see that meeting happen is with Bill Murray beating the tedious cast of tedious Inception to a bloody tedious pulp. And then Andie McDowell.
***
ACORN BREAK:
(breakorn)
***
I think that's probably all.
I could write another haiku, I suppose.
Forty-love Nadal! The spectral voice of Sampras Calls for unseen balls
I'm going to pour myself a glass of celebratory Cif and get back to my night job as a regretmonger.
It's a re-enactment of the Battle of the Boyne using traffic cones and misleading lights.
I'm going to up my blog frequency with a simple trick. I will try, every day, to fill in the below information. Then at least I'll have something to say.
Lucy's DeviantArtjournal has little categories at the bottom (for what she's watching/reading etc), which she doesn't even bother to update. This angers me. She angers me.
I'll steal the choices from there. Keep in mind that these will usually refer to the previous day or so. If I'm writing my blog, I'm watching myself write the blog, reading the blog, and listening to the keystrokes. But I can't just put that every day.
Unless it would be funny to put that every day.
No. No it probably wouldn't.
***
Mood: Not particularly downbeat, not particularly upbeat. Just beat.
Listening to:EnnioMorricone: Deborah's Theme
Reading: Um... nothing? I should be reading Machiavelli's The Prince as part of my Idiot Flaps Odyssey, but I got all sidetracked with life and autumn and comics. Maybe that counts. Ed Brubaker's Captain America is good.
Watching: The beginning of various different Inspector Morse episodes. And that awesome new David Attenborough series on BBC 2. You should watch it. My favourite quote:
"But for the sponge, this is of no consequence."
Playing: I suppose this is for video games. I have actually been playing the not-very-good FIFA 11 on the Wii. I've also been playing football with Lucy in the fields near our house. We're amazing.
Eating: I've just had some salad bar salad from the salad bar. Curried sweet potato salad for the win. I think I got too many creamy things though, and now I feel a bit ill.
Drinking: Too-expensive freshly-squeezed orange juice. They used to have blood orange juice, but they stopped selling it to spite me. I imagine.
***
Wasn't that fun? I'll try to do that more often. By about the third one, the tedium of my life will become apparent. If it wasn't already.
I've got a tip for you. A social tip. Normally, I'm the last person you'd want to take that kind of advice from, but this is a real winner.
If you're sitting in a cafe or restaurant, sometimes a person might be in need of an extra chair. We've all been in that situation. Well, except for Sue and well all know what she's like.
They need an extra chair, and see what appears to be an unused chair on your table. And it is unused.
Everything should work out fine, right?
Wrong.
You see, you know they want the chair. You're anticipating the request. You're anticipating the smug satisfaction of helping a chairless chump in need.
The trouble is, you don't know how they're going to ask the question.
You might be ready with an affirmative "yes" when a "no" is required. Let me explain:
Scene: You and a single friend (perhaps from the Navy) are sitting together on a four-seat table. You are two people. You are using one seat each. A total of two seats are in use.
Maths tells us that a total of two seats are left unneeded. There are two spare seats. You're not even resting your shopping bags/depth charges on them. They are spare.
On the next table (also a four-seater), five people have arrived to quaff and imbibe various items. But there are five of them. And only four seats. That's one seat too few.
(Are you following so far? If not, return to the beginning of the italicized section and start again).
One member of this five-strong party spots what seem to be spare seats on your table. They are spare seats.
You spot them spotting them. You'll be happy to share them. You're anticipating the warmth of smugnocity. You see them coming over. You have the "yes" on your lips.
And then the following exchange happens:
Other Person: Excuse me, is this seat taken? You: Yes.
Disaster!
You meant to say "yes" to them asking for the seat! But by asking if the seat was taken, they inverted the whole thing!
They go away with no seat! You have no smug feeling! And there's nothing you can do about it (short of correcting yourself, but you and the Admiral are too proud for that)!
Of course, you might be anticipating that question. But you can never be sure. The opposite is equally likely.
Other Person: Excuse me, can I have this seat? You: No.
Foiled again!
This kind of catastrophe must happen two or three times per decade, causing suffering to all.
But there's a new response designed to remove any ambiguity from the exchange, and to ensure the unchaired are chaired, and the smugneed is smugsatisfied.
Two simple words:
Go ahead. Do you see? The simplicity? The genius?
Let's re-run those scenarios, but this time we will employ the new weapon in our arsenal.
Other Person: Excuse me, is this seat taken? You: Go ahead.
Success! Though it doesn't strictly make sense, the intention is clear: "please do take this chair for your buttocks, Madam."
What about the other one?
Other Person: Excuse me, can I have this seat? You: Go ahead.
Perfect! The game is won!
Can you see how Paul's Patented All-Purpose Chair-Request Response has saved the day? Can you?
The only danger is if a stranger comes and asks you a different question:
Other Person: Excuse me. I was thinking of committing a terrible shooting in a school for blind orphans and then turning the gun on myself. You two look like you're well informed on these matters (especially you, Admiral). Do you think I should proceed with my heinous plan?
You: Go ahead.
But that is an extremely uncommon question. It will probably not happen, so don't worry about it.
***
So that's my social tip. Use it wisely. I feel like I'm going to save a lot of people a lot of asking-for-a-seat based anxiety.
Which means I'm exponentially smug.
You can probably sense it from where you are now - pulsing and shimmering, swelling and sweeping like the Northern Lights.
It's been ages since my last post! I can't be having that.
I mean, I have had that. But I don't want to have had any more than that. If I look back and see that I had had more that than I'd hoped to have, I'll really have had it with the whole thing.
So, to guarantee content for today, here is a timeline for my activities:
22 February 2010
7:35: Dreamed about sentient legs
7:45: Alarm goes off
7:45-7:50: Five minute groan
7:55: Brush teeth
7:58: Brush face
7:59: Brush off
8:03: Get dressed
8:04: Look in mirror
8:05: Get re-dressed
8:08: Weep violently
8:10: Leave building, step into snowy winter wonderland
8:11: Five minute groan
8:20: Graciously say more than one word to Lucy (the second one is 'off')
8:21: Apologise
8:26: Buy eight Braeburn apples from M&S, shunning human staff for the automated machine
8:29-8:59: Trudge through sludge
9:00: Work. Of course. Work.
9:52: Work (I didn't start this blog at that time - I was working)
I must have had some words and phrases going round in my dreaming skull, and I came up with a poem in the time before I went back to bed (it was early - 10:30ish).
It was a collaborative process between my conscious and unconscious mind(s). You can see that some of it makes sense, and some of it doesn't. Anyway, here it is:
Connie Computer, boxed-up in her finery I've got her number and her number is binary She's telling me stories (and the stories are fun) Of the battles she's won zero one zero one
AA Milne is spinning in his grave (as stipulated in his will).
***
Today at the work canteen, I was buying lunch.
Don't worry, that's not the whole anecdote.
I was buying some salad bar salad (as I tend to do). I also had some water with me. It was my water bottle that I've had for some days now, filled with water cooler water.
Salad bar salad and water cooler water. A match made in heaven.
But as I was paying, I noticed that I was being charged for the water.
"No problem - I'll just tell the cashier that," I thought, in my dreamy skull.
But I've been tired, and my brain was slow. So the best I could come up with was:
"No, that's MY OWN water."
MY OWN water.
I'd put emphasis in the wrong place and used the wrong words. MY OWN words.
It implied that I had created the water myself. Perhaps I owned and operated a spring. Perhaps I liked to drink my own crystal-clear urine.
I don't.
I should make that clear.
I don't.
It wasn't water closet water.
It was water cooler water.
I just wanted to have some water cooler water with my salad bar salad, and then end it.
I didn't make eye contact with the cashier, so I didn't see a look of contempt in her eyes. But I'm sure it was there.
I'd made an accidental proprietary stand. I'd planted my flag in liquid and claimed it for Queen and Country (even though the Queen isn't interested in my urine - water I mean - and my Country doesn't mean much to me, despite what me capitalising the word might suggest).
There's no official guidelines for how to tackle the salad bar. It means that there is often confusion. You might meet a fellow salad patron travelling in the opposite direction. And there's an awkward moment where you're not sure whether to let them go for the cucumbers or not.
I usually bow majestically and then, when they've taken hold of the 'cumber spoon, I slap the plate out of their hands, smash my head through the sneeze-guard, grab a handful of coleslaw and then sprint into the night (which is tricky, as it's always lunchtime).
At least I have a system. The alternative is imposing a strict directional imperative. Clockwise or anti-clockwise. Then we'd all know where we were.
Except - and this possibility weighs on my brain like a drugged rabbit - it could lead to terrible regret. You walk around the salad bar (let's say clockwise), you get your lettuce, and your sweetcorn, and your potato salad, and then you see another salad. Sweet potato.
Nah, you think (you think nah). I don't need to double up on the potatoes. And so you move on. People shuffle around, systematically, a big conveyor belt of sensible eaters.
But then you think: wait. I like sweet potato. I haven't had sweet potato since that glorious autumn I spent in Maine. With Pam. Oh Pam, how I miss thee!
I remember the auburn evenings, playing duets on your old piano, eating bowl after bowl of sweet potato. All manner of dressings, all manner of consistencies. Sweet potato. As sweet as our love. As sweet as your smile, Pam - my darling Pam.
The sweet potato fills up my soul. The tuber of our love. Oh, if only you hadn't taken that job as an accountant in Guam! If only our potato-based affection had been able to outweigh the desire for change!
I miss your sweet potato smile, Pam. Sometimes I put sugar on normal potatoes just so I can be transported, for one brief moment, back to Maine and the piano. Of course, the sugared potatoes in no way resemble sweet potatoes. A stupid idea. I don't know why I did it. A lovesick fool's mistake.
And, at the salad bar, you think this, and you regret your haste. You want to go back. You want a mouthful of carb-rich nostalgia. You want to return to the sweet potato (in more ways than one).
But you can't.
Everyone is going clockwise. You can't go back. You can't turn back the clock.
And the people tick forward mechanically. And the sweet potato fades out of site, lost, with the inevitable transience of a Baudelaire's stranger on the streets of Paris. You seem to see the face of Pam in the condensation on the glass, but are nudged out of your reverie by someone after the thousand island dressing.
So, that's the main disadvantage of the directional imperative system.
Probably best to just allow people free reign, and replace the sneeze-guard as and when.
