Sam’s Home, Bizzy, Wrong
Sam’s Home
As a little follow-up to last weeks teary ode, the little man came home yesterday and once more sleeps on the landing. Ok, a little sentimental perhaps but at least I know where he is. I won’t be scattering his dusty remains, mainly due to the fact that the box won’t open and as it doesn’t look too ghoulish and coffin-like, on the landing bookshelf he will stay. At least I will be able to say “Good Morning” and “Good Night” the same way I always did.
I promise I will stop this now.
Bizzy
It’s been a funny old few weeks at work. There I was, adjusting my spreadsheets to work with the new proposed shift plan on July 7th when I offer (foolishly some might say) to help out more closely with the organisation of said shift plan. Now, I am deeply involved and whilst the relief that it is almost done is wonderful, the knowledge that I have seemingly upset more than a few people with my supposed choices is a little unsettling. Truth be told, I haven’t had any say whatsoever in who goes where and even my radical ideas in other areas will have to be approved by authority and committee before they are ever put into action. To be honest, a few weeks ago, I thought it would be very cool for hundreds of people to work according to plans I had forged. Now, I am not so sure. After all, what if it’s a disaster? Gulp.
Still, once more the opportunity has forced me to learn some new very cool Excel stuff.
I am really reaching now aren’t I?
Wrong
I often ponder on the brilliance of my sardonic wit and the endless quest to comment on the absurdity and oddness of the world around me. Wouldn’t it be so much better to be positive and talk about nice things and not point the finger of criticism at the funny, the odd, the absurd, the ugly or the chav? It would be, but I can’t help but think that nobody would be interested in reading it. I feel very lucky to have been blessed with the gift to see the failings and misfortunes of others.
Ok, I will stop this too now.
You have to understand some of my life to see where I am going with this. I don’t go out much you see. Not in a sad, hermit-like way, it’s just that I don’t “go out” drinking, clubbing or partying. When I do venture out of the door, it’s either to work (still loving it) or shopping or visiting or whatever. So. Quite a lot then. What’s my problem? Well, to be honest, when I started this paragraph, I felt the need to clarify but now I wish I hadn’t bothered.
So there I was, buying the hernia-threatening pile of plastic, cardboard, paper and CD’s that once called itself a newspaper. I’ll be honest, it’s not a shop I normally patronise. The owners are quite nice but it usually boasts a crowd of Burberry inside and out that would make most of us steer clear. No well-known, corporate identity hangs over the door and there is the usual smell - almost out-of-date milk, cheap chocolate and disinfectant. Behind the counter is someone and on my side of the counter (sometimes on a stool) is their mate, talking to them.
In the corner is a cash machine that will dispense £10 for a modest fee of £2.85 and all around is the world of convenience, own-brand merchandise, most of which I have sworn never to eat again. As always, it seems rude to interupt the bloke behing the counter and his chatty mate but you have to pay don’t you? Handing over a £10, I smile and look around the counter area, only to notice a scribbled piece of A4 sellotaped to the side of the glass “shoplifter sweetie barrier”. In large letters across the top are the words “LASANGYER RECEPEE”. Underneath, presumably was a recipe for lasagne but I couldn’t say for sure. As I have done many times before, the author of this gastronomic guideline had underestimated how much room the recipe would take up and as such, had to write progressively smaller and smaller until they reached the bottom of the page. By the time they hit the bottom, they just had room for a tempting instruction “tastes fabb and is reely cheep”.
Where would a nice person do when presented with this? Who cares.
What the f**k kind of world do I live in?
I don’t know where to begin.
Appalling spelling aside, what thinking process puts something like that on display?
Who is it for?
What do you do if it takes your fancy? Take out your PDA and copy it down? What of the queue behind you? If money is your god, why not just buy the 89p frozen one in the fridge behind you?
Was the voice in my head shouting “run..drop the paper, forget the change and run” wrong to do so?
Stop the train, I want to get off. I don’t care if there is no station. I want to get off now.
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