Stories From The 'Spoon

Events That Shaped Our World

2009-11-23T20:37:00.002Z

There was once a show. It was a great show. In fact, it was arguably one of the finest, best received shows ever to be witnessed. It was so great that events have been modelled on it ever since ― show business has never been the same. The performance was of a musical nature. Some of the finest musicians of the time performed song after song in perfect harmony. The audience, probably made up of young men and women, gave rapturous applause after every song.*

The listeners revelled in the atmosphere, dumbstruck by the excellence of the music, and by the end of the show were simply beside themselves. An emotional bond had been formed. As the band struck the last chord of C flat minor the second, the audience went wild. The flautist immersed her instrument in a highly flammable liquid and set it on fire. The harpist placed the stringed beast on a wheel-board and rang out the final notes on roller-blades. The percussionist started to pack away since he had another gig to get to in Shroesbury. The atmosphere was electric!

The audience clapped, and clapped and clapped. They also shouted and cheered and whistled. This was a normal reaction for this group of musicians and they lapped it up. They took a bow and left the stage to devour their modest rider. On any ordinary night the applause would have continued for a short period, until everybody finally agreed to stop and go home. But that was on an ordinary night! Tonight was extraordinary, for the applause simply would not stop. They clapped and cheered and howled and whistled and stamped their feet like a pod of demented music loving seals. The band listened on in amazement as they chomped away on their less than exquisite cocktail sausages.
An hour passed and it became clear from the shouts of 'We desire additional material!', that the reluctant band would have to return to the stage. A crowd-pleasing song was needed, and luckily they had one up their collective sleeves. An almighty performance ensued and the delighted crowd finally dispersed, grinning from ear to ear. This was the birth of the encore.

This should have been a one-off. But when you give something extra, people want it all the time. Ask anybody. Ask Mr. Kipling, for he once had similar troubles with his delicious selection of tarts and fancies. The audience predictably told the world about the amazing show they'd enjoyed, and how a little more had been demanded after the now penultimate number. Crowds across the globe screamed and stamped and simply insisted, not leaving until they'd filled their gluttonous faces with a further slice of entertainment pie. It wasn't long before the phenomenon spread. It spread to all corners of an overwhelmed planet. Shakespeare looked on in horror as the finale of Romeo and Juliet was ruined by hecklers asking for them to come back and take more poison. It didn't take long to have an effect on the world of sport. Marathon runners were in a state of utter dismay on approaching the finishing line as spectators called for another lap. It didn't stop there. For a time the problem moved out of show business and into everyday life. Estate agents felt the pressure of showing another room after the tour of the house had been completed. Crematoriums were disgraced by mourners insisting on the return of the coffin after it had passed through the curtain. Banking transactions became a nightmare. Life on Earth had descended into chaos.

After a number of years the tide finally turned and humanity saw the error of its ways. History had taught the valuable lesson that one can't always be showered with bonuses ― one must sometimes just accept what is on offer. This was generally accepted in all aspects of life with the exception of popular musical performances. The encore is still expected to this day. It took a long time to get to where it is now and took on many guises. For a time one extra song was enough to fulfil the insatiable desires of the demanding crowds. Soon two songs were requested, then three, then four. One band tried to get around this by refusing to go on at all initially, then performing the whole set as an encore, but audiences just didn't go for it. Another endeavoured to leave the stage after every song, and return dramatically for the next, but this became time consuming and bored the fans senseless. Eventually after much trial and error we were left with what we have today. A band will perform a collection of songs in a timeframe just short of what one would expect, then leave the stage. Every member of the audience will applaud as though it is the end of the show, secretly knowing that there will be more. Some will even pretend to leave and start walking towards the exit. Finally the band will return to the stage and everyone will gasp with joy and look surprised. Two or three more songs will be enjoyed, then everyone will go home satisfied.

All is well once more...

What a charade.

*It had been decided at some point in history that the best way to show appreciation during any performance, be it musical, dramatic, sporting or comedic, would be to move one's hands swiftly together, palm to palm, and so inducing a loud slapping sound. This sound, known as a clap, would be generated by every member of the audience simultaneously, although not necessarily in time, and repeated at around two claps per second until sufficient appreciation had been conveyed.

Do Your Bit - Help Do Away With January

2009-01-13T22:16:00.002Z

I feel today as though the season is getting to me. It's as if I'm down simply because it's January. Like many other people in the Northern Hemisphere, I would prefer it if this month simply did not exist. There are two very important reasons to expel January from the calendar. It is traditionally the coldest month of the year - something we could all do without, and for the self-employed, a time to give all your hard earned cash to the tax man. This alone causes great distress to a large number of people which can lead to depression. This seasonal disorder in recent years has been recognized by the medical profession and is known as SAD. (Self Assessment Delirium.)

By removing January we would be warmer and better off. It makes far more sense than the traditional methods of beating the mid-winter blues - sitting in front of a fluorescent lamp for hours on end. Who's got the time?

So come on friends, colleagues, people I don't know, join my campaign to rid the world of this hellish month. I shall shortly be drafting a petition to send to Downing Street, and with enough signatories I think they are likely to take this proposal seriously.

Let's work together and make January a thing of the past.

Hya! Hya! Hya!

2008-09-09T23:19:00.001Z

Someone I know appears to have recently had a conversation with themselves. A conversation about a subject which I'm sure has crossed all of our minds at some point, no matter how briefly. The conversation I believe he's had is about his laugh. A laugh, in my opinion, is a combination of two factors. The first is involuntary, a physical reflex responding to stimulus which we percieve as funny, and the second, a conscious response to something we're supposed to find funny. The latter makes it possible to be in control of the style of one's laugh. We've all at some point made a decision, consciously or not, on how to chortle. This is a very individual thing. Everyone has their own unique response to funniness, and we've all developed ours over time. While most will have acquired their own guffaw subconsciously as a result of hearing other people, others will have practiced various styles, perhaps attempting to imitate a cool friend or public figure. But there are some who deliberately continue to design the best and coolest laugh on earth, moving with trends or even trying to set them. They cannot be satisfied with what they have, they need to be the best.

The person to whom I'm referring has changed their laugh dramatically. It is barely recognizable from before and has happened literally overnight. Certain letters have become audible. An H, and a Y, and an A are now all present. What was once a perfectly normal titter has now developed into something monstrous. While a man's laugh is his own business, and certainly none of mine, I have a couple of questions I feel need to be raised. Firstly, I wonder what he felt was wrong with yesterday's cackle? Was it not aurally pleasing? Was it not appreciative enough of the humour preceding it? Was it perhaps, a little over the top? And finally, did he really think that nobody would notice? Would it not make more sense to use the new laugh with new people and gradually phase it in with the rest?

A seasoned laughter adjuster would surely take this into account?

Extra Care

2008-08-21T23:30:00.000Z

I was walking through a station today when I observed a sign advising me to take extra care when using the stairs. I had planned to take the usual amount of care, the amount dispensed for safe transport between levels, but I heeded the advice on offer and extra was taken. In hindsight, the care I had planned for this journey might not have been sufficient, so I was glad that the poster drew the matter to my attention.

Stories From The Urinal. Part One.

2008-07-30T05:26:00.002Z

A quick recap here, as it's been so long since I posted the opener to this mini series. To be honest with you I just want to move on, I have so much more to write about. In hindsight it was a stupid idea - to write a series of posts detailing my thoughts whilst urinating, and quite frankly disgusting. This blog is going downhill. I thought about simply erasing the previous post and just pretending the whole sordid affair never happened, but someone may have noticed. There is also the remote possibility that one of you readers were actually looking forward to it, perhaps you're a doctor specialising in urology and psychiatry for example. As I cannot take the risk of offending one of my precious readers I feel I need to continue regardless of my opinion, and deliver as promised, a selection of my thoughts at the urinal.

I'll make it as brief as possible.

I'd just left my table in a relatively nice restaurant to visit the toilet / bathroom / restroom / lavatory / loo. (Just catering for our American friends.) Before I left I requested the bill. My waitress promptly returned with a saucer in one hand and a slip of paper detailing the cost of my meal in the other. With a false smile she placed the saucer on the table in front of me, then the bill on top, taking care to position the bill face down.

Now why did she do this? Why do all restaurants do this? The bill has been placed face down in order to prevent me from seeing it. It's my bill! I'm the one who ordered the food, I'm the one who is going to have to pay for it. I accepted those terms before I entered the restaurant. I knew what I was getting myself into. Why would you go out of your way to conceal some information which I'm inevitably about to see?

I find it all very strange.

Stories From The Urinal (Prologue)

2008-07-08T22:17:00.002Z

I've been drinking a lot of water lately. It's very healthy, and I do think I notice the benefits. One of the benefits is the amount of time I spend in the toilet. I don't consider this a plus because I like spending time in the presence of men urinating, this isn't a hobby of mine. More that with life being so ridiculously busy at the moment, it can sometimes be the only time I get to think about, well anything. Today sees the beginning of a mini series to be featured exclusively on this blog, of thoughts that have popped into my head whilst urinating. Please rest assured I'll be washing my hands before typing.

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy delivering it. (The posts not the urine.)

Too Much Information

2008-06-29T19:50:00.001Z

A computer hard drive has a limited memory. I often wonder whether like a hard drive, a human brain can just simply run out of space. This causes me to question what I know. There are so many things in life people have told me which were wrong. So many people have bored me with information I just didn't need to know, yet I still remember it. The brain records every bit of information from birth, every image, every sound, every feeling, every taste, every smell.

Is there a limit to the amount I can hold in my mind? Am I about to run out of space? Should I be more selective about the information I take in?

Should I stop talking with idiots?

An Unexpected Conversation About A Long Neck

2008-06-22T00:08:00.000Z

"That's why giraffes have long necks, to eat from tall trees," someone said to me. I can't remember why she said this, I think I only asked her for the time. An interesting topic nevertheless, and a thought provoking conversation ensued. My reasonably intelligent mind can see the evidence behind evolutionary theory, but not in the case of the giraffe, things just don't add up.

The aforementioned giraffe theory implies that once was a four legged mammal, who ate leaves and seeds from small plants and from the ground. This normal necked being one day looked up and saw some rather delightful things to eat in the trees. "If I ate them I'd be a much better person."

Negotiations with tree dwelling animals were fruitless, and poor old giraffe just didn't know what to do. He couldn't be arsed to climb about like everyone else so he had to simply eat what was on the ground. The animal gloomily looked up at the prized leaves which alas he could not reach. This gloom continued through generations over millions of years, until nature took pity and offered a longer neck...

Now this just doesn't work for me. There are plenty of other solutions to this problem. Like climbing, or adapting to other food. Why didn't the animal just grow proportionately taller? There just doesn't seem to be a good enough explanation for this ludicrously long neck.

A possibility somewhat overlooked by evolutionists is that the giraffe simply couldn't stand the smell of its own shit. A longer neck would certainly allow it to maintain a little distance from it's pungent waste.

The Shredder

2008-05-11T01:07:00.003Z

I had never seen the need for shredding. To me it always seemed to be something of a display of paranoia to rip everything into tiny pieces before throwing it away, just in case somebody was spying on you. But the other day I was given a shredder by a friend. An odd gift you might think, but he said he had two and I gratefully took one off his hands. Either that or he'd overheard my neighbours discussing my bank details with the postman and had decided enough was enough.

I used it for the first time today. I ran some discarded invoices through to start. Not something I really want everyone to know about. The shredder hungrily chomped away until there were hundreds of tiny pieces. I opened the lid and checked the contents of the bin. Satisfied that the paper inside was now completely void of legible information I closed the lid, rustling it a little just to be on the safe side. I looked around the room for more.

Old phone bills. Can't have anyone seeing these. I put them in page by page and watched them disappear into certain oblivion. I was enjoying myself now. Next half a shoe box. I had no particular reason to hide from the world the kind if shoes I'd bought, after all they were on display at the bottom of my legs every time I left the house. I just wanted to see what would happen. The blades began to turn and devoured with venom, the empty shoe container. The shredder struggled to the point of almost certain failure, then miraculously held it together. The cardboard was defeated. In future I'll consider alternative methods for the discreet disposal of footware packaging.

On a roll now I continued with the permanent destruction of anything displaying personal information. My plans to meet friends for dinner now seemed insignificant compared to the importance of the task at hand. I would simply have to cancel.

Schedules and itineraries from work, they needed to be destroyed. Credit card reciepts, letters from the bank, utilities bills, straight into the jaws of data death. My expired blockbuster video card, yesterday's train ticket, a receipt for a box of half price strawberries, it all had to go. Who knows how this kind of sensitive information could be used in the wrong hands?

Eventually the bin was full and I'd run out of legitimate things to shred. I emptied the container into a bag and carried it to the local recycling point. I then dispersed the contents evenly across two bins, reversed my jacket, and took a deliberately awkward route home in case I was being followed.

Well, you can never be too careful.

A Handy Man To Know

2008-05-05T00:57:00.002Z

I've always had problems washing my hands. Many a time I've left a trip to the toilet with soap up my nose and a paper towel stuck to my head. Tonight was different - there was a toilet assistant. He turned on the tap and gestured for me to put my hands underneath. I rubbed them together under his close supervision then allowed him to dispense a clear, viscous, liquid onto both. I continued to rub my hands together until clean. Next he offered a paper towel. I used it to dry my hands. Revelatory! I would never have known what to do so I rewarded him with 1 dollar. He was pleased and grinned at me like a cat from Cheshire.

A Failure Of Basic Technology

2008-04-30T04:42:00.001Z

Sometimes the most ordinary, everyday procedure can end with simply ludicrous circumstances. And sometimes the most simple technology, technology that has worked with few problems for years, gets over-engineered and also results in ludicrous circumstances. And when you combine the two, well you end up with a situation verging on the ridiculous.

Naturally I have an example of such an occasion, I'm not just sitting here hypothesising. This takes us unfortunately, to the toilet cubical. The theatre of poo. So if you're eating whilst reading this I suggest you come back to it later. After all - you don't want crumbs on your keyboard.

I was in a restaurant hurrying my lunch so I could use the toilet. I hate it when this happens. You know you're not going to enjoy your meal when you desperately need to eject a previous one. I ate as quickly as I could then asked for the bill. I waited for what seemed to be an eternity until a saucer appeared in front of me. On it was a neatly folded piece of paper. Yes! This was what I had been waiting for, the contents of my meal accurately accounted for and listed with a price at the bottom. My mind wandered to the use of the saucer. I wondered whether its designer had intended it to be a vessel for bill delivery, then realised it was the perfect accompaniment for a tea cup, or vice versa? A question I simply couldn't answer, I just didn't have the time. I placed the relevant monies on the saucer then got myself ready to leave. The waitress was nowhere to be seen. I knew I didn't have long, my bowel clock was ticking and it waited for nobody. I had to leave. Not wanting the money to be stolen or blown away by some freak currency wind, I looked around for something to pin the notes into position. My empty tea cup. How apt.

I hurried off to the toilet and sat on the seat. Just then I realised that there was no toilet paper in the dispenser, but as good luck would have it there was some on a shelf a couple of feet away. I stood up and brought it over. At that point, without any warning at all the toilet flushed itself. I realised that it had some kind of a sensor - a device watching my bum the whole time, waiting to spring into action as soon as I was gone. But alas it was too early - I hadn't even started! Finally I was ready to begin.

We've reached a point where I can lay off the detail a little. We all know what happens at this stage of proceedings, and if you don't, well you're not getting any fibre. I suggest you eat some prunes.

Moments later the deed had been completed. I would now clean up, then I was free to enjoy the rest of my day. Looking forward to this bright prospect I stood up to take care of business, and waited for the toilet to flush once again. Nothing happened. I completed the task at hand, with my right hand, then waited once more. Still nothing. I was aware that others were waiting. A full flush simply could not be avoided.

I waved my hand in front of the sensor. Nothing
I stood in front of the toilet, then away again. Nothing
I pretended to leave the cubical. Nothing.

What else could I try? Was there some kind of manual override? No. The designer of this had clearly had enough of the manual flush. He'd wanted those laborious days to be over. No civilised man shall ever have the hardship of flushing a toilet again - he shall just poo and go.

I felt I had no choice but to simulate the whole process from the beginning. I lowered my trousers and sat on the bowl. I got up and walked away, taking care to re-dress myself appropriately. Nothing. There was no way around this. I opened the door with my head held high and marched past the small queue of waiting men. The first walked in to the cubicle to be presented with yesterday's lunch.

It was a chicken and vegetable wrap.

Answerphone

2008-04-05T23:25:00.001Z

I called somebody today. The phone rang and rang and rang. A while later an answerphone message began. The voice, speaking in its finest English, proceeded to give me a series of instructions after a most humble apology for not being present. It instructed me to listen for a tone, then advised me to leave a brief message afterwards. This I was informed, would ensure that the owner of this voice would later speak to me in person. I was then informed by another voice that if I wanted to re-record my message I would be able to by pressing hash - Phew!

I’ve been using phones for years. I know about the beep. I know when to speak. I know what will happen if I leave a message. What is the point in telling me all this?

I decided to leave a message suggesting that shortly after listening to it he should pick up the phone, checking that there is enough battery life to make a call. He should then search through his contact numbers and select mine. Next he should press dial, then hold the phone to his ear, ensuring that the phone is upright. After the ring-ring noises have stopped he would probably hear my voice greet him, and should then talk in the gaps between me talking...

I await his call.

Smelly Food Eaten On The Train By A Human of No Specific Gender

2008-03-30T19:56:00.001Z

I was standing on a very busy train minding somebody else’s business when a huge cheeseburger appeared before my face. This was one of those train journeys anyone living in London will have suffered, the kind where you become a little too familiar with the armpit of the person next to you. Where you perfect the art of ignoring all human life, even if their vacant faces are within millimetres of yours.

It turned out that the cheeseburger wasn’t actually that large, it was just too close. It was the closest I’d ever been to one that I wasn’t eating. It was so close that the soggy lettuce protruding through the sweaty bun was almost brushing past my eyelashes.

It didn’t take me long to figure that this foul smelling excuse for food was not there of it’s own accord. It was in fact being eaten by a mouth just 20 centimetres away from me. I could hear the mouth open, smell the breath, then hear the saliva glands preparing the unknowing stomach for this crime against nutrition.

As my nose and ears became a reluctant audience to this close up display of human feeding, I started to look beyond the mouth to discover who was so rudely eating in my face. And that was where the mystery began.

I could see a head, with all the usual features. Eyes, nose, a chin. There was hair, a neck, shoulders, arms and legs, but what I couldn’t determine was this being’s gender. They could as easily have been a man as a woman! I really had no idea.

This all reminded me of Danny, or was it Danni? A (wo)man with whom I worked many years ago. I worked with this person for 3 weeks and never got to the bottom of it. I got to know them quite well, but not well enough to answer the ultimate question. There were people around who knew him/her but I just couldn’t bring myself to ask. I even resorted to hanging around the toilets one day to see which door (s)he went through, but I never found out. I got some strange looks from the rest of my colleagues after that day and decided I just had to let it go.

I sometimes wish I had just asked. At least I would have known. I’m sure we’ve all been in a situation like this... Haven’t we?

The identities of all the people mentioned in this post have not been protected at all in any way. So if you’re reading this by any chance Dan, please get in touch and let me know your gender.

Thanks.

Laughter Is The Best Medicine

2008-02-23T17:08:00.001Z

Yesterday somebody asked me a stupid question at work, then followed it with a 'Cheer Up!' They then looked at me with a big cheesy grin and expected me to do the same. Oh, so you're in a good mood so I must instantly become the same without any effort on your part. At least do something to make me laugh.

Cheer Up'ers, I find, are generally nerdy people. People who have great cause to be miserable but are too stupid to notice. They're the kind of people who reel off a never ending repertoire of irritating sayings like, 'You don't have to be mad to work here but it helps.' Or they're the most likely people to approach you when conducting a clearly menial task and ask you if you're 'Having Fun Yet?'

A while ago one of these cheery do-gooders announced to me that, 'Laughter is the best medicine.' I would normally just ignore them but on this point I simply had to disagree. The blanket use of laughter to cure all ills is simply impractical. I said,

'Where there may be some limited truth to this belief, surely in the case of a patient suffering from severe facial burns it would not be an advisable course of action? While in this situation it may be a good idea to maintain a sense of humour, the patient would need to learn to do so without facial involvement which I'm sure is almost impossible.'

More Evidence Of Friendly Shopkeepers

2008-01-13T20:53:00.000Z

I visited a general store in Peckham today. One of those places which sells everything. No not just the kind of store that sells everything that you're thinking of, this stocked EVERYTHING. No, really, stop trying to outdo me!

It sold every tool you could want or need, every kitchen utensil you could imagine, cleaning supplies, stationary, mirrors, rugs, ipod and mobile phone accessories, pet food, microwaves, picture frames, furniture, gardening accessories and ham. It had more sections than most shops have items.

What struck me as most endearing was that the shopkeeper was so friendly and courteous, that he decided it would be better not to address me, speak to me, or even look at me whilst I handed over my hard earned cash. This was I'm sure, to avoid any possible offence.

What a dedicated man!

Speaking Of Eggs...

2007-12-25T02:41:00.000Z

This question, 'How do you like your eggs?' Was once asked of me in an American diner. I mistook the word 'how' for 'where' and asked the waitress to put them between the bacon and the sausages. Needless to say this irritated her immensely, so she shot me in the face.

Eggs Eggs Eggs

2007-12-25T02:40:00.000Z

I was in the eggs section of my local supermarket, overwhelmed by the choices which stood before me. Looking back on it I don't suppose there were too many, but there were enough to confuse a man who'd only just got out of bed after a night of drinking.

Large, medium, small. Free range eggs, barn eggs, 'taste the difference' eggs. Taste the difference? I'd have to buy a selection to achieve that. No, that would start getting expensive and would be far too time consuming. No mention of battery farm eggs I noticed. Not something you'd really want to advertise I suppose, if you were in their farmers' muddy shoes.

As I pondered away, wondering how much of my day I could justify spending on what really should have been an easy decision, I heard a voice ask me how I liked my eggs in the morning. A helpful question I thought. I could start with how I'd like them in the morning, think about lunch, then dinner. I could take into account all the egg based snacks I might have in the average day, then come to a decision about which ones to purchase for the best.

I was about to thank this helpful person, when I realised there was nobody around to fit that voice. I was surrounded by, well mostly eggs.
I soon realised that a song playing in the supermarket had got into my subconscious, and was helping me with my purchase. I wondered if this was really a coincidence. A song which talks predominantly about eggs,* being played at a moment when I'm trying to make a difficult decision about buying them. I thought that perhaps someone at the supermarket might be trying to assist me.

Excited by the possibility of a shop assistant watching me on CCTV, overseeing my shopping experience and trying to solve my difficult problems, I randomly picked up any old box of eggs and walked over to the section displaying kitchen cleaning paraphernalia. As I browsed through various pan scourers, scrubbers, and cloths, I kept an ear out for inspiration via the supermarket speakers.

Shakira - 'Hips don't lie.'

I continued with my shopping.

* Although this song, ' How do you like your eggs in the morning' briefly mentions toast, and a little about love, it's really all about eggs. The lyrics of this song were originally penned by famous diarist Samuel Pepys, when in a terrible moment during the great fire of London, he had to quickly purchase six good ones before the building burnt to the ground. These words were adapted for song in 1993 by Tim Rice, and it soon took form as the classic duet we all know and love by Paula Abdul and Alice Cooper. (Facts verified by Wikipedia.)

Be Careful What You Wish For

2007-12-16T18:25:00.000Z

I was walking along Kensington Hight Street looking for a present for a friend, and I couldn't think of what to buy.

How about a horse? I stupidly thought to myself, imagining me handing it over to the surprise, and probable annoyance of my friend. The next vehicle to pass me was a large horse carrying truck.*

Surprised by my silly thought's sudden leap into reality, I thought I'd try my luck with something a little more useful.

Sexy bitch who'll love me unconditionally.

Sexy bitch? I pondered. What does that mean? I don't even talk like that. As I debated this, I was stunned and slightly disappointed to see a golden retriever sitting in front of me.

This all reminded me that you really do have to be careful what you wish for. That, and I need to stop using gangster terminology in my thoughts, or I'll end up hanging around with female dogs and perhaps gardening implements usually used for weeding.

*I'm sure there is another term for this equestrian mode of transport, but I can't be bothered to research it.

Thanks! Bye!

2007-11-25T18:30:00.000Z

On the rare occasion I find myself in a cafe, I often witness people leaving with enthusiastic, jubilant, and sincere goodbyes, to be reciprocated by the grateful, friendly, yet slightly downtrodden cafe staff.

I however, finish my meal, put down my knife and fork, and I'm ready to leave. I plan my exit. It involves a compliment on the chef's delicious food, a cheery farewell, and a firm indication that I may be back soon.

I look in the direction of the kitchen, but nobody is looking. I wait a couple of minutes. I peer over once again, but all eyes are elsewhere. I stand up and make an elaborate gesture of putting on my coat, whether I have one or not, and pick up my bags, noisily scraping my chair across the floor. Still no one looks up. I rustle my belongings and trudge heavily towards the door. I turn around halfway and wave, but it fails to attract any attention. Finally I open the door and look over my shoulder with a big wave and say; "Byeeeeee!"

Nothing.

Why haven't I got any Cafe presence?

What Kind Of A Party Is This?

2007-10-19T00:19:00.001Z

This surely isn't what I think it is? My first thoughts were that it must be on another floor of the building. Perhaps the basement or the first floor aren't a part of the dental surgery. But I could see decorations in the window to the right (out of shot), and that's the dentist's reception.

Are kids these days really choosing to party with dental surgeons and hygienists in preference to balloon wielding clowns? Do they receive dental treatment throughout the gathering, plaque being scraped and teeth plucked from their little mouths to their favourite party tunes? Are they playing musical dental chairs? And what about the party food? I would imagine it's apples all round as anything sweet would certainly be off the menu.

I worry about the people of this area.

When To Speak

2007-09-23T23:30:00.001Z

Even in an emergency, it's best to speak in the gaps between the other person talking.

Squeak! Squeak!

2007-09-09T22:03:00.001Z

No, not my shoes, nor the floorboards. I recently discovered that I have some uninvited squeaky friends - Mice. Mice are a problem. It starts with one, eating your food and generally living in your house rent free. If you don't act on this immediately they think it's OK to invite some friends around. Soon after that they decide to start a family. They eat you out of house and home, (without even considering the washing up), poo everywhere, then in the most extreme cases start borrowing things without asking. Books, toothpaste, even hair products.

Looking for a more humane way to evict these unwanted guests than the traditional chopping off of their heads or gluing them to boards, I gave consideration to several possibilities. My first thought was to simply ask them to leave. I'm unaware of this technique ever being used before and thought it might be worth a shot. I left a note under the kitchen cupboard demanding a meeting with the head of the family at 11PM. No mouse to be seen. It was worth a try.

I then considered buying a cat. A cat chewing a mouse to death is still pretty vicious, but this is then no longer a crime committed by humanity and is therefore on the cat's conscience. What ever goes on between a consenting cat and mouse is really none of my business. I do however, as I've mentioned before, live above a shop frequented by poodles who aren't generally renowned for their harmonious relationships with cats.

Next on my list of ways to expel my furry friends is to trick them into believing there is a feline presence. I shall repeatedly play DVD's heavily featuring cats in starring roles, in hope that a nearby mouse believes a cat is in residence and decides to pack its bags. This will be supplemented with a bowl on the kitchen floor half full of cat food. A saucer of milk will follow. I will then sprinkle some cat fur around the place and perhaps scratch up the sofa.

I shall let you know how I get on.

I'm Back!

2007-09-03T09:31:00.000Z

I'm unhappy that I've left this blog unattended for such a long time but much has happened. I've been working the most ridiculous hours and sleep has become something I get on a flight somewhere, rather than in bed. That's no excuse alone, I've also been moving house. I have so much to talk about and it will grace this page in the form of words and images over the next few days.

I feel it appropriate to inform you now that I have moved into a flat above a poodle parlour. I am the only person I know, or have ever met who lives above a poodle parlour. If you know anyone in the same situation, or who has previously lived a life above such premises, please ask them to get in contact. I would like to start a global network of people sharing tips, recipes, proverbs and general ideas on life in close proximity to poodles. We may even become friends. More about that soon.

There are many stories to follow:

The blind leading the perfectly sighted. The ever more common instances of a lack of common sense. Interestingly phrased romantic gestures from men with their shirts undone on Myspace. (This may become a daily feature.)

Also coming soon - the rise and possible fall of a self professed internet Jesus.

I'll be right back...

Cat-Facts

2007-06-12T11:53:00.000Z

Do you ever feel you don't know enough about cats? Feel that you are being left behind? That your cat knowledge is just simply out of date, and that your after dinner conversation is simply lacking cat-facts?

Worry no more. You've just fallen on your feet! Impress your friends, family, colleagues, and even the man on the street with your feline knowledge by reciting facts from the link below:

Record Breaking Cats

Too Many Goodbyes, And A Strange Big Fly Thing.

2007-06-09T00:04:00.000Z

The title of this post would sum up all that happened this evening between approximately 2155, and 2200. I could just leave it at that, but it wouldn't tell you very much. I feel I need to elaborate.

I had been in the gym for about half an hour, when the only other user of the evening decided he wanted to chat. I don't usually speak to people in the gym because, well, I'm exercising, and I try to utilise all available time doing just that. He seemed like a nice enough chap though, and his conversation innocuous enough. He also appeared happy to engage in conversation with the back of my head, so I politely answered some of his questions about the gym. He was after all a new user.

A little later, just five minutes before we'd be chucked out, he made to leave and turned to say goodbye. I wished him a pleasant weekend and continued with my exercise. Two minutes later I finished up and made my way out. I saw him again, about to leave via the main doors presumably having visited the changing rooms.

We said goodbye once more. We'd already done this once I thought, but it would have been awkward to ignore him. I retrieved the deposit for my locker at reception, bid the girl behind the counter a good night, then exited into the car park.

Who should I see getting into his car half way across the car park, but Gym-Chat Man. Hmmm. This was getting silly now. He looked me right in the eye, so I felt compelled to say goodbye yet again. He mumbled something back then got into his car.

It was then that a huge, and I mean huge, black flying insect thing the size of a small bird came flying at my face. It was big, ugly, black, with big wings, and a big red tail, and was trying to follow me as I attempted to avoid it.

What was this thing? It was huge, and ugly, and black, with big wings and a red tail! What did it want with me? I'm not really bothered by insects, but this was quite scary. I've never seen one of these before. I'd love to know what it was.

After successfully avoiding the beast I continued down the private road leaving the gym. I was soon passed by Gym-Chat-Goodbye-Man. I tried to avoid another good bye, but I'm sure I detected a nod through the window.

I then passed him again at the traffic lights and decided to look in the opposite direction. What did this man want with me? How many times can you say good bye?

What the hell was that devil creature?

A Giant Peers Through My Window

2007-05-24T22:08:00.000Z

It was early this morning I was awoken by something less familiar than my alarm clock. My window was open an inch to allow in some air, and the blind most of the way down.

I awake to the window moving noisily by itself. It is opening more and more until a hairy hand appears on the window sill. This is strange as I live on the first floor. Not the postman, I conclude. He usually uses the letter box. The shadow of a large head is cast across the blind.

A big boomy voice wants to know if anyone is in here.

A Giant! We have Giants. Are they dangerous? Should I call a pest control company to install some Giant traps? You never know how quickly this could spread. As I gently ease myself back into reality from the depths of my much needed sleep, I recall the scaffolding that had been erected around my house by my landlord's building contractors. It is not a Giant at all. It is a painter and decorator trying to give the window frame an undercoat.

"Is there any chance of opening a window around the back?" He enquires.

"No, but there is a much greater chance of me asking you to start work later." I reply, looking at my clock in disbelief at a time I thought was only possible in the evening.

"OK."

I'll be the first to admit I'm not at my most helpful in the morning, particularly to suspected Giants leaning in through my window with paintbrushes. My windows have now been painted shut.

It looks as though I will have this kind of awakening for the next few days. I'm concerned that a builder/painter has such easy access to my kitchen via a ladder and scaffolding. I'm not casting any aspersions, but let's just say I shall be counting the tea bags over the next few days- if you know what I mean.

What A Delight!

2007-05-16T23:44:00.001Z

This has to be my last toilet related post now for some time. I do seem to spend a lot of time talking about such matters, and to be honest if I continue to I'll have to rename this blog Stories From The Loo.
But this is worth mentioning. I found this at Stansted Airport.

I think that they're perhaps being a little over optimistic about the potential response from customers regarding their toilet facilities. I don't think I can remember the last time I left any toilet feeling delighted with the experience. What could they possibly be doing in there to create such a delightful experience? It certainly didn't meet such expectations, although I did refrain from calling the 'delightful facilities hotline' to report that toilet block DS31 was merely adequate.

Two Fine Ways To Save The Planet

2007-05-14T00:08:00.000Z

I recently read an article about yet another rock star trying to save the planet. While I appreciate that there is likely to be a bigger picture, and that this artist is probably doing a lot to raise awareness of global warming, this particular article detailed some of the ideas from singer songwriter Sheryl Crow, which were among the most bizarre I've ever heard. She says:

"I have spent the better part of this tour trying to come up with easy ways for us all to become a part of the solution to global warming. Although my ideas are in the earliest stages of development, they are, in my mind, worth investigating."

So. What are we talking about here? Less flying? Energy saving lightbulbs becoming compulsory worldwide? Less farming? A ban on junk mail? Compulsory recycling?

Less eating?

"I propose a limitation be put on how many squares of toilet paper can be used in any one sitting."

She even specifies that one be used for one situation, and two or three on those other 'pesky' occasions. By pesky occasions I assume she is referring to going for a poo. How could this even be enforceable? Is she proposing some kind of electronic device attached to the toilet roll dispenser monitoring all goings on? Or would it be detected in the sewers - some kind of congestion charge?
Could there be a day in the near future where you pick up a four pack in the local supermarket, only to have a store detective sternly shaking his head. "I don't think so sonny... You were in here last week."

But if that was all silly enough, I was totally bemused by the next suggestion:

'She has designed a clothing line with what she calls a "dining sleeve". The sleeve is detachable and can be replaced with another "dining sleeve" after the diner has used it to wipe his or her mouth.'

This is designed to combat the waste of paper napkins. Does she really think that people are going to carry around a bag full of matching sleeves? If you're going to do that, you might as well just carry a napkin! What would happen in the summer? Perhaps we could use detachable trouser legs. This would allow us to clean our mouths, and give us a pair of shorts for after the meal - all whilst saving the environment. Brilliant!

I'd like to think that the article's aim was just to ridicule, picking out only the silliest ideas, and that there are many more useful suggestions in the pipeline.

But you never know...

Important Signs

2007-05-02T22:42:00.000Z

I didn't have to campaign too hard to get some help creating a sign to prevent this antisocial habit. I haven't as yet seen it on any public transport, but I live in hope.

I have however, seen another sign which took me by surprise. I found this in Germany, and had to wonder whether this is a huge annoyance on the continent. So much so that something had to be done about it. I wonder if this rule is enforced?

Tomato Tamootoo, Potato Patootoo

2007-04-17T21:37:00.000Z

I had my groceries delivered today. Always a thrilling experience. Loads of food delivered straight to your door. It does sometimes come with complications however, substitutions. Today I noticed that the bag of potatoes I ordered were on the substitution list. The list said that they had been replaced with some plum tomatoes. Not an ideal substitution I thought. Who ever heard of jacket tomato with cheese and beans?
There was another substitution replaced with an unwanted item which took us a while to track down. While we were searching through the hundreds of partially full carrier bags, I caught a whiff of the delivery driver's terrible B.O. How unpleasant.

I had to conclude that this may not be his fault. Perhaps his deodorant had been substituted for some plum tomatoes.

New Socks

2007-04-16T21:39:00.000Z

Today I wore a new pair of socks I bought from a department store at the weekend. When I took them to the counter the shop assistant began to make polite conversation, pretty reluctantly at first it seemed until her training kicked in.

'A beautiful day.' she remarked.

'Yes.' I replied. I felt the need to follow it up with something.

'Not so nice for you I suppose, stuck in here all day.'

'I don't mind I finish soon. So, treating yourself for the weekend are you?' She asked, putting my purchase into a carrier bag. I felt like I was in a barber shop in the 1960's with conversation like this.

'Er, no' I replied. 'Not much of a treat a pair of socks.' We ended this ridiculous forced conversation and I left the shop to go home.

The following day I went to work wearing my new socks and felt great. It's quite a feeling wearing new socks, that feels like no other. Maybe that's why the shop assistant thought it a treat to buy a pair of socks. I guess this is similar to Paolo Nutini's feeling when wearing new shoes as described in his song. At least, that's what I think he's singing about, I can't be bothered to listen to the whole song.

Maybe I would if it were called 'New Socks.'

Apology For 'Idiots' Election Ban

2007-04-06T12:25:00.000Z

I read a story in the news today stating that Bournemouth council has apologised for banning "lunatics, idiots, deaf and dumb" people from standing for election. Apparently this wording was used in an information pack issued to candidates in Bournemouth, stating that the above were disqualified from standing.

An electoral services officer has said that the terms were from election law written in 1766, and have since been amended. He added that such language is unacceptable today, and that his council treats all people fairly regardless of the following:

Sexual orientation - fair enough.
Age - fair enough.
Religious belief - fair enough.
Disability - fair enough.
Gender - fair enough.
Race - fair enough.

No mention of idiots. What about the idiots? Are they not allowed?

Why can't we have idiots in power?

Beggar's Belief

2007-03-27T00:34:00.000Z

I was approached by a beggar whilst walking in Camden. I say I was walking. That wasn't the purpose of the trip. I hadn't decided to go walking then chosen Camden as the ideal spot. I was on my way home from somewhere, but somewhere quite irrelevant to this story and I just chose not disclose those particular details. I'd just like you to know, that it was nothing suspicious and everything was above board, morally and legally. (I have witnesses.)

Anyway this beggar chose to make his acquaintance by inquiring into the contents of my pockets. Did I have any change, perhaps left over from this evening's as yet undisclosed, but not necessarily out of the ordinary events, and was any of it in fact spare. That's not exactly how he phrased it, but you get the general idea. I replied in the nicest possible way that it was unfortunate, but there was no change presently lining my pockets.

That seemed like a natural end to the conversation and I attempted to continue my journey to, well, wherever it was that I was going. Had I been wearing a cap it would almost certainly have been doffed, and had I been in a nineteen-thirties film I would definitely have bid him a good evening and strode off into the street-lit night.

But it wasn't a nineteen-thirties film, and I wasn't wearing a cap, and this was no ordinary beggar, and this was not the end of the conversation. The beggar's line of questioning had taken an unexpected twist. He understood from my answer that I had no change, but from that very answer he must deduce that I did indeed have something, so what was it?

I had no desire to give the man a twenty pound note, and I felt it unlikely that he had in his possession one of those wireless credit card terminals. I decided to lie about the twenty pound note and about carrying any cards, just in case he did have the appropriate facilities. I didn't want to get tricked any further by this man.

'I have nothing.' Was my reply, and I made off to disappear into the night like in the nineteen-thirties film.
'Fucking Arsehole.' He shouted after me, not much like the dialogue from a nineteen-thirties film, but at least he was wearing a top hat.

Travel

2007-03-08T12:01:00.000Z

It is a time of travel.

My flatmate is in Canada.

My parents are in the Dominican Republic.

My brother is in South Africa.

I left a travel card in my jeans and put them in the wash. All my clothes are covered in travel.

Small Medium Or Large Sir?

2007-02-17T00:46:00.000Z

Now you would imagine that with a title like 'Stories From The 'Spoon', all you would read about is spoons. You would be wrong. The blog isn't about spoons, the title doesn't even refer to a literal spoon, and I usually have little cause to mention them. But when i see something quite exceptional, spoon related or otherwise, I feel a need to share it with you.

It had been an unfulfilling meeting. I was plodding across the bridge taking in the scenery, trying to shake off the dissatisfaction the morning had brought, when I decided to stop for a cup of tea. An expensive hot beverage from a huge American chain was sure to invigorate me, breathing some life into my day. Ahead of me were some cheerful, brightly dressed, clipboard wielding beings accosting pedestrians, no doubt in an attempt to extract monies for their good cause. I increased my pace, trying to make my walk appear more purposeful. Can't they see I'm busy? A do-gooder intentionally blocked my path.

"Get out of my way!" I demanded, wading through the young man's abundance of enthusiasm. "I'm in a hurry."
I took two or three more steps of angry walk then ambled off into a coffee shop for an important meeting with myself.
Soft New Orleans style jazz was being piped through the room infused with the strong aroma of coffee beans. There were a few tables free, and some comfy leather chairs available at the far end. I knew where I was going. I ordered a tea, hesitating for a while on the choice of small, medium or large. Well how did I know how large the cups were? I'd never been here before. I took the safe option of medium, paid, then carried my cup over to the bin to dispose of the tea bag.
I crossed the room, passing the two other customers. An extremely old man to the left, who appeared to be nursing a near empty, small cup of tea. To the right, a man with a huge bushy beard. It is worth mentioning that this beard looked almost too perfect. I suspected foul play.

It was only after I eased myself into the comfy leather chair that I became aware of something strange. In front of me, a perfectly ordinary scene. A cup of tea, a saucer and a spoon. Yet something seemed proportionately wrong.

The cup, the saucer, the tea. It all looked fine. I shrugged it off thinking it was a consequence of sleep deprivation, a trick of the mind. I picked up the spoon to stir my tea, and could not believe my eyes.

It was the largest tea spoon I had ever seen! At no point did I remember ordering a medium tea with an extra large spoon. I searched my wallet to check the receipt. It had not been itemised. I looked around and observed that neither Old Man nor Fake Beard had spoons this large. I know I'm not very wise with the language of coffee shops, but had I inadvertently requested this?

Puzzled at why I was given such a spoon, I started thinking that this may be a freak of Spoonkind. Perhaps an accident at the spoon factory, or someone's idea of a joke. But then I began to wonder whether I was seeing this from the wrong perspective. Was it an exceptionally long tea spoon, or was it simply a dessert spoon with an incredibly small head?

It makes you wonder what else is out there..

Ring Ring

2007-02-09T20:22:00.000Z

Everyone I've called today, be it business or pleasure, has failed to answer the phone. I've spent the whole day speaking to various answer phones, and none of my calls were returned.

I tried calling myself just to see if I would answer. I diverted my call to voicemail.

The Deceptive Stain

2007-02-05T23:38:00.001Z

This morning saw my usual hurry to get out of the flat. Once again I left it until the very last minute to crawl out of bed, then bleary eyed I jumped into the shower. I didn't actually jump into the shower, that would have been a pointless waste of energy, wouldn't have saved me any time whatsoever, and could have been dangerous. But that's just what people say.

When satisfied that I was sufficiently clean for the day ahead, I back-flipped out of the bathroom and headed for my room to dress. I picked up a clean long-sleeved-jumpery thing from the radiator where it had been drying and put it on. This had been removed from the washing machine the previous evening and smelt extremely fresh. I must emphasise its freshness. It was very clean and fresh.

When dressed, and not a moment before, I cleaned my teeth before leaving the flat. I was halfway up the hill to the station, when I noticed a long white stain on my otherwise fresh and clean jumper. What was this? I had managed to stain it within minutes of wearing it. It must have happened when I was cleaning my teeth. Without altering my pace, because I really did have a train to catch, I emptied some water from my bottle into my hand and proceeded to rub on the stain. Hey Presto! It disappeared. Easy!

But I've been here before. The toothpaste stain is a complex one. If you soiled your clothing with most other things, you would either be able to remove it quickly, or not. It would be instantly apparent. The toothpaste stain however, gives the illusion of disappearing right before your very eyes, yet somehow it returns later in the day.

I arrived at the station and bought my ticket from the machine, smiling to myself smugly at the queue of people who were waiting for the attention of the man in the ticket office. I hopped down the stairs to the platform, then looked down to find I was still wearing toothpaste. It was back once again, bold as brass, like it had been there all along. This prompted another attempt to remove the troublesome, and frankly devious stain. I scrubbed a little harder than before and for a little longer. Surely this would be an end to the matter?

Two more times during the day I tried and failed. As I type, the toothpaste still has a weak hold on my clothing. How is it so difficult to remove? How does it give the illusion of disappearing for a period of less than an hour but more than ten minutes?

Lies!

2007-01-30T00:31:00.001Z

There are official bodies to protect the consumer from over-zealous advertising companies telling us untruths to sell their clients products. So you would think that it is safe to believe what's written on the label of any product you buy from, say the supermarket. Wouldn't you? This evening my attention was drawn to an outright lie printed on the packaging of something I use everyday.

"Up to 18 hours fresh breath."

You've probably guessed I'm referring to mouthwash. Although this statement may as well be printed on a packet of hoover bags for all the truth it holds. How can they get away with so boldly claiming such nonsense? There isn't a mouthwash in the world that could last that long. When have you ever eaten lunch to find you can still taste this morning's mouthwash? When have you ever woken in the morning still feeling fresh from the previous evening's application?

I ate a curry this evening, then afterwards swigged some of this miracle mouthwash. I could taste curry again within ten minutes.

How can the mouthwash industry tell such lies? Hoover bag companies don't claim to give you up to eighteen hours clean carpet confidence now do they?

A Diary Of The Events Leading Up To and Following The Running Out Of Washing Up Liquid

2007-01-17T01:37:00.000Z

Day 1.

It becomes apparent that I am nearly out of washing up liquid. The thought doesn't occupy my mind for too long, I continue with my day unaffected.

Day 2.

I am very close to finishing the bottle. I manage to squeeze enough out to complete this morning's washing up. I make a mental note to buy some on the way home from work. I put the bottle upside down to allow the remaining liquid to gather at the top ready for the next application.

Day 3.

Having forgotten to make the aforementioned purchase on the way home from work the previous evening, I curse myself for such stupidity, promise to buy some tomorrow, and squeeze out the remaining washing up liquid.
The dishes come up a treat, squeaky clean. They won't be so fortunate tomorrow however, if I don't get another bottle.

There's definitely no more to be squeezed from here, I put it back next to the sink on its head once more, just in case.

Day 4.

How will I be able to keep the dishes in the manner to which they've been accustomed, if I can't remember to buy any washing up liquid?
I half-heartedly squeeze the bottle, not expecting much. Yet somehow, miraculously, just enough seeps out to allow me to continue the job. The dishes glisten and gleam.

Tomorrow is the day. The empty bottle is once more turned on its head and placed next to the sink, (although I definitely won't forget again.)

Day 5.

I squeeze and squeeze, but nothing. I have used it all. There is none left. I haven't time to go to the shop but refuse to leave the dishes neglected. There must be a way.

I pour water from the tap into the empty bottle and shake it around a bit. There are some bubbles, phew!
I add this heavily diluted liquid to the sink and just about manage to achieve clean dishes once more.
There really is no more. If I fail to bring some home tomorrow, its all over. I have to find a way to remember.

Day 6

I load the dishes into the sink and add water. I then reach for the washing up liquid, but I'm hit with the terrifying realisation that I still haven't remembered to buy any. I take a look at the sink. Dirty plates, bowls, spoons, looking back up at me in disgust through the clear water.

How will we get clean now? A dirty mug taunts me.

I can think of nothing. I frantically rack my brains for a way out of this sordid mess. The dirty cutlery laughs at me. In desperation I grab the empty Fairy Liquid bottle, and throw it in the sink in hope that something magical will happen. Nothing does. The dishes will have to wait. I'll have to make a trip to the supermarket tomorrow.

Damn.

Come back tomorrow to observe the dramatic conclusion of this epic adventure. One man and his struggle to remember much needed household items...

Self-Service Nation

2007-01-16T02:22:00.001Z

Today I visited a well known supermarket chain's, convenience store in central London. One of those mini supermarkets that have sprung up all over the country. All traditional grocery stores have been driven out of business and replaced by these soulless, almost identical stores. But this isn't a rant about the homogenous modern world. It isn't even a rant about huge companies getting richer and richer at the expense of the poor independent shop keeper trying to earn an honest living.
No. This is a rant about these companies being too tight to employ staff and trying to make the customer do all the work. Today I observed a revolution in supermarket shopping. Self service payment.

I had put all the items I required into my basket, and headed straight for the checkout. I saw a queue for a till operator with about five people in front of me. I looked across the store for another and saw there were no other manned checkouts. The old ones had been replaced with a new concept. The self service till. There was one member of staff frantically trying to get us old school shoppers to join the revolution, but I was defiant.

If I take my shopping over there, swipe the barcode of each item, pack it into carrier bags, put my card in the machine, swipe for reward points, enter my PIN, then colect my receipt, I have just started working in a shop. Of course it's done in the name of saving time. But wouldn't having a row of competent till operators be just as quick? They're just trying to save money, and I'm not falling for it. Once they get you hooked on this idea, notices like this could become commonplace:

Would customers please take a box on entering the shop, and empty the contents of it on the relevant shelves, thank you. (Come on, it'll be quicker than waiting for us to do it, and you're going that way anyway.)

Would six customers please come to help unload the truck. (it's in your interests, otherwise there will be nothing on the shelves to choose from.)

Could customers please get involved in the bakery. (This bread isn't going to bake itself.)

I hope this isn't going to become a way of life in supermarkets. At the moment I refuse to do it on principal, but how long before it becomes normal?

This reminded me of a recent trip to a well known pizza restaurant. I was strongly encouraged towards the option of the buffet. Self service, eat as much as you like for a set amount. I noticed there were hardly any staff, no wonder they wanted me to serve myself. Naturally I refused, and ordered something from the menu. But if I hadn't?

I could have greeted myself in a welcoming friendly manner, and shown myself to a seat of my choosing. Upon deciding what to eat, I would have gone and filled a plate with pizza, serving it to myself at my table, not forgetting to offer the option of black pepper.

"Enjoy your meal."
"Thank you."

I would have waited until I had a mouth full of food before asking if everything was to my satisfaction. I would have nodded my approval convincingly. After refusing my kind offer of dessert, I would pay the waiter, who did absolutely nothing, then leave tipping myself handsomely.

Eggs

2007-01-11T15:54:00.001Z

Eggs. Everyone likes eggs. Well, except for vegans perhaps. And maybe hens. They're probably sick to death of them. I guess if you had an allergy or a phobia of the shelled goodness, then you wouldn't be too keen.* On the whole though, eggs are very popular. But love them as you will, nobody wants egg on their face. Nor do they want to be wearing one. Many politicians will find themselves victims of egg crime at some point in their lives. Some feel that politicians deserve to be 'egged' when they make a wrong decision. Some people just go out 'egging' for fun, which brings me to the point of this post.

It was a cold, dark, winter night. (It always is in this kind of story.) I had decided to go to the gym which was a bus ride away, but tonight I felt the need to walk. It was a two mile walk which would take me approximately half an hour. I put my earphones in and turned up my favourite walking tunes on my Ipod. I happily marched towards the gym in time with the music in my own world. I was about three quarters of the way there, on the home stretch, when something happened which would change my relationship with eggs forever.

Two objects were thrown at me from a passing car. One landed close in front of me, the other just behind me. What were these objects? You've guessed it. Eggs. They splattered on the floor around me, it looked like a scene from some kind of egg disaster movie. The kind that is often shown to rookie egg delivery drivers on their first day at work.
"Bastards!" I didn't bother to shout out, as the car had long since disappeared from earshot. I looked myself up and down to see if my clothing had suffered any casualties. I was amazed to discover that there was no egg on me or my clothing whatsoever. I couldn't believe my luck. The weapon had been totally ineffective. I continued on my way to the gym and soon forgot about the incident.

How did this change my relationship with eggs? Be patient. This was only the beginning.

I completed my very satisfying work out, and left the gym with a much exaggerated memory of my last look in the mirror. Looking good! I followed the same route home, once again marching along to my favourite tunes. I purposely crossed the road to study the crime scene once more, and had to laugh at my good fortune. The eggs were less than a foot apart. It was fairly miraculous that I'd had such a clean escape. I reached for my Ipod to change the dreadful song that had just started in my ears, then happy with the new choice, continued on my way home. I had walked about fifty metres when I saw another egg splattered on the floor. Probably the work of the same egg gang I deduced. They must have been throwing eggs at somebody else. I passed, wondering if the other person had been as lucky as I was. About another fifty metres and I turned off the main road, still following the same route I had walked earlier. To my surprise there was another egg splattered on the pavement. A while later another, then another. They were nearly all the way home. Then it dawned on me.
I had been the target all along! I had walked the best part of two miles oblivious to the fact that a car was following me, trying to throw eggs at me. How had I missed this? More importantly, how had they managed to miss me, on what appeared to be at least twelve attacks?

Maybe the weapons operator was a bad shot. Someone who was never any good at rounders or frisby. They could have been heavy, awkward shaped eggs, making them difficult to throw. But I like to think that I have some kind of egg force-field. A special relationship. The eggs refused to hit me. Why? I cannot explain this right now. Maybe it will never be fully understood.

One of the great natural mysteries.

*Alfred Hitchcock reportedly had a phobia of eggs.

"I’m frightened of eggs, worse than frightened, they revolt me. That white round thing without any holes … have you ever seen anything more revolting than an egg yolk breaking and spilling its yellow
liquid?"

This is a recognised condition known as Ovophobia. You can't say that the Spoon doesn't give you the odd interesting fact from time to time...

Who Has The Time?

2007-01-07T14:58:00.001Z

I've never been one to queue. I can't bear standing in line, slowly shuffling forward for what seems to be an eternity. Everyone would claim to feel the same way. You never hear anybody declare their love for queues.
"I hope it's busy at the supermarket today, I really fancy a good queue."

I guess some people are just better at it than others. I simply cannot wait at a post office. I'll come back another day. I've seen people in line at cash machines, bars and restaurants. I'll come back later or go elsewhere. However, these all seem to me to be legitimate reasons to be in a queue, if you have the patience.

Imagine my surprise when I saw this group of people waiting outside a bakery on a cold morning in Glasgow.

How could you justify the half hour wait it would take here, just to be presented with a cake, pasty or sausage roll? This would take forever! How badly could you need a doughnut? I wouldn't stand in a queue that long if they were giving away free ten pound notes!

I give it to you ladies and gentlemen, an example of people who love to queue!

The Lure Of Doing Everyday Things Wearing A Space Suit

2006-12-25T14:48:00.000Z

It's not unusual for street entertainers to draw huge crowds in London. Often in Covent Garden I see tourists gathered around people juggling, standing still like a statue, or playing a tune. It seems you can do almost anything to get the attention of such an audience. This one however, I didn't understand. I saw an unusual amount of people standing together all staring appreciatively into the same area. My first thought was that there had been an accident and that the tourists were just enjoying the moment. I then realised that there was some kind of entertainment on show, but I still couldn't see what it was. To my surprise I discovered a man, centre of attention drinking a bottle of Lucozade. He was dressed as a spaceman, but only from the head down. He must be taking a break, I decided and stood there a little longer anticipating his next move.
Next he began to straighten his hair in a mirror. The crowd loved it! This went on for a while, then he reverted to drinking some more. How was this so entertaining? There were at least one hundred people watching this and loving every minute. I'm now certain that this was his act. Just doing everyday things near a London monument, dressed as a space man. Brilliant!

A Restaurateur And Some Crumbs

2006-12-18T02:06:00.002Z

I was sitting in a restaurant waiting for my meal when I noticed that the waitress who'd shown me to my table, had crumbs around her mouth. At first I saw this as confirmation that the food was good. So good that even the staff ate here, but then my suspicious brain started to find fault with this theory.

Was this all for my benefit? Had the crumbs been worn to make me think this? I eventually decided that the woman's facial accompaniment was genuine, but could I be certain that these crumbs were from a meal in this restaurant? Only close analysis could answer this question, and I really didn't have the time. I needed to trust my instincts and accept that this was the case. Any remanent from breakfast, or the previous evening's dinner would surely have been washed off by now, or at least blown away on the journey to work.

No, these crumbs had to be fresh, but I still wasn't happy. There was the risk that some of these could find their way into my lunch. I found this worrying to the point of nearly cancelling my order. There was also the possibility that she was skimming off the top. Imagine the chef loading up the plates, satisfied that a hearty meal had been provided for the waiting customer, then the greedy woman eating half of it before it even gets to them.

I was finally served by the food thief to discover that they were in fact bread crumbs. I had no bread on my plate, so I was probably safe. But had there been when Chef handed the plate over?

I just couldn't trust this woman.

A Strange Expression

2006-12-18T01:30:00.000Z

I've spent the day working with somebody relatively inexperienced telling me how to do my job. Some might say it was like teaching a grandmother to suck eggs. But not me.

In all my years of childhood memories I have no single recollection of my grandmother, or indeed anyone, sucking eggs. What would have been the purpose of such activity? Who would it have impressed? Would they have been cooked? If so, boiled, poached, or fried?

I'm sure someone out there knows what this saying means, but most of us don't. So why say it?

Eggs. Grandmothers. Sucking. It's all very strange.

Sorry I'm late...

2006-12-07T20:18:00.000Z

Some days you walk down the street, a perfectly wide street with enough room for everyone. You see someone walking towards you, you're heading straight for each other. One of you needs to change course to avoid collision. You both move to the left. This is no good. You both move to the right. This is terrible. You've now had to stop. You move the same way once more, then the other. Finally you agree on a way forward, and continue your journey.

What do you call this? This happens all the time, yet I don't know of a name for it. How many people have been late for appointments, for work, for flights because of this very phenomenon?

It keeps me awake at night.

The Shopkeeper's Eyes

2006-12-04T23:45:00.001Z

I had a different local shop experience today. I entered the shop and walked around it the same way I always do. I started down the left aisle, walked all the way to the back, then down the second aisle stopping halfway down to pick up my item. This has become a strange habit in any shop I frequent. I stick to the same route no matter what. Why didn't I head straight for aisle two and pick up the biscuits I came for?

I took them to the counter. The shopkeeper looked me in the eye, then smiled. He revealed the price, took my money, gave me my change, then looked me in the eye again thanking me for my custom.

I've never locked eyes with a shopkeeper before. A price is usually mumbled. I ask them to repeat, feeling awkward for interrupting their phone call. Still not understanding the second, slightly louder yet equally incoherent reply, I peer over at the cash register's display to determine how much I owe. A greedy, grubby hand is extended reaching for the money in mine like a robotic arm. The following silence signals the completion of our transaction.

There was something strangely hypnotic about that look. His eyes were telling me something. They were telling me I had made an excellent choice. I had picked the tastiest biscuits from his fine, exquisite, and frankly mouth-watering range. I'd been wise in choosing to shop at his fine emporium. I was welcome in his shop any time, and he extended his love to my family, my closest friends, and the reader of any literature relating to this joyous transaction. All was well. Peace and happiness to all!

To an outsider, my shopping trip could not be distinguished from any other. It was all about the eyes. The eyes.

I shall shop there again.

Eating Sushi In A Slightly Run Down Open Space In North London

2006-11-27T00:30:00.000Z

On Friday I ate sushi in a slightly run down open space in North London. This wasn't a planned picnic, it just happened. Should you ever feel the need to do such a thing yourself, either through accidentally finding yourself in that situation or as a result of meticulous planning, you should read the following review.

I grew apprehensive as I assessed the scene. Was this the place to consume such culinary delights? There was an old drunk sitting on a bench cursing at a tree, a small group of rowdy school kids smoking cigarettes on another, and a flock of belligerent looking pigeons separating them. On the verge of turning around and lunching elsewhere, a sudden wave of defiance took hold. This was as much my space as theirs. I wasn't going to allow myself to be intimidated.

I could see a vacant bench at the far end of the small green area overlooking an imposing housing estate. Hiding my bag of food from the all-seeing pigeons, I waded through the rubbish towards my selected picnic spot. I sat down, pulled out the package containing my lunch, and sombrely took in my surroundings. It wasn't long before the first interruption made itself known. I was literally just beginning to eat when I felt movement around my feet. Damn pigeons! They're on to me already. I didn't look down and continued to eat. I could still feel something persistently pecking around my feet. I soon discovered that my aggressor wasn't in fact a feathered challenge for my food, but a reminder that the food I was attempting to eat really wasn't the norm around here. A Mcdonalds bag was attacking me, probably because I was eating something healthy. I lifted my feet allowing it to continue its journey towards the estate in front of me. This opened the floodgates for all manner of cartons and wrappers of the same kind.

Peace again. About halfway through my meal, I noticed the group of school kids edging towards me. How cool they looked puffing on their cigarettes. I must reconsider my position on smoking. I knew I wouldn't get through my lunch without another interruption, so I braced myself for some juvenile social interaction. They slowed to a snails pace as they passed, then the conversation began.

"Mmmm, that looks nice." Commented the cocky one of the outfit between deep puffs of his cigarette.

"Yes it is." I replied, considering which bit to devour next.

"Can I have some?" Paved the way for some giggling from the other boys. This guy clearly has a career ahead of him in comedy.

There was just about enough time between mouthfuls for me to decline the boy's request. "No." With that they disappeared in a cloud of their own smoke.

My next interruption arrived on four legs. A small dog now approached the scene, his wet nose homing in on the contents of my carrier bag. He didn't seem too deterred by my pulling the bag from his reach, and proceeded to climb up me to get what was rightfully his. Intervention came in the form of his owner running to my rescue. Mumbling an apology from under his breath, he picked up the dog, turned him around, then put him down, pointing him in the direction he wished him to travel. Not easily distracted from his mission, the dog simply turned around and continued his attempt to steal my food. I've always paid particular attention the saying, 'a fool is not some one who makes mistakes, but some one who doesn't learn from them.'
The fool picked up his dog, turned him around, then put him down again pointing him in the direction he wished him to travel. Finally forced to admit defeat, the fool carried his dog until he was on the other side of the gate.

I had just finished the sushi and unwrapped a chocolate brownie. I'd intended to finish my lunch where I was, until I noticed two of the pigeons huddled together speaking in low voices. Before I knew it all eyes were on me and the distance was closing. The sight of fifty or more beaks marching towards me prompted an instant withdrawal. I left hurriedly, passing the drunk to throw my rubbish in the bin.

'Fucking idiot!' He shouted at an Oak. The tree ignored him.

I don't think I'll eat there again.

The (Inevitable) Pre-Christmas Rant

2006-11-23T17:06:00.001Z

A card received on the 10th of November saw the beginning of Christmas for me. I picked up the envelope from the mat after sifting through the various food delivery leaflets, and opened it to the tune of bangers and rockets whizzing around the dark wintery sky. It seems that one excuse for commercial exploitation in the name of festive occasion, seems to blend seamlessly into another. I opened the card to discover a deeply sentimental and heartfelt Christmas message from the local Chinese take-away. How nice. Perhaps I should pre-book a delivery of Christmas dinner. Turkey chow mein perhaps, with stir-fried potatoes and Brussels sprouts.  

As the fireworks become more and more infrequent, leaving one die hard culprit who just can't bear to see it all end, the hype surrounding Christmas starts to pick up pace. Turning-on-the-lights ceremonies begin around the country, proud engineers flicking switches to showcase their arty illumination of shopping areas, only to be upstaged by some pop star of the minute hitting a fake button on the other side of the street. More and more festive adverts become hard to ignore on television and radio. Many discussions can be heard about what everyone is doing for Christmas. (I must stop eavesdropping on the neighbours, those phone taps are probably illegal.)

  It's quite clear to most that this festive occasion has become more about retail than religion, with particular emphasis on a bearded man that breaks into people's houses via the chimney, leaving presents in return for biscuits, carrots, and a big bottle of vodka.(Maybe that was just my in my house.) We've all gladly accepted that it's now a time to buy presents for our friends and family, which certainly isn't a bad thing. It seems however, that we can't even be bothered to do this anymore. I overheard a man showing off to his friend about how he'd completed his Christmas shopping online in 15 minutes. The large retail stores have a team of Christmas shoppers selecting presents, wrapping them, adding a gift tag, then sending them to the appropriate address. One day we'll just transfer some money online and the shops will choose an appropriate gift. Just type in a few details about the recipient, and they'll do the rest for you. A shopper will personally deliver your presents, stay for dinner, then catch up on all the family gossip over a nice game of charades.

 This year I've decided to give something different. Obviously it's no longer the done thing to buy thoughtful presents and wrap them, so I will be sending vouchers. I thought that this year I'd try something even less imaginative. Parking ticket vouchers might be a nice gift, were they to exist, or even prescription vouchers. I could give the joy of illegal parking or perhaps keep a rash at bay.  

That's enough rambling for now, I must go because I need to send a Christmas card to my local Chinese restaurant.

Happy Listening

2006-11-18T00:15:00.001Z

I had to change the earphones for my Ipod today. I put them in my ears then hurried off through the front door, taking care to lock it after me. Well, I didn't want to take chances just because I had different earphones. It didn't take me long to realise that the little rubber doobries that come with them didn't fit properly. They seemed to me to be too small. This meant firstly that the background noise was almost as loud as the music, meaning that I couldn't entirely shut out the world I desperately try to ignore, and secondly that the music sounded as though I was listening to it through an old telephone handset.

I continued my journey not particularly bothered by it, thinking more about the downpour that had just begun. It rained harder than I've known in a long time. I can safely say that I was the wettest I had been since I'd stepped out of the shower this morning.

After about half an hour of struggling through the fiercely inclement weather, I decided to abort my mission. Absolutely soaked to the bone, I pointed my umbrella in a homeward direction and prepared for take off. As I walked something made me smile. I have no idea what it was, but that's not really the point. Let's not dwell on that. No really, leave it.

This brief and rare event had made the sound in my ears fuller, more music, less background noise. The smile seemed to make my ears smaller. (Or the earphones bigger.) I decided that for the rest of my journey home, a full fifteen minutes, I was going to walk along with the biggest fixed grin you could possibly imagine.

I got some very strange looks.

Never Lose Your Car Again...

2006-11-11T02:26:00.000Z

...With one of these.
Have you ever forgotten where you've parked your car? At the airport, the multi-storey, the service station, or even just on your street? You need never worry again with this new, highly portable, weather-proof and stylish device.

More About Beards

2006-11-11T02:05:00.000Z

After much deliberation, and as a result of underwhelming demand, I have decided to post pictures of the beards.

Here is the longest ever beard to grow on a man's chin.

Here is the longest beard ever to grow on a woman's chin.

A match made in heaven. If only he wasn't dead! Is it true that your hair continues to grow after you die? He may still be breaking records from the grave. There might be a large beard growing from the ground near his headstone, reaching for the sky like a giant beanstalk.

Here is a chart about beards. There are more beards than I could have possibly imagined! I particularly like beard numbers twelve and sixteen.

I shall never mention beards on this blog again.

Beard Facts

2006-11-08T14:24:00.000Z

The longest beard ever recorded on a man is 5.62 metres.

The longest beard ever recorded on a woman is 27.9 centimetres.

Come on women! You're just not making the effort.

Anyone who would like to see pictures of these hairy chins, don't hesitate to ask. Links can be provided.

Blind Fury

2006-11-03T01:47:00.000Z

The District Line train pulled into Victoria to a busy, overcrowded platform. The doors opened and everyone clumsily moved aside to allow people to leave. Most of the passengers had left, when a middle-aged woman with blonde hair began to board the train. A battered old guitar was simultaneously attempting to exit the carriage, strapped to a heavily bearded man. A small group of us anticipated a collision as it became obvious by the colour of the woman's stick, that she was visually impaired.

An attempt was made to warn the guitar wielding walking beard that she couldn't see him, which led to quite an outburst from the owner of the white stick. She stepped back in anger with a scream of rage, and hammered her stick into the ground three times. My foot being where it was, intercepted the full force of this punishment allowing the ground to get off scot free.

I limped onto the train without so much as a yelp to discover that the shenanigans were continuing within. An offer of a seat met rejection in the form of more unruly behaviour and a stream of abuse. I was now adamant of her blindness, as the words 'stupid bitch' clearly mouthed to her by the occupier of this seat, failed to energise the stick into more aggression.

An attempt was made to sit down at the next station, but she was no match for the suited commuters racing past her for the prized positions. Another guilt inspired offer was rejected with stern, stick waving indignation.

At the next station she alighted alone, having alienated all who tried to help. I had to admire her spirit as I watched her walk from the train, dignity in tact, but heading straight for the tunnel we'd just emerged from.

Fruit Tea

2006-10-18T19:21:00.000Z

There's something so promising about a cup of fruit tea. From the second you look at the packet the lure is strong. You open the foil wrapper and smell the bag. It smells so fruity! You put the bag in the cup and pour on the water. The colour looks amazing and your mouth waters as the aromatic steam reaches your nostrils. You wait for it to brew with the utmost anticipation. Then you take a mouthful and it tastes of nothing.

I find it a constant disappointment.

One Step Ahead

2006-10-18T01:21:00.001Z

I was thinking about my time at school recently for no apparent reason, when I stumbled upon a very specific memory of little importance. I remembered my morning walks to school. I always walked. I wasn't, like many school children these days, driven around in a huge people carrier by a driver of questionable competence. I also remember on the rare occasion I was driven to school, that we didn't park the car right outside the school, or in the grounds, on the steps, or in the classroom. Some parents must get up really early in the morning seeking the prime dropping off spot, and possibly stay there, or in the vicinity, all day for the ultimate pick-up point. This gives me the idea of drive-through schooling. Some of these vehicles are the size of classrooms anyway.

My journey to school was probably about one mile, taking approximately fifteen minutes to walk. I regularly passed friends of mine stuck in traffic. I was always searching for better shortcuts without walking through peoples houses and climbing over garden fences. The weight of my bag accumulating as the years went by, was surely not good for my back. I was carrying half a filing cabinet around with me.
One morning I was heading in to school at a fairly casual pace, when I saw in the near distance the form of a rucksack being heaved along by a 15 year old boy. I soon closed in on him as he was walking fairly slowly.

I increased the pace a little ready to overtake. I sped up a little more, yet still the gap wasn't closing. If anything, it was getting larger. Before I knew it I had broken into a run and was still dropping further behind. He must be late, I thought, slowing down. I wasn't so keen to overtake if I had to apply so much effort. He was far enough in the distance now anyhow.

A couple of minutes later, and the gap was closing. Once more I attempted to pass but found myself running again. It was obvious now that this was some kind of a game. Not wanting to be beaten I ran as fast as I could, but still he eluded me. What was in that bag, helium?

How did he do it? How did he know it was me if he never looked over his shoulder to see where I was? The real question has to be, why? Why did he play this ridiculous game? I didn't even know who he was.

This was repeated on a few more occasions. He always had the upper hand. He could make the walk annoying enough for me to attempt and fail the overtake. If I didn't try, he'd walk uncomfortably slowly in front of me.

I got the feeling that this could have gone on for the rest of my school days, and I couldn't have that. The following week, I changed my route.

I never did find out who he was.

A Sad Day For Wrapping Paper

2006-10-12T00:40:00.000Z

I was very intrigued by a notice I saw today in the window of a health clinic. It read:

GIFT VOUCHERS
WHY NOT GIVE AN ALTERNATIVE PRESENT IN THE FORM OF A VOUCHER FOR TREATMENT AT THIS CLINIC?
VOUCHERS AVAILABLE FOR CHIROPODY, OSTEOPATHY, AND HOMEOPATHY.

PLEASE ASK AT RECEPTION FOR MORE DETAILS.

This has set a whole new precedent for gift buying! You could make things a little more exciting by gift wrapping a large box containing an osteopath who would jump out at a given command, ready for action.

We could take this further. How about a surprise party? You lead the unknowing person into a darkened room, the lights suddenly come on,

"Surprise!" It's a team of chiropodists wearing party hats, scalpel in hand.

Does there even need to be a medical theme? If such run-of-the-mill services can be offered as gifts, then the options are limitless.

Give the gift of unblocking a drain with Dyno-rod vouchers.
Surprise the unsuspecting friend with congestion charge tokens.
Go on! Treat that special someone to some pest control services!

Make it a day to remember, give dry-cleaning, electricity, petrol, funerals.....

How unimaginative people have become.

Yet More Evidence Of Evolution

2006-10-10T13:10:00.000Z

A few days ago I was on my way to work when I noticed a black sack, presumably full of rubbish, in amongst a tree's branches. I continued on my way and thought nothing of it.

A little further down the road I saw a sleeping bag up a tree. This did give me pause for thought.

How advanced birds nests have become recently. I began to ponder upon what other items the birds may be collecting, then much more serious questions formed in my mind:

Where were they shopping?

How were they paying for things?

Who was collecting their rubbish, Man or Bird?

I had a lot to think about.

Spoons

2006-10-06T01:56:00.000Z

I was looking at myself through a spoon last night, and I noticed that if I looked through the back of it, I was the right way up, but if I looked through the front, I was upside down.

This appears to be a general rule with all spoons, at least all of the ones in my spoon drawer. It was an interesting evening.

The Drawbacks Of Giving Praise In Song

2006-10-04T00:32:00.001Z

I accidentally caught a bit of 'Songs of Praise' the other day, whilst punishing my TV with a hammer, and it got me thinking about my visits to the local church throughout my childhood.

Why is it assumed in a church that everyone there would know the hymns? On the many occasions I attended church services there were always a few hymns to be sung. The fact is, I'd never heard these songs in my life and I really didn't know how to sing them. Yes, OK, a hymn book was given to you, but this is not enough. Knowing the words is one thing, but how do I know the melody, or how fast to sing these words? How many words in a phrase?
Wouldn't it be helpful if the priest, vicar, whatever, announced that hymn number 353 from the blue book was about to be sung, then grabbed a guitar and talked you through the song. At least you'd stand half a chance.

Nobody ever questions it. All the other people are singing along trying to guess the melody, following the organ and each other, and there are often complications. Songs of Praise shows hundreds of the church-going public improvising loosely around a song they've never heard in their lives. You can see those at the front appear to know what they're doing. Either they've slipped the composer a few bob, have downloaded a recent Godcast with all the latest from the hymn chart, or they just have damn fine poker faces.

A whole church full of people all singing with different melodies and in different time. No wonder some are so willing to pick up a tambourine, you can mask the fact that you don't have a bloody clue what you're singing. In my time at these holy sing-songs, sometimes the end of the hymn would nearing and I'd still have half a verse to go. I'd have to squeeze all the words in very quickly on the last note.

There's clearly an assumption that everyone is familiar with the hymn book, and people are just too embarrassed to admit they don't know the tunes they've been singing for years.

Next time you're at a service, when they announce the next hymn to be sung, stop the proceedings and demand someone at least whistles it so you don't feel like such an idiot.

While You Wait...

2006-10-02T22:46:00.000Z

What's the deal with shoe repairs? The person qualified, experienced and wise in the ways of malfunctioning shoes, almost certainly knows someone very capable of getting into your property. No, the shoe repair man is not fraternising with the common burglar, but with somebody who cut's keys. But why do these seemingly different skills come together under one roof? What's the similarity between fixing shoes, and cutting keys?

There are so many other professions that could have been paired:

Shoe repairs - Bingo while you wait.

Hot air ballooning - Key cutting while you fly.

Feeling Fit

2006-09-30T02:15:00.000Z

The past few weeks of fairly intensive exercise are really beginning to pay off. I feel very fit. Extremely fit. In fact, I'd go as far as to say, I feel as fit as a butcher's dog.

A picture of a dog
which may be a butcher's dog.
I didn't ask too many questions,
I didn't like to pry.

But why is the butcher's dog so fit? Why is it more fit than any other dog? What is the butcher feeding this Adonis of Dogkind?

I would think that being the pet of a butcher would have its perks. You would be more likely to be fed and probably most of that would be meat. It's unlikely however, that you'd be getting the prime cuts. Can't have the dog eating the profits.
It is more likely that the dog would be consuming nothing but unwanted blubber. I now envisage the butcher's dog being mildly obese. Hmmm.

A dog owned by a general grocer would benefit from a more balanced diet.

I now feel as fit as a general grocer's dog.

Hooray!

Tomorrow, I'll be looking into the origins of this saying, wondering how one can be as fit as a fiddle, and discussing how a fiddle can be neither fit nor unfit, as it is a musical instrument.

Goodnight from me!

Beep Beep Beep

2006-09-28T13:11:00.000Z

I keep forgetting to do my flies up lately. It's very easily done, and people take offence to it when they notice. I think a more advanced pair of jeans would alert you to this, with a buzzer that doesn't stop until they're done up, you know, like the seatbelt alert in cars. It could also prove effective in the prevention of flashers.

I have many more ways to improve trousers, which I shall bring to your attention at my earliest convenience.

Daddy Long-legs

2006-09-25T12:33:00.001Z

So the Daddy long-legs is back. But where is it for the rest of the year? And are there so many around now to compensate for their brief appearance? I think I would prefer a steady stream of them.

They seem to be quite well off in the leg department for an insect that doesn't walk very often. For this reason maybe it should be put into the same class of beings as the Ostrich, which has big wings but walks everywhere. It doesn't make any sense.

Why do they like hanging around lamps? I'm so glad they don't lay their eggs there, or we'd end up with Larvae lamps! Wehey!

I must dispel a myth. I've heard this one floating around for years, and have probably relayed it to other people myself.
"The Daddy long-legs has the strongest venom of any spider in the world, but it doesn't have the fangs to administer it."

I have recently found this to be nothing but an urban myth. The Daddy long-legs, to start with, is generally a term in this country, for the crane fly. This cannot bite humans, and has absolutely no venom whatsoever. It's not even a spider.
So where did the myth come from? There are two group of spiders, also commonly known as Daddy long-legs, but both of these species have short fangs, and a venom which is believed to be ineffective on even the smallest of prey.

What I'm saying, is that it's all lies. Lies, lies, lies.

There you are, a scientific fact from The Spoon!

Problems Of A Fruity Nature

2006-09-03T23:16:00.000Z

Eating fruit and veg is a stressful business. They say you should eat at least five a day. This isn't because you need that amount in one day, this is simply because if you don't, it'll all go off and you'll end up with a bag of mouldy fruit.

Every so often I have an attack of conscience. I just don't feel healthy enough. Got to eat more fruit and veg. So I get straight off to the shops without even stopping to finish my doughnut, and get my sugary hands on some of the fresh, lifesaving, goodness. I bring it all home, squeeze it into my fridge and cupboards, then finish my doughnut. The following day, the enormity of the task ahead becomes only too apparent.

It all goes off at the same time. Mushrooms, they don't last more than a few days. Salad, a couple of days. Melons, it seems like a week before they're ripe, go away for the weekend, and you've blown it.
Bananas? I find it best to eat these on the way home!

This time, I've been determined not to throw any of it away. The last few days I've been having mushrooms and potatoes with every meal. Pouring milk over my potatoes for breakfast yesterday, was no joke.
This morning I had a banana, oranges, strawberries and grapes for breakfast, yet there's still so much to get through.

Tomorrow; strawberries, blueberries, bananas, potatoes, mushrooms , oranges, salad, I'm having the lot! You see if I don't!

Going Through A Bad Patch

2006-08-22T08:15:00.000Z

I have a friend who recently became addicted to gambling. I think I have the solution.

Having seen the recent advances in technology to ween people off of cigarettes, I think there is room for a gambling patch.
A mini roulette wheel attached to the upper arm, could work wonders in restricting his urge to squander all his hard earned cash.

This whole patch thing opens up a whole new world of cures for addiction. I wonder if crack patch would work?
Maybe a small portable TV patch could help telly addicts? Or maybe in the case of food addiction, an adhesive pie slowly absorbed into the blood stream is the answer.

This is very exciting, I must research this further and open a clinic!

More from the spoon...

2006-08-20T23:07:00.000Z

I recently returned to the much celebrated Cafe. I ordered breakfast, the same as before. I took a seat and once more looked around, taking in the atmosphere while the chef prepared my sausages.
Builders at the table to my right. I assume they were. This is in my mind, just a category for people in possession of hard hats, and high visibility vests. They could have done anything for a living.
To my left, a business man. Again, another common assumption. A man in a suit, with glasses, reading a broadsheet. I'd like to think he had an umbrella with him to complete the stereotype, but it's probably not true. He also, could do anything for a living. Why business? What is business? Why isn't it spelt bizniz? I think it looks much better. Whatever he was doing there, it was certainly none of mine.

The polish waitress was still there, getting sleazy looks from all the men in the room. I thought I would too. I gave it my sleaziest look, just to fit in.
I soon became aware that the table in front of me was occupied by a couple of drunks drinking tea. I noticed that the cups seemed to have acoustic properties which amplified what should have been a perfectly quiet discussion. Those damn cups. Still, it did allow me to get a good insight into the conversation of an alcoholic. My previous experiences of drunken discussion, have varied from, the downright rude, to vague incoherent ramblings. It was a surprise to witness a conversation about cookery. Oh yes! The ins and outs of cooking with fish, filleting, stuffing fish, barbecuing, cooking with garlic, cooking with butter without burning it. What a refreshing change!

My breakfast arrived and was hungrily consumed without further event. Nobody prayed this time. Perhaps it was a new chef?

Anyway I just thought I'd fill you in on the goings on at the Spoon.

The Emperor's New Clothes

2006-08-18T08:24:00.000Z

I frequently concern myself with the intelligence of the nation - or the lack of it. I'm also interested in the lengths that companies will go to, to make money for nothing. I myself have often enjoyed the idea of making money without any effort. I've thought of many scams, which I've never put into action. Either because someone else thought of it first, or I realized it would never work.

The advert above is a corker! Nobody would buy this. Would they? OK they're appealing to children who are notoriously stupid, so anything could happen. There are many people, as I write, racking their brains, trying to come up with new ring tones. It's a huge industry. There are silly animals, cartoon characters, comedy clips, celebrity voices, top chart songs. The list is endless.

But was it a genius, or an idiot who came up with the idea of the silent ring tone? The advert informs us that downloading this tone, will make your phone emit a tone of 15KHz, (the equivalent of a TV whistle,) and this will therefore only be audible to children. This will allow them to receive phone calls without parents and teachers knowing.

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!

Firstly, it's painfully high, so the teacher will see everyone in the room wince!
Secondly, mobile phones aren't really capable of emitting that frequency, why would they need to be?

Also, to remain undetected, you'd have to have a high frequency conversation. Oh, and isn't this what silent and vibrate modes are for anyway?

Numptees! No I don't think children are that stupid. I think they might have to try for a different market. Maybe bats, or dogs. They have a higher range of hearing, and it really is essential for them to have covert phone conversations.

Nobody even knows they can speak.

Stories from the 'Spoon

2006-08-02T15:57:00.000Z

I was on my way into London to work. It was early in the morning, never a good time for me, and I was heading for a day doing crap work I really didn't want to do. I'm remembering it like it was raining, although it probably wasn't. Still, it adds a bit of atmosphere. A free special effect.

I was starving. As is often the case when working at this time in the morning, I'd neglected to have any breakfast. Getting up at the last minute, then scrambling through the door, running to catch my train.
I couldn't decide what to eat. Breakfast has always been a tricky one for me. Although I know there are many other options available, I always see it as being a choice between cereal, which never fills you up, or an English breakfast, being extremely unhealthy.

Cereal was no longer an option, as I'd already left the house. You can't very well walk into a cafe and order a bowl of corn flakes. It's just not the done thing. I didn't, for some reason fancy a sausage or bacon sandwich. I wanted beans. I didn't know why. But I wanted beans. A full English it was then.

I stopped off at Victoria and found a nearby cafe. It didn't look amazing, but as I was running late, this would have to do. I ordered my set breakfast, making sure it included beans, and sat at a table by the window. It was nice to just to stop and watch the rest of the chaotic world running around in my imaginary rain.

I concerned myself with the possible consequences of eating sausages from such a dingy, down-market establishment, then began to observe the other customers.

To my right, an eastern European builder, presumably Polish, with a bit of a rapport with the waitress. He looked healthy enough. Surely I'm safe. Unless he was getting special sausages?

Ahead of me some more builders, chatting away about the football or something. To be honest, I understood more about the Polish building trade.

There were lots of other people in there who I can't remember, like extras in a porn movie. Who's gonna remember them? But there were two people there who I haven't forgotten. Young, trendy looking guys, almost certainly students. One was of Oriental appearance, the other I'm guessing was from Guildford, or Woking. (I can always tell.)
Snippets of conversation came wafting over about their recent travels. Thailand, South America. Places they wanted to go to, Hong Kong, China, Cheltenham...

The waitress approached their table with two plates of breakfast. She put it down, they thanked her, then something very strange happened. The two men fell silent, then I saw their hands placed together, and one of them started murmuring words about God, and Jesus!

How bad was this breakfast to be, for them to feel they had to pray to survive it? Had they been here before? What ever did they think was in those sausages?

Now I was really worried!

My food arrived shortly after. I hurriedly ate my beans then left.

Caring For The Environment Not Their Bag?

2006-07-31T23:29:00.000Z

Today I took delivery of my groceries from a leading supermarket. I was annoyed for three reasons.
1. It was delivered 15 minutes early, I was asleep.

2. There were 12 substitutions. I didn't recognize my own shopping!

3. After unpacking I was knee deep in carrier bags. This is ridiculous. I ordered 52 items. I received them in 25 carrier bags. I'm not exaggerating. That's approximately two items per bag.

I felt a bit like a grumpy old man, but I had to complain. So I did. I called the customer services number on the receipt. I asked them if they cared at all about the environment, and why they were putting everything in separate bags. The answer?

"Some things have to be put in separate bags due to health and safety reasons!"

Now, I understand the concept of keeping meat, veg and dairy produce separate from toilet cleaners or bleach. That's common sense. But seeing as I didn't order any detergents or meat, or really much in the way of dairy produce, where else could this problem lie?

Is it unhealthy to bag yoghurt with Ice cream? Dangerous to mix tinned soup with tinned beans? Or unsafe to transport toilet roll with chocolate?

Perhaps it's a weight issue? Maybe a bag with more than 2 items is considered too heavy for the shopper to lift?

That brings me to the point of the shopper. It does make me laugh when they refer to somebody as my personal shopper. I've often conjured up strange images of someone wandering around with a trolley doing my shopping for me. I've wondered what they might look like. Now I have a vivid image in my mind.

An image of a man with a white stick being lead around the aisle by a dog!

Is There A Song About Halitosis?

2006-07-31T23:03:00.001Z

I saw a snippet of an Opera whilst flicking through the TV channels in my Italian hotel room, and it got me thinking. I was thinking how strange it would be if real conversations were conducted in an operatic manner. If every word uttered was sung.

There would be many problems with this. Imagine Question Time. Or snooker commentary. Crimewatch? An interesting thought though - at least, I thought so.

Something I noticed about this particular opera, was how close the performers often sung to each other. Imagine a soprano singing in your face with a beautiful voice, such a beautiful melody, but with appalling breath.

Would you want it to stop?

Music To Put Up Shelves To?

2006-07-25T23:04:00.001Z

It's been hard to get anything done with today's, sticky, oppressive weather. All I wanted to do was hang around the flat being lazy, but something awoke inside me and I felt motivated. Yes! Must get some exercise. Got to get fit and stop eating ice cream.

I marched to the gym, working up a sweat before I even got there. This was more like it. After a good right arm work-out, trying to swipe my card through the entry system, I finally got in. I strode quickly into the cardio area, to be hit by a force far more oppressive than the weather. "10cc", "I'm not in Love."

This is surely the worst possible song to exercise to? You wouldn't listen to Death Metal during a massage? Or Hard House at a funeral? I don't expect to be frantically trying to keep fit to love songs.

The inadequacy of the music is only part of my problem. This in my opinion, is one of the most annoying songs ever written. Awful lyrics, horrible Eighties synth sounds. What is that stringy, breathy, pad sound all about? Is the drum rhythym supposed to be a heartbeat? Does somebody in the bridge whisper, "Big boys don't cry?"

I'm going to name and shame the radio station. Magic FM. On the rare occasion I've been forced to listen, often accompanied by the smell of the taxi driver's magic tree, this song has always reared it's ugly head. How often do they play this song? Do they only have 5 songs they repeat over and over?

The show was called "Mellow Hour" or something like that. Why would we want to be mellow at the gym?

You need something fast to workout to. I think it has to be, dance, pop or rock. Perhaps not jazz. You could have a nasty accident trying to run in 6/8 or 5/4.

The evening continued with some Freddie Jackson, Lionel Richie and James Blunt.

I might take my Ipod tomorrow!

Wet trousers

2006-07-21T16:27:00.000Z

I was wandering around London the other week and it was raining. Nothing too strange about that, you might think. According to most Americans it rains everyday in London. So why the hosepipe ban? Why the drought. Why do I never get wet when I live here? Still, they know best.

Anyway, during my travels I noticed that the bottom of every pair of jeans was wet. This got me thinking about the average British trouser length. We all seem to have trousers that are slightly too long for us. The bottoms of which, dragging along the floor, picking up all the dirt and getting wet.

Now at the risk of sounding terribly old fashioned, surely this could be rectified by wearing slightly shorter trousers? I'm not saying that the trouser leg should be flapping around your ankles in the breeze. Far from it. Just that it should merely end just before the bottom of the shoe.

I must point out that I too have fallen victim to this trend in fashion. I don't want to look a fool!

In today's harsh world, you could be wearing 32 inches of finest trouser, yet people would find fault in the one inch that was missing.

Shake It Up Baby

2006-07-21T15:40:00.001Z

Handshakes are becoming ever more complex. I remember a time when greeting a man in public, (or privately) was simply a case of extending one's right hand and giving a firm shake. The length of the shake? 1 to 2 seconds. Any longer would be too much. We all knew where we were with that.

This doesn't seem to be the case anymore. It's evolved. There's the 2 point shake, grab hand in one direction then the other. The 3 point shake, the first 2 steps of the 2 pointer, followed by a locking of the fingers. The high slap, grab, then shoulder to shoulder in a manly semi hug.( I haven't come up with a name for that one yet.) There are many more.

To be honest, I just don't know what to do any more. If you go for the 3 pointer when only a 2 was required, you look a fool. If you go for a shoulder to shoulder manly semi hug when only a formal handshake was wanted, you look ridiculous.

The kiss goodbye has similar problems. Do you go for just the one? Or two? I once met a girl from France who insisted on kissing everyone three times. By the time she had greeted everyone with a kiss hello, she'd ran out of time and had to kiss everyone goodbye. I never did get to speak with her. Maybe she wasn't very good at conversation.

CD Player Causes Plane Crash!

2006-07-13T00:34:00.002Z

On a flight to Italy, a fellow passenger sitting next to me was happily listening to a cd player, before being interrupted by one of the cabin crew. "You need to turn that off" she explained. "Why?" we asked. (I don't know what this had to do with me.)
"Because it's dangerous whilst flying." Slightly bemused by this, we continued the interrogation to learn that the laser was the problem.
Apparently, the humble cd player laser is capable of interfering with the plane's navigational equipment! I pointed out that the passenger opposite reading his book posed a greater threat. There was a higher possibility of the book flying out of his hand, through the cockpit, and giving the pilot a paper cut!

Surely they're just trying to spoil our fun?

Personality Botox

2006-06-24T23:05:00.001Z

I've just met someone who has the same expression when they're angry as when they're happy. I could say, for example, "Hey, nice haircut" and he'd be all like, "Oh, thanks".

I could run over his cat and serve it to him in a hamper and he'd still have the same look on his face.