After a whirlwind of appointments, from make-up trials to hairdressers, ministers, menu planning and flower-arranging, this day was supposed to be the relaxing day. A chance to have a paraffin manicure and pedicure, unwind and chill out.
I had already met the beautician earlier in the week for a waxing session (something I’m quite sure neither of us enjoyed – me because it was an hour and a half of continual torture, her because I kicked her in the head – meaning I can add Afrikaner to the list of nationalities I have kicked in the head). I was hoping the mani-pedi would be much less stressful.
It was two hours long and I generally get bored after about twenty minutes, so I was glad that she started making conversation. She talked about going to the farm at the weekend. “I hit a warthog at the weekend with my car,” she said with her Afrikaans accent, to my ears sounding like she was torturing every vowel.
"Oh dear,” said I. “Poor warthog.”
“Ney,” she said, “it was fahne. Ah ate them.”
“You hate them?” I asked, knowing Afrikaners sometimes drop their aitches.
“Ah ate them,” she said. “Tasted very wild. Very gamey.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Then we went out for a ‘obby, killing rabbits.”
“Rabbits?”
“Yis. We drahve up nixt to them in the car, and we ‘it them with golf clubs.”
“Why do you do that?” I asked, as cruelty to animals isn’t one of my main occupations (other than when Monty Cat wakes me at 2 a.m.).
She clearly misunderstood my question, “Because they is too fast to shoot,” she clarified.
This is a woman whom three days ago I had entrusted my nether regions. And that was a sentence I never thought I’d write.
Conversation moved on to cultural differences between South Africa and the UK (one of which, I would suggest, is the reluctance of Londoners to brain bunnies by the side of the road). We talked about crime levels and root causes.
“Ah ate black people,” she said.
“You... eat... black people?” I queried, surprised, but after the bunny rabbit torture, I was beginning to wonder.
“Ney. I ate them. They are ga-ga.” (Pronounced... actually I don’t think you can pronounce ga-ga in English. Try clearing your throat whilst making a “ha” sound. Twice.”
“Ga-ga?” I queried.
“Yis,” she clarified. “Disgusting. Ah mean, I wouldn’t refuse to work with them or anything if they came in for a treatment, but I wouldn’t go to their ‘ouse for a braai.”
I was guessing at this point, she probably wouldn’t be fucking invited.
By the end of the two hours I felt that I’d had a relaxing beauty treatment sponsored by the BNP. Perhaps Nick Griffin could branch out?
Friday, March 18, 2011
Va-cat-ion
We were extremely lucky that Helen, our Kiwi friend, offered to housesit and look after Monty Cat whilst we were away for our wedding and honeymoon. Monty Cat got to stay in his own property, and we didn’t have to worry about the house whilst we were away. All was going swimmingly.
We had Helen over for dinner to show her the house a month or so prior to flying out. We gave her the tour. We showed her the conservatory. All was good.
One week before we flew out, someone was murdered in our street. The details were hazy, and the police were digging the drains up outside our house but someone was in custody, so we didn’t really worry about it too much.
“Best not mention it to Helen though,” I said to TheBloke (TM). “She comes from leafy South West London, and we don’t want to worry her needlessly about our wild East London streets.”
So we kept it hush-hush. It made a few local papers but nothing national. Nothing to worry about. All was fine.
On Saturday, at the duly appointed time, Helen arrived in the taxi. Whenever we go on holiday, Transport for London make it a special priority to close the Central Line, thus meaning we spend a good two hours and a chunk of holiday budget working out how to get to the airport.
Helen got out of the taxi and wheeled her large suitcase up our drive.
“The taxi driver has just asked me if I knew anything about your neighbour who was murdered,” she said.
Big mouthed taxi driver.
“Oh well,” said TheBloke (TM) to Helen. “We’re away for the next three weeks... so at least there won’t be any rapes,” he leered.
So if anyone’s passing our street, could you please pop in and check that Helen hasn’t yet fled the scene an d that Monty Cat isn’t wasting away? (To be fair, he’s got a fair amount of storage in his flabby folds of fur.)
We had Helen over for dinner to show her the house a month or so prior to flying out. We gave her the tour. We showed her the conservatory. All was good.
One week before we flew out, someone was murdered in our street. The details were hazy, and the police were digging the drains up outside our house but someone was in custody, so we didn’t really worry about it too much.
“Best not mention it to Helen though,” I said to TheBloke (TM). “She comes from leafy South West London, and we don’t want to worry her needlessly about our wild East London streets.”
So we kept it hush-hush. It made a few local papers but nothing national. Nothing to worry about. All was fine.
On Saturday, at the duly appointed time, Helen arrived in the taxi. Whenever we go on holiday, Transport for London make it a special priority to close the Central Line, thus meaning we spend a good two hours and a chunk of holiday budget working out how to get to the airport.
Helen got out of the taxi and wheeled her large suitcase up our drive.
“The taxi driver has just asked me if I knew anything about your neighbour who was murdered,” she said.
Big mouthed taxi driver.
“Oh well,” said TheBloke (TM) to Helen. “We’re away for the next three weeks... so at least there won’t be any rapes,” he leered.
So if anyone’s passing our street, could you please pop in and check that Helen hasn’t yet fled the scene an d that Monty Cat isn’t wasting away? (To be fair, he’s got a fair amount of storage in his flabby folds of fur.)
Monday, March 07, 2011
Trunk and disorderly
"You're so lucky, working from home," whinged TheBloke (TM). "I bet you'll have a really lazy day and do nothing at all."
"But," I countered, "someone has to stay in for the tree surgeon. And also I have piles of work today because - in case you've forgotten - we're off to get married at the end of the week, so I've got bags and bags of work to do."
"Harrumph", harrumphed TheBloke (TM).
Secretly I knew that despite having bags and bags of work to do, hopefully it would be quite a relaxing day. I could slob around in jeans, sort out all my office work without the phone ringing every three minutes and with no commuting, I had two extra hours of day!
The tree surgeon bit would be easy. The council had given us permission to cut back the protected council trees that were overhanging our property, and I had already been next door to clear it with Juliet as the workmen would need access to her garden, in order to bring the waste to the street. I would just let them in, curl up with my laptop and motor through my emails. Juliet knew the tree surgeon would be here at 10, and all she had to do was give them access to her property.
The rest of my day went something like this.
8.30 a.m. Get a head start on emails All is going swimmingly.
9.30 a.m. Pause to glance round the room and feel smug at how good I am at my job.
9.55 a.m. See Juliet driving off in her car... Huh? She needs to be there to let the tree people in. Oh well, maybe she'll be back in five minutes, or maybe she's left her gate unlocked for them.
10.00 a.m. Tree people arrive. Juliet has not left her gate unlocked. Tree man suggests taking gate off at hinges. I say that she gave me permission to access her garden... not to break and enter. I suggest he brings the waste through the house. He says, "Not ideal, it'll leave loads of mess on your floors." I said this wasn't a problem. I would clear it up. "Also," he adds, "we'll scratch up your walls." I suggest cutting the waste into smaller pieces, so this isn't a problem. He grunts. I let them get on with it.
10.15 a.m. I see tree waste at the front of the house, but I am 99% certain no-one has brought any through the house. Unless they have a magic catapult, they have somehow gained access to my neighbour's garden. I ask one of the tree guys what's going on. "Oh yes, we took her gate off at the hinges." Juliet is 85 years old and my tradespeople have just forced an entrance to her property.
10.45 a.m. "Sorry," says one of the tradespeople. "I've just stepped on one of your solar lights and broken it."
10.48 a.m. Local "artist" (read: jobless hippy) comes round to talk to workmen. I assume he wants the wood, as when we chopped down a rowan tree last year, he did the same. "Work is my medium," he said. This made me think he was almost certainly a tosser. I expect to see him with his wheelbarrow any minute. I ignore him.
11.15 a.m. The doorbell rings. It's a man from the council. Turns out local jobless hippy (sorry, "artist") has reported me for chopping down protected trees (or "pruning" as I believe it's sometimes called - at our expense rather than the council's). I open my folder, show him the paperwork (signed by him personally) that gives us permission to prune the trees. He says, "I probably should have checked that before coming out." He loses points on initiative, but gains some for a twenty-minute response rate. If we still lived in Tower Hamlets, you could raze an entire building to the ground before the council acted. And even then they'd probably just clamp your car by mistake.
11.19 a.m. I go outside to tell the tree people that it's all sorted with the council. I notice they're tramping through Juliet's garden, so ask them to leave it pristine (seeing as they've broken in). "Oh, she's here now," the men tell me. I have an awkward conversation with Juliet, in front of the workmen, where I try and apologise for their behaviour whilst they're standing there. She is very polite and says, "You've done me a favour because it shows me how easy my property is to break into." The only favour I have done today is vandalising an 85 year-old's property. I feel good about myself.
11.45 a.m. The men have finished their work. "Any chance of a cup of tea love?" They then go and do a bit of work for Juliet next door (which makes me feel a bit better about their trespassing)... and leave my mugs at her house. I can't bring myself to ask for them back.
12.00 The Met Police turn up. I hope and pray it's not because the tradesmen have been spotted forcing an entry. I pull the blinds and hope they go away. They do.
So, relaxing day working from home? Not exactly. It'll be a break to be back in the office tomorrow.
"But," I countered, "someone has to stay in for the tree surgeon. And also I have piles of work today because - in case you've forgotten - we're off to get married at the end of the week, so I've got bags and bags of work to do."
"Harrumph", harrumphed TheBloke (TM).
Secretly I knew that despite having bags and bags of work to do, hopefully it would be quite a relaxing day. I could slob around in jeans, sort out all my office work without the phone ringing every three minutes and with no commuting, I had two extra hours of day!
The tree surgeon bit would be easy. The council had given us permission to cut back the protected council trees that were overhanging our property, and I had already been next door to clear it with Juliet as the workmen would need access to her garden, in order to bring the waste to the street. I would just let them in, curl up with my laptop and motor through my emails. Juliet knew the tree surgeon would be here at 10, and all she had to do was give them access to her property.
The rest of my day went something like this.
8.30 a.m. Get a head start on emails All is going swimmingly.
9.30 a.m. Pause to glance round the room and feel smug at how good I am at my job.
9.55 a.m. See Juliet driving off in her car... Huh? She needs to be there to let the tree people in. Oh well, maybe she'll be back in five minutes, or maybe she's left her gate unlocked for them.
10.00 a.m. Tree people arrive. Juliet has not left her gate unlocked. Tree man suggests taking gate off at hinges. I say that she gave me permission to access her garden... not to break and enter. I suggest he brings the waste through the house. He says, "Not ideal, it'll leave loads of mess on your floors." I said this wasn't a problem. I would clear it up. "Also," he adds, "we'll scratch up your walls." I suggest cutting the waste into smaller pieces, so this isn't a problem. He grunts. I let them get on with it.
10.15 a.m. I see tree waste at the front of the house, but I am 99% certain no-one has brought any through the house. Unless they have a magic catapult, they have somehow gained access to my neighbour's garden. I ask one of the tree guys what's going on. "Oh yes, we took her gate off at the hinges." Juliet is 85 years old and my tradespeople have just forced an entrance to her property.
10.45 a.m. "Sorry," says one of the tradespeople. "I've just stepped on one of your solar lights and broken it."
10.48 a.m. Local "artist" (read: jobless hippy) comes round to talk to workmen. I assume he wants the wood, as when we chopped down a rowan tree last year, he did the same. "Work is my medium," he said. This made me think he was almost certainly a tosser. I expect to see him with his wheelbarrow any minute. I ignore him.
11.15 a.m. The doorbell rings. It's a man from the council. Turns out local jobless hippy (sorry, "artist") has reported me for chopping down protected trees (or "pruning" as I believe it's sometimes called - at our expense rather than the council's). I open my folder, show him the paperwork (signed by him personally) that gives us permission to prune the trees. He says, "I probably should have checked that before coming out." He loses points on initiative, but gains some for a twenty-minute response rate. If we still lived in Tower Hamlets, you could raze an entire building to the ground before the council acted. And even then they'd probably just clamp your car by mistake.
11.19 a.m. I go outside to tell the tree people that it's all sorted with the council. I notice they're tramping through Juliet's garden, so ask them to leave it pristine (seeing as they've broken in). "Oh, she's here now," the men tell me. I have an awkward conversation with Juliet, in front of the workmen, where I try and apologise for their behaviour whilst they're standing there. She is very polite and says, "You've done me a favour because it shows me how easy my property is to break into." The only favour I have done today is vandalising an 85 year-old's property. I feel good about myself.
11.45 a.m. The men have finished their work. "Any chance of a cup of tea love?" They then go and do a bit of work for Juliet next door (which makes me feel a bit better about their trespassing)... and leave my mugs at her house. I can't bring myself to ask for them back.
12.00 The Met Police turn up. I hope and pray it's not because the tradesmen have been spotted forcing an entry. I pull the blinds and hope they go away. They do.
So, relaxing day working from home? Not exactly. It'll be a break to be back in the office tomorrow.
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
Blushing bride
To most Ploggers, this is an average Tuesday. Perhaps you had a takeaway pizza tonight. Perhaps you phoned your mum. Maybe you watched Top Gear which you recorded at the weekend. For most of you it will have been an entirely average day.
I, on the other hand, exposed myself in public. Twice. Today.
It was 10.30 a.m.. I was busy at work, but like I always say, "Never too busy to have a poo. Good colon care is important." So off for a poo I went. Shutting myself into a cubicle and midway through said poo, I suddenly thought, "Did I lock the door properly?" I checked the door by unlocking it and re-locking it.
Or so I thought.
Two minutes later a colleague opened the door to my cubicle. There's nowhere you can really go when you're pooing. "Sorry!" we both said, and hoped we didn't bump into each other in the canteen in the near future.
"Well," thought I, "I have learned a solid lesson about making sure the door is locked, and I shall be sure not to have any more embarrassing moments like that."
Cut to 6.30 p.m. I was at my final wedding dress fitting. I have lost a tiny bit of weight since I had my last fitting (probably the massive poo at 10.30. I don't know.) and I was a bit worried about whether the back of the dress was tight enough. To test it, I jumped around in the dress. All seemed fine. I jumped around again, saying to the two assistants and three other customers, "Yes, this seems fine."
At that moment, I had a wardrobe malfunction. Out popped a nipple. In the middle of the shop. In front of two assistants and three other customers (and no doubt their security cameras and therefore their 2011 Christmas party attendees as part of a highlights reel).
So, in the space of eight hours, I exposed myself twice. Now, I don't know about you, but that is not an average Tuesday for me. Most Tuesdays I usually try to do it at least three times.
I, on the other hand, exposed myself in public. Twice. Today.
It was 10.30 a.m.. I was busy at work, but like I always say, "Never too busy to have a poo. Good colon care is important." So off for a poo I went. Shutting myself into a cubicle and midway through said poo, I suddenly thought, "Did I lock the door properly?" I checked the door by unlocking it and re-locking it.
Or so I thought.
Two minutes later a colleague opened the door to my cubicle. There's nowhere you can really go when you're pooing. "Sorry!" we both said, and hoped we didn't bump into each other in the canteen in the near future.
"Well," thought I, "I have learned a solid lesson about making sure the door is locked, and I shall be sure not to have any more embarrassing moments like that."
Cut to 6.30 p.m. I was at my final wedding dress fitting. I have lost a tiny bit of weight since I had my last fitting (probably the massive poo at 10.30. I don't know.) and I was a bit worried about whether the back of the dress was tight enough. To test it, I jumped around in the dress. All seemed fine. I jumped around again, saying to the two assistants and three other customers, "Yes, this seems fine."
At that moment, I had a wardrobe malfunction. Out popped a nipple. In the middle of the shop. In front of two assistants and three other customers (and no doubt their security cameras and therefore their 2011 Christmas party attendees as part of a highlights reel).
So, in the space of eight hours, I exposed myself twice. Now, I don't know about you, but that is not an average Tuesday for me. Most Tuesdays I usually try to do it at least three times.
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