Spaced out

I went to a very academic school.  The type of school that awarded extra-curricular prizes grudgingly and with an air of suspicion, as though that was time you should have ideally been using to solve Fermat's Last Theorem.  And only then if it was on the syllabus.

I did a range of GCSEs in a range of useful-sounding but, practically-speaking, pointless subjects.  And at A-level I took English, French, History and General Studies.  My French I have (sadly) all but forgotten.  I'm not sure I ever knew any History, other than what I had to learn for the exam.  (Plus the nature of my education means I have a massive gap from about 1067-1485.  What's 400-odd years between friends?  Civil War, what?)  English was enjoyable but ultimately disposable.  And I fell asleep in my General Studies exam (I was ill) and still managed to get a B.

So, from my tender teenage years, did I learn anything useful?  Yes.  Mrs Nunn enrolled me in an evening class at the local community college.  Touch-typing.  I was a bit reluctant at first, as I could already type pretty quickly (albeit using the wrong fingers).  Plus Monday nights were hell on a plate with Senior Orchestra (hell enough), followed by three hours of homework, and a regular Tuesday morning Biology test, meaning that I generally had to get up at 5.30 a.m. the next day to finish all my prep.  Swotty little spod that I was.

I picked up the typing quickly.  As a pianist, I had no trouble with deft finger movements, and as a teenager, probably a more absorbent brain (or at the very least, one that was more practised at taking in new info) than most of the other class members.

And the touch typing, oh it's paid dividends.  Reaching eventual speeds of about 70 words per minute, university was bloody brilliant.  Not the actual university bit; like most people, I found it OK in parts but generally overhyped.  But being able to type a 3000-word essay in a fraction of the time it took most people was bloody amazing.

However, there has been one - increasingly significant - drawback.  I learned on an actual typewriter.  You know, the type you see in films that quite often are in black and white.  I'm not that old - they were electric, and I believe our class was the last year to use them, before PCs were brought in.

Dirty typewriter porn

* DIRTY PORN HERE

There is one significant difference when you learn to type on a typewriter versus learning to type on a PC; the spacing.  I was taught that you always must do a double space after a full stop.  Like that.  Nowadays, this is frowned upon as archaic, pretentious even.  But it was how I was taught.  And muscle memory means that as soon as my fourth finger on my right hand hits the "." button, I automatically hammer the space bar a couple of times.

I have been trying to wean myself off the double space, but it's tricky.  And I would rather be consistently wrong than inconsistent.

But I am going to try.  This may (but probably won't) be the last Plog utilising the double space.

I think I may have just written the most boring Plog in the history of the world.  Apologies.  I am going to go back through it and see if I can insert some dirty porn* or something.

Bird brained

"So, yes," Mrs Nunn says.  "Thanks for phoning... Oh, those bloody pigeons are at it again!"

"At what?" I ask.

"They're shagging in the apple tree."

"Oh," I say.  There's not much else to say to that than "oh".

"Also, I think they're both male pigeons.  The male pigeons are having gay sex in our apple tree."

"You think they're both male?"

"Yes.  Or maybe both female.  But they're definitely gay."

"Why do you think the pigeons are gay?"  This is an area I feel needs exploring.

"Well, they shag and they shag and they shag, but they never have any eggs."

Mrs Nunn, doing her bit for gay pigeon rights.

Working 9-5 (well, Monday to Wednesday at least)

Well, it's been a whirlwind few weeks, with a return to (part-time) work meaning that I'm trying to fit in all my TV viewing into just two weekdays*.

I was a bit nervous about the return to the office, but so far, so good.  My favourite part (so far) is that when I want a chocolate digestive, I don't have to eat it with my head in a cupboard to prevent other people present from throwing a screaming tantrum until they get some too.  Apart from Clive in accounts, but he's a dick.

I also like the fact that lunch generally doesn't take 20 minutes to clean up, and I rarely have to pick porridge out of anyone's hair.  Having said that, I haven't actually seen my objectives yet.  I will let you know if they are more oat-based than expected.

What I'm not such a big fan of is the fact that over the last two years (pre-maternity wear), clearly there's something wrong with the Ikea wardrobe in our bedroom, as it appears to have slightly shrunk all of my clothes.  Nothing quite fits properly anymore, and most meetings have an air of frisson as each colleague is wondering which one of my buttons is going to pop first.  It would almost certainly take someone's eye out.  Clive from accounts has started wearing safety goggles.

TheBloke (TM) suggested that maybe it wasn't a faulty wardrobe, but may have something to do with the last twelve months of covert biscuit eating.  This is why he now walks with a limp.

* I don't actually do this, but TheBloke (TM) swears that looking after a baby all day basically involves me watching TV and ignoring her.  This is the main reason he hasn't had sex for the last 18 months.  With me at least.

Blaise of glory

As you may have gathered from previous posts, I was a bit of a swot at school.  One of the highlights of this time of year was cracking the spine of a new academic diary.  This diary would be used - obviously - to catalogue homework, each item being dutifully ticked off in a different colour once complete.  (And sometimes written in, just for the purpose of ticking it off.)

These academic diaries always came to me courtesy of my parents.  I think they were from Mrs Nunn, but I can't be sure, because both of them worked in education, and all we know for sure is that one of them was a big fat thief who raided their workplace's stationery cupboard in order to purloin one whole academic year diary for me each year for me to swottily note down my prep.  No wonder the country's in deficit.

These diaries were unremarkable.  Churned out for Leicester county council, they were crammed full of useless useful information you might need, such as councillors' phone numbers and school term dates which bore absolutely no relation to my own.

They had bank holidays noted, but were in no way religious - no religious festivals (other than Christmas, Easter and perhaps All Saints' Day) were noted.

Apart from one.

Every year, without fail, the county council diary would mark February 3rd as St Blaise's Day - Patron Saint of Sore Throats.

Why this information was vital (on an annual basis) to the people who worked for Leicester County Council, I have never known, and I have always wondered.  I liked to imagine some sort of East Midlands sect gathering to perform a hooded ceremony involving some scarves and a packet of Lockets.

And if anyone ever says to me, "Yes, do come to our party on 3 February," I always stop for a second and say, "Oh, that date rings a bell.  Let me think... Oh no, that's fine, I am free.  It's just that day is St Blaise's Day - Patron Saint of Sore Throats.  You know."

I don't get invited to many parties.  In February or otherwise.