At The Restaurant, MK.

The waiters look like Keith Lemon. 
The waitresses look like Roger Waters.

Graham and Alistair.

Now, it's fair to say that I'm no big fan of cats.

Scratchy, boney, selfish and when they go out you might never see them again.


But could this be about to change?


You see, there are cats in the properties either side of where we live, and, well... I'm quite fond of both of them.

Alistair is a fluffy grey, with wide eyes and a mischievous sense of timing.

Graham is young, alert, naive, spry and inquisitive.


Why, I might invite them both round for tea (milk) and biscuits (whiskers)...

...Bam, No Thank You Ma'am.

I was woken this morning by the sound of popular 80's musical duo WHAM! playing via the creative medium of 'Heart FM', trumping from my neighbour's stereo system.


This prompted the following question:


"I understand that there will be fun and sunshine, and that the drinks are free, but will there be enough for everyone?"

La Fin Est Proche (Suite).

It's nearly April Fool's Day.


I feel like the cigarette butt of the joke.




Man, I could do with a smoke right now, and a large glass of wine.


Why?


Well, I'm in Milton Keynes, and I'm here for a while.




Where's my Pipe?

Les Règles De La Pétanque.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


British Amateur Freestyle Boules Association (BAFBA)

Rules, Regulations, Terminology & Criterrium (UK Edition, circa. Jan 2011)

"BOULE" 

Metallic sphere thrown by protagonists of the game. Hence the game, 'Boules'.

- Also known as a "Cannonboule", a "Weightsheaf", a "Put-Put", a "Schwere Kugel", or a "Nebula" (pl. 'Nebulae').

"JACK"

The Jack, also known as a "Ballcock", is the small ball, often made of rubber or wood, used to establish a focal point for the throwing of the boules. 

- Thrown by players at will, with no limit or regulation on length or direction. 

"BASTARD" 

An entire game of (first-to-21) boules.  

- A maximum of 4 boules (and a minimum of 2) to be used per player during the Bastard. 

- NB. The 3 boules Bastard, popularised in Scandinavia, is now illegal in the UK.

"PUNNETT" 

A single 'leg' played during a Bastard. 

- Each throw of the Jack signals the start of a new Punnett. 

- Closest boule to the Jack wins the Punnett. 

- If 1 boule is closest, the player scores 1 point and they become the Jerk (see below) for the next Punnett. 

- If they win by 2 boules they score 2 points, and so on. 

- Biggest margin of victory possible is by 4 boules (see 'Fourzer', below).

- Punnetts continue until a player achieves an overall score of 21. 

- As a player must win by 2 clear points, Punnetts within a Bastard can, theoretically, be endless - although there is technically a minimum of 6 Punnetts per Bastard (producing a winning score of 21-0).

"JERK"

The player currently in possession of the Jack (either the winner of the previous Punnett, or the first to Jack off in a Bastard).

"JACK OFF"

To throw the Jack at the start of a Punnett.

"INTROVERTED JACK OFF"

When the Jerk throws the ball behind his own and the opposing player(s) back in order to deliberately cause confusion or disorientation. Whilst still legal, the Introverted Jack Off is now widely considered a controversial and most unwelcome intervention. 

- Also known as a "Stephen Milligan", a "Milligan".

"JACK IN"

To hit the Jack with a boule during a Punnett.

"ONEZER"

Pronounced 'Wun - Zerr', this a victory in a Punnett by 1 boule. 

- Largely unremarkable, it is the narrowest winning margin in a Punnett.

"TWOZER"

Pronounced 'Too - Zerr', this is a victory in a Punnett by 2 boules.

- It is considered a pleasing result.

"THREEZER"

Pronounced 'Three - Zerr', this is a victory in a Punnett by 3 boules.

- It is considered a very pleasing result.

"FOURZER"

Pronounced 'Forr - Zerr', this is a victory in a Punnett by 4 boules. 

- Extremely rare, this is the best possible outcome for any player in a Punnett. 

- The opposing player, however irked by the humiliation, is legally obliged to applaud the opposition player if they lose by a 'Fourzer'.

"CAMEO" 

3 consecutive Punnett wins by a singular boule (a triple Onezer).

"GATSBY"

3 consecutive Punnett wins by a 2 boule margin (a triple Twozer).

"PIGEON"

3 consecutive Punnett wins by a 3 boule margin (a triple Threezer).

"ROYAL PIGEON" 

3 consecutive Punnett wins by a 4 boule margin (a triple Fourzer).

- Also known as 'The Holy Grail of Boules'.

"JAFFA"

A particularly wise, skillful or pleasing throw.

"COBBLER"

A particularly poor or ill-judged throw, that is subsequently derided by your opponent. 

- Also known as a "Dripper", or a "Corn-hound".

"LEAMINGTON HANDY"

When a player throws or lobs the boule high enough to ensure that the boule remains wholly stationary upon impact with the playing surface. Usually incorporated whilst performing on sandy or excessively muddy terrain, though occasionally also attempted on more traditional surfaces.

"BORDEAUX"

To apply enough back-spin to the airborne boule so that it double-backs towards the jack upon impact with the playing surface.

"HASSELBACH"

To apply enough side-spin to the airborne boule so that it swings noticeably to the left or the right upon impact with the playing surface. - Also known as a "Dingle", a "Raven", or a "Continental Cleft".

"WINKLE"

To intentionally strike an opposing player's boule during a Punnett.

"ROYAL WINKLE"

To strike an opposing player's boule and then the Jack in one motion (a 'Winkle' followed by a 'Jack in').

- Extremely tricky, but impressive move - often used to dislodge an opponents boule that is already 'Jacked in' (touching the Jack). 

"MANSON"

An unidentified obstacle between the players and the Jack during a Punnett.

"ROYAL MANSON"

When the unidentified obstacle between the players and the Jack during a Punnett turns out to be a remote stool.

What Mood Are You In?

****************************************************************************************

HAPPY       MELANCHOLY       FUN       BORED       TIRED       CRAZY       ANGRY       OPTIMISTIC       ADVENTUROUS       MYSTERIOUS       HELPLESS       THOUGHTFUL    ODD    EVIL    CALM    SMUG     GRUMPY       STRANGE       GOOD       WITTY       UPSET       QUIET       CONFUSED       ENERGETIC       ILL       OBNOXIOUS       DEEP       WEAK      SLOW     TROUBLED       GREAT       REPULSIVE       BAD     STRESSED       HORRIBLE       EXCITED       DIRTY       HURT    OLD   ORDINARY     CHARMING     LUCKY


****************************************************************************************

Bus, False Leg & Sausage Rolls.

****************************************************************************************

Open me in another window...

Now read this post as fast as you can...

On a bus. A slow bus. A really slow bus. On a particularly long and exhausting route, too. Stick with it, it gets better. I ventured on to the top deck and instantly regretted it. Bloody students everywhere. Talking loudly. Quite crowded. There was a place for me, but this was no place for me. I was forced upstairs by an unusual funk occupying the lower quarters. Possibly caused by the man with the high waistband. I usually belong downstairs, of course I do - with the old, the lazy, the disabled and the mad. Where am I off to? Home. Where had I been? Don't ask. It just doesn't matter. Dry mouth and sore throat. Struggled to squeeze into my seat at the front of the bus on the upper eschalon. Have to cross my legs at a slight angle, not because I need to pee, but so I can sit 'comfortably'. I do like the view from the top at the front of the bus. It is the best view in the house. Although this is not a house. It is a bus. The semi-panoramic view allows a rare vantage point whilst travelling through the concrete landscape. I guess it's like a user-friendly urban rollercoaster ride - but this is only if the bus driver is in the mood to drive fast. Today he drives slow, and I assume that his considered approach is appreciated by the large contingent of senior citizens on the lower level. He seems like the kind of conscientious bus driver who would stop for someone that is running to catch the bus, would gladly accept a second portion of a hot meal dished out on a cold Sunday afternoon, and offers to remove his footwear by the front door when entering a house that he is unfamiliar with. There are two pieces of graffitti daubed on the small shelf by my window. One says "Work. Buy. Consume. Die". Perhaps this aggressively unhopeful outlook was written by Alexei Sayle in 1983, or by someone who went to see Alexei Sayle in 1983. The other slogan says, simply, "Tory fuckhead". This, of course, could've been written by anyone, at any time. Acute wisdom, if a little ugly in texture. It is at least a stroke of vandalism from someone with deep political passion, if not respect for the immediate welfare of others' property. I overhear some shards of conversation between a group of medical students, who, it has become obvious to me, are on their way to West Middlesex Hospital. Whilst discussing the compact and bijoux nature of appartment blocks in Hong Kong, one reveals (with irritating effort made to emphasise the word 'literally'): "You can literally shower whilst sitting on the toilet". "My dad works really hard - he's an idiot", comments another. What is infinitely more concerning is one student's wildly inaccurate description of a false leg as "a pathetic limb". I look out of the window to see someone actually running for the bus. Wow. There is potential here for high drama, though I trust the driver to be accomodating. The bus stop is located agonisingly beyond reach, but their effort is sincere and committed. It appears that the power of fast movement is not an obviously natural attribute, so their desperate urgency indicates to me that they're running late for something important. They made it! But just as they'd arrived at the door, panting in some discomfort, the bus driver cruelly pulls away rejoining the traffic - thus proving me once again to be a poor judge of character. This uncharitable act from the driver prompts a few obscene words aimed his way, a mis-directed forearm swipe at the side of the bus, and an ugly hand gesture from the frustrated pedestrian. We pass a Wimpy fast food restaurant. "I haven't been to a Wimpy since I was a child - they have cutlery and plates and everything", I think to myself. I wondered how many other people had passed by a Wimpy and thought the same thing. We also crawl past the unfortunately named hairdressers "Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow" as it lay there derelict and dusty with a pile of unopened mail blocking its entrance. Further down the road a low-budget bakers has a promotion running on bulk purchases of sausage rolls. Buy eight get one free. Someone gets up and presses the 'STOP' button, before moving down the stairwell to exit the bus. I notice that they've left behind a small parcel, and instinctively grab it before shooting down the stairs in hot pursuit. I jump off the bus just in time before the doors close and call after the lady to return her property. She is relieved and thanks me warmly. She then explains the importance of my actions revealing the contents of the parcel to be an anniversary gift for her husband. She is extremely grateful, and I feel like a good person. I then realise that I'm still an unreasonable distance from home, and will need to wait for the next bus. The wait being a potentially long one. I also realise that my uncharacteristically heroic actions have come at a cost. In my haste I had left my own bag on the bus, and with such a selfish bastard at the wheel (adding to my own lack of athleticism) the chances of its immediate recapture appeared remote. 


It then started raining. 


Strong horizontal rain.


I considered smiling, then reconsidered, settling for a rueful shake of the head instead.


I made my way towards the bakers. 

It Won't Go Away, I Tell You.

****************************************************************************************


This song...


Has been stuck in my head for about a week and a half.


(And now it will be stuck in yours...)


(Sorry).




****************************************************************************************

Something to See/Hear.

****************************************************************************************

                                            SOMETHING

****************************************************************************************

Nothing to See/Hear.

****************************************************************************************




                                                    NOTHING





****************************************************************************************

A Song for The Colour Blind (Part 1).

****************************************************************************************

The first of a 7-part series features LOUIS ARMSTRONG and his 'wonderful' ode to planet Earth...
(NB. I'm not taking the piss - it is 'wonderful'. Click the title of this post for a swift, glorious recap).

"What a Wonderful World" was intended as an antidote for the increasingly racially and politically charged climate of everyday life in the mid-1960's. The song has a hopeful, optimistic tone with regard to the future.

The Flaming Lips play the song immediately following each of their live shows, creating a very pleasant atmosphere to leave the show by.

If you do not like this song...may I suggest that you are an idiot.


"I see trees of blue...
  blue roses too..."

****************************************************************************************

You Can Talk To Me. You Can Talk To Me-e.

****************************************************************************************

Open me in another window...

Now read this post as fast as you can...

In a car. In a car driving north. In a car driving north, sat in traffic. Slow, slow progress. Must be an accident ahead. Stick with it, it gets better. For company in my vehicle I have a flat bottle of a semi-popular soft drink. It's not that the container has been squashed, but that the contents is no longer fizzy. It is disliked by lots of people that I know, despite selling well globally. I also have a playlist of songs which, played at a responsible volume, prevents me from closing my eyelids and having a road traffic accident. It does not prevent me from daydreaming. I have a flashback of playing cricket in my back garden as a child. We have to go inside because someone hit the ball over the fence. Normally we'd just jump over and retrieve it, but it's gone into the garden of a neighbour who has an unpredictable dog. Back to reality, and someone is trying to call me on my mobile phone. Despite the lack of forward momentum I decide to obey in-transit protocol and leave it unanswered, just incase I'm being filmed by camouflaged roadside police. The car number plate in front of me reads 'AR51 50D'. The owner has decided to put a sticker on the rear window that reads, hilariously, 'Horn Broken - Watch for Finger'. To my right is a chap singing along to music whilst drumming on his steering wheel. His frustrated partner sat alongside him appears to be contemplating suicide. To my left, a van pulls over onto the hard shoulder. A gentleman exits hurriedly. Someone from inside the van jeers and throws a lighter at him as he begins to urinate by a hillside bank. It hits him on the shoulder. He briefly misdirects his output onto his shoe as he glances over his shoulder at his attacker. I imagine he may have had difficulty concentrating during mathematics lessons at school, enjoys an above average amount of sugar in his tea, and regularly behaves poorly when inebriated. The traffic starts to move, and the punctuated female voice from my satellite navigation system informs me politely that my exit is approaching. I switch lanes and meander along. I've escaped the mass of irritable motorists and am now on a dual carriageway. I like dual carriageways. You know where you are with a dual carriageway. Two lanes. A slow lane - a fast lane. No pissing about. I decide to exert my authority by blitzing into the fast lane, past an elderly couple driving sensibly. I'm soon made to feel insufficient by a car vastly superior to mine. It's approaching my bumper at a speed I cannot match. It urges me back to the slow lane. Back in line with the cautious, the grey-haired, the wobbly caravans and the big trucks covered in road-spray grime. I humbly oblige. I feel like my position within the dual carriageway food chain has been neatly clarified. My Sat-Nav falls off the windscreen and lands in my lap. 'Shit', I say, realising that the two hands and necessary concentration required to sucker it back onto the windscreen are busy driving the car at pace. It's going to have to stay in my lap until I can pull over at a service station. "Well, this is awkward", says a voice, appearing to come from the Sat-Nav. I'm very confused. "Hello?", I mutter. "Yeah, can you remove me from your groin area, please? I can't see from down here". I look down at the Sat-Nav - "You might have to hold on...not literally, but...figuratively. I need to turn off soon to sort you out". Madness descends, like a lonely aubergine. "Well look, I'm no use to you down here, I can't see anything but belt and zip", said the 'Nav. "Don't get cheeky or I'll turn you off before I turn off", I said, as I looked for road signs indicating a place to turn off. "This situation is a turn off. I may be turned on, but I'm not turned on - and if you turn me off then you won't know when to turn off, so you'll have to turn me on again". 


She (it) had a point. 




TBC...

****************************************************************************************

Colour Blindness Treasure Hunt.

yellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyello
yellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyello
yellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyello
yellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyello
yellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyello
yellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyello
yellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyello
yellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyellowyello
magentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentmagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentmagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentmagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentmagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentmagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentmagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentmagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagentamagent
bluebluebluebluebluebluebluebleblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebleblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebleblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebleblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebluebleblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblueblackblackblackblackblackablackblackblackblackablackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackablackblackblackblackablackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackablackblackblackblackablackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackablackblackblackblackablackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackablackblackblackblackablackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackablackblackblackblackablackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackablackblackblackblackablackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackblackablackblackblackblackablackblackblackblackblack




There's a nice song hidden somewhere in here, if you can be arsed...

Oh, and there's a prize for the first person who finds it and can tell me what it is (just write it down in the comments section below)...

Trains, Beards & Allotments.

****************************************************************************************


Open me in another window...






Now read this post as fast as you can...




On a train. A slow train. A really slow train. Stick with it, it gets better. Very crowded. En route to a training day. Don't ask. Half asleep. Itchy nose. Arms trapped. Muggy. Can barely move. At one stop the doors open. Big-bellied man standing on the platform. Big belly. Thinks about trying to squeeze on, motions forward, tempted. Thinks again, moves down the platform to the next door. I catch a couple of people near me sigh with relief. Train moves on. Woman next to me is texting. I sneak a peak at what she's writing: "Guy next to me has worst beard ever". Eh? I always thought my beard was competitive. Ok, well, not if compared to Rich  - (I wonder if you decided to click on the link or just carried on reading?) Anyway...If you did click on the link, welcome back, if you didn't, well, then I admire your dedication to the cause. To clarify, my beard has been scrutinised up close by a mystery woman who feels the need to text someone about it because it's so bad. My eyes sigh with hurt. Big (internal) huff. Very disappointed. You can question my integrity, but please don't question my beard. Wait a minute. Hold on there partner. Looking up, I realise there is another guy, next to her on the other side, with a beard. Was she referring to him? Was she questioning the validity of his beard? Is my beard in the clear? Whoah! What's more, it appears he has also read the text. He looks disappointed too. I feel his pain. But then he looks up at me. He looks at my beard. I look at his beard. He's still looking at my beard. Stop looking at my beard. I look at his beard. We both judge each others' beards. Who's beard is she talking about? I think his beard is quite good, which temporarily annoys me. He doesn't seem that pleased with me either. I take this as a good thing if it's because he likes my beard. Not a good thing if un-beard related. Awkward stand off. He looks out the window. She then looks at me. She caught me reading her text. She widens her eyes. She motions gently, glancing at the other guy, indicating that she's texting about him. If I could move my arm properly, I'd punch the air with glee. Instead I nudge a guy next to me (accidentally) in the balls with the restricted flinch of my clenched fist. He (nudged-in-balls-man) doesn't react. Arrggh no, it's a woman. Even worse. Anyway, she (texting lady) was referring to the other chap. And his beard. She has made it clear that I don't have the worst beard ever. Justice, though harsh on good-beard-man, has been served. My beard has been exonerated. Lots of people squished in the carriage. I look out the window. I then catch the texting-fiend-lady motioning with her widened eyes from the other guy's direction towards me, just like she did to me at him. She's now indicating to him that I'm worst-beard-ever-man. Unbelievable. What's she playing at? A swift, clinical switch of allegiance. He seems pleased. His beard has (many would feel correctly) been exonerated, but I'm not pleased. She is clearly playing each of us off against each other to escape her awkwardness at having been caught over the beard slur. A classic double bluff to get us both on side. Sneaky. Very sneaky. Never text about someone standing right next to you. Bad move. Really bad move. But wait, beard solidarity seems to have taken over. He feels my displeasure, and now also looks displeased. Maybe he really does like my beard too. She becomes the object of both our annoyance. We both look at her. She looks at the two of us. We look out the window at a passing allotment, with theatrical timing, a display of disenchantment at her ill-judged volley of beard abuse. Both miffed. Feeling each other's resentment. He looks emotional, as if this isn't the first time his beard has been questioned. This makes me start to question his beard once more. Then I start thinking about what I'm going to cook tonight. Mmmm...kievs. No! *Invisibly slaps own face*. C'mon, concentrate, beard reputation is on the line. Focus. Be alert. Wait. Hold on. She's texting. What's that? I can't quite make it out. Oh my. Whoah. Breaking news. I can now read the information she's been typing: "No! I wasn't texting about you guys, look over there!" Wowsers. We both look up and see a man with the worst beard I assume any of us had ever seen. He has been the elephant in the room. An invisible elephant with skills of a ninja. Un-detected, unseen. Bad beard, though. Very poor. Can't defend him. No beard solidarity when you look as stupid as that. And how much time had it taken to sculpt? Shocking. 


YOUR HEAD VOICE JUST GOT LOUDER.
Yourheadvoicejustgotfaster.
Your. Head. Voice. Just. Got. Slower.
Your head voice is back to normal.


At ease.


Relax.


If applicable, enjoy the rest of the song...







And then enjoy this.




****************************************************************************************

Inlay Card Sleeve.

****************************************************************************************

Click me...


Ice cold grapes
And songs like shapes
What would this song be?
A circle, or a triangle?
A square like you and me

All I wanted to be
Was a message saying 'thank you' on your inlay card sleeve

Confused by right
Triumphant I
Become my translator
Acting like
A monkey
On its best behaviour

All I wanted to be
Was a message saying 'thank you' on your inlay card sleeve

The sink may be running
But I just can't help falling back to sleep
The sink may be running
But I just can't help falling back to sleep

All I wanted to be
Was a message saying 'thank you' on your inlay card sleeve




THE HAMILTONS
by N.Cresswell and R.Phelps

****************************************************************************************

From The Basement To The Pavement.

****************************************************************************************

Click me...


All that I had is now gone
Yet the alphabet has grown
Jumped through the hoops
Then we marshalled our troops
Adding letters of our own

From the basement
To the pavement
Keep your hair on (seen a lot of stuff and he thinks the world of us)
Keep your head strong (seen a lot of stuff and he thinks the world of us)
Sometimes the concrete looks good enough to eat
But I'm glued down to my seat

Fell asleep walking down the road
Again?
Yeah, on the M4
On a pilgrimage to where my car was towed
Now my feet are kinda sore

From the basement
To the pavement
Keep your hair on (seen a lot of stuff and he thinks the world of us)
Keep your head strong (seen a lot of stuff and he thinks the world of us)
Sometimes the concrete looks good enough to eat
But I'm glued down to my seat

Words come like plasticine
Easy to mould
Increasingly boring you as you get old
Don't you know
My insides they glow
All that you've given me
All that I've taken
Support mechanisms I've found won't be broken in two
Broken in Two

From the basement
To the pavement
Keep your hair on (seen a lot of stuff and he thinks the world of us)
Keep your head strong (seen a lot of stuff and he thinks the world of us)
Sometimes that concrete looks good enough to eat
But I'm glued down to my seat
Glued down to my seat
Glued down to my seat




THE HAMILTONS
by N.Cresswell and R.Phelps

****************************************************************************************

Junkmail.

****************************************************************************************

We receive a lot of junkmail.

When I say 'a lot', I mean 'loads and loads' of it.


Tonnes.

The volume really is sensational.


Now, I realise that all I need to do is put some sort of sign/sticker out asking 'politely' to cease the endless stuffing of our letterbox that creates a virtual waterfall of useless information, promotional activity, and local food takeaway gumpf.

Alas, I'm too lazy to deal with the situation.

Every time I look at the front door there is a melee of activity in and around the postal portal and/or the immediate floor-level vicinity.

Every time I look at the front door I think I really should put some sort of sign/sticker asking 'politely' to cease the endless stuffing of our letterbox that creates a virtual waterfall of useless information, promotional activity, and local food takeaway gumpf.


We get a deluge of propaganda from local estate agents, blankly canvassing for business, asking us whether we're interested in selling our house.

This started the day after we moved in, and includes literature from the very people that we had just bought the house from, curiously requesting the possibility of us immediately selling the property that we had just purchased.

That prompted a strongly worded letter, after a period of continual bombardment:

"Surely you don't expect us to sell?...We've just moved in...and you helped us move in..." (pre-watershed, heavily edited version).



I was in the kitchen when I heard the letterbox rattle, again, and a biblical flood of paper noisily hit the deck alongside the welcome mat.

"Aww...will ye just PISS. OFF!", I shouted, louder than intended.





It was just the postman, delivering our regular mail, including some important documentation that I'd been waiting a week for.


I felt ashamed of myself for the slur, and apologised to him, under my breath, after he'd left.


****************************************************************************************

This is literally "a post".

****************************************************************************************

"Literally".


This is probably paranoia on my behalf, but I notice lately that everyone keeps saying the word "literally".

Maybe this has always occurred, and I'm only cottoning on to it now, but it's literally said by literally everyone.


Literally, all the time.


It must be one of those things that I've become acutely aware of, and am therefore overly sensitive towards, but every time I hear the word I literally can't help but get annoyed.


It's overused. Simple.


When you listen to someone recount a story these days, why does it always have to include the word "literally" a dozen times?


"He got so mad, he literally exploded".

Did he? Did he actually explode?


"And then Hell was literally unleashed".

What? Really, now.


Even when used correctly, it's often unnecessary.

"I was so tired, I literally could not stay awake".




What's going on?

Where has this suddenly come from?




I literally have no idea.


****************************************************************************************

Ducks (v.2).

****************************************************************************************

I put my shoes on, and I went to sit by the lake.


It was a Tuesday afternoon.




A duck wandered up to me, so I took off my earphones and respectfully nodded at the duck.


"What you listening to?", said the duck.

"Belle & Sebastian", I replied.


The duck rolled its eyes.




"Their newer stuff isn't the best", it said.

I sighed, and nodded in agreement.




"What day is it today?", said the duck.

"It's Tuesday - all day", I said, and offered the duck some Haribo.


"Nah, I'm not hungry", it said, "but thanks anyway".






"Is it true that Woolworths has gone under?", it said.

"Yup", I replied, "it's true".








"Ok, see you later", said the duck, as it waddled off.

"Cheers, see you in a bit", I said.


****************************************************************************************

Ducks.

****************************************************************************************

Yesterday I took my shoes off and threw them in the lake.

A duck threw them back and said "don't throw stuff unless it's food".

I immediately apologised to the duck, blaming Kate Bush for my actions, and went on my way.


I came back later and threw a Twix in the lake, in order to make up for my earlier misdemeanour.


I then felt stupid, because I'd forgotten to take the wrapper off.

The duck wasn't pleased.

"Stop and think next time", it said. "It's not easy for us to eat confectionary unless you take the wrapper off first".



"Sorry", I said.


****************************************************************************************