My First Time

I like to try and do something I've never done before as often as possible. Last night, I drove down a road in Westbury On Trym which I'd never been down before. Tomorrow night, I'm going 10 Pin Bowling - amazingly I've never been before - and today, I was sellotaped to my desk by a temp.

Wheelie Bins and Couriers

For this story, I need to give you two important pieces of information:

Important Fact #1: South Gloucestershire County Council operate a rubbish collection pregramme that consists of two wheelie bins, one black for general domestic rubbish and one green for recyclable rubbish such as card and garden waste. These bins are emptied by the nice bin-men on alternate Thursdays - one week the black bin is emptied, the next the green bin. Tomorrow morning, at around 7.30 am, my green bin will be emptied.

Important fact #2: I ordered some stuff from Amazon.

You can probably already see where this is going.

Following some terribly interesting stuff post-work activities today, I arrived home at about 10.30pm, to find, amongst the junk mail that had accumulated on my doormat* a card from Securicor Omega Express, a national courier firm.
Of the three boxes that could have been ticked on the card, the courier had chosen to tick the one which bore the statement 'Your package has been left in a sefe place'. This was followed by a box in which the courier had scrawled something about my wheelie bin. I took this to mean that the package was beside it, or behind it or some equally sensible place.

Oh no. Despite searching around the bins in the dark, I was unable to locate the package. 'Oh dear,' I thought to myself. 'This does not bode well. Perhaps it has been pilfered. Nicked, as it were. I've been robbed!'

I rescrutinised the card. It clearly said: 'Fnarglespotsnik alker wheelie bin'.
One last look around the bins uncovered nothing of interest. Resigned to the fact that I would have to contact the couriers to enquire and, more than likely re-order my stuff from Amazon, I headed back down the garden path to my back door.

It was at this moment that my faith in the general common sense of the human race utterly, utterly failed me.

'No,' I thought to myself. 'He wouldn't have. Surely not. Especially not the day before the green bins are collected...'

I will now give you three guesses as to what I found in my green recycling bin that was to be emptied by the nice council bin-men first thing in the morning.



*Actually, I don't have a doormat by my front door. This reference to my doormat is not a lie, but rather what's known as dramatic license to keep the narrative flowing. 'On the floor in front of my front door' just doesn't sound right.

'Thank You' vs 'Congratulations'

So, I bought myself a new remote control thingummy last week (one of those ones you can use on all of your electrical doodahs; it's very cool, lights up blue and I can use it on my Playstation2, woohoo).

Upon opening the manual, I noted that the first thing it said was 'Congratulations for buying...'
'Thanks very much', I thought to myself, 'But it really wasn't that difficult. I went into the shop, took it off the shelf and then paid for it. It's not like I won an Olympic medal or anything'.
The reason I bring this up now is that one of my team just had a new desk phone delivered. the first thing it said in his manual was 'Thank you for buying...'

Now it probably comes as no surprise that, despite the fact that this is a ridiculously trivial semantic discrepancy, I have an opinion on it.

I would rather see the manufacturers of a product thank me for purchasing their product over that of a competitor's, rather than congratulating me on choosing it. In many cases, I will have bought a clearly inferior product for cost reasons - for example a 28" TV instead of the huge 52" plasma screen that I really want or a little 128mb Mp3 player intead of an iPod. The 'Congratulations' kinda implies to me that they believe their product is better than all of the other products on the market when it clearly isn't. I also find it vaguely condescending.

Well, there you go. I've got that terribly inconsequential thing off my chest. Now go and read something more interesting, will ya?

Thursday night in the hospital

I hate hospitals.

Despite my aptitude for avoiding serious illness and injury, I still seem to spend an inordinate amount of time in medical facilities of various types.

Take last night for example. I was required to visit the Stead on his sickbed at Southmead Hospital and endure his moaning and complaining about all the sick people around him. imagine that... sick people in hospital. Still, some of the nurses were quite attractive...

Anyways... following a really nasty headache that came on whilst bench-pressing the best part of 70 kilos and hung around for a few days afterwards, Stead felt it best to get in touch with his doctor, who suggested a CT scan. So I got a text message at around lunchtime from Stead saying 'I've been admitted to hospital...' He followed this up with a naughty, naughty word that I just can't bring myself to post here!

So I found myself driving over there after work to take him a toothbrush and other overnight essentials. We hung around for several hours in the hope that he'd be discharged as the headache has almost completely vanished. In the end the results of the various tests they'd done came back as clear, except the lumbar puncture, which was being delayed as the computers were out of action.

Just as we thought they'd finished with him, one of the nurses (not one of the attractive ones, regrettably) came over and announced that Stead was to be moved to an overnight ward upstairs.

Stead was understandably convcerened about this as he didn't want to stay overnight. Once he was sfaly ensconced in the new ward, he took an instant dislike to the other patients - the old, coughing woman and the itchy man across the way who kept telling people what was wrong with him.

After an hour, he finally decided that he's had enough and announced to the nurse that he was discharging himself. A brief chat to a very pragmatic duty manager later, we were on our way... via the Indian for a curry. Mmmm...

Apparently the Lumbar results came through earlier this morning and were all clear. Which means that they don't know what was wrong with him!

The Wrong Coat

Yeah. This is a dumb one. I'm dumb.

This lunchtime I grabbed my coat and headed out to lunch only to discover...

...that I'd flagrantly stolen someone else's coat!

I only noticed about halfway down the street when I stuck my hands in the pocket and found a pair of woolly gloves inside. Whilst similar to mine (in that it was long and black), it was clearly more expensive, having a patterned gold lining and a generally better fit. My suspicion is that it belonged to one of the senior managers in the office.

Still. I snuck it back on the coat hanger when I got back. Nobody mentioned it, so i think I got away with it.

Next week, I shall try stealing a lady's coat...

The Origin of Love

I've been teaching myself Flash. And now I've created a new blog to show off the results. Go see it on my DazzaMoo blog!

My Exploding Dinner

I had curry for my tea last night. That doesn't seem like an interesting thing to write about, but an odd thing happened while I was preparing it. It exploded.

It was one of those microwave ready meals. I've been pretty lazy on my holiday and have been eating oodles of what can only be descibed as crap. Anyway, I followed the instructions exactly. To the letter. Honest.

Peirce film lid. For minutes on high. Peel back lid. Stir. Recover. 4 more minutes on high.

It was during the '4 more minutes' that I discovered that one of the ingredients that they neglected to tell me about was the 400 punds of TNT that seemed to have been mixed into the madras sauce. I stepped into the other room for a moment and heard a muffled 'poom'. On rushing back into the kitchen, I discovered that about 50% of my dinner was splattered over the inside of the microwave.

I ate the other 50%.

Cats Suck

So it turns out that cats suck. Rochester just hunkered down right next to his freshly cleaned out litter tray and took a wee wee right in front of me. He just couldn't understand why I was less than impressed. I kicked his arse, I did.

Neil

I popped into town today as Neil Gaiman was in Waterstones signing copies of his new book, Anansi Boys. When I first arrived, there was a very long queue of very pale people all dressed in black with interesting peircings, which kinda scared me, so I ran and hid for an hour. The were gone when I returned.

I've met Mr Gaiman a couple of times before and as always he was a very nice man. Sadly Rochester ate the last book he signed for me. When I mentioned this to Neil, he seemed to think that this was right and proper. Not sure I'm quite with him on that one, but I'll let it pass!

Interestingly, Mark Buckingham, a comic artist that has worked a lot with Gaiman, was also loitering around. He wasn't signing anything and Neil agreed that it was most likely that he was hoping that some of Neil's coolness would rub off on him.

Too Many Mugs

One of the peculiarities of staying with my parents is the sheer number of mugs that get used throughout the day. I'm not sure if this is a phenomenon shared by other dishwasher users, but yesterday, they went through 27 mugs. I know, cos I counted 'em. Given that there is a maximum of three of us in the house at any given time (and there certainly weren't any visitors), am I wrong to think that this is unreasonable?

Anyway. The phenomenon is explainable. My parents insist on using a fresh mug every time they have a mug of tea or coffee. Even when they have two in very quick succession, the old mug goes in the dishwasher and a new cup comes out of the cupboard.

Personally, I think it's incredibly wasteful. But I could be wrong. Of course, my point of view is somewhat biased as I often nurse the same mug for 2 or 3 days (obviously it gets rinsed out after every... well most uses) before giving in and washing it properly.

Poo Bins, Day Time Telly And Mushrooms

Those psychic readers out there will know that I am actually at my mother's hose for a week. If you don't already know that, then, fankly, you're a pretty crappy psychic. You suck and you should quit right now.

Mum went into hospital a month or so ago for a Stem cell transplant, which was all very exciting and that, and now she's home. But she's still a bit poorly, so I thought I'd give up a week of my holiday to come and do stuff for her.
Boy am I regretting it. I've suffered more daytime tv in the last 48 hours than any man should have to suffer in a lifetime. I may die.

I was ordered to peel mushrooms today for Mum's stew. Peel mushrooms? I've never heard anything so bizzare in my life. I ain't never peeled mushrooms and I don't intend to start.... oh, ok... I caved and peeled them. It's my mum. She has this... look.

Just a quick note about dog poo, now. It's very thoughtful of the council to put up those red dog poo bins at popular dog-walking spots such as the one I found myself at yesterday evening. Not much thought, however seems to have been placed into the actual location of the poo bins. right at the parking area is not especially helpful. There are few dogs that will do their dirty business at the very start of the walk. Rather, they will wait about 5 or 10 minutes and the take a dump in the long grass at the side of the path, which means that one then has to collect the poo in a specially designed device (cunningly disguised as a carrier bag) and carry the fetid stinking mess with you for the rest of the walk. So - for future reference, council - walk away from the car park for 5 or 10 minutes and stick the poo bin there. Thanks.

On a similar vein... Presumably there is a job out there, the title of which is 'Poo Bin Man'. You can picture the conversations when he gets home from work.

"Did you do anything nice at work today, dear?"

"No, darling. I emptied some poo into my truck."

Holidays, Broken Men and Movies

A number of seemingly unrelated subjects in that title, there. Or so you might think. But in actual fact, I can assure you that they are all cunningly interrelated.

I shall start with the holidays. I am on my holidays. By that, I don't mean that I have been whisked away to a Carribean island for an exotic getaway, rather thant I have taken two weeks off work to do some stuff. Mostly, I might add, stuff that doesn't involve work. To be even more specific, it will mostly involve sleeping in. Now I know you're all jealous there and I can't really blame you for that, but what I can do is attempt to alleviate your envy of my current non-working status by pointing out that I have only take one full week of holiday so far, and that was waaaaay back in July.

Now, yesterday, the first official day of my holiday, I did nothing. At all. Well, that's clearly not true as it is impossible to do nothing without being dead. And even then one is kinda lying there, rotting, so one is even engaging in an activity, albeit a somewhat inactive one, post mortem. As it were. Well. My point is, that I was astonishingly lazy and watched a kung foo movie (House of Flying Daggers, which was very good, but before you ask is not the eponymous movie that you're on tenderhooks for), ate some stuff, watched more telly, played City of Heroes for a bit and then retired to my bed for some well deserved kip. So, in summation, I wrote a big long paragraph about how I did nothing of note, thereby wasting your time. Hah.

Today, I was far more active. After getting up and doing a spot of tidying and dishwashing, I watch some telly and then meandered my way out to Hell... er... The Mall at Cribbs Causeway. I know, I know, but it was a moment of insanity. I did of course regret it the moment I enetered the building. It was heaving. I only needed a couple of things - a new T-shirt or two and a duvet set for my lovely, lovely bed.

So there I was in The Mall. And so, it would seem, was the entire population of Great Britain. Honest. I counted them. In fact, you the reader, was the only person not present. It would seem that the Christmas shopping frenzy has already started, with the desperate hordes (I was gonna use the word 'mobs', but decided that 'hordes' was ever so slighty more derogatory) of people obeying their herd instinct to pay tribute to the false idol that is the Retail Sector. Er... I may have gone a little far with that description. I'm not sorry, though.

A number of things struck me:

Firstly, as always, the instant I stepped into the shopping centre proper, I suffered an unnatural thirst. This is because their air conditioning and dehumidifiers suck every last drop of moisture out of the air. I strongly believe that if they were to seall the entrances and exits, the moisture would be sucked out of the people inside at such a rate that they would instantaneously dehydrate into little piles of dust, just like in that batman movie in the 60s.

Secondly, the many TV screens attached to bit of the ceiling and walls and stuff were advertising the fact that Santa was coming to The Mall in just 5 days. 5 days? Add that to the fact thate the ceiling was plastered with shiny, shiny baubles and pretty lights, presumably to celebrate the Christmas Season. Its the beginning of November for God's sake, people. What's wrong with you? It's not just me that thinks this way. I heard this chap on the telly this morning. He's a bit nuts, but he has a point.

Thirdly (wait for it...) I was astonished by the number of defeated, broken men following their wives/girlfriends around the shops wearing expressions that suggested that the worst thing in the world had just happened (and that contrary to popular belief, it had not happened at sea) and laden like mules with bags and bags of useless tat in plastic bags while their so called 'better halves' were fannying around, unladen, I might add, looking at more usless tat with which they could burden their men. One in particular sticks in my mind - the poor sod was simultaneously pushing a pram and holding several bags with one hand whilst holding onto a horrible, misbehaving brat with the other. The Missus was flouncing along ahead of him, gaily having a nice chat with someone (either her mother or a member of her coven) on her mobile phone.



Makes me glad I'm single. Kinda. I miss the sex, though.

Anyway. Final bit coming up.

Went to the movies with the Stead this evening. Saw Sky High. The movie was ok, but the two kids who sat next to us and chatted their way through the film weren't. One of them kicked the Stead in the shin on the way out. He almost died on the spot, but I managed to restrain Stead's braining arm...

Firework Night

Yay. Fireworks are cool.

Oddly, my cat seems to think so too. Rather than cowering under a table or whatnot, he's hanging around on the windowsill watching
the proceedings with great interest.

He's weird...

Heath Ledger

So I was wandering down from the bus stop this morning and noticed a poster for Terry Gilliam’s new movie, The Brothers Grimm. One of the stars of the movie is a chap called Heath Ledger who you may recall from such stellar movies as A Knight’s Tale and… er… well I can’t think of any others.



Anyway, I got to thinking… what sort of name is Heath? As far as I’m aware it’s just a large patch of open scrubland. So, I looked it up on dictionary.com as you do, and sure enough:

Any of various usually low-growing shrubs of the genus Erica and related genera, native to Europe and South Africa and having small evergreen leaves and small, colorful, urn-shaped flowers. Also called heather.
An extensive tract of uncultivated open land covered with herbage and low shrubs; a moor.

So Heath’s parents either named him after a plant, which is frankly girlie, or they named him after a bit of land. Which is just odd. I suspect, they simply made it up cos they thought it sounded nice.

As for his surname…

Well, anyway. That was my thought for the day. A bit wasted really wasn't it...