Aspiring comedy genius ... The Results!

So, you might remember that last week I threw down the gauntlet, and invited you answer the question that Team Biscuit had been unable to answer at the pub quiz. You might also remember that I offered a prize to the funniest response.

After Mark Radcliffe and Stuart Maconie featuring the joke on their Radio 2 show last week, and started using it in their nightly trailers, I was overwhelmed with both of your entries. Ha ha!

The question ...

Who is the coolest guy in the hospital?

The gorgeous Baglady suggested that it was the ice surgeon. Ice-surgeon, icesurgeon, eye surgeon. Gettit? I have to give her a big pat on the back because I believe that's the answer gave, and we thought it was funny enough to earn a point. Our question master, alas, disagreed. But I still think it's quite good.

The fabulous Ally over at Today Is My Birthday thought that the coolest guy in the hospital was the one in the morgue. Factually, I believe that she is correct, and whilst it mightn't be in the best taste, I did snort Coke out of my nose when I read it, so it goes to show that some times, tastelessness gets the laugh.

So, eeny meeny miney mo ... Well, I'm torn. But I'm seeing Badlady in the flesh (can you believe?!) on Wednesday, and I'm sure that, if I ply her with champagne, she will understand why I am declaring Ally the winner! Hoorah! Now I just need to buy a prize ...


Oh, and the real answer?

Who is the coolest guy in the hospital?

The ultra-sound guy!

HA HA HA HA!

And who takes over when he's on holiday?

The hip replacement guy!


Thanks very much folks! I'll be here all week!!

Grateful

I've been grateful three times this week.

I don't mean small-time grateful, like when someone makes you a cup of tea, or when you get a seat on the train, or when it starts raining five minutes after you get back rather than five minutes before. I mean big-style grateful. Like when you realise you're lucky and have to take a big deep breath to think about it.

One of my grateful moments, I wrote about here.

The other two are related.

On Tuesday lunchtime, I popped out at lunchtime to one of my favourite bead shops to pick up some provisions. I needed some things that I know they only keep in the stock room, so I waited for the shop assistant whilst she talked to another customer, but the conversation went on for a while and didn't show signs of slowing, so in the end I shuffled over to see if I could catch someone's eye. As I got closer, I realised that the reason for the delay was that the other customer was deaf, and trying to ask where something was in the shop.

It transpired, after some time, and, in the end, the use of a biro and a sheet of paper, that she was after some silver leather cord. It's no wonder that sign language wasn't getting the message across, is it? I mean, it's not like asking for apples in the greengrocers. It's a fairly specific product, and a fairly hard thing to gesture. She got there in the end, only to discover that they were out of stock, poor love.

I can't imagine that world. I can't imagine the isolation that she must feel by not being able to hear the world around her, or be able to communicate with it. I can't imagine the frustration that she must feel every time she has to carry out anything other than the most simple of transactions, or the gratitude you must feel when you finally get your message across. People say things like, "I would miss the sound of birdsong," or something equally saccharine, but you know what I'd miss? Noise. Plain and simple. I'm sitting here now hearing the sound of the buttons on the computer, the faint purr of the main road, and the occasional car or person on the street outside, a bike's brakes squeaking. Imagine not knowing any of that's going on.

I realise that you only know something's worth having if you've lost it. I don't know this lady's story, obviously, but I do recall a programme a few years ago about a couple who had cochlear implants in their retirement, and were so horrified by the racket that they turned them off and went back to their quiet worlds. Perhaps it's patronising to be sorry for her. But is did make me grateful that, when I wanted to know if there were any spools of black cotton cord in the stock room, I could just ask the question and hear the answer (which was that they were out of stock of that too).

Then on Thursday, I had my third burst of gratitude. My train to work is one of those with two seats on one side of the aisle and three on the other. No-one ever wants the middle seat of the three. There is no way to sit in those seats without getting uncomfortably close to the strangers sitting next to you, and that's terribly un-English. But then, so is standing when there's a seat. You can see the dilemma.

Anyway, I had the aisle seat of the three, and the middle seat remained empty for a couple of stops until a chap came to sit down. I, and the lady in the window seat both did the sharp exhale of breath that is traditional in such circumstance. It's meant to convey (a) a wish that the seat was still empty, and (b) an acceptance that there's no reason why he shouldn't be there. Don't judge me. It's the law of the commuter train. I didn't really take in much of this guy though. I was reading and I tend not to notice much around me before the first coffee.

It was only as the train pulled into Victoria and we all got up to leave that I realised that he had been, I assume, a thalidomide baby - I'd guess he was about ten years older than me, so the timing would be about right. To all effect he had no arms.

As I walked along the platform behind him, I became curious as to how he'd manoeuvre the ticket barriers. Then my thoughts moved on. He was wearing a buttoned shirt and lace up shoes. Did someone help dress him, or is there a way to deal with laces that I've not thought about? And what happens if, midway through the day, he decides he wants a jumper on? Or if he has to blow his nose? What happens when he needs a pee, for crying out loud?

I gripe about the fact that my ankle hurts (although it's hurt for over a year, on and off, and I've not yet seen a doctor about it) and that I'm too fat for my clothes. I gripe if there aren't clean clothes in the morning. I gripe if I dribble toothpaste on the only clean top I have when I'm running late. But my goodness, do I have it easy.

I think that it's the reserve of the comfortable to moan about discomfort. And I think that I am guilty of that myself. And I know that, in all likelihood, I will be ungrateful and moaning about my comfortable life in the near future. But for now, I will try and keep in mind how lucky I am to really have nothing to complain about.

And ...

... relax.

What a week!

What.

A.

Week!

I am very lucky to have a great job again. A job that reminds me why I chose this career which is, if I'm honest, a bit nerdy, but which I am good at and which I have an instinct for and which I love.

My old job sucked. The actual role was the same as that in my current place, but the job? Well that was poles apart. I spent my life smiling at people I knew bitched about me behind my back (well ... they bitched about everyone else, so I assume they did about me too), pleading with people to tell me what they were doing before I heard it from a third party, repeating myself, being sworn at by my boss, and dealing with an overwhelming apathy from my colleagues. Every day was like walking through mud. Every week was agonisingly exhausting.

But you know how it is. When you do something every day, you don't notice that it's not normal anymore.

This week has been frantic. I had a "to do" list (I do like a list) of eight things that, whatever else happened, I HAD to get done this week. Well. Lots else happened. Loads of things came to a head this week, so there were letters and letters and letters, notes to clients, emails and phone calls and more letters, and each thing went to the top of the list and the eight things dropped down it. And to boot, we are working on a really exciting project with a client which, if it comes off, will be a-maz-ing, but which, in the mean time, is a black hole for time.

So today I found myself dealing with things for our big exciting project, dealing with the things that came in, dealing with the "to do" list (still seven items long this morning), answering the phones, and generally chasing my tail.

And in the midst of it, when I was having a little banter with my colleagues in a spare thirty seconds, it struck me how much more fun it is to be busy beyond compare at the new place, than it was to fight fire at the old, and how lucky I am to be there, and be able to enjoy the thrill of the chase again. I celebrated my half-anniversary there this week. And I can't wait to enjoy the next six months. But in the mean time, BOY am I ready for the weekend!

I am a crafty devil

Recently, on a weekend at my parents house, shortly before I left to drive home, I went out into the garden with a large hardback book (Physics for the Enquiring Mind, if you were wondering), some sheets of A4, and a pair of scissors. I proceeded to work my way around the garden, cutting off attractive leaves here, flower heads there, and pressing them all carefully in the book.

Mother came to check on what I was doing, and when I told her, she rolled her eyes. "I rather thought you'd have grown out of all this by now," she said. "You were always a begger for the cutting and sticking."

When I was a child my favourite toys weren't toys at all, but crafty things. Tubes of glue and glitter and stickers and scissors and coloured cardboard. Oh, I loved it! And she's right, I haven't grown out of it. I get new ideas for sticking things and sewing and cutting all the time, and rarely get the time to put them into practice. The pressed flowers are for some greetings cards that I want to make for an arty event later in the year, but I've not yet got out the card to see what I've got supplies of.

I've also got designs on some little mother-of-pearl buttons at the moment, that I'd like to turn into some kind of door hangings, and of course, I always have loads of jewellery to make up. Oh, there's just so much to do!

But a while ago, the lovely Gillian taught me a new technique that I spent some time on at the crafting event that we ran last weekend. It's compelling and wonderful, and I challenge you, once you know what it is, not to try it yourself.

What you do is this: Take plastic carrier bags, cut them to make a design or pattern or picture, and lay it out, as you want it to be, on a sheet of greaseproof paper. Lay another sheet of greaseproof paper over the top, and iron the lot (quite a cool iron, all over, but not letting it sit too long anywhere. Like when you're ironing your delicates). Now, this is important ... don't try it without the greaseproof paper under and over the bags. Otherwise you'll end up with carrier bag melted onto your ironing board, or your iron, or both. Trust me. It doesn't come off!

The whole lot melts slightly and fuses together. No glue or tape or pins. Just plastic and heat. It's marvellous! And VERY addictive!

At the weekend, the kids who were trying their hand at it were largely producing pictures of flowers (primarily because that was one of the examples that we made up in advance, I suspect), but we've also tried weaving two colours together to make a sort of matting. Here's the thing though - you could, in theory, make ANYTHING! Gillian told of a lady who'd made herself a rain mac. Could be myth, but has the potential to be true, and it's this potential that MAKES ME WANT TO TRY IT!

In the mean time, I think that I'll satisfy myself with making some bunting for the front of the house (Sainsbury's orange flags ironed onto an Ocado purple cord, I think). But the sky's the limit!

And whilst you're ironing yourself some bags, you can give some thought to the punchline to my competition joke from Monday's post. Come along now. Don't be shy!

Aspiring comedy genius?

Each week, at the pub quiz, there is a joke.

We are given the joke, and we have to come up with the punchline. Funniest gets a point.

Usually we can work our way to the answer through a combination of word-play and luck. Unfortunatly this week this techniqe failed us. We did not get the point. We were not amused.

So, I thought I'd give you the joke and let you give me the punchline. Send me a comment with your proposed punchline.

In fact, I will send a prize to the funniest person (based on the punchline. Anything else would be rude) which I have yet to acquire, but which will TOTALLY be worth the effort of commenting!

Here it is. Are you ready?

Q: Who is the coolest man in the hospital?

I'll post up the actual answer next Monday, along with the prizewinner.

Have fun!!

This Weekend (10) ...

... has been very much a weekend of two halves.

The good bits have been superb, but the bad pretty flaming ghastly.

So instead of my usual ten point chronology of my weekend, I'll give you an alternating rant and rave on a theme of why it's foul and fabulous to live here.

Let's start with a bit of fabulous. It's good to start on a high note, don't you think?

So, on Friday afternoon I was cleaning the car. Yup! Me! Bucket and sponge. Amazing, no? Well believe it or not, that's not the fabulous bit. A neighbour walked past and commented, as is the neighbourly way, that I could make a start on hers when I was finished. She's a lady I've seen around a bit over the eleven months that I've lived here, but never been introduced to. Whilst we exchanged pleasantries my next-door-neighbour, and a friend from book club also came by. The four of us stood, chatting about mutual friends, connections, gossip, rumour, events and news. By the time we parted company twenty minutes later, I'd offered to help organise a street party and joined the local Neighbourhood Watch group. Not, it transpires, a moment too soon.

On Friday evening, I settled in for the night with a cuppa and a DVD. By the end of the trailers, the noise from outside was unbearable.

Next-door-but-one lives a single mother and her teengaged son. She's OK. A bit rough, and fond of a can of Special Brew, but essentially OK. Her son, on the other hand, is out of control. He's 17, has left school, and does nothing but hang around with his live-in girlfriend and about ten of their mates. There are local theories about how they all make money, but these are 80% speculation, so let's not dwell. They are also thought to be at the centre of the majority of local "incidents", but whilst most people know this, oddly no-one ever witnesses anything. Generally, they are trouble. They have taken, of late, to hanging around on a Friday and Saturday evening on the front wall of mine, and my neighbour's house, drinking, smoking, and talking unintelligibly.

As the decibel level rose on Friday, I got up to close the window, and as I did so, I realised that, as well as sitting on my wall, they were sitting on my car. Five teenaged boys, all six feet tall and more, sitting on my tiny little car. Ooh, I was mad! But what to do? I was scared to confront them, but also scared not to. What to do, what to do?

We have a very good local police team. The Met have set up Safer Neighbourhood Teams, designed to deal with these small groups who operate on a local level. Our local team is second to none. But at 10pm, all I got was an answering service, so I left a message and dithered some more. Finally, after a lot of counting to ten, I decided not to let the buggers intimidate me. I opened the door and told them to get off the car and my front wall. Sulkily, then all hitched along to my neighbour's wall and car. I pointed out that this wasn't really what I meant. "Do you have nothing better to do than sit on our front walls all night?" "No." What more was there to say?

Within five minutes though, they'd thought of something else to do. They started chasing around the cars, jumping over bonnets and throwing any missile that came to hand. They fought in the street - play fighting at first, until someone threw too well timed a punch, and it escalated. One lad found a fence post and started waving it around, until it bored him and he threw it along the street. And then as quickly as it started, it stopped. They scattered; some left, some right, and some back into the house, and five minutes later the police arrived. A suspicious person would think that they knew they were on the way. There ensued a row on the street ("I know my rights!" "Show me your warrant!" "This isn't "The Bill", sir," etc etc etc) before everyone moved inside and things calmed down.

On Friday night, nine people on my street called 999, and I only left an answer phone message! Rats! At least I now know how to get results. The neighbourhood has now become "them" (the family at number 23 and associated gang members) and "us" (everyone else, plus the police), and none of us can see how life will get better without getting markedly worse first.

It's a huge frustration to me, and, it seems, the police force, that we all have to wait for a disaster to happen before anyone can really do anything. Petty crime, intimidation, a level of vandalism and antisocial behaviour will make this street a hard place to live for the foreseeable future, but until the Police can pin something good on one or two of them, there's nothing that can really be done. Meanwhile we all live in the knowledge that a stabbing, a beating, or worse, is a constant possibility, and can only sit back and wait for it to happen. Deary me. Where will it end?

Anyway. Yesterday dawned bright, sunny, and with such an air of positivity that it was hard to believe the unpleasantness of the night before was any more than a dream. As I left the house, a neighbour who I say hello to but don't really know also stepped out of her house. Bonded now by our respective observations of the night before, we chatted for a while, and as we parted ways, we both commented that every cloud has a silver lining. Civil war on the street has drawn the rest of us closer together. We're going for a drink this week.

Later in the day I helped a friend set up the opening event of the Furzedown Festival - a crafting event for children in a local community centre. I spent a happy, if exhausting three hours showing people how to make pictures and bunting out of carrier bags (it's MUCH more impressive and much less crappy than it sounds. I might give you a step by step guide to the most fun you can have with greaseproof paper, if you play your cards right) and marvelled at the fact that if you unplug children from their Playstations, and give them some buttons and glue and fabric and colouring pens, they are as happy as Larry (whoever he is).

So there you have it. In one weekend I have seen battle lines drawn in the street with such purpose that I can't see how the next few months won't be vicious and dreadful, and yet am warmed yet again by the wonderful sense of community that this place has over any other in London. I tell you ... you have to love this place, or it'd drive you mad!

Ungood English #5

It's been a while since we had a dose of Ungood English, hasn't it?

That's not to say that there hasn't been any, but I haven't seen any really choice examples when I've had my camera to hand, and been quick enough with it.

Yesterday, I saw this from the top deck of the bus.

Now. Firstly, and most importantly (and I am aware that I've said this before. A lot) if you're paying serious money to have your shop sign made up, RUN A SPELL CHECK FIRST! Really, people! If you're buying a car, you test drive it and look under the bonnet. If you're buying a bed, you lie on it and bounce up and down a bit. If you're buying a new shop sign, GET SOMEONE ELSE TO READ IT AND TELL YOU IF IT'S RIGHT!

But there are other underlying issues. I should say, for clarity's sake, that I haven't set foot inside Glamourous [sic] Nails and Beauty so I can't actually account for how glamourous (...) or otherwise it is, but as a rule, I think that if you have to write it on the outside of your shop, you are probably trying too hard to convince everyone.

There used to be a shop on Piccadilly called Posh. Seriously. Posh. They sold "leather effect" jackets and PVC trousers. Not in a kinky way. Just in a tasteless way. Every time I went past I wondered, do the owners really think it's posh? Or do they think that punters will be lulled into a false sense of security? Or are they being funny? Who knows. All I do know is that posh, it was not.

Whether a shop is posh or glamourous (!) is surely in the eye of the beholder. Otherwise wouldn't all shops be called "Nice Clothes" or "Comfy Sofas" or "Delicious Food". You call a shop, "Glamorous" then it's got a lot to live up to.

You call a shop, "Glamourous," you've pretty well managed everyone's expectations. So maybe they've got it right after all.