spiffingwheeze

So, you find yourself needing to use the office facilities to, you know, drop off the kids at the pool. Snap one off, etc etc.
This may apply to men only, as, by legend, ladies never take a dump at work.

Having occupied trap 2, in a typical 3 trap set up, and going into trance so that you can ignore circumstances, and the fact that a thin divide separates you from your neighbour, you can just about deal with the indignity of it all, and commence the bombing run.

At this moment, the occupant of trap 1 produces a sustained musical note from their barking spider of such regulated pitch and sustain that all that seems to be missing is a pianist hitting the same key, and a singer repeating “me.. Me… Meeee” until they’re ready to start work on a tune . I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, applaud, or shout out a request.

Whales…

Saddened by the death of the pod of whales on the east coast.

Depressed by all the morons grinning away taking pictures with the corpses. Some of which were defaced with spray paint of messages about the environment. There. Dignity in death.

Now they’re being loaded up to go to landfill. Apparently they don’t smell nice.

All in all. Depressarama.

And yet. There’s the part of my brain that seems to be controlled by Loki, that is playing out the possibility that the unfortunate creatures got there courtesy of the same route as the whale which suddenly found itself sprung into existence above Magrathea…

He sneaked past his dad, carrying a newspaper to disguise the filthy document secreted within.
Ensuring the door was shut behind him, he sneaked beneath the covers of his bed, and switched on his torch. Slowly, quietly, with trembling hands, he opened the paper exposing the object of his desire. As he read, with quickening breath,  he could feel it growing and stiffening before his very eyes, until its shining end brushed the covers. Unseen, the door handle silently turned, and a voice broke the silence “You’re not reading those VW emission tests again are you Pinocchio?” In the awkward chasm of silence, there was the unmistakable sound of a cricket face palming.

Best moment this morning: some wizened old dot looking totally puzzled and outraged at the tiny coffee she just paid 2 quid for. Obv had no idea what a double espresso was before she ordered it. They didn’t help by offering to turn it into an Americano without explaining what that was either. They might as well have just offered her a dirty Sanchez. She came back a minute later after drinking half of it and asking for some milk to top it up. What a frightening world it must seem. Never mind. You can’t dodge that coffin forever love.

Because boredom…
A surprising number of people viewing the following offers off t’Internet, but no buyers…

A good hard shag. Go on, treat yourself

Good Hard Shag.
Fantastic hard plastic model of Phalacrocorax aristotelis,
Excellent condition. May PX aluminium sparrow + cash.

Great Pair Of Tits.
One bearded. One blue. May split.

Sizable Cock.
6ft model of rooster. All complete. Minor scratches. Well used. Slight smell of pickled ginger. Open to offers.

Hairy Pie
Steak and ale. Has been dropped crust down on barbershop floor.
Minor leakage around the edges.

Barking Spider.
All 8 legs present and correct. Prone to malfunction.

Red Hot Dripping Beaver.
Electrically unsafe  Castor canadensis, made from beef fat. Will break for spares.

Some Fine Pieces of Ass
Assorted donkey spares. Breaking.

2000 bargain hunting would-be immigrants attempted to get to the UK last night via the channel tunnel.
Keen no doubt to get a job on minimum wage, and maybe then thrust themselves into the hyper- affordable UK housing market.
Do you have a property to PX Sir? Ah, a share in an abandoned tent outside Calais! Hot and cold running piss and shit, and an excellent view of the cold grey sea, just a stone’s throw over a mountain of rubbish. Excellent. Holiday homes are very popular in the current market.
Maybe they aspire to the UK version of the American dream. Rise to the top, get a seat in the house of Lords, then reap the benefits. Which may seem to mean spending your 300 quid a day expenses on coke and hookers, before being gently encouraged maybe to resign, as it’s a little bit unseemly. What? Being caught?
Oh well, let’s get back to bombing their homelands in the name of freedom. There’s room for plenty more bottle washers and prostitutes…

*You may be one of the hookers.
Knickers may go down as well as up.
Your seat in the House of Lords is not guaranteed.

You may need to be a member of the House of Lords before housing, coke, or hookers seem affordable.

So, you find yourself at the garden party organised for a friend’s daughter’s first birthday party. Said friend started out on the family life path a bit later than you  did. Consequently you are there with two of your own children, aged 13 and (nearly) 10.

So far so what you say…

Good point. This is not the relevant bit.

Well, during this most agreeable sunny afternoon family fete, you look around and survey the scene. Pretty damn good  really.

Children having fun, adults sipping a  cold beer or a chilled glass of wine in the sunshine.

And this too, is not the point.

You see, when your brain is wired up like mine, there’s always another side of it.  An inescapable processing churning away on its own. You look around and notice the young children and then your own somewhat more grown up brood. And you wonder when the hell that happened. And that same bunch of guys and gals you misspent some of your youth with down the local pub, suddenly transported forward in time to now. And let’s face it…Sigh… We’re all living in that future looking a wee bit older now. You know only too well that you’re showing it yourself too. The subconscious continues to process this overnight, and serves up its considered opinion the next day, as you drift in and out on the train doing the long commute.

An old school chum who never made it this far. An over-analysis of your own father’s life. Him now being gone to the great unknown. His journey through life,strugggling to get enough sheckels to put food on tbe table, steadily getting older and eventually greyer as you all went about life not really appreciating his struggle, and adding to his woes with your behaviour. Kinda wish I’d done more to help the old chap. Maybe just shown him it was, however meagre, appreciated.

And so the undertone from this processing, as you consider the output seems to be that the record changes from one generation to the next but really it’s the same old tune re hashed.

I don’t have an off switch for this side of my psyche, it seems.

Still, at least the sun was out, and the pleasing afternoon put up a good show at giving some time spent living in the present. Cake always helps.