15 minutes with alpha, charlie and an aubergine

brinjal

Photo credit: Mine

Unlike a lot of my graveyard shifts when I’ve been working alone, last night we were three. And my goodness what a massive difference it made, on so many levels. Laughter was surely heard from Buckinghamshire to Glasgow me thinks.

After my mispronouncing the Headcount Report which left the three of us roaring, one of my colleagues relayed the story of how her husband called his insurance company to report a chip in his windscreen. Wanting to lighten the moment he proceeded to tell his number plate using a more humourous version of the alpha, charlie phonetic alphabet.

K – for Kit-kat he said. By this time my colleague was almost controlling her laughter, and then she hit us with the classic – O for Aubergine. Well, we almost collapsed. OK, you probably had to be there to appreciate it, but say it out loud a few times and you’ll have a giggle at least. Especially when you consider he really didn’t get it that it wasn’t O for Obergine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What the heck is this blog about?

Should you have fallen onto this blog, the purpose it serves is to ignite my love of writing once more by simply typing whatever is on my mind for 15 minutes and stopping

 

 

 

 

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15 minutes and some glue

When I was a little un at school the most annoying, and more so dreaded thing ever to be given to do was glue things, and perhaps that’s where my distaste for getting my fingers and hands dirty started. Anyway, glue time meant an eager teacher would bring forth a funny looking pot of glue complete with a brush that from the moment you looked at it was sticky from bristles to handle and back again, no matter how hard you tried to keep it clean.

So sticky you’d end up with fingers covered with paper that no amount of shaking and pulling would remove it, and if anything only served to move it from one hand to the other, and back again until you went half mad, had a tantrum and was told off.

Later we progressed on to a glue pot with its funny little rubber top. It had a bit of slit across the lid requiring you to push down hard to allow the glue to escape before dragging it over the paper. Evidently, my skills do not surround the glue pot of any sorts, because even with this one I always ended up in a sticky mess.

Sometimes I think about how life was simpler once upon a time and how it would be good to have some of that back.  But not if it meant going back to the darn glue pot.

glue

Photo from HERE

 

 

 

 

 

What the heck is this blog about?

Should you have fallen onto this blog, the purpose it serves is to ignite my love of writing once more by simply typing whatever is on my mind for 15 minutes and stopping

15 minutes with Radio 2, getting older and the Wombles

Today at work my younger colleague kindly changed her normal radio channel to Radio 2.  The pair of us have been on the early shift this week starting at 6am. And after her morning coffee and my cup of hot water, we settle down and colleague streams her fav channel. The music is pretty much as expected, loud, good beat, sometimes a load of noise and meaningless, sometimes great, but whatever it is, it keeps you going and often I hear myself singing and humming along.  Anyway, a day or so ago, my colleague asked me which channel I listen to. Radio 2, I said. Today then, through no prompting or complaining from me, she streams my channel.

“That’s kind, and thank you very much,” I said. Very touched she would do this.

“I like old music too,” she said.

I laughed good and hard at being advised of my age and said she must change back whenever she wanted. We lasted, probably, about half an hour until the Wombles song came on, at which point she reached for her mouse and said it was time to change.

Can’t say I blame her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fifteen minutes with a cold sore, hangers, goats and cows

goat

(Photo from HERE )

Flipping heck. If there is one thing that really gets my goat going, it’s waking up and finding myself staring at a cold sore. Bad enough though they are, mine always reside beneath or within my nose. Slap bang in the middle of my face. The hubster can’t look me in the eye, preferring to travel towards my poor old nostrils. And if he does this, then everybody else I meet, pass, talk to will be doing the same.

My lovely daughter tells me not to worry and that everybody gets them. I know, but man oh man it does make me a grumpy old cow.

cropped-meg-babel.jpg

(My photo)

Fifteen minutes with a cold sore, feels like fifteen months with a cold sore.

Did a sort out of my cupboard recently, chucking out things that I like, but not so much they will be missed. Must admit I can’t ditch a denim shirt that’s not been of the hangar for about 3 years.  Got a jacket or 2 like that too. Need to be brave and chuck them. Motivation, buy something else to put on those empty hangers.

8048396767_72002a0df2_b

(Image from HERE )

Flipping heck number 2. The hubster was in the garden with his slippers, stepped in poop and walked it through the house! Suffice to say the air is not good on so many levels

 

 

 

 

 

Purpose of this blog should you have fallen upon it:

Having fallen out of love with writing, yet deep down really wanting to, decided the best way was to write whatever comes to mind in 15 mins and then stop

Fifteen minutes – Fosbury Flop

Had such a brilliant earlier evening with the hubster.

Watching the European Athletics on the old television with him, I roped him into doing some running with me. On the spot of course. We do the warm-up with the runners, set ourselves in dummy blocks and when the gun goes, we’re off!

He really got into the swing of it. We were doing the 800m.

“Coming over,” he shouts out, moving towards me.

“Elbows,” I respond, flapping them like a chicken to remove him from my spot.

“Elbows,” he responds, equally flapping and moving me out the way.

We did alright, came in 1st and 2nd.

Next, I had a go at the high jump. Flinging myself onto the settee/couch. Performing my best Fosbury Flop, or should that be plop?! Pretty happy with my performance, and satisfied my expertise rests with the running.

Honestly, if the neighbours were strolling past our front window they’d be wondering what the blazes we are up to.

Went to find out about the Fosbury Flop. Found this little video on Youtube.

Fifteen minutes – rolling on the floor with a quiche

How did I feel about work today, and what to eat this evening? Were we to have baby potatoes or chips with our Salmon and Broccoli quiche, the hubster asked.

I looked him directly in the eye and said. “After the day I’ve had I’m quite happy to throw the quiche on the floor and roll in it.”

quiche

photo borrowed from here

The quiche was far too tasty to waste, and instead, I went about ridding myself of pent-up frustration by running on the spot while watching the men’s 200m sprint at the European championships in Berlin, followed by a few swimming strokes while flat on my stomach on the carpet. Next, the ironing was completed and even the tea-towels were ironed to perfection.

 

 

 

Purpose of this blog should you have fallen upon it:

Having fallen out of love with writing, yet deep down really wanting to, decided the best way was to write whatever comes to mind in 15 mins and then stop

 

 

Fifteen minutes and a frozen t-shirt

That game was good we played yesterday. Who’d have thought a frozen t-shirt would give so much joy and competitiveness. 5 couples competing against each other to thaw and unravel a frozen t-shirt, with one member fully wearing it for the team to be declared winners.

All the t-shirts were screwed up tight before being plunged into water and then frozen. It was like being given a ball of ice to thaw, with your front door key in the middle.

No cheating allowed . . . at first. But after some of us (the hubster) had smashed their ball of fabric ice on the floor, demonstrated key tug-of-war skills while one team member gripped a scrap of fabric and the other held on for dear life, while others rubbed at it as if willing a genie to appear, the cheating began. Couples darted in all directions, holding the solid mass over the barbecue, running the hose over it, and of course the old hot water solution, before the winner charged back to the garden ripping their shirt off and pulling on a wet and soggy t-shirt to huge applause.

It was indeed a great ice-breaker – what a terrible joke to end with!

 

 

 

Purpose of this blog should you have fallen upon it:

Having fallen out of love with writing, yet deep down really wanting to, decided the best way was to write whatever comes to mind in 15 mins and then stop

Running for chocolate, now there’s an idea

I’m not a runner. Never have been, never will be. At school, my PE teacher made comment around the lack of times I had actually participated in the class. Faced with this nowadays, my eyes would roll as I suggest she look at my feet and form her own opinion, which incidentally should take note of said feet not feeling the need to move faster than a leisurely walk – unless there’s chocolate involved, of course. On that, the 100 meter record would be mine any day if a Terry’s Chocolate Orange was on the finishing line. Who cares about a gold medal and a bunch of flowers, give me the sweet stuff and get out of my way.

OK, I should be more fair, I did play hockey once, maybe three times, bounced on the trampoline a couple of times, and reluctantly plodded around the track at Junior school when teams were being picked for sports day. Those who know me may well say I did more, but my defense mechanism of blocking out anything unpleasant can’t recall any more than that!

Suffice to say there are no medals in my cabinet, nor empty spaces gathering dust where trophies should be placed.

Bearing in mind the above, you can well believe my hubby rolling his eyes yesterday when I announced my participation in a 10km run in two weeks time. And bearing in mind my own acceptance of being a non-sporty-do-me-a-favour-let-me-watch-on-the-tv attitude, you may well be surprised to learn my shoulders rose,  my brow frowned and displeasure at his response was voiced.

“How dare you suggest I’ll be out there longer than 3 hours,” I said.

He backtracked. “Well, maybe 2.”

I’ll not be telling him this, but my retort was well laced with panic. What the heck was I thinking! 10 km without a car? Do I know how far that is to walk/run? That’s a long way. A very, very long way.

So this morning, at my desk, I checked my entry details for a get-out-of-this-you-idiot-clause. Relief flooded. My registered distance is 5 kms not 10 . That should be easy . . . shouldn’t it?

Did you say pubic wig?

Now I’ve heard and seen everything. An ex-stripper in the UK has super-glued her bottom to a shop window as a form of protest.

Fair enough, protest as you will. But a pubic wig? Really, they have these? Do you buy them at your chemist or supermarket?

Personally I’m a-wonder-ing if she headed to her local hair salon, swept up the trimmed hair and made her own with Velcro and a piece of felt. OUCH

Read more if you will at TheDailyMail

FERRARI PRESS AGENCY - 24/09/15 - Image of nearly naked Kay Bishop, 56, glued her bum to Debenhams in Croydon to protest about migrants and the police. Photo by @busrxoz - SEE FERRARI COPY
FERRARI PRESS AGENCY – 24/09/15 – Image of nearly naked Kay Bishop, 56, glued her bum to Debenhams in Croydon to protest about migrants and the police. Photo by @busrxoz