Talking to strangers is generally characterised, especially through novels and films, as an enlightening experience full of shared wisdom and thought-provoking pleasantries.
Although this certainly wasn’t the case when a thirty minute conversation with a stranger left me contemplating the career of gold-digging!
At a bus stop I had around 30 minutes to kill when an old man of around 70 sat beside me and began what initially took off as typically British weather-related small talk. Before too long, however, I was given a grand old glimpse into the early dating life of this fellow which seemed to involve a few women who, perhaps, went beyond the step of merely contemplating gold-digging. He told me about one woman who, after he’d spent an entire week’s wages on, left him after that single date and was never heard from again.
But this experience certainly hadn’t made him bitter, rather, he was encouraging me to follow in this girl’s footsteps! He advised me to take everything I can from men when I have the chance.
He was certainly a very sweet man and I don’t doubt his kind intentions but I’m not sure I’m entirely won-over on his amicable advice!
Whilst many people enjoy a spot of gardening now and again; for some it is even a relaxing pastime, I see it as a purely harrowing nightmare which I instinctually attempt to avoid.
Today, however, was unfortunately one of those few days in the year when it becomes impossible to ignore the sheer height of my garden’s shrubbery and so the bullet was bitten.
Armed with secateurs and a dustbin, the events of the afternoon would prove to only strengthen my distaste for gardening and its accompanying horrors.
Unfortunately for anyone who may cross my path, I am quite prone to vocally-unusual outbursts from fright as well as unhesitating profanity. A particular patron today, for example, had clearly never experienced a spider falling on to him as he picked up on a certain f-bomb which accidentally fell from my exasperation. But I suppose that is what comes from living in a town that contains almost more churches than residents.
My luck with patrons didn’t even end there.
One man across the street apparently found great amusement in a girl with secateurs who clearly had no idea what she was doing as he laughed at every branch and scream that I couldn’t control.
But as the dirt started to make its way across my face and my hair became a mesh of leaves, I was passed by a most unfortunate person.
My exboyfriend’s mother.
She is certainly a lovely person, and even stopped for a short chat with me.
That is, the ‘me’ who could have been mistaken for an armed hooligan who hadn’t fancied a wash for a few months.
So, whilst many people may have spent their Sunday in sanctity and collectivity, I once again prove that I am an unlucky specimen of the human condition who shouldn’t be let to roam the streets, never mind let loose in a garden. If only for my own morality.
It was when I was sitting in the doctor’s waiting room yesterday that I had the (greatly overdue) epiphany that perhaps, on the occasion, doing as you’re told can be the lesser of two evils. When you have to spend an entire hour in the company of an array of people with an even wider array of ailments, I suppose your own mind inevitable fumbles over the reasons why you managed to secure your very own spot there.
Unfortunately (and rather ironically) for me, common sense is actually quite a rarity and so when the piercer told me not to take out the piercing within 12 weeks, that’s exactly what I did. Ohhh, and how I suffered!
Waking up to see that my ear looked like it had come straight out of the gruesome side of Google Images, I almost half prepared myself for a very Van Gogh solution. It was so gruesome in fact, I sincerely wanted to spare any doctor the horrors of it’s ghastly complexion!
So after a tiny bit of very painful prodding and poking, I am now on a course of antibiotics (and shame) for my foolish ways!
Since I certainly would never wish to scar anyone with images of infected ears, here is a drawing of Bob Dylan… it’s amazing what you can find yourself doing at 3 a.m.!
Today I found myself writing an essay. This exercise is not particularly unfamiliar to me, after all, I do pursue three subjects which almost exclusively rely upon the of churning out of endless sheets of endless script.
Unlike most of my essays, however, today I found myself (perhaps in my slowly-deteriorating sanity) creating a brand new word! Not even in the enlightenment of my own consciousness, I should say. Who knows, perhaps there is a small percentage of Shakespearian innovation (i.e. I can make up whatever the hell words I like) rattling around up there.
Although such an irrational idea seems more like just another side effect of my accumulating madness.
Instead I shall put it down to my unconscious laziness which led me to combine the words ‘with’ and ‘the’ into the portmanteau ‘withe’.
Not to be confused with the definition of a twig, (no, really…) ‘withe’ is, I have conjured, the defeatist way of writing ‘with the’.
So, for example, ‘Anna went to the dance withe handsome cheese sprayer’.
Perhaps a more appropriate title of this post would have been ‘how to alienate MY readers and YOUR friends’ but in the likelihood that ‘withe’ does not catch on, at least there is one thing that can be gained from this post: that ‘Cheese Sprayer’ is, I do not lie, an official profession!
And to think, people spend years training to be doctors and psychiatrists- they’re definitely missing a trick here!