Sheep!

We have sheep in the field near us. Originally there were two sheep. They seemed to get on quite well, although occasionally the skinnier one (it's all relative) would show the fluffier one who was boss by kicking and headbutting him out of the way so that Mr Skinny could munch on the patch of grass Mr Fluff was standing on. Mr Fluff would eventually, resigned, shuffle along to allow Mr Skinny through.

This went on for a few months and then there must have been a change of ownership of the field. Suddenly Skinny and Fluffy disappeared, redundant, to be replaced by a whole lotta sheep. It was soon evident that this farmer preferred the ladies, as there was one male sheep to a field of about 15 female ones. These 15 females certainly earn their keep. There they stand in the field, munching. Munching all day. Looking really, really bored. Occasionally a noise from the road will make them look up for a minute or two, stock still. Then they shrug their furry shoulders and go back to munching. Apart from that they just wait to be mounted. You can tell cos their backs change colour after the male sheep has attended to them. He's a bit of a pest to be honest. Mostly they're not that interested, although it's clear that sometimes they just give in with a "Oh fine, get it over with," sort of attitude. Then they know they'll be left alone for a bit whilst it's someone else's turn.

Effectively, obviously, the field is a little breeding programme, designed presumably to make money by creating more sheep out of cheap little sheep who can't stand up for themselves and don't know any better. The male sheep struts around the field, impressed with the size of his empire and his harem, the power he has over them. 

But really he's just a big sheep in a little field. 

Going to the Dentist

I went to the dentist recently. I don't particularly like going, but at least they have gossip magazines there to take one's mind off what might happen.

This time, though, was brilliant. I went in, answered some friendly questions about where I work and whether I was eligible for free dentistry, and then opened up. The dentist did the counting thing that they do and then began to judge my mouth. I felt like I was on Strictly Come Dancing. "Oh yes, beautiful mouth," he said, "Great oral hygiene and perfect soft tissue, lovely." I pictured a row of four judges dressed as dentists, all holding up sugar-free lollipops with '10' embossed on them.

When he told me I didn't need anything done and looked at me expectantly I didn't really know what to say, so mumbled, "Er, thanks? Um. Good genes. Ha ha."

I did, however, skip all the way home. I felt disproportionately proud. Like I'd just been given a First in oral hygiene and mouth beauty.

ASDA petrol station

Is ASDA an acronym? Does it stand for anything? Or was it just being 'shouty' before its time? Answers on a postcard...

I went to the petrol station at our local ASDA on the way home the other day. I never put petrol in the car, for many reasons but mostly because I'm a big scaredy-cat when it comes to flammable liquid. Plus I'm always worried that I haven't put the nozzle thing in the car properly and it won't click off and I'll get covered with stinky flammable stuff. Which did actually happen once. I also hate it because there's always someone waiting behind me and, just like when I'm packing my stuff in a supermarket, I hate the pressure of knowing someone is standing there, waiting for me to finish what I'm doing so they can go through the checkout and get on with their lives.

Anyway, the point to this is that I went ON MY OWN to the ASDA petrol station. (See? Caps are SHOUTY.) This never happens, but I thought 'no, I can't rely on everyone else all the time, I'll just be really cool and put some fuel in the car on the way home so I can relax and know I don't need to worry about running out any time soon.' What I didn't know was that the ASDA petrol station is different to normal petrol stations. Rather than having pay-at-little-kiosk or pay-at-pump options, ASDA where we live has one option - a drive-thru petrol station.

I didn't realise until I pulled up to my pump, clocked that the way out was guarded by two big kiosks like the ones at Dartford crossing and read the notice on the pump which said 'pay at kiosk on way out - ALL FUEL MUST BE PAID FOR' (like I was going to try and pay for just a bit of it). By that time someone had already pulled up behind me and it was too late to back out. So, I got out, took the nozzle thingy off the pump station, opened the fuel cap door, unscrewed the fuel cap, waited for the pump thing to start and happily began filling my car.

That's when I began to get nervous. I was at the pump nearest the kiosk, so there was one behind me. The guy behind me I would swear put the minimum amount of fuel (2 litres, I was reliably informed by another notice) in his beamer, finished up and sat in his car, engine idling (illegally, according to a third sign) behind me. By this time I was beginning to sweat, but thought 'I'm an adult, I'll keep calm, I'll take my time and chill'. But it was too late, I was panicked. I finished fuelling, and tried to screw the fuel cap back on. The wrong way. Once I'd realised it went on clockwise I was fine. Then I grabbed hold of the fuel cap door and tried to close it before extracting the ignition key needed to open it. Pressing the buttons on the key, I locked all the doors. In a panic I shut the fuel cap door and tried to yank the key out. Thus setting the alarm. Lights flashing to let the world know my car was alarmed, it was now obvious to the guy behind me that I was out my depth.

I got back in the car, slammed the door, caught my hair in the door and then remembered I had no idea what number pump I was at. I didn't want to open my door again so stretched my neck until I could just about see it was number 8.

Trying to regain my composure I kangaroo-jumped to the kiosk and, not realising there was a microphone between me and the guy I needed to pay, yelled through the perspex wall "NUMBER EIGHT PLEASE!" He looked a bit alarmed but payment went well.

The beamer behind me was still waiting so I sped off fairly happy that my transaction had gone smoothly and he hadn't had to wait too long. So happily in fact, that I drove though the lorry fuelling station instead of staying on the road. But I don't think anyone noticed. Surely they were too busy doing their own thing.

Nigella Lawson

I was watching Nigella Express the other day on fast forward (hurrah for Sky+ when the phone rings - can't miss a second of my televisual entertainment) and realised that at a certain speed of fast forward all you can see is food, Nigella's happy smile as she presents the start or finish of a dish and then lots of shots of her torso. Specifically, her chest. So on fast forward it was FOOD, GRIN, CHEST, GRIN, CHEST, FOOD, FOOD, CHEST, GRIN etc. I hadn't really appreciated the subliminal value that this style of editing may add, but I like it.

Moving on....

I've been too busy listening to the chattering of the web to update recently, though a fair bit has happened since Feb. I no longer work in the same office and therefore don't have the same exposure to the cra-zee folk I was colleagued with and I have to admit that I kinda miss them. Whilst I did sometimes feel like banging my head on the desk (and indeed, did do so, several times) they are people with good hearts and an admirable concern for hygiene and I can't diss anyone for that.

In other, proper, news - I was reading that about the rising concern of the powers that be over childhood obesity. It seems crazy to me that there's been such a reversal of situations in sections of society within a relatively short period of time. To clarify: for many hundreds of years the 'haves' had a tendency towards obesity and gout, in the 1950s post-war children were taught to eat everything on their plates (which in the 21st century have allegedly become bigger and less nutritious, a far cry from the sci-fi 'meal in a pill' fiction of the 70s), a habit that's hard to break and now we see the 'haves' starving themselves. True, clothes hang better on a skinnier frame and no-one can deny that high cheekbones stand out on film, but being skinny is as much about status as about looks: 'we can afford to be skinny'.

Crazy old modern times.

Funny-shaped fruit

The older I get, the more my humour seems to be mutating into seaside postcard-ness. I haven't quite got to the really puerile stage, where I find writing 'willy' on the Annual Reports funny, but I can't be far off.

My recent giggles have been over fruit. As I've mentioned, we get a big fruit basket from a local greengrocer's daily (except Fridays and they usually provide their own end-of-week humour anyway) and I'm one of the people responsible for distributing it. Just recently we've had gigantic fruit delivered, really, the Mother of All Fruit in size. This was amusing and prompted lots of GM jokes and big banana demonstrations and stuff, but wasn't as funny as when we started receiving knobbly pears.

If you've ever watched the Two Ronnies you'll know the possibilities with knobbly pears are endless. As indeed I demonstrated until I realised no-one was laughing anymore and I slunk off back to my desk, slightly ashamed, to do some proper work (I do proper work sometimes).

(Still think it was funny, though.)

Robin Hood

I was watching Robin Hood on Saturday night when it occurred to me that the Sheriff/Sir Guy of Gisborne/Outlaw political triangle is not dissimilar to that which occurs naturally in the average office.

Sir Guy in particular struck me as typically middle-management, stuck between his line manager the Sheriff and his love of Marian representing the simple folk (in his case of Locksley but in my office the people like me who do the post, though I'm not sure my middle-management love me). Even down to not knowing his job title (I had to look him up on the Beeb's website, but couldn't even find their org. chart). Serf-Handling Consultant, perhaps? But there he is, invariably doing the management's dirty work whilst the Sheriff takes all the credit. Inevitably he'll end up as a sacrifical lamb when King Richard returns from the the Crusades and discovers his coffers plundered, his budgets smashed and his peasants demotivated and grumbling.

Still, a good dinner and some team exercises (maybe an away-day in Thetford Forest) should give them a fun chance to air their views and restore loyalty in the ranks.

Robin Hood - inspiring stuff.