.... I'm acutely aware that I have a habit of repeating myself. In fact, I sometimes triple myself. But just as a leopard never changes its spots, Junebug is unlikely to tell a story only once. Coming to this realisation, I pondered my portfolio of stories that I tell again and again, many of which I manage to work into a conversation in the first 30 minutes of meeting a new, unsuspecting individual. I doubt I'm the only one for whom this rings true. I've been on the receiving end of many a tale that I've heard before, but my strict upbringing forbids me from saying, "whatever" and showing them the hand. Instead I listen avidly as the repetitive raconteur uses me for therapy, instead of tucking into a family size packet of kettle crisps.
To rid myself of this habit, I set about identifying my top three staple stories - my own version of Shakespeare's complete works, you might say.
They begin with the time I was made to stand in the dustbin during my first chemistry lesson on the assumption that I was rubbish. Heaven knows if Einstein ever spent 45 mins in a classroom dustbin, but for me it didn't light the bunsen burner within. At least in those days the incident wasn't complicated further by recycling. If it was, I might still be there deciding which bin I belonged in.
My second staple story harks back to a job many years ago when my boss phoned me at work to say he/she was on their way into the office and could I please carry out my bodily functions before they arrived. Needless to say, I made sure I was in the loo when they got to work. No one dictates my restroom schedule. In that job, my tights were also a barometer for the emotions of said boss and colleagues would enquire after the condition of my nylons each morning before he/she arrived. If they were laddered, even our restroom schedule would pale into insignificance to the administrative thunderstorm that ensued from refilling the stapler.
My third story is the time I told someone that Birds Eye Walls was an archaeological site along Hadrian's Wall, when in fact it referred to an ice cream incident. I fear this exposed my lack of archaeological knowledge and curtailed my career in the conservation world. I suspect if Hadrian's Wall sheltered a Roman version of the dustbin, I would again have been confined to that artefact.
Anyway, these meagre stories are now consigned to history themselves and I will attempt originality in new encounters from hereon in. I anticipate a very quiet Junebug from now on.
Tuesday 21 June 2011
Saturday 11 June 2011
I wouldn't mind but ....
.... I've seen the future of advertising. I was on my way to Pret-a-Manger to get my lunch when a light bulb flashed metaphorically in front of me. Holding my nerve, I pressed on to secure my soup and lemon cheesecake, before returning to my Eureka moment (minus the bath).
Let me explain. Pedestrians everywhere are walking along staring down at their mobile phones. Whilst I'm scanning for hazards, every other lunchtime worker is transfixed by Facebook updates. What message could be so fascinating that you neglect oncoming obstacles? What text makes you reckless in the face of lampposts, stationary tourist groups looking for Liesesster Square, queues at cashpoints (queue alongside the bank not across the middle of the pavement, you morons!), alfresco dining outside cafes (it's England, it rains, get over it and get inside) and the gentleman with his ferret on a lead that I have often had the pleasure to tip hats to en route to work.
For research purposes I encroached the shoulder of a chap in Pret-a-Manger who was trying to decide which of the 100 counter staff at the five tills all shouting 'Can I help you?' he should submit his crayfish and rocket to. As he finally leant over the Lovebars and said 'yes, I would like a bag', I seized my opportunity and glanced down at the message on his phone: "Buy milk". Was he a stockbroker and was Milk about to crash? Had I stumbled on a scoop. I followed him out of the shop and into the newsagents next door. He grabbed a pint of semi-skimmed milk and went on his way. I'd been duped.
But had I? What if advertisers used the pavement space to advertise? If everyone's looking towards the ground, that's where we need to place those important messages. Pavements sponsored by Cadbury's - chocolate pavements? I realise there's a major flaw in this proposal i.e. how do we stop bumping into each other? But, if you think again, why is that such a problem? Everyone enjoys the Dodgems, so why not ditch the car and get physical? 'Guess who I bumped into today' could keep the conversation going for hours.
And there you have it. It's an idea that any contestant on 'The Apprentice' would give their right arm for and all it took was a close encounter over the lovebars at Pret-a-Manger.
Let me explain. Pedestrians everywhere are walking along staring down at their mobile phones. Whilst I'm scanning for hazards, every other lunchtime worker is transfixed by Facebook updates. What message could be so fascinating that you neglect oncoming obstacles? What text makes you reckless in the face of lampposts, stationary tourist groups looking for Liesesster Square, queues at cashpoints (queue alongside the bank not across the middle of the pavement, you morons!), alfresco dining outside cafes (it's England, it rains, get over it and get inside) and the gentleman with his ferret on a lead that I have often had the pleasure to tip hats to en route to work.
For research purposes I encroached the shoulder of a chap in Pret-a-Manger who was trying to decide which of the 100 counter staff at the five tills all shouting 'Can I help you?' he should submit his crayfish and rocket to. As he finally leant over the Lovebars and said 'yes, I would like a bag', I seized my opportunity and glanced down at the message on his phone: "Buy milk". Was he a stockbroker and was Milk about to crash? Had I stumbled on a scoop. I followed him out of the shop and into the newsagents next door. He grabbed a pint of semi-skimmed milk and went on his way. I'd been duped.
But had I? What if advertisers used the pavement space to advertise? If everyone's looking towards the ground, that's where we need to place those important messages. Pavements sponsored by Cadbury's - chocolate pavements? I realise there's a major flaw in this proposal i.e. how do we stop bumping into each other? But, if you think again, why is that such a problem? Everyone enjoys the Dodgems, so why not ditch the car and get physical? 'Guess who I bumped into today' could keep the conversation going for hours.
And there you have it. It's an idea that any contestant on 'The Apprentice' would give their right arm for and all it took was a close encounter over the lovebars at Pret-a-Manger.
Monday 6 June 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... I think I saw the beginning of the end in Marks & Spencer today. There I was in their Paddington station branch gathering my pomegranate seeds and blueberries, when I happened upon the decline of civilisation. I was stopped in my tracks, my wire basket buckled and my pomegranate juiced. There, on the top shelf, were glasses of wine (red and white). Plastic glasses of wine with a pull-off lid. At first I thought they were jellies, but I shook one and it moved. Is this the new lunchtime must-have? If so, I'm destined for a life of billy-no-mates at lunchtime as I sit in the corner with my cup of builders' tea, while all the cool workers are peeling back their lids and knocking back the lambrusco.
Still in shock, I headed for home to mind-map my strategy to save mankind. En route, I opened my copy of 'The Times'. And there, in print, was news of the Candwich - a sandwich in a can. A sandwich in a can! They have a shelf-life of 12 months and come in flavours such as 'pepperoni pizza'. At first I thought the end was here sooner than I expected, but then I got to thinking. If the wine-in-a-glass takes off, then I can hide in Epping Forest with a supply of Candwiches. I won't need any electricity and I can resurface smelling of pepperoni pizza when nearly everyone's died of alcoholic poisoning. If anyone's still alive, I could be the new Eve (or call me Domino). Granted, I'm a bit on the old side, but if the survivors are drunk, they won't notice. Everyone's happy. So back off, the Candwiches are mine!
Still in shock, I headed for home to mind-map my strategy to save mankind. En route, I opened my copy of 'The Times'. And there, in print, was news of the Candwich - a sandwich in a can. A sandwich in a can! They have a shelf-life of 12 months and come in flavours such as 'pepperoni pizza'. At first I thought the end was here sooner than I expected, but then I got to thinking. If the wine-in-a-glass takes off, then I can hide in Epping Forest with a supply of Candwiches. I won't need any electricity and I can resurface smelling of pepperoni pizza when nearly everyone's died of alcoholic poisoning. If anyone's still alive, I could be the new Eve (or call me Domino). Granted, I'm a bit on the old side, but if the survivors are drunk, they won't notice. Everyone's happy. So back off, the Candwiches are mine!
Wednesday 1 June 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... I've been struggling with my weight recently (roughly the past 30 years). I once tried hypnotherapy to stop myself eating crisps. This involved paying a hefty sum of money to lie down for one hour with my eyes closed, while a lady with an irritating voice took me 'mentally' into a forest collecting stones wrapped in crisps. When I reached the end of the forest I was urged to drop these stones into a well to rid myself of cheese & onion forever. In reality, it was one of the longest hours of my life and, while in the imaginary forest, I spotted an imaginary tray of Krispy Creme doughnuts and the rest is history (or visible on my hips).
I've also deployed the technique of tapping points whenever I see a tube of Pringles - a signal to my brain warning it of approaching danger and urging me to retreat to a 'pop and go' exclusion zone. In reality, though, the tapping points just reminds me of the time a Krispy Creme doughnut with chocolate icing and custard filling got harpooned on my finger. You get the general drift, I'm sure.
Anyway, I've been thinking. If offensive language and behaviour are a crime, why shouldn't offensive eating be too? I find it very offensive when someone with a fast metabolism is enjoying the delights of an all-day fried breakfast while I'm sitting nearby eating a caesar salad minus dressing and croutons. My metabolism is so slow, I'm still digesting last week's Sunday lunch when I'm tucking into this Sunday's roasted parsnips. In fact, I'm packing a tail back of parsnips that would do any motorway hold-up proud. I'm the M1 of vegetable accompaniments.
Imagine being convicted of eating too many portions of cheesecake. It would surely save the NHS a fortune as people avoided sugary, fatty foods and stampeded the supermarket for that weird spray oil in the yellow can. It would sound the death knoll for the ubiquitous kebab and spits would finally turn empty in the shop windows of Walthamstow and farther afield. Think of all the NHS beds vacated by the newly health-conscious population and the refuge they could provide for the homeless. And there you have it, I'm channelling the spirit of the Big Society and we owe it all to doughnuts.
I've also deployed the technique of tapping points whenever I see a tube of Pringles - a signal to my brain warning it of approaching danger and urging me to retreat to a 'pop and go' exclusion zone. In reality, though, the tapping points just reminds me of the time a Krispy Creme doughnut with chocolate icing and custard filling got harpooned on my finger. You get the general drift, I'm sure.
Anyway, I've been thinking. If offensive language and behaviour are a crime, why shouldn't offensive eating be too? I find it very offensive when someone with a fast metabolism is enjoying the delights of an all-day fried breakfast while I'm sitting nearby eating a caesar salad minus dressing and croutons. My metabolism is so slow, I'm still digesting last week's Sunday lunch when I'm tucking into this Sunday's roasted parsnips. In fact, I'm packing a tail back of parsnips that would do any motorway hold-up proud. I'm the M1 of vegetable accompaniments.
Imagine being convicted of eating too many portions of cheesecake. It would surely save the NHS a fortune as people avoided sugary, fatty foods and stampeded the supermarket for that weird spray oil in the yellow can. It would sound the death knoll for the ubiquitous kebab and spits would finally turn empty in the shop windows of Walthamstow and farther afield. Think of all the NHS beds vacated by the newly health-conscious population and the refuge they could provide for the homeless. And there you have it, I'm channelling the spirit of the Big Society and we owe it all to doughnuts.
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