.... 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.
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