Cats
Sam’s Home
Jun 29th
As a little follow-up to last weeks teary ode, the little man came home yesterday and once more sleeps on the landing. Ok, a little sentimental perhaps but at least I know where he is. I won’t be scattering his dusty remains, mainly due to the fact that the box won’t open and as it doesn’t look too ghoulish and coffin-like, on the landing bookshelf he will stay. At least I will be able to say “Good Morning” and “Good Night” the same way I always did.
I promise I will stop this now.
Bizzy
It’s been a funny old few weeks at work. There I was, adjusting my spreadsheets to work with the new proposed shift plan on July 7th when I offer (foolishly some might say) to help out more closely with the organisation of said shift plan. Now, I am deeply involved and whilst the relief that it is almost done is wonderful, the knowledge that I have seemingly upset more than a few people with my supposed choices is a little unsettling. Truth be told, I haven’t had any say whatsoever in who goes where and even my radical ideas in other areas will have to be approved by authority and committee before they are ever put into action. To be honest, a few weeks ago, I thought it would be very cool for hundreds of people to work according to plans I had forged. Now, I am not so sure. After all, what if it’s a disaster? Gulp.
Still, once more the opportunity has forced me to learn some new very cool Excel stuff.
I am really reaching now aren’t I?
Wrong
I often ponder on the brilliance of my sardonic wit and the endless quest to comment on the absurdity and oddness of the world around me. Wouldn’t it be so much better to be positive and talk about nice things and not point the finger of criticism at the funny, the odd, the absurd, the ugly or the chav? It would be, but I can’t help but think that nobody would be interested in reading it. I feel very lucky to have been blessed with the gift to see the failings and misfortunes of others.
Ok, I will stop this too now.
You have to understand some of my life to see where I am going with this. I don’t go out much you see. Not in a sad, hermit-like way, it’s just that I don’t “go out” drinking, clubbing or partying. When I do venture out of the door, it’s either to work (still loving it) or shopping or visiting or whatever. So. Quite a lot then. What’s my problem? Well, to be honest, when I started this paragraph, I felt the need to clarify but now I wish I hadn’t bothered.
So there I was, buying the hernia-threatening pile of plastic, cardboard, paper and CD’s that once called itself a newspaper. I’ll be honest, it’s not a shop I normally patronise. The owners are quite nice but it usually boasts a crowd of Burberry inside and out that would make most of us steer clear. No well-known, corporate identity hangs over the door and there is the usual smell – almost out-of-date milk, cheap chocolate and disinfectant. Behind the counter is someone and on my side of the counter (sometimes on a stool) is their mate, talking to them.
In the corner is a cash machine that will dispense £10 for a modest fee of £2.85 and all around is the world of convenient, own-brand merchandise, most of which I have sworn never to eat again. As always, it seems rude to interupt the bloke behing the counter and his chatty mate but you have to pay don’t you? Handing over a £10, I smile and look around the counter area, only to notice a scribbled piece of A4 sellotaped to the side of the glass “shoplifter sweetie barrier”. In large letters across the top are the words “LASANGYER RECEPEE”. Underneath, presumably was a recipe for lasagne but I couldn’t say for sure. As I have done many times before, the author of this gastronomic guideline had underestimated how much room the recipe would take up and as such, had to write progressively smaller and smaller until they reached the bottom of the page. By the time they hit the bottom, they just had room for a tempting instruction “tastes fabb and is reely cheep”.
Where would a nice person do when presented with this? Who cares.
What the f**k kind of world do I live in?
I don’t know where to begin.
Appalling spelling aside, what thinking process puts something like that on display?
Who is it for?
What do you do if it takes your fancy? Take out your PDA and copy it down? What of the queue behind you? If money is your god, why not just buy the 89p frozen one in the fridge behind you?
Was the voice in my head shouting “run..drop the paper, forget the change and run” wrong to do so?
Stop the train, I want to get off. I don’t care if there is no station. I want to get off now.
Popularity: 2% [?]
Sam’s Home, Bizzy & Wrong
Jun 29th
Sam’s Home
As a little follow-up to last weeks teary ode, the little man came home yesterday and once more sleeps on the landing. Ok, a little sentimental perhaps but at least I know where he is. I won’t be scattering his dusty remains, mainly due to the fact that the box won’t open and as it doesn’t look too ghoulish and coffin-like, on the landing bookshelf he will stay. At least I will be able to say “Good Morning” and “Good Night” the same way I always did.
I promise I will stop this now.
Bizzy
It’s been a funny old few weeks at work. There I was, adjusting my spreadsheets to work with the new proposed shift plan on July 7th when I offer (foolishly some might say) to help out more closely with the organisation of said shift plan. Now, I am deeply involved and whilst the relief that it is almost done is wonderful, the knowledge that I have seemingly upset more than a few people with my supposed choices is a little unsettling. Truth be told, I haven’t had any say whatsoever in who goes where and even my radical ideas in other areas will have to be approved by authority and committee before they are ever put into action. To be honest, a few weeks ago, I thought it would be very cool for hundreds of people to work according to plans I had forged. Now, I am not so sure. After all, what if it’s a disaster? Gulp.
Still, once more the opportunity has forced me to learn some new very cool Excel stuff.
I am really reaching now aren’t I?
Wrong
I often ponder on the brilliance of my sardonic wit and the endless quest to comment on the absurdity and oddness of the world around me. Wouldn’t it be so much better to be positive and talk about nice things and not point the finger of criticism at the funny, the odd, the absurd, the ugly or the chav? It would be, but I can’t help but think that nobody would be interested in reading it. I feel very lucky to have been blessed with the gift to see the failings and misfortunes of others.
Ok, I will stop this too now.
You have to understand some of my life to see where I am going with this. I don’t go out much you see. Not in a sad, hermit-like way, it’s just that I don’t “go out” drinking, clubbing or partying. When I do venture out of the door, it’s either to work (still loving it) or shopping or visiting or whatever. So. Quite a lot then. What’s my problem? Well, to be honest, when I started this paragraph, I felt the need to clarify but now I wish I hadn’t bothered.
So there I was, buying the hernia-threatening pile of plastic, cardboard, paper and CD’s that once called itself a newspaper. I’ll be honest, it’s not a shop I normally patronise. The owners are quite nice but it usually boasts a crowd of Burberry inside and out that would make most of us steer clear. No well-known, corporate identity hangs over the door and there is the usual smell – almost out-of-date milk, cheap chocolate and disinfectant. Behind the counter is someone and on my side of the counter (sometimes on a stool) is their mate, talking to them.
In the corner is a cash machine that will dispense £10 for a modest fee of £2.85 and all around is the world of convenience, own-brand merchandise, most of which I have sworn never to eat again. As always, it seems rude to interupt the bloke behing the counter and his chatty mate but you have to pay don’t you? Handing over a £10, I smile and look around the counter area, only to notice a scribbled piece of A4 sellotaped to the side of the glass “shoplifter sweetie barrier”. In large letters across the top are the words “LASANGYER RECEPEE”. Underneath, presumably was a recipe for lasagne but I couldn’t say for sure. As I have done many times before, the author of this gastronomic guideline had underestimated how much room the recipe would take up and as such, had to write progressively smaller and smaller until they reached the bottom of the page. By the time they hit the bottom, they just had room for a tempting instruction “tastes fabb and is reely cheep”.
Where would a nice person do when presented with this? Who cares.
What the f**k kind of world do I live in?
I don’t know where to begin.
Appalling spelling aside, what thinking process puts something like that on display?
Who is it for?
What do you do if it takes your fancy? Take out your PDA and copy it down? What of the queue behind you? If money is your god, why not just buy the 89p frozen one in the fridge behind you?
Was the voice in my head shouting “run..drop the paper, forget the change and run” wrong to do so?
Stop the train, I want to get off. I don’t care if there is no station. I want to get off now.]]>
Popularity: 2% [?]
Week No. 14,600
Jun 15th
..and so goodbye to youth. Birthday number 40 came and went with an amazing day at work. I know to many of you that will be an oxymoron but it really was pretty cool. Some folks even made a special trip into work on their day off to give me a card and an envelope full of glitter than still blows around the smoking area at work. Lost of tiny little 40s sticking to everyone’s backsides as they huddle for a fag on the picnic benches. Family wise, I had gratefully spent the present my sister had given me weeks ago and mum got me two things that squarely hit the present nail on the head. Firstly a model Starship Enterprise. Yes, go ahead laugh. Unfortunately for you, it is a) cool b) identical to one I had as a boy and don’t have anymore. Long-time readers, aware of my love of all things trek will assume my abode is awash with models of starships and tie-fighters but you would be wrong. This is the first model I have ever had. So cool is it, however, that I fear it won’t be the last. Secondly, a fascinating little book all about the 70s TV Series “The Survivors”. 40 years and 5 days old. The geek still lives.
And then on Thursday, a sad little tale of a happy little life came to an end. It’s amazing to think I was only 24 when little Sam came into my life. We ‘rescued’ him from what at the time we thought to be a perfectly respectable pet shop. In the years since, it became a matter of record that the owner of this establishment cut some corners in his noble quest for a few quid. The mighty “Scrabble” had just left us after a life of sleeping, eating and more sleeping and there was a gap in the Argue menagerie. So, off we trotted to the shop. Within minutes a small black and white animal was in the cat box and well on the way to the life of an Argue. Sam was born on a farm and like many such cats, grew to the size of a small panther in under a year. His feet in particular could have flattened many a small bird with ease had the very idea been anywhere in his soft and friendly head. You see, fortunately for the rodent and bird population of Hooe (and later Badgers Wood), he didn’t have an unpleasant bone in his entire body. He could occasionally be selfish when sharing the bed with his adopted sibling Alice but I am pretty sure any such acts of aggression were just an attempt to goad her into playing. He was still doing this last week at the age of 16. He never stopped being a kitten. He never stopped doing a lot of things. He met me from work every night. Sitting in the road under the street light, he knew the noise of my car and sound of the footsteps down from the car park. Before he became ill, he would spend many an hour sat in the turning bay (he is in fact captured in the aerial photography on Google Earth and Microsoft Live Search) watching the world go by. Sadly, as we live in a cul-de-sac, he didn’t see much. About 6 months ago, he developed a snuffle which we found out a week ago was actually the result of cancer spreading to his chest. It wasn’t until a lump on his foot caused a visit to the vet that it was confirmed.
So he is gone – having one last kip. He was my little friend for 16 years. He sat on my lap watching Dr Who, slept on my bed whilst I typed thousands of words at this PC and he hid under my chair on Bonfire night. His scratchy meow sounded like thousands of different words in my head in that way only people who love their animals will understand and I miss him terribly.
Fin
Popularity: 2% [?]
