It constantly, consistantly amazes me that most people on public transport turn into inconsiderate jerks once they enter the bus/train. Today I witnessed one individual committ so many transgressions against common good manners that I started to wonder if this girl might be deliberately trying to get smacked.
When I got on she was sitting in the six seater right in the isle. There were two others sitting in there with her. She had one foot up on the seat. There were no other vacent seats so I excused myself and waded past the two people seated so that I could sit up against the wall. The girl who had her feet on the seat was sitting by the window and as I moved along the seat refused to move her feet. She actually put them closer together to make room but didn't move them off the seat. There is no way I'm snuggling up to some morons jackboots and as another person made a move to sit next to me I made eye contact and asked her nicely but loudly ( so that I had witnesses that I was provoked in case I shoved her head through the glass) if she would take her feet off the seat please. One foot made it to the floor with such bad grace I thought she had purchased the seat specifically for a footrest. But one foot remained firmly planted on the seat. By now I was uncomfortably squished between a foot with a rather boney ankle attached to it and a well proportioned fellow commuter. The difference between Travelling in comfort and travelling with one leg falling asleep and an arm jostling my side every time my neighbour turned a page of her book was ( interestingly ) the width of the said bony ankle and boot. I'm so tired of these people. It's hard to even get a bit of indignation up these days. I'm just tired, this doesn't mean that they will get away with anything it just means that I won't enter into any negotiations. If I'd had the strength I would have taken her foot and reefed her leg up and over her head, she may have thought keeping her foot on the seat was worth a dislocated hip but of course that was only an unattainable dream. I did, however, stand and use my foot to force her to move her boot. I figured that we both had a good chance of one good kick each and as we were trapped between four people and the isle I couldn't see a full scale retaliation happening. As it was she got such a fright that I pushed her foot off the seat she didn't do any thing except sit up a bit straighter. I denied her a chance for revenge by moving as soon as a few people disembarked and a spare seat became available.
Saturday 29 August 2009
No idea
An older couple are sitting opposite me eating cereal. Yes thats right, cereal.
Each of them have a Tupperware container wrapped in a clear plastic bag and they are shovelling wheatbix into their mouths with gusto. Milk is going every where and they are holding their containers up to their chins so it won't drip down on their clothing. Or maybe they are so mean that they don't want to spill a drop.
Both are dressed casually, with those big hiking boots and thick woolen socks. Their backpacks are sitting on the seat in front of them ( I had to do a double take here) with a teatowel draped over them, supporting two plastic plates with two pieces of wholemeal toast and jam on them. In front of the backpacks were two thermo mugs probably holding a nice hot portion of green tea. Too bad that the train was crowded and people had to stand, it's more important for a pair of retired walkers to sit down to a nice hearty breakfast and take up a couple of extra seats than it is for a full fare paying passenger to have a seat into work.
God forbid that they would have to put their toast on their laps or actually hold their cup.
Even more unbelievable, not one commuter said anything. Everyone was really cranky but no one asked them to move.
Lucky I had a seat or those backpacks would have been on the floor quicker than you could say " excuse me, I'd like to sit down please"
Each of them have a Tupperware container wrapped in a clear plastic bag and they are shovelling wheatbix into their mouths with gusto. Milk is going every where and they are holding their containers up to their chins so it won't drip down on their clothing. Or maybe they are so mean that they don't want to spill a drop.
Both are dressed casually, with those big hiking boots and thick woolen socks. Their backpacks are sitting on the seat in front of them ( I had to do a double take here) with a teatowel draped over them, supporting two plastic plates with two pieces of wholemeal toast and jam on them. In front of the backpacks were two thermo mugs probably holding a nice hot portion of green tea. Too bad that the train was crowded and people had to stand, it's more important for a pair of retired walkers to sit down to a nice hearty breakfast and take up a couple of extra seats than it is for a full fare paying passenger to have a seat into work.
God forbid that they would have to put their toast on their laps or actually hold their cup.
Even more unbelievable, not one commuter said anything. Everyone was really cranky but no one asked them to move.
Lucky I had a seat or those backpacks would have been on the floor quicker than you could say " excuse me, I'd like to sit down please"
Monday 13 July 2009
tattoos
Opposite me is a 30 something man, clean shaven, wearing designer sports wear, dripping silver chains and a deaths head or similar ring on every finger (and for all I know, every toe) the striking thing about him though is the permanently inked artwork all over the visable parts of his body and the implants in his forehead.
He has really gone all out with the tatts, he has a heart tattooed on his head, not a heart shape mind you, this is ( as far as my limited knowledge of anatomy is aware) a real human heart. Down either side of his neck is a thick black spiderweb spiraling down to his shoulders complete with a funnelweb rearing up ready to strike.
His forehead has a series of really big lumps under the skin giving him the appearance of having a really bad case of acne.
He has some smaller lumps where his eyebrows should be and they are tattooed over with little blue circles.
When he smiles ( which doesn't look like it happens often) his teeth are all filed to a point. His hands and arms are so inked up I can't see any skin.
He has accessorised with a small female companion who's foray into the world of body art hasn't reached the heights of her beloved as yet but I think she can't be far behind.
Now, all of us conservative little officeworkers are sitting there on the train minding our own business when these two stomp downstairs and sit facing us all. We all look up (as you do when someone makes a big noise) to be confronted with two pairs of hostile eyes staring out of these freak's faces. To the last man we all quickly averted our eyes and got back to quietly doing what we all do. I have my impeniterable shades on and so feel quite safe in pretending to be asleep whilst checking these two out thouroughly (hence my ability to descibe them reasonably well) and let me tell you, they are facinating.
Tatt man is so agressive and really paranoid about people staring at him (go figure) every time he catches anyone looking at him or the accessory he points at them and mimicks firing a gun at them. He also gave one poor man a heart attack as he was moving his leg away from tatt man, as he looked up (expecting a smile of thanks no doubt) tatt man said, in an incredibly menacing voice " what the f@!/' are you staring at" poor bugger nearly wet himself and got off 2 stops later.
What on earth these two rejects expected I'm not sure, surely they get stared at wherever they go? You can't help it. Tatt man's behaviour is so over the top for someone who must attract both positive and negative attention. Why do that to yourself if you don't like people looking at you? And let's face it, if it's a blue you're looking for a peak hour train isn't the place you are going to find a worthy opponant.
Accessory is trying to calm him down but he seems to be pumped up on adrenaline or testoserone or steroids or all three.
Most people within a two seat radius have moved. There is the odd person who, like me, trusts that he is all bluster and that he won't start ripping out seats and throwing them out of the windows (and probably secretly hoping that he will, how cool would that be). It's interesting to watch him work himself up actually. He is deliberately taking offense at people just being in his presence. The more he acts up the more people stare at him and the more he acts up. Imagine living with a powder keg like that. What he doesn't realise is that no one even sees the tattoos now, they can only see the idiot underneath them.
He has really gone all out with the tatts, he has a heart tattooed on his head, not a heart shape mind you, this is ( as far as my limited knowledge of anatomy is aware) a real human heart. Down either side of his neck is a thick black spiderweb spiraling down to his shoulders complete with a funnelweb rearing up ready to strike.
His forehead has a series of really big lumps under the skin giving him the appearance of having a really bad case of acne.
He has some smaller lumps where his eyebrows should be and they are tattooed over with little blue circles.
When he smiles ( which doesn't look like it happens often) his teeth are all filed to a point. His hands and arms are so inked up I can't see any skin.
He has accessorised with a small female companion who's foray into the world of body art hasn't reached the heights of her beloved as yet but I think she can't be far behind.
Now, all of us conservative little officeworkers are sitting there on the train minding our own business when these two stomp downstairs and sit facing us all. We all look up (as you do when someone makes a big noise) to be confronted with two pairs of hostile eyes staring out of these freak's faces. To the last man we all quickly averted our eyes and got back to quietly doing what we all do. I have my impeniterable shades on and so feel quite safe in pretending to be asleep whilst checking these two out thouroughly (hence my ability to descibe them reasonably well) and let me tell you, they are facinating.
Tatt man is so agressive and really paranoid about people staring at him (go figure) every time he catches anyone looking at him or the accessory he points at them and mimicks firing a gun at them. He also gave one poor man a heart attack as he was moving his leg away from tatt man, as he looked up (expecting a smile of thanks no doubt) tatt man said, in an incredibly menacing voice " what the f@!/' are you staring at" poor bugger nearly wet himself and got off 2 stops later.
What on earth these two rejects expected I'm not sure, surely they get stared at wherever they go? You can't help it. Tatt man's behaviour is so over the top for someone who must attract both positive and negative attention. Why do that to yourself if you don't like people looking at you? And let's face it, if it's a blue you're looking for a peak hour train isn't the place you are going to find a worthy opponant.
Accessory is trying to calm him down but he seems to be pumped up on adrenaline or testoserone or steroids or all three.
Most people within a two seat radius have moved. There is the odd person who, like me, trusts that he is all bluster and that he won't start ripping out seats and throwing them out of the windows (and probably secretly hoping that he will, how cool would that be). It's interesting to watch him work himself up actually. He is deliberately taking offense at people just being in his presence. The more he acts up the more people stare at him and the more he acts up. Imagine living with a powder keg like that. What he doesn't realise is that no one even sees the tattoos now, they can only see the idiot underneath them.
Monday 6 April 2009
Indulgence
This has nothing to do with traveling on the train but I thought I must tell you about the weekend we had in Bowral just before Christmas.
However I warn you, do not read further if you are adverse to reading about people succumbing to gluttony, participating in pressing of the flesh of the most mysterious kind, self indulgently wallowing in luxurious surroundings and, damn it, bragging about it!!!
My best friend and her husband took me and mine to Bowral, to a place called Milton Park for some much earned and looked forward to pampering. I had no idea what she had planned. This is my account:
.
Oh my Lord what a place, our garden rooms were adjoining and through the French doors we were treated to a view of the biggest fountain (aside from the one in Hyde Park) that I have seen in a while and manicured lawns, formal gardens and massive oak and pine trees. Our large rooms consisted of a king sized bed covered in about 20 pillows and white linen, a plasma TV, huge bath, and a couple of comfy lounge chairs looking out at the garden and fountain. We could throw open the doors and step out onto a little stone stoop, then have a leisurely stroll around the garden or have a cup of tea whilst sitting in a really comfy chair gazing nonchalantly at the pleasant surrounds and taking deep breaths of the softly scented country air (which I did do, twice).
AND once ensconced, who cares how much it costs – this is better than drugs (not that I would know of course, I’m just guessing).
At 2pm, after the four of us had been lolling all over the bed and drinking the champagne that I had thoughtfully provided; we got a phone call telling us that we had an appointment at the spa in ½ an hour. An eyebrow cocked at Mez got me nothing but an eyebrow cocked right back so I had to just sit there wondering what the hell she had cooked up for us.
A HOT ROCK MASSAGE!!!! Is what! You know, I never really thought about how unpampered I was until that first hot rock hit my solar plexus. Any coherent thought just passed out of my mind as I gave myself up to the utter decadence of a full body hot rock.
The worst nightmare of a 48 year old, unsophisticated, fat earth mother is baring the said 48 year old, unsophisticated, faaaaaaaaaat carcass to an unsuspecting masseuse. One expects them to recoil in horror and revulsion or worse apply a fixed smile on their chops and suffer through this insult to the aesthetic symmetry of the human body. I’m not sure what is worse really, them touching me or me looking at them touching me. Anyway, at first I was in seven kinds of humiliation lying on my back, naked but for a pair of paper knickers on a skinny little table, barely covered by a towel that, frankly, was hardly bigger than a hand towel, waiting for God knows what (because Mez didn’t tell me). In fact my imagination was running wild by this time and I was lying there thinking all kinds of self depreciating thoughts like: ‘I hope she doesn’t mind pummelling cottage cheese’ or ‘OMG both my boobs are under my armpits’ or ‘I hope she has a big enough egg slice on the fork lift that has to turn me over’ or ‘I’m overflowing off this darn ironing board’ or ‘ I hope this bloody ironing board has reinforced legs’ or ‘ I hope her workers comp insurance covers being struck blind by the corpulent, waxen body before her’. I was left alone with my thoughts for so long that I thought she had probably taken a fast butchers through a hidden peep hole and was on her way back to Germany quicker than I can put on 3 kilos.
Then Amanda walked in.
Amanda was not a small girl, in fact: she was almost as tall as Paul. So now I’m intimidated and humiliated and about as relaxed as a hungry cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting bird. I was fantasizing about the most painful death I could possibly inflict on Mez, when Amanda placed a piping hot towel over my feet, a moderately cooler one over my eyes and two hot rocks on my stomach and then proceeded to massage my right foot and leg with warm scented oil and a hot rock. By the time she got to my knee I was well and truly in seventh heaven and was profusely apologising mentally to my Best Friend. Some are not impressed by a hot rock massage but I was, I loved every agonisingly embarrassing moment of it. Throughout the whole procedure I had a lovely warm towel covering my eyes (so that I couldn’t see her pi**ing herself laughing and taking photos to upload onto the web with all the appropriate captions) which made the procedure a lot less personal and a lot more relaxing.
I wont even go into the hilariousness or hideousness of trying to roll over on a table about as wide as a fence paling or of the mounds of relaxed flesh flying all over the place as I settled back down on my stomach (think stone thrown in pool of still water).
The other side was even more pleasurable, especially my shoulders and neck. I actually fell asleep I know this because I woke myself up snoring twice (you know, once you are embarrassed enough it just doesn’t matter anymore)(although if I had farted I would have had to get the hell out of there).
After the massage, she gave me a facial – also a wonderful experience (warm green teabags on eyes mmmmmmmm). By the time it was all over and I was back out in the dressing room 2 ½ hours had passed and I was feelin’ mellow.
Mez came out at the same time as me and after we had both stopped laughing at each of our experiences and appearances we went out and waited for the boys.
Next: a swim in the pool. A heated indoor pool no less. Set in a pavilion ringed by massive trees and ferns, tiled to within an inch of its life, big fluffy soft white towels on tap and the pool – oh the pool. Warm, all of us creating an oil slick from the massage oil (heeee sorry Mr pool cleaner) but then, that kept us afloat, no need to work at staying on top of the water.
A hot shower and a rest was in order as we were exhausted from all our exertions, hmmmmm lying on king sized monster soft bed. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.
We were awakened at 6.30pm by a reminder that we had a dinner reservation in the restaurant. Thank goodness I had packed glad rags.
Dinner was a gastronomical delight although the dinner plates were a little disconcerting. I noticed that the plates were one and the same as the slate tiles that they were re-doing the roof on the main building with. Not a bad concept actually, I just hope they washed them properly. Each course was accentuated by a small intervention of sorbet or soup or smoked salmon with a lemon infusion or petit fours or a superb local wine. Just add that to the blubber would you – thanks so much.
We went back to our rooms after dinner, had a cuppa and fell into a deep dreamless sleep until about 7am when we backed up for a full breakfast. I can never get my Bircher Muesli to taste that good. And the eggs, bacon, tomatoes…………….
The clincher to all this was, of course, that Mez and Chris paid for the whole thing. I still cant sleep properly when I think how much it would have cost them and it outshone a picnic by 100,000 watts. We tried to pay for our bit but Mez had beaten us to the post by pre paying for everything before we had even set foot on the premises. I can’t tell you how much it meant to us that Mez and Chris had planned our whole weekend, every detail was attended too, so much thought had gone into it.
We had such a good time that all four of us have decided to go back again this year, same time, same rooms and please God, same massage.
However I warn you, do not read further if you are adverse to reading about people succumbing to gluttony, participating in pressing of the flesh of the most mysterious kind, self indulgently wallowing in luxurious surroundings and, damn it, bragging about it!!!
My best friend and her husband took me and mine to Bowral, to a place called Milton Park for some much earned and looked forward to pampering. I had no idea what she had planned. This is my account:
.
Oh my Lord what a place, our garden rooms were adjoining and through the French doors we were treated to a view of the biggest fountain (aside from the one in Hyde Park) that I have seen in a while and manicured lawns, formal gardens and massive oak and pine trees. Our large rooms consisted of a king sized bed covered in about 20 pillows and white linen, a plasma TV, huge bath, and a couple of comfy lounge chairs looking out at the garden and fountain. We could throw open the doors and step out onto a little stone stoop, then have a leisurely stroll around the garden or have a cup of tea whilst sitting in a really comfy chair gazing nonchalantly at the pleasant surrounds and taking deep breaths of the softly scented country air (which I did do, twice).
AND once ensconced, who cares how much it costs – this is better than drugs (not that I would know of course, I’m just guessing).
At 2pm, after the four of us had been lolling all over the bed and drinking the champagne that I had thoughtfully provided; we got a phone call telling us that we had an appointment at the spa in ½ an hour. An eyebrow cocked at Mez got me nothing but an eyebrow cocked right back so I had to just sit there wondering what the hell she had cooked up for us.
A HOT ROCK MASSAGE!!!! Is what! You know, I never really thought about how unpampered I was until that first hot rock hit my solar plexus. Any coherent thought just passed out of my mind as I gave myself up to the utter decadence of a full body hot rock.
The worst nightmare of a 48 year old, unsophisticated, fat earth mother is baring the said 48 year old, unsophisticated, faaaaaaaaaat carcass to an unsuspecting masseuse. One expects them to recoil in horror and revulsion or worse apply a fixed smile on their chops and suffer through this insult to the aesthetic symmetry of the human body. I’m not sure what is worse really, them touching me or me looking at them touching me. Anyway, at first I was in seven kinds of humiliation lying on my back, naked but for a pair of paper knickers on a skinny little table, barely covered by a towel that, frankly, was hardly bigger than a hand towel, waiting for God knows what (because Mez didn’t tell me). In fact my imagination was running wild by this time and I was lying there thinking all kinds of self depreciating thoughts like: ‘I hope she doesn’t mind pummelling cottage cheese’ or ‘OMG both my boobs are under my armpits’ or ‘I hope she has a big enough egg slice on the fork lift that has to turn me over’ or ‘I’m overflowing off this darn ironing board’ or ‘ I hope this bloody ironing board has reinforced legs’ or ‘ I hope her workers comp insurance covers being struck blind by the corpulent, waxen body before her’. I was left alone with my thoughts for so long that I thought she had probably taken a fast butchers through a hidden peep hole and was on her way back to Germany quicker than I can put on 3 kilos.
Then Amanda walked in.
Amanda was not a small girl, in fact: she was almost as tall as Paul. So now I’m intimidated and humiliated and about as relaxed as a hungry cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting bird. I was fantasizing about the most painful death I could possibly inflict on Mez, when Amanda placed a piping hot towel over my feet, a moderately cooler one over my eyes and two hot rocks on my stomach and then proceeded to massage my right foot and leg with warm scented oil and a hot rock. By the time she got to my knee I was well and truly in seventh heaven and was profusely apologising mentally to my Best Friend. Some are not impressed by a hot rock massage but I was, I loved every agonisingly embarrassing moment of it. Throughout the whole procedure I had a lovely warm towel covering my eyes (so that I couldn’t see her pi**ing herself laughing and taking photos to upload onto the web with all the appropriate captions) which made the procedure a lot less personal and a lot more relaxing.
I wont even go into the hilariousness or hideousness of trying to roll over on a table about as wide as a fence paling or of the mounds of relaxed flesh flying all over the place as I settled back down on my stomach (think stone thrown in pool of still water).
The other side was even more pleasurable, especially my shoulders and neck. I actually fell asleep I know this because I woke myself up snoring twice (you know, once you are embarrassed enough it just doesn’t matter anymore)(although if I had farted I would have had to get the hell out of there).
After the massage, she gave me a facial – also a wonderful experience (warm green teabags on eyes mmmmmmmm). By the time it was all over and I was back out in the dressing room 2 ½ hours had passed and I was feelin’ mellow.
Mez came out at the same time as me and after we had both stopped laughing at each of our experiences and appearances we went out and waited for the boys.
Next: a swim in the pool. A heated indoor pool no less. Set in a pavilion ringed by massive trees and ferns, tiled to within an inch of its life, big fluffy soft white towels on tap and the pool – oh the pool. Warm, all of us creating an oil slick from the massage oil (heeee sorry Mr pool cleaner) but then, that kept us afloat, no need to work at staying on top of the water.
A hot shower and a rest was in order as we were exhausted from all our exertions, hmmmmm lying on king sized monster soft bed. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.
We were awakened at 6.30pm by a reminder that we had a dinner reservation in the restaurant. Thank goodness I had packed glad rags.
Dinner was a gastronomical delight although the dinner plates were a little disconcerting. I noticed that the plates were one and the same as the slate tiles that they were re-doing the roof on the main building with. Not a bad concept actually, I just hope they washed them properly. Each course was accentuated by a small intervention of sorbet or soup or smoked salmon with a lemon infusion or petit fours or a superb local wine. Just add that to the blubber would you – thanks so much.
We went back to our rooms after dinner, had a cuppa and fell into a deep dreamless sleep until about 7am when we backed up for a full breakfast. I can never get my Bircher Muesli to taste that good. And the eggs, bacon, tomatoes…………….
The clincher to all this was, of course, that Mez and Chris paid for the whole thing. I still cant sleep properly when I think how much it would have cost them and it outshone a picnic by 100,000 watts. We tried to pay for our bit but Mez had beaten us to the post by pre paying for everything before we had even set foot on the premises. I can’t tell you how much it meant to us that Mez and Chris had planned our whole weekend, every detail was attended too, so much thought had gone into it.
We had such a good time that all four of us have decided to go back again this year, same time, same rooms and please God, same massage.
Friday 3 April 2009
Boooooooooooooooooring !!!!!!!
Arrrrrrrrrgggggggggghhhhhhhhhh, there are two 30 something women sitting right in front of me talking to each other about their children. Is there anything more boring than having to listen to a couple of wanna be’s talk about how gifted and special their brats are?
Both have a son in a private school, both sons are about the same age. Both are on their respective school’s debating team, both excel at sport, both are the top of their class in all their subjects, both play the guitar just like Jimmy Hendrix, both do so much charity work that Mother Teresa herself would be impressed, both are learning to drive and, surprise surprise, Peter Brock couldn’t be a better driver. And are so loving and considerate and grateful of their Mother. These two are on drugs.
Honestly, it’s like listening to two men talk about their weekend fishing trip. I had no idea that being the mother of a 16 year old boy could be so competitive. I wish I had some kind of award to give these two for Bullshitter of the year.
Judging by the accolades their mother’s are giving them these two young fellows will be Rhodes Scholars, brain surgeons, nuclear physicists, Prime Minister and will save the world from hunger, poverty, earth hour and bad breath all by the time they are 20.
I hope they are writing all these porkys down, there is no way they will be able to remember all that fairy dust.
It’s interesting to watch this actually, each one is so caught up in bragging about her gifted little soul that the other one can’t get a word in. So they talk over the top of each other.AND they are boring the pants of each other (and the rest of the carriage). Thank goodness they don’t have photo’s, we would have to kill ourselves
Both have a son in a private school, both sons are about the same age. Both are on their respective school’s debating team, both excel at sport, both are the top of their class in all their subjects, both play the guitar just like Jimmy Hendrix, both do so much charity work that Mother Teresa herself would be impressed, both are learning to drive and, surprise surprise, Peter Brock couldn’t be a better driver. And are so loving and considerate and grateful of their Mother. These two are on drugs.
Honestly, it’s like listening to two men talk about their weekend fishing trip. I had no idea that being the mother of a 16 year old boy could be so competitive. I wish I had some kind of award to give these two for Bullshitter of the year.
Judging by the accolades their mother’s are giving them these two young fellows will be Rhodes Scholars, brain surgeons, nuclear physicists, Prime Minister and will save the world from hunger, poverty, earth hour and bad breath all by the time they are 20.
I hope they are writing all these porkys down, there is no way they will be able to remember all that fairy dust.
It’s interesting to watch this actually, each one is so caught up in bragging about her gifted little soul that the other one can’t get a word in. So they talk over the top of each other.AND they are boring the pants of each other (and the rest of the carriage). Thank goodness they don’t have photo’s, we would have to kill ourselves
Split Lip
There is a girl of about 25 sitting opposite me this morning who has the worst fat lip I have ever seen. She has two stitches (that I can see) in it plus quite a bit of bruising around the lower jaw, her lip is so swollen that it could almost be as big as a cricket ball. She is nursing her face like it is very tender and sore, if it feels anything like it looks it must be excruciating.
She looks like she has done a couple of rounds with a Cronulla front row forward.
I’m trying not to stare but it looks so bad I can’t help it.
I wonder what happened. Does she have a violent boyfriend? Did she go out on the weekend and get drunk and fall over or get too close to someone who was fighting? Did she get too close to a door handle?
Her friend just got on and sat down next to her and of course exclaimed loudly and wanted to know what happened to her.
Apparently she was at a wedding on the weekend and she lined up with all the other single girls for the throwing of the bouquet. She caught the flowers and was promptly beaten up by a couple of her rivals.
Obviously catching the bouquet these days is much more important than it used to be, maybe there is gold bars attached or money tucked up under the petals or diamonds threaded through the leaves.
You hear about girls who are involved more and more in violent episodes, but at a wedding? And over some poxy flowers?
I have been a witness to an altercation over the garter belt when the boys have been a little too exuberant in their efforts to catch it. No one has come to blows and it isn’t an arena you would enter light heartedly, but I have never seen a full on brawl. After all you are a guest at a wedding not a blow-in at the pub.
How classy, their parents must be so proud.
I’m sure some of the male guests had a lovely night, free grog and a bitch fight, how much more entertaining can it be.
The thing that bothers me the most is that she is proud of her injury and proud of her part in the incident.
I’m sure she doesn’t care that a total stranger or two is looking at her as if she is lower than pond scum, seriously though, is it ok to behave like that?
She looks like she has done a couple of rounds with a Cronulla front row forward.
I’m trying not to stare but it looks so bad I can’t help it.
I wonder what happened. Does she have a violent boyfriend? Did she go out on the weekend and get drunk and fall over or get too close to someone who was fighting? Did she get too close to a door handle?
Her friend just got on and sat down next to her and of course exclaimed loudly and wanted to know what happened to her.
Apparently she was at a wedding on the weekend and she lined up with all the other single girls for the throwing of the bouquet. She caught the flowers and was promptly beaten up by a couple of her rivals.
Obviously catching the bouquet these days is much more important than it used to be, maybe there is gold bars attached or money tucked up under the petals or diamonds threaded through the leaves.
You hear about girls who are involved more and more in violent episodes, but at a wedding? And over some poxy flowers?
I have been a witness to an altercation over the garter belt when the boys have been a little too exuberant in their efforts to catch it. No one has come to blows and it isn’t an arena you would enter light heartedly, but I have never seen a full on brawl. After all you are a guest at a wedding not a blow-in at the pub.
How classy, their parents must be so proud.
I’m sure some of the male guests had a lovely night, free grog and a bitch fight, how much more entertaining can it be.
The thing that bothers me the most is that she is proud of her injury and proud of her part in the incident.
I’m sure she doesn’t care that a total stranger or two is looking at her as if she is lower than pond scum, seriously though, is it ok to behave like that?
Wednesday 1 April 2009
Umbrella etiquette
I know I go on about being considerate of other people and their space, but really, what is wrong with thinking about your impact upon another person’s space?
Umbrellas (or more accurately, the persons welding them) are notorious for intruding upon this, not only are they long and sharp but on some occasions they are wet and on rare occasions (in our droughty little world down here0 they are drenched and dripping with enough water to fill a small swimming hole.
Take this morning for example. It is absolutely pouring with rain, when the door of the train opens the rain pours into the vestibule area soaking anyone foolish enough to stand there. Instead of putting their umbrella down before they enter and just getting on the train with a little more speed than normal, people are getting on and then turning around to put their umbrella down. The people standing behind waiting to get onto the train are then pushed back by a big wet umbrella, not only that, they are then wet by the said umbrella as the water cascades off. When everyone is finally on they then either put the brolly on the seat as they fiddle around in their bag or adjust their coif or they lean it onto the back of the seat to balance precariously against the leg of the person next to them.
If you are unlucky enough to get a reader as well just say goodbye to being dry from the waist down as they will become so engrossed in their reading material that they will be oblivious to any subtle protestations that you might have as to the close proximity of a wet storm stick.
This morning I walked out from under the cover of the platform roof into the rain just as the train was pulling in. I had my umbrella down and I stepped straight on. Admittedly I got a little wet but nothing too drastic. I then sat there watching the 10 or so idiots with umbrellas all trying to get onto the train without getting a drop of water on themselves, which didn’t happen because the mêlée ensured that they all drenched each other. Consequently there were lots of filthy looks and quite a few cranky and wet little vegemites.
Then there is the extra squirming around trying to tie the brolly with the Velcro tab, all the while trying not to wet themselves but completely ignoring the fact that they are spraying water in a 10’ arc in the process.
As the train fills, people have to stand as there are no seats left. So why would you stand in the aisle of a train with a bag or briefcase, a wet umbrella hanging by a cord around the wrist, and, on this occasion a coat over your arm and then decide it’s a good thing to read a book as well? This is the type of inconsiderate moron we have to live with. Thankfully I was over by the window as I can say right here and now if it had been me that was getting smacked on the shoulder with a wet umbrella every time the train moved there would have been an incident.
I could tell the passenger wasn’t happy but he didn’t say anything. He did push the brolly away a couple of times but the woman reading just ignored it. I was getting angry just watching it. His shoulder was soaked by the time we pulled into Central Station.
I have found my umbrella to be a useful tool against other, more aggressive umbrella handlers. You have the short person with a large umbrella who refuses to raise the brolly to enable them to see past their own feet. I find that keeping my brolly on an angle to the side deflects their brolly; if you left it you could lose an eye.
There is the tall man in a suit with an oversized umbrella who charges through the crowd with no regard for anyone, I put my brolly down in this case, if he sees that you are willing to belt him one he keeps clear.
The shake off of excess water all over the people behind you is another one. Or shake it all over the floor of the foyer of your building so someone can slip on it. Twirl your umbrella in the lift? No worries. Why don’t you just go and get a bucket of water and when the doors open, shot it in.
Is it windy? Put your umbrella up and use the crowd in Martin Place as bumpers, no one will mind a wind driven umbrella spike in the back. Better still use the brolly as a wind sail, that way when you belt someone with it they won’t be able to catch you.
We are licensed to drive a car, why not to use an umbrella? We are regulated about everything else.
I declare war on all inconsiderate, moronic umbrella users.
Stay tuned I may be writing this from a gaol cell in the future.
Umbrellas (or more accurately, the persons welding them) are notorious for intruding upon this, not only are they long and sharp but on some occasions they are wet and on rare occasions (in our droughty little world down here0 they are drenched and dripping with enough water to fill a small swimming hole.
Take this morning for example. It is absolutely pouring with rain, when the door of the train opens the rain pours into the vestibule area soaking anyone foolish enough to stand there. Instead of putting their umbrella down before they enter and just getting on the train with a little more speed than normal, people are getting on and then turning around to put their umbrella down. The people standing behind waiting to get onto the train are then pushed back by a big wet umbrella, not only that, they are then wet by the said umbrella as the water cascades off. When everyone is finally on they then either put the brolly on the seat as they fiddle around in their bag or adjust their coif or they lean it onto the back of the seat to balance precariously against the leg of the person next to them.
If you are unlucky enough to get a reader as well just say goodbye to being dry from the waist down as they will become so engrossed in their reading material that they will be oblivious to any subtle protestations that you might have as to the close proximity of a wet storm stick.
This morning I walked out from under the cover of the platform roof into the rain just as the train was pulling in. I had my umbrella down and I stepped straight on. Admittedly I got a little wet but nothing too drastic. I then sat there watching the 10 or so idiots with umbrellas all trying to get onto the train without getting a drop of water on themselves, which didn’t happen because the mêlée ensured that they all drenched each other. Consequently there were lots of filthy looks and quite a few cranky and wet little vegemites.
Then there is the extra squirming around trying to tie the brolly with the Velcro tab, all the while trying not to wet themselves but completely ignoring the fact that they are spraying water in a 10’ arc in the process.
As the train fills, people have to stand as there are no seats left. So why would you stand in the aisle of a train with a bag or briefcase, a wet umbrella hanging by a cord around the wrist, and, on this occasion a coat over your arm and then decide it’s a good thing to read a book as well? This is the type of inconsiderate moron we have to live with. Thankfully I was over by the window as I can say right here and now if it had been me that was getting smacked on the shoulder with a wet umbrella every time the train moved there would have been an incident.
I could tell the passenger wasn’t happy but he didn’t say anything. He did push the brolly away a couple of times but the woman reading just ignored it. I was getting angry just watching it. His shoulder was soaked by the time we pulled into Central Station.
I have found my umbrella to be a useful tool against other, more aggressive umbrella handlers. You have the short person with a large umbrella who refuses to raise the brolly to enable them to see past their own feet. I find that keeping my brolly on an angle to the side deflects their brolly; if you left it you could lose an eye.
There is the tall man in a suit with an oversized umbrella who charges through the crowd with no regard for anyone, I put my brolly down in this case, if he sees that you are willing to belt him one he keeps clear.
The shake off of excess water all over the people behind you is another one. Or shake it all over the floor of the foyer of your building so someone can slip on it. Twirl your umbrella in the lift? No worries. Why don’t you just go and get a bucket of water and when the doors open, shot it in.
Is it windy? Put your umbrella up and use the crowd in Martin Place as bumpers, no one will mind a wind driven umbrella spike in the back. Better still use the brolly as a wind sail, that way when you belt someone with it they won’t be able to catch you.
We are licensed to drive a car, why not to use an umbrella? We are regulated about everything else.
I declare war on all inconsiderate, moronic umbrella users.
Stay tuned I may be writing this from a gaol cell in the future.
Thursday 5 February 2009
The tale of the dog in the boot
I had a lovely trip home this evening. Get yourself a cuppa, unfortunately it’s a long tale. I know this sounds like an urban myth but I heard this in the first hand so I choose to believe.
I got on the train and as I walked further into the carriage I could hear peels of laughter coming from downstairs.
Laughter is a magnet to me, so I went down there and sat, smiling, just in front of two middle aged woman (lets call them Jane and Sue ) who were in the helpless throws of a long, loud belly laugh.
Sue had a newspaper open and was reading aloud a story about a middle aged couple in Victoria who had decided to take an impromptu weekend break away camping. They had packed the Kombi Van, left the washing up in the sink, the back door open (accidently) and took off to camping grounds unknown and out of range of the usual modes of modern communication.
When they arrived home 2 days later they were surprised and concerned to find that their house had been taped off by police as a crime scene. As they pulled into the drive they disturbed police digging up their front yard and fingerprinting door and window frames. The yard was full of media and neighbours and their hysterical eldest daughter who was convinced they had been kidnapped and murdered by a homicidal maniac.
I remembered the story from the news the night before and how funny it was that the roles had been reversed on the daughter. She was mighty cranky with Ma and Pa, very funny.
Anyway, the two in front were in stitches of laughter as one of them read aloud to the other. They both lost it when Sue got to the bit about the daughter’s reaction as her parents got out of the Kombi. She flew at them, firstly in relief that they were ok then as reality seeped in she turned into the shrew from hell. She was yelling at her parents that they were irresponsible, thoughtless, immature, stupid, cruel, rude etc etc and all this was being beamed live into millions of Aussie homes. A brilliant bit of great Australian Television Drama/Comedy really.
Both of the ladies reading this were wiping tears of laughter from their eyes and I was too.
Then, Jane turned to Sue and said speaking of children being painful; she wasn’t speaking to her eldest daughter and had grounded her for a month.
Jane parks her car at a really big railway station car park every morning. One night she returned to the car and noticed that the boot was open. Upon closer inspection, the boot lid had been mashed and beaten and couldn’t be closed. The passenger window was smashed and the glove box cover was lying on the floor of the car.
‘Fantastic’ she thought. She was going to call the police from the car park but had left her phone at home that day, so she decided to drive home and report it from there. There was a card on the windscreen and a handwritten note on the driver’s seat.
In shock she read the note …. ‘you mongrel’ ‘you sick f ‘ ‘glad I could rip your car to shreds for you’
Jane thought that there was a slight misunderstanding here, since when do you get abused if someone breaks into your car and finds nothing to steal? She felt a bit scared just sitting there in the car as she didn’t know if the person who left the note (and had a tantrum at not finding money in the car) was watching her so she drove home.
When Jane’s husband saw the state of the car he threw a fit (car was less than 12 months old)
The card that had been left on the windscreen was from a Policeman who wrote on the back to call him ASAP.
Instead of calling they went to the police station.
Jane’s hubby apparently has a temper. She and Sue were laughing about the fact that his face looked like a capsicum and there was puffs of smoke and lots of steam coming from somewhere under his hair.
The drive to the police station was similar to a circuit of the track at Bathurst in a formula one. In fact Jane didn’t feel the tyres on the road once.
Hubby marches into the cop shop and demands to talk to the bloke on the card, he is seething.
This huge copper comes out. (making Hubby cool down instantly) The policeman asks them to sit down with him in his office so that he can explain why he needed to speak to them.
At 11am triple O had received a call from a very distressed male who reported that a Mitsubishi Magna was parked in a parking station in full sun with a dog locked inside. The dog was barking and sounded distressed.
Jane and Hubby looked at each other. ‘But what has this got to do with us, we don’t have a dog’
The Policeman said that they had the entire incident recorded and ‘I can assure you that there is a dog barking in your car’
Jane got cranky then. ‘ well that’s just ridiculous, I would have seen a dog in my car for God’s sake, I drove it to the station, I cant stand dogs, I think I would have noticed if there was one in the car with me’
‘Mrs ----------, please, it is all recorded, bear with me please, I will play it to you in a moment.’
He played the OOO call, the man calling was very upset and they could hear a dog barking in the background. The man was yelling at the operator that he couldn’t see past the tint in the windows but could hear the dog inside (as could the operator) and he wanted permission to break the window. The operator wouldn’t give permission and told the man to wait by the car, police were on their way.
The policeman told Jan and Hubby that a car was dispatched immediately but was 10 minutes away.
In the meantime the man was repeatedly calling, he was almost in tears, the dog sounded frantic.
The operator gave permission to smash the window. Jane and Hubby … WHAT!!!’
The policeman tried to explain. ‘you have to understand, the dog was very distressed, so was the man. It was over 30 degrees today, that dog would have been dead in minutes’
The man used his mobile phone to smash the window and they could hear him screaming that the dog was in the boot not in the car. The dispatcher is heard telling him that the boot lever should be in the glove box (which was locked). They could hear the man smashing the glove box and they could also hear the dog barking louder.
The dispatcher was heard telling the man that the police were only a few seconds away please wait.
Screaming … ‘its like an oven in here, can you hear the dog, OMG how do you open this’
The police are heard to arrive. Lots of smashing and ripping (apparently the boot being forced) total silence and then a click as the phone is disconnected.
Jane and Hubby look at each other. ‘Well????’
There was no dog in the boot, only a mobile phone. Jane’s mobile phone.
The policeman was explaining that seeing that there was fault on all sides so he couldn’t really prosecute the man for breaking into the car, the police wouldn’t accept any blame for busting the boot and Jane didn’t know she had left the phone in the car. Best to just let it go as a break in and the police would forget about fining them for creating a public nuisance.
Jane and Hubby are in shock and leave the police station in silence both not quite sure what had happened.
In the car Hubby asks in a very tight little voice ‘you have a f***ing dog barking ring tone?’
They had to pull over, Jane and Hubby had an enormous blue right there in the car which resulted in Jane getting out and walking home.
When she walked in the front door of their house she could hear her Hubby screaming abuse at the kids about the phone, the police, their mother in jail, the car wrecked etc.
Angry that he was taking it out on them she went into the lounge room to see her eldest daughter being held by the neck up against the wall by Hubby.
Jane’s daughter changed the ring tone on her mum’s phone to a dog barking and had made a joke of it when Hubby got back home. (of course she had no idea what had happened)
Jane had her bag in the boot and the phone fell out when she got to the station. Thinking of how much her mum disliked dogs, her technology ignorance and how funny it would be to have a dog barking near the desk and not being able to figure out what was going on, she kept ringing and ringing and ringing the phone, convinced her mother was running around in a tizz looking for a non existent dog.
By this stage of the story, Sue is doubled up laughing. Jane is pretending to still be cranky and half the train is mesmerised and hanging for the ending.
Jane’s daughter has had all her fingers amputated, is grounded for life and will work for 30 years as a sewerage sifter to pay for the damage to the car. (In Hubby’s imagination) in reality she is grounded, neither parent is speaking to her and she is working for the next 30 years at KFC to pay for the damage to the car.
I got on the train and as I walked further into the carriage I could hear peels of laughter coming from downstairs.
Laughter is a magnet to me, so I went down there and sat, smiling, just in front of two middle aged woman (lets call them Jane and Sue ) who were in the helpless throws of a long, loud belly laugh.
Sue had a newspaper open and was reading aloud a story about a middle aged couple in Victoria who had decided to take an impromptu weekend break away camping. They had packed the Kombi Van, left the washing up in the sink, the back door open (accidently) and took off to camping grounds unknown and out of range of the usual modes of modern communication.
When they arrived home 2 days later they were surprised and concerned to find that their house had been taped off by police as a crime scene. As they pulled into the drive they disturbed police digging up their front yard and fingerprinting door and window frames. The yard was full of media and neighbours and their hysterical eldest daughter who was convinced they had been kidnapped and murdered by a homicidal maniac.
I remembered the story from the news the night before and how funny it was that the roles had been reversed on the daughter. She was mighty cranky with Ma and Pa, very funny.
Anyway, the two in front were in stitches of laughter as one of them read aloud to the other. They both lost it when Sue got to the bit about the daughter’s reaction as her parents got out of the Kombi. She flew at them, firstly in relief that they were ok then as reality seeped in she turned into the shrew from hell. She was yelling at her parents that they were irresponsible, thoughtless, immature, stupid, cruel, rude etc etc and all this was being beamed live into millions of Aussie homes. A brilliant bit of great Australian Television Drama/Comedy really.
Both of the ladies reading this were wiping tears of laughter from their eyes and I was too.
Then, Jane turned to Sue and said speaking of children being painful; she wasn’t speaking to her eldest daughter and had grounded her for a month.
Jane parks her car at a really big railway station car park every morning. One night she returned to the car and noticed that the boot was open. Upon closer inspection, the boot lid had been mashed and beaten and couldn’t be closed. The passenger window was smashed and the glove box cover was lying on the floor of the car.
‘Fantastic’ she thought. She was going to call the police from the car park but had left her phone at home that day, so she decided to drive home and report it from there. There was a card on the windscreen and a handwritten note on the driver’s seat.
In shock she read the note …. ‘you mongrel’ ‘you sick f ‘ ‘glad I could rip your car to shreds for you’
Jane thought that there was a slight misunderstanding here, since when do you get abused if someone breaks into your car and finds nothing to steal? She felt a bit scared just sitting there in the car as she didn’t know if the person who left the note (and had a tantrum at not finding money in the car) was watching her so she drove home.
When Jane’s husband saw the state of the car he threw a fit (car was less than 12 months old)
The card that had been left on the windscreen was from a Policeman who wrote on the back to call him ASAP.
Instead of calling they went to the police station.
Jane’s hubby apparently has a temper. She and Sue were laughing about the fact that his face looked like a capsicum and there was puffs of smoke and lots of steam coming from somewhere under his hair.
The drive to the police station was similar to a circuit of the track at Bathurst in a formula one. In fact Jane didn’t feel the tyres on the road once.
Hubby marches into the cop shop and demands to talk to the bloke on the card, he is seething.
This huge copper comes out. (making Hubby cool down instantly) The policeman asks them to sit down with him in his office so that he can explain why he needed to speak to them.
At 11am triple O had received a call from a very distressed male who reported that a Mitsubishi Magna was parked in a parking station in full sun with a dog locked inside. The dog was barking and sounded distressed.
Jane and Hubby looked at each other. ‘But what has this got to do with us, we don’t have a dog’
The Policeman said that they had the entire incident recorded and ‘I can assure you that there is a dog barking in your car’
Jane got cranky then. ‘ well that’s just ridiculous, I would have seen a dog in my car for God’s sake, I drove it to the station, I cant stand dogs, I think I would have noticed if there was one in the car with me’
‘Mrs ----------, please, it is all recorded, bear with me please, I will play it to you in a moment.’
He played the OOO call, the man calling was very upset and they could hear a dog barking in the background. The man was yelling at the operator that he couldn’t see past the tint in the windows but could hear the dog inside (as could the operator) and he wanted permission to break the window. The operator wouldn’t give permission and told the man to wait by the car, police were on their way.
The policeman told Jan and Hubby that a car was dispatched immediately but was 10 minutes away.
In the meantime the man was repeatedly calling, he was almost in tears, the dog sounded frantic.
The operator gave permission to smash the window. Jane and Hubby … WHAT!!!’
The policeman tried to explain. ‘you have to understand, the dog was very distressed, so was the man. It was over 30 degrees today, that dog would have been dead in minutes’
The man used his mobile phone to smash the window and they could hear him screaming that the dog was in the boot not in the car. The dispatcher is heard telling him that the boot lever should be in the glove box (which was locked). They could hear the man smashing the glove box and they could also hear the dog barking louder.
The dispatcher was heard telling the man that the police were only a few seconds away please wait.
Screaming … ‘its like an oven in here, can you hear the dog, OMG how do you open this’
The police are heard to arrive. Lots of smashing and ripping (apparently the boot being forced) total silence and then a click as the phone is disconnected.
Jane and Hubby look at each other. ‘Well????’
There was no dog in the boot, only a mobile phone. Jane’s mobile phone.
The policeman was explaining that seeing that there was fault on all sides so he couldn’t really prosecute the man for breaking into the car, the police wouldn’t accept any blame for busting the boot and Jane didn’t know she had left the phone in the car. Best to just let it go as a break in and the police would forget about fining them for creating a public nuisance.
Jane and Hubby are in shock and leave the police station in silence both not quite sure what had happened.
In the car Hubby asks in a very tight little voice ‘you have a f***ing dog barking ring tone?’
They had to pull over, Jane and Hubby had an enormous blue right there in the car which resulted in Jane getting out and walking home.
When she walked in the front door of their house she could hear her Hubby screaming abuse at the kids about the phone, the police, their mother in jail, the car wrecked etc.
Angry that he was taking it out on them she went into the lounge room to see her eldest daughter being held by the neck up against the wall by Hubby.
Jane’s daughter changed the ring tone on her mum’s phone to a dog barking and had made a joke of it when Hubby got back home. (of course she had no idea what had happened)
Jane had her bag in the boot and the phone fell out when she got to the station. Thinking of how much her mum disliked dogs, her technology ignorance and how funny it would be to have a dog barking near the desk and not being able to figure out what was going on, she kept ringing and ringing and ringing the phone, convinced her mother was running around in a tizz looking for a non existent dog.
By this stage of the story, Sue is doubled up laughing. Jane is pretending to still be cranky and half the train is mesmerised and hanging for the ending.
Jane’s daughter has had all her fingers amputated, is grounded for life and will work for 30 years as a sewerage sifter to pay for the damage to the car. (In Hubby’s imagination) in reality she is grounded, neither parent is speaking to her and she is working for the next 30 years at KFC to pay for the damage to the car.
Wednesday 4 February 2009
Mango Madness
Mango
How do you eat a mango?
Personally I like to strip off and get into a bath full of hot water and whilst I’m soaking away the day’s trials and tribulations I slice delicate strips off a nice ripe, juicy mango and savour the tropical luxurious taste. The hot water serves as a relaxant but also doubles as a cleanser for the volumes of sticky juice that runs down your arms and face and chin as you eat. Win win.
My husband wraps himself in paper serviettes, leans over the kitchen sink and eats a mango secure in the knowledge that that juice aint going no where but down the drain
Of the brief survey of people who eat mangos, I observed one thing they all had in common, no one eats them in public and everyone takes rather drastic steps to make sure the juice is contained.
Too big, too messy, too juicy, you look greedy, like a pig etc
So imagine my surprise this afternoon when I sat down in a ‘my lemon’ and was diverted from my usual book trance by the sounds of a woman ‘really enjoying’ eating a mango not 2 seats away from me.
There was a noise like a thousand starving pigs digging truffles out of a boggy forest floor.
Grunting and slurping and lip smacking, she had the mango wrapped in a plastic woollies shopping bag so it wouldn’t drip all over her and she had her face buried up to her eyebrows in it.
I have seen starving dogs with better manners. In fact she made a Labrador look like a June Daly Watkins graduate.
If you looked closely, you could see her eyes are glazed while her lower jaw methodically tearing bits of flesh off the mango while her upper teeth held the seed in place.
Her lips were acting as a drip tray for any stray juice or chunks of wayward flesh, her tongue was scooping up the slag from her bottom teeth and throwing it to the back of her throat where it was held until it was a full load. Her adam’s apple then, acting as a plunger, pushing all that pulverised pulp down into her gullet.
And worse, the clamour she was making. It defies description, but I’ll try (you knew I would)
Think an Olympic swimming pool, a huge drain hole in the middle with a plug in it. Fill the swimming pool with custard sauce and pull the plug. The row the custard would make trying to get down that plug hole is about on par with the racket she was making with that mango.
OR think giant dentists saliva sucker with a turbo booster.
Every time the guard made an announcement she would pause in her porcine performance with small bits of mango flesh hanging off her cheeks because even she couldn’t hear anything over her munching and slurping.
The other passengers are all in shock at this incredible display of – what – bad manners just doesn’t seem to cover it.
I have heard people say that a mango is the king of fruit, there is nothing to compare to the rich, sumptuous, silky taste, a fruit to fight for, a fruit to die for, a fruit to become a pig for.
Well, it’s true, proof is sitting just inches from me, she is already a pig, she is gunna fight me when I rip it out of her hands and she is certainly going to die when I shove it down her throat.
How do you eat a mango?
Personally I like to strip off and get into a bath full of hot water and whilst I’m soaking away the day’s trials and tribulations I slice delicate strips off a nice ripe, juicy mango and savour the tropical luxurious taste. The hot water serves as a relaxant but also doubles as a cleanser for the volumes of sticky juice that runs down your arms and face and chin as you eat. Win win.
My husband wraps himself in paper serviettes, leans over the kitchen sink and eats a mango secure in the knowledge that that juice aint going no where but down the drain
Of the brief survey of people who eat mangos, I observed one thing they all had in common, no one eats them in public and everyone takes rather drastic steps to make sure the juice is contained.
Too big, too messy, too juicy, you look greedy, like a pig etc
So imagine my surprise this afternoon when I sat down in a ‘my lemon’ and was diverted from my usual book trance by the sounds of a woman ‘really enjoying’ eating a mango not 2 seats away from me.
There was a noise like a thousand starving pigs digging truffles out of a boggy forest floor.
Grunting and slurping and lip smacking, she had the mango wrapped in a plastic woollies shopping bag so it wouldn’t drip all over her and she had her face buried up to her eyebrows in it.
I have seen starving dogs with better manners. In fact she made a Labrador look like a June Daly Watkins graduate.
If you looked closely, you could see her eyes are glazed while her lower jaw methodically tearing bits of flesh off the mango while her upper teeth held the seed in place.
Her lips were acting as a drip tray for any stray juice or chunks of wayward flesh, her tongue was scooping up the slag from her bottom teeth and throwing it to the back of her throat where it was held until it was a full load. Her adam’s apple then, acting as a plunger, pushing all that pulverised pulp down into her gullet.
And worse, the clamour she was making. It defies description, but I’ll try (you knew I would)
Think an Olympic swimming pool, a huge drain hole in the middle with a plug in it. Fill the swimming pool with custard sauce and pull the plug. The row the custard would make trying to get down that plug hole is about on par with the racket she was making with that mango.
OR think giant dentists saliva sucker with a turbo booster.
Every time the guard made an announcement she would pause in her porcine performance with small bits of mango flesh hanging off her cheeks because even she couldn’t hear anything over her munching and slurping.
The other passengers are all in shock at this incredible display of – what – bad manners just doesn’t seem to cover it.
I have heard people say that a mango is the king of fruit, there is nothing to compare to the rich, sumptuous, silky taste, a fruit to fight for, a fruit to die for, a fruit to become a pig for.
Well, it’s true, proof is sitting just inches from me, she is already a pig, she is gunna fight me when I rip it out of her hands and she is certainly going to die when I shove it down her throat.
Thursday 29 January 2009
BFB
I was sitting at the bottom of the stairs in a Millenium ( or my lemon) train this morning. For those of you who are unfamiliar with ‘the lemon’ – the stairs are wider and not as steep as they are on all our other trains, they have a single seat at the base of the stairs instead of a double seat so you have an uninterrupted view of the vestibule area.
I was so immersed in my book that I was oblivious to the train filling up and to the usual noise that is the norm on a peak hour train.
So about 10 – 15 minutes later I was surprised when I looked around and found that I was surrounded by humanity. The train was packed.
I tried to get back into the obliviousness that is reading but the laughing and jostling of my seat from behind (which now that I think about it, this was probably the reason I was lured out of my fugue to begin with) made it next to impossible.
Seeing as it wasn’t going to be, I put my book away and decided to listen in on the two 20 something fellows behind me.
I’m not sure why I thought the conversation would be wholesome, because I did. I suppose I hadn’t quite surfaced consciously because, why would two young men be laughing hysterically? Wouldn’t it be because of a particularly witty joke? Wouldn’t it be because of a really funny re-run of the Vicar of Dibley on TV last night? No of course not!
It was because of smut. When did it become socially acceptable to voice your filthy thoughts, out loud, in public? These two were so foul that full volume on my MP3 could not block out the torrent of intimately detailed verbal effluent that was their rendition of their various sexual encounters over the weekend.
Then there was the laughing. Normally laughing is infectious and theirs was big, loud, bend over double, hold your sides and fling your limbs kind of laughing. However, to even crack a smile at them would be to condone the subject and there was not one person on that train who would even look up from their reading material (or if they had none, their lap) let alone acknowledge their joviality.
If this was really their thoughts on women, what they could do to them and their actual treatment of them, I don’t see any chance of them experiencing anything but paid sex for the rest of their lives.
Then, of course, a subject for them to discourse further about stepped onto the train.
I first became aware of the switch from the weekend to the present when a lady opposite me met my eyes and just hung on to my gaze with all the desperation and hopelessness of a rabbit caught in a spot light.
I had to turn off the MP3 anyway, it was blasting my eardrums to pulp. The conversation had turned to a girl who was standing in the vestibule area. The lady opposite me had her back to the vision in question but the tirade of filth from these two animals was obviously making her extremely uncomfortable.
I looked up and ………. “aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh’ ‘OMG, I’M BLIND’ Good grief surely not!!!!!
I sneaked another look. I could see right up the extremely short skirt of a young woman who was wearing a black g-string.
She was facing away from us which gave everyone in the 4 or so rows of seats a birds eye view of her bum cheeks.
Worse, the g-string was imbedded in-between those cheeks giving those of us unfortunate enough to have eyesight the impression that she was nickerless.
Worser, she was talking to a friend who was pointing out the two morons behind me and their obvious interest in her posterior and was writhing and wriggling the offensive article at us all.
Worstest, as the laughing and fetid comments behind me increased in volume, she and her friend also laughed causing her stomach muscles to contract and her spine to bend hence my intimate knowledge of the colour of her underwear. (and a few other things that I would rather not recall here)
Was this some kind of gross courtship ritual of the morally bankrupt? A cheap display of your wares to an equally low rate pair?
After the third attempt from ‘Bum Floss Barbie’ to impart a permanent imprint of her nether regions on my optic lens, I decided that I had had enough. Yeah yeah, , I know, who made me the Mayor of Moral Town, but no-one else was saying anything and you could tell they were all in pain. Besides I’m intolerant, I can do what I like.
I managed to catch the eye of BFB and gave her a hand sign that she should move away from the stairs. She looked at me, her face a mirror of her thoughts. ‘duh, what’s that crock of sh*t looking at me for? Cow’ (middle finger extended)
Hmmmm obviously stronger measures were called for here, I had not realised that when you are a slag on heat with an appreciative audience of young males you wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything but the burning desire to show the world that you are incapable of decent, humane behaviour.
So, when she looked at me again (to confirm that her flash of the bird had made me suitably contrite and pliant) I signed to her crotch, to me, and then pretended to vomit.
That made the lady in front of me laugh out loud. The slags just stood there looking at me with the vacuous look of the intellectual giants that they were. Good grief, they still don’t get it! ‘MOOOOOOOOOOOVE’. I shouted.
Heeeeee, that did it. All eyes on them, and, you know, she didn’t like all the middle aged, myopic, filmy, destitute eyes of all the other blokes sitting there staring up at her, hungrily memorising every pimple and ingrown hair on her A*se.
AND she tripped when she got off.
Ahahahahahahahahahaa
I was so immersed in my book that I was oblivious to the train filling up and to the usual noise that is the norm on a peak hour train.
So about 10 – 15 minutes later I was surprised when I looked around and found that I was surrounded by humanity. The train was packed.
I tried to get back into the obliviousness that is reading but the laughing and jostling of my seat from behind (which now that I think about it, this was probably the reason I was lured out of my fugue to begin with) made it next to impossible.
Seeing as it wasn’t going to be, I put my book away and decided to listen in on the two 20 something fellows behind me.
I’m not sure why I thought the conversation would be wholesome, because I did. I suppose I hadn’t quite surfaced consciously because, why would two young men be laughing hysterically? Wouldn’t it be because of a particularly witty joke? Wouldn’t it be because of a really funny re-run of the Vicar of Dibley on TV last night? No of course not!
It was because of smut. When did it become socially acceptable to voice your filthy thoughts, out loud, in public? These two were so foul that full volume on my MP3 could not block out the torrent of intimately detailed verbal effluent that was their rendition of their various sexual encounters over the weekend.
Then there was the laughing. Normally laughing is infectious and theirs was big, loud, bend over double, hold your sides and fling your limbs kind of laughing. However, to even crack a smile at them would be to condone the subject and there was not one person on that train who would even look up from their reading material (or if they had none, their lap) let alone acknowledge their joviality.
If this was really their thoughts on women, what they could do to them and their actual treatment of them, I don’t see any chance of them experiencing anything but paid sex for the rest of their lives.
Then, of course, a subject for them to discourse further about stepped onto the train.
I first became aware of the switch from the weekend to the present when a lady opposite me met my eyes and just hung on to my gaze with all the desperation and hopelessness of a rabbit caught in a spot light.
I had to turn off the MP3 anyway, it was blasting my eardrums to pulp. The conversation had turned to a girl who was standing in the vestibule area. The lady opposite me had her back to the vision in question but the tirade of filth from these two animals was obviously making her extremely uncomfortable.
I looked up and ………. “aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh’ ‘OMG, I’M BLIND’ Good grief surely not!!!!!
I sneaked another look. I could see right up the extremely short skirt of a young woman who was wearing a black g-string.
She was facing away from us which gave everyone in the 4 or so rows of seats a birds eye view of her bum cheeks.
Worse, the g-string was imbedded in-between those cheeks giving those of us unfortunate enough to have eyesight the impression that she was nickerless.
Worser, she was talking to a friend who was pointing out the two morons behind me and their obvious interest in her posterior and was writhing and wriggling the offensive article at us all.
Worstest, as the laughing and fetid comments behind me increased in volume, she and her friend also laughed causing her stomach muscles to contract and her spine to bend hence my intimate knowledge of the colour of her underwear. (and a few other things that I would rather not recall here)
Was this some kind of gross courtship ritual of the morally bankrupt? A cheap display of your wares to an equally low rate pair?
After the third attempt from ‘Bum Floss Barbie’ to impart a permanent imprint of her nether regions on my optic lens, I decided that I had had enough. Yeah yeah, , I know, who made me the Mayor of Moral Town, but no-one else was saying anything and you could tell they were all in pain. Besides I’m intolerant, I can do what I like.
I managed to catch the eye of BFB and gave her a hand sign that she should move away from the stairs. She looked at me, her face a mirror of her thoughts. ‘duh, what’s that crock of sh*t looking at me for? Cow’ (middle finger extended)
Hmmmm obviously stronger measures were called for here, I had not realised that when you are a slag on heat with an appreciative audience of young males you wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything but the burning desire to show the world that you are incapable of decent, humane behaviour.
So, when she looked at me again (to confirm that her flash of the bird had made me suitably contrite and pliant) I signed to her crotch, to me, and then pretended to vomit.
That made the lady in front of me laugh out loud. The slags just stood there looking at me with the vacuous look of the intellectual giants that they were. Good grief, they still don’t get it! ‘MOOOOOOOOOOOVE’. I shouted.
Heeeeee, that did it. All eyes on them, and, you know, she didn’t like all the middle aged, myopic, filmy, destitute eyes of all the other blokes sitting there staring up at her, hungrily memorising every pimple and ingrown hair on her A*se.
AND she tripped when she got off.
Ahahahahahahahahahaa
Wednesday 28 January 2009
Seat Wetter
Ooooo waaaaaa I just sat down in a single seater and a middle aged lady diagonally and in front of me just emptied about ¼ of her water bottle on the seat next to her.
Deliberately!!!
AND eyeballed me whilst she was doing it!
What the??
It wasn’t until the carriage started to ‘crowd up’ that I cottoned on to what she was up to.
Every time someone approached the seat to sit down she would point to the seat and tell them it was wet.
She would even wear an innocent expression on her face and hold her arms out, hands palm up to reinforce her purity.
Of course, no one would sit there; one lady even thanked her for being so considerate as to warn her before she sat down.
She even topped it up when no one was looking
How clever is that!!
Oooooooooo naughty but oh so tempting.
Deliberately!!!
AND eyeballed me whilst she was doing it!
What the??
It wasn’t until the carriage started to ‘crowd up’ that I cottoned on to what she was up to.
Every time someone approached the seat to sit down she would point to the seat and tell them it was wet.
She would even wear an innocent expression on her face and hold her arms out, hands palm up to reinforce her purity.
Of course, no one would sit there; one lady even thanked her for being so considerate as to warn her before she sat down.
She even topped it up when no one was looking
How clever is that!!
Oooooooooo naughty but oh so tempting.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
