I don’t like ticking boxes. Which is why I only do so when forced. Which is all the time. You can’t so much as register with a dentist without telling their questionnaire that you are of no denomination. What does it matter? Will I be put through Dustin Hoffman’s hell?
Come to think of it… No, let’s change the subject. I don’t know what it’s like in the States or indeed anywhere outside the UK but here you can’t even pay your electricity bill (over the phone) without being asked ‘security’ questions. Whose security? Mine? Surely not. The whole world and its Amazon knows by now not only my mother’s maiden name, the first school I went to, my birth date, my address, what I had for dinner last night, not to forget those last three digits on the back of my debit card. I love it, and it’s a pet hate of mine: Some company calls me; remember: Calls me. And, for my ‘security’ will ask me all sorts BEFORE telling me what they are on about. Are these people ticking ok? Once upon a time my naive little self gave truthful answers. No more. Mother’s maiden name: Sure. Make it up. Preferably something which takes forever to spell. The one bastard you can’t lie about is your birth date. Which is fine. One has lived. And youngsters who could be my sons will learn that someone who could be their mother is not past it. So far none of them have asked me to adopt them but it’ll be only a matter of time. The Angel reckons that I am the only person in the whole wide world who can make call center stuff laugh, even in India. Which, no doubt, accounts for them calling me back. Again and again and again. Beware the camel’s back. The drop that will make the barrel overflow.
And here is one for Phil. As 2012 new tech lingo slips in: A BeetOven – before it implodes – is when you are stuck in the queue of a call center, waiting, and they play you Vivaldi’s Four Seasons – only to be answered till you are well into Autumn. If I had anything to do with Vivaldi’s Estate I’d sue for damages. Big time. What once was a pleasure is now a pain.
Thanking a seller, advertising a surplus to his requirements “dictionery”, for making me smile.
Sweethearts, ride, fly or crawl to my rescue. And yes, I know most of you are Americans which is why I need you on a white charger. Send Arnold Schwarzenegger if you yourself don’t have the time. He won’t need to do much, just open his mouth.
The nation of your united states and I, by proxy, have been dished the ultimate insult, and I quote from an exchange in someone else’s comment box:
” … In your favour, you have managed to amuse me by stating that I “must be from the US”. That’s a first. I have been put all over the world including Turkey; I even had a gender change in a fit of mistaken identity.
Pray, enlighten me as to what makes you think I am American. Ciao, U”
This morning’s reply:
“Hmmm, now you have me guessing! Why I thought so, straightforward really, you turned a wry witticism into a somewhat insipid inspiration. Such optimism, only from the land of the brave…. or so I thought. But now I know, you are only a program, virtually.”
Polyanna greetings, just stick that burger where it will do little damage, inconsolably yours,
I can’t say I particularly like sponges. For reasons irrelevant this minute.
However, the brain, my brain, apart from looking like a sponge, is a sponge. Absorbent. Very. Till it drips. Where the sponge has one over the brain is that you can wring it – unlike your brain.
Alternatively I wish I could hoover my brain’s recesses. Or order everything stored up there alphabetically, to locate when needed.
Apart from its obvious function I think the bladder a most useful organ.
Unless you are paralysed, bedridden or a baby the urge to empty will make you move, stretch your legs, get up and go. Interrupt the flow(!), make you come to a standstill, regroup. Often for the better.
In her comment to my last post Lorna perceptively interprets what I said as: “If your comment adds nothing to the silence, keep it to yourself.” A Buddhist saying. I think it most poetic.
Unfortunately, whilst I DO know WHEN to shut up I find it virtually impossible to do so. During my recent quest to get rid of stuff now irrelevant to my life I came across some old school reports. Oh did I laugh. It’s uncanny. What’s bred in the bone does not only come out, it’ll stay there for decades. As young as age seven the summoning up: “Ursula has to learn not to talk so much during lesson time.” Another: “Ursula needs to tame her lust for words.” Isn’t that sweet? Few things amuse me more than myself.
What a comfort to learn that a leopard doesn’t change its spots. And some people are chameleons – always blending into their background, no doubt with good reason.
Sometimes you need to know when best not to do anything, or at least not that which you’d like to do most.
I ask myself many questions. Questions are like rabbits. They beget themselves at a rate one can barely keep up with. If I pelleted you with every question raising its amusing head in my overloaded mind you’d never visit this blog again. My loss, your gain.
What was the question? Forgotten. That’s how ephemeral, how expendable my questions are.
Will get back to you.
Seek and you shall find. Yeah, well, pull the other one. It doesn’t always work.
I spent the last twenty minutes searching for my favourite knife (it’s small). So small I took the garbage apart. One does throw things out with peel. I know. I do it all the time. The things you do for love [of a knife]. It wasn’t in the garbage. Neither have I chopped my onion yet. Yes, I know it’s half past nine. A woman is nothing without her knife. However, I knew blogging is good for something. I thought to throw myself at your sturdy shoulders in my moment of need, and what do you know: There it is [the knife] on my desk. Why on my desk? I don’t know. Maybe it formed a bond with an apple, also on my desk. So thanks for that, Sweethearts. May your dinner taste as great as the one I have haven’t yet started cooking but the Angel will devour on his return.
Hugs and kisses,
Sweethearts, don’t be alarmed. I am not a hypochondriac (if only) but a spade is a spade even if it’s a fork.
At risk of repeating myself: I wish I knew the date of the day my bell will toll. I’d be so much happier. As it is the uncertainty of whether I’ll still be alive in half an hour does cause me many a minor panic. So much to do. And what can one do in half an hour? Not a lot. I bet my bottom Pound Sterling that I’ll still be around at, say, 92, still not having done all that needs to be done, only wondering why on earth I ever worried decades earlier. April 2012. 2012? YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS. The ‘new’ millenium already 12 years in? YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS. Soon we’ll be one hundred.