Spice is the variety of life. Or something.

The other day WordPress wasn’t letting me anywhere near their good selves so I decided to join a certain dating website that my best friend’s been enjoying recently. This is where I mumble something about research. Anyway it only took me about 30 seconds to sign up after copy and pasting most of what I’ve put on here, although I regretted leaving in the part about leaving my heart in Africa. That seems to have been all that was necessary for the entire population of Africa to contact me, many of which have offered to go and find my heart and bring it back to me. Very kind.

After 70+ emails in the first few hours I resorted to turning off the notifications for every time I received one.

Still, I’ve met the man of my dreams. I knew joining that dating site was a good idea. I just got this email:

Subject: Beauty with baby face

how are doing girl.the royal are of great taste of a nice beef madra curry will you like it or a lobster termidor expensive but great taste. you are nice spice lady with a great mind of admiration . your smile attract the men of the world how do you do it what is your secret? when i look the beach i see the parfume of the (crepuscule)french word. very beautiful and i do admire it in face. that is great

henri

Anyone? Anyone? I have a feeling babelfish may have had a hand in it somewhere. Perhaps henri was saying something profound and beautiful and it just got lost in the translation.

Still, let no one ever say that I am not a nice spice lady. If they do, henri will be onto you quicker than you can say “parfume of the crepuscule”.

I finally feel validated as a woman.

I wasn’t going to reply, but I feel obliged to let him know someone’s swapped his tie for one that used to belong to a dwarf.

I really need to find these sites less entertaining, don’t I? They’re just bloody hilarious! :/

Why do they call it rush hour when nothing moves?

I recently almost had to lay my car to rest but managed to resurrect it by emptying out the contents of my bank account. The overwhelming joy this extra poorness gave me has brought on many a conversation about car related shenanigans, one of which I had last night at the pub with one of my friends.

On his anniversary with his ex a few years ago he let himself into her house while she was at work, cooked her an amazing meal for when she came home and then nipped out to buy a few bottles of champagne. When he got back he waited for her car to come round the corner and jumped out in front of her wearing very little, using only the bottles to hide his modesty. She was so surprised by this that she slammed on the brakes. Only she missed the brake, hit the accelerator and mowed him down.

He went flying, the champagne bottles knocked out one of his teeth and then his girlfriend ran over his leg and broke it. He then had to explain to the ambulance people – who assumed the “attack” was intentional – why his girlfriend knocked him down buck naked in the middle of the street on their anniversary.

I’m sure I was meant to be really sympathetic and concerned by his painful injuries but instead I laughed so much I almost peed myself. It’s dangerous to make someone guffaw that much when they’ve just consumed a large amount of liquid.

I drove down to Bournemouth the other day to pick up some of my belongings and marvelled at how lucky I was to pay so much money for the privilege of sitting in roadworks traffic (naturally with no one in sight actually working on the road) for hours on end. I’m not really prone to road rage and, although I don’t like being in a jam more than anyone else, I tend to just busy myself pondering the evilness of squirrels or the fashion faux pas of British pigeons. I also find great entertainment in the rage of other motorists who take random exception to all other cars on the road.

For quite some time I got stuck behind a particular car whose speed had been constantly fluctuating between 60 and 90mph. Every time I attempted to pass him he sped up and every time I tucked myself back in behind him his speed would uncannily reduce back down. He eventually got stuck behind a lorry so I was able to pass but he soon accelerated again to overtake. When he moved in front of me he cut me up with only centimetres between us to spare. The pettiness really made me giggle and I happily allowed him to match my speed when I decided to overtake him once more.

We then approached the actual roadworks where the dual carriageway reduced to one lane. The traffic merged one by one and we both quickly worked out that it would be my turn to merge ahead of him. There was no way he was going to let that happen. He kept his bonnet attached to the car in front, braking sharply and constantly to ensure I had no chance of somehow sneaking in. I saw no point in fighting for the sake of being a car length further ahead so I let him and took great amusement in his unwillingness to meet my eye in his rearview mirror. I shrugged at him and giggled and he spent the next half an hour sat in that queue having to avoid my gaze.

Now, dear reader, I cannot pretend I am not slightly proud of what I did next despite lowering myself to his pettiness. Even as I sit here now, days later, the grin on my face could outshine the sun.

When we set off again, he resumed his 60-90 fluctuations and I found myself starting to feel impatient. I sped up and came alongside him and attempted to get his attention. Eventually the traffic stopped once more and with me sat beside him waving frantically, he had no choice but to look at me. I wound my passenger window down and started pointing at his wheel. His curiosity got the better of him and he wound down his window to hear what I was saying.

“Oh phew, I’m so glad I’ve managed to get your attention!” I said. “I’ve been trying to tell you for an hour or so but never seemed to be able to keep up with you. You have a flat tyre!”

The guilt that flashed across his face as he ‘realised’ I was just trying to be nice was almost enough to make me feel bad. He thanked me gratefully and signalled to pull over so he could take a look. I beeped my horn cheerily, stuck my arm out of the window to give him a wave and zoomed off into the distance.

Sucker.

Back with a vengeance

My word it’s been a while – I do apologise! I’ve just moved house so had to wait for t’internet to catch up with me. I was having some serious withdrawal symptoms for a while there. Anyway I’m secretly rather pleased (or at least it was secret until I just told everyone) that people noticed I was gone. Having said that, I see none of you were too worried I might be lying injured at the bottom of my stairs being licked to death by cocker spaniels. Where were all the firemen and ambulance people bashing my door down trying to come to my rescue eh? I certainly know who I can count on *gives you all the evil eye*

So, lets see if I can come up with some more random babble to fill up this journal page…

A fair bit has happened to me in the last few weeks. I’ve deferred university until September (for various reasons) so I’m now living back in my house in Reading. Moving house is a pretty miserable experience and I’ve now lost somewhere in the region of 2 pints of blood just from cardboard cuts – which are FAR worse than paper cuts, believe me – simply from moving all the boxes. Where are all the big muscly men offering to help you move when you need them?

There was also a fairly interesting moment when I got out of the shower a few days ago and walked naked into my bedroom to find a family of Chinese people and a rather startled estate agent who apparently didn’t get the message that I was taking my house off the market. Never one to miss out on a learning opportunity, I now know how to say “Argh! My eyes! My eyes!” in Mandarin.

I then nipped down to Bournemouth to start moving some of my stuff back up to Reading. I was enjoying the car trip down until I decided I really REALLY didn’t want my chewing gum in my mouth anymore. It gets to the point where it loses its taste and starts to feel like I’m chewing on rubber. Know what I mean? No? Oh. That’d just be me then.

Anyway, I don’t like throwing it out the window (even if I didn’t hate littering, a chewing gum pelted car isn’t a good look) and didn’t have anything to put it in so I decided to make a gum shield out of it instead. I realise this does not make me sound sane. Just spare a thought for the Rude Boy who tried to chat me up (rather crudely I might add) at the traffic lights only for me to turn around and give him my best [gumshielded] smile. His reaction was very similar to:

which then made me piss myself. He tried to screech away when the lights turned green but stalled and I laughed so much I inhaled my gum shield and almost choked and died. Still, it sorted out what I was going to do with my chewing gum anyway.

I decided not to risk getting another parking ticket after the trouser-ripping escapade and had to park about a mile away from my flat. I walked back to my halls in the usual gale force winds you get with living by the sea and for the first time felt grateful that I’m a bit chubby. My widescreen butt was the only thing stopping me from turning into a human kite. Still apparently the walking-against-60-mile-an-hour-wind-whilst-crying-from-your-hair-whipping-you-in-the-eye look works well because some tramp said “ello gorgeous!” and offered me some of his cider. Tempting. He then handed me a flyer for rock climbing which flew away in the wind and hit someone right in the face. I would have laughed (bout time something like that happened to someone other than me) but the string from the hoodie I was wearing flew up and whipped me right in the eye. Karma.

Had I been able to see anything I’m sure I’d have appreciated the sight of the guy keeled over with paper cuts in his eyes (he should be grateful the flyer wasn’t made out of cardboard), me weeping from being whipped with string and the tramp sobbing slightly because I wouldn’t have any of his cider. All this crying on the day I hear Bournemouth’s apparently officially the happiest place in Britain… Frankly I’m not convinced.

So yeah, I’m back. Did I miss anything?

Enjoy your trip

It appears a common theme in this blog so far is humiliation, whether it be from three year old philosophical ramblings, an inability to sell oneself on a dating website without the aid of guns and puppies, a weird obsession with pigeons taking the tube or perhaps just the need to text people to let them know you can’t find your mobile. I see absolutely no need to stop making a fool of myself now so make yourself comfortable whilst I lower myself even further in your estimations.

A common question you often hear bounded around is: “if they made a movie about your life who would play the leading role?” I have no idea. Depends if the guy who played Mini Me was busy. I do know, however, that if they made a film about my life then the tagline would most certainly be “An Accident Waiting To Happen”.

Picture the scene: It’s lunchtime and you park outside a load of offices where the hungry workers are spilling out of their workplace to rush off to get a quick bite to eat. You’re also parked outside your block of flats that houses over 700 students, a lot of whom you know. Many of them are just arriving home from university and a couple are leaving either to explore the town or maybe even attend a lecture or two.

You’ve just heard on the radio how many car crimes have been happening in that area recently, particularly where people have left possessions in their cars while they quickly nip off to get a ticket. You eye your back seat which is covered in bags and decide you’d better take them all at once in case it happens to you. You pile yourself up and feel chuffed to note you still have one finger to spare which you can hook your keys onto in preparation for getting through the door. Off you set.

This starts off well and you begin to cross the road. You spy a car zooming toward you so you break into a little trot. Unbeknownst to you, your heel is caught in the hem of your trousers (if you’re a man you’ll have to admit temporarily that you wear women’s shoes). As your strides get longer while you’re trotting, the trousers trip you up. You fall in slow motion whilst four thousand people watch you plummet to your doom. Your things go flying. Bags split and the contents spill out all over the road.

People stop and help you up while you attempt to maintain some sort of dignity. You stand up and brush yourself off ready to continue as normal. This is when you discover that your heel kept hold of your trousers and you’re now wearing the remnants which can only be described as hotpants. You then regret not bringing the other pair of trousers with you that you got out of the tumble dryer only an hour or so before and left in your other room 80 miles away.

I’d like to say my dignity was the only thing I lost that day, but it appears I also parted ways with a large chunk of my knee. Still, it gave me (and most of Bournemouth, it seems) a good laugh. As a result of this I missed the lecture I was rushing to attend and spent the next 2 days sat in my room trying to sew up my trousers so I could go home again with no fear of being arrested.

Unfortunately that is way down the list of Most Embarrassing Moments in my life. Perhaps if I asked you what yours was you would have to think about it for a while. Not me. Mine is a story that has reached legendary status across Berkshire and beyond.

I was taking my GCSEs (for those of you outside of the UK, GCSEs are exams/qualifications you take usually when you’re 15-16) and had been studying through the night in preparation for my French oral exam. I was pretty damn nervous and remember shaking slightly as I walked into the room toward my waiting teacher, convinced that I was going to forget everything I knew. My school had language laboratories with headsets (similar to those you get in call centres) and booths, with the teachers “mixing desk” on a small platform at the front of the room. This is where my teacher was sat, waiting patiently for me to walk over and sit on the chair set up a few feet from her desk.

I sat down on the chair and took a few deep breaths as I attempted to calm myself down. I noticed that the back legs of my chair were quite close to the edge of the platform and, not wanting to make a fool of myself by falling off it backward, leant forward to shuffle the chair toward my teacher slightly. My teacher, apparently also aware how close I was to the edge, thought I was shuffling my chair backward and lunged toward me to save me from my doom.

Now, a combination of nerves and general obliviousness to her concern at that precise moment are the only excuses I have for what happened next. From my point of view, I walked into the room, sat down and as I was getting comfortable my [female] teacher leans quickly toward me. She’s French and polite and very kind so I went along with what I assumed she was doing. So I kissed her on the cheek. Well that’s what French people do isn’t it?

In that very moment that my lips made contact with her face, the horrifying realisation of what she was really doing flooded over me. If there ever was a volume more intense than silence then I experienced it at that moment. Tumbleweed had nothing on this.

After an eternity of wide eyed tension as each of us waited for the other to react, I finally spoke. “Bonjour! �a va?” I grinned, and did my best to pretend I’d done it all on purpose. The burning cheeks and incessant giggling may have told a different story though…

I tell you one thing though, I must have been a good kisser. I walked away from those exams with an A.

When the working day is done…

It looks possible that in about a month I shall temporarily be leaving the student world behind and returning to being a professional for a minimum of six months. It’s not certain yet as it’s pending on a few details but I can’t help but ponder how I’ll feel going back to working full time. How will I adjust from student slobdom to being suited and booted once more?

Imagine, if you will, a hazy mist descending over the television screen of your mind as we enter into a flashback. If it helps you can also visualise the next few bits in some sort of black and white or sepia just for that authentic “this is not present day” effect.

A few years back I worked for a well known transport company in their insurance department dealing with claims from the public who may, for example, have had a collision with one of their buses or perhaps injured themselves on one of their trains. I started pretty low down in the division with vague hopes of working my way up fairly quickly. A position opened for team leader/manager (albeit still pretty low down in the scheme of things) and so naturally I went for it. I was easily the most qualified for the position but lost out to another woman who – and I realise I’m biased and bitter here haha! – was chosen simply because she was the oldest. She had no qualifications, barely spoke English (which is a problem when a large part of your job is writing letters to solicitors and third parties) and definitely had no respect from any of her colleagues. I almost left a thousand times but don’t like to give up easily and felt that part of my resentment may have been because I was a sore loser.

One thing I could say for the job was that it was damn funny. I’d like to say I was laughing with the people I worked with but I’m ashamed to say it was mainly at them… The following is a fairly good example at the comedy gold offered to me on a plate on a daily basis:

The team leader (for the sake of this we’ll call her Marion) and a colleague (who we’ll call Joan) were writing out the settlement cheques to send out to the solicitors.

Joan: How do you spell fifteen?
Me: F I F T E E N
Joan: So there’s no H in it?
Me: *after a moment of puzzlement* I don’t get it – where would you put the H?! Fifteen doesn’t even have an H sound in it!
Marion: Oh I think she wanted to put it next to the G.

She was not joking. I think I looked rather startled because she asked me if I was okay! I nearly choked on my own saliva. Next to the G?!! What the hell that woman was writing on those cheques I will never know.

I attempted to keep schtum and just drink my tea but failed dismally and sniggered so much that the tea ended up resembling a jacuzzi.

Marion: What you laughing about?
Me: Sorry! I just can’t really hear the letter “G” in the word fifteen…
Marion: Oh you said fifteen! I thought you said fifty!
Me: *dumbfounded silence*

It took less than 2 weeks for me to find myself another job.

I’d like to say I gave my next job a decent shot but I was only there for around three months. My boss was almost as intelligent as Marion.

Him: Have you had your hair cut? It looks short today.
Me: That’s because it’s in a pony tail!
Him: Oh yeah.

Easy mistake to make.

I’ve never faked sarcasm

It’s been AGES since I’ve updated this journal so I thought I’d better get cracking and whip up some more of my genius observations for your consideration. I realised there was only one way forward after the previous two entries and so this lecture shall be based on ornithology.

I’m thinking that’s got rid of at least 60% of the idle browsers and at least half of those of you still reading are just wondering if I’m really serious. Oh yes my friend, I am about to talk to you about birds. Strap yourselves in.

Good friends of mine left yesterday for Africa and I spent a few hours sitting down with them telling them the places they really should go, what would be criminal to miss, where they’re most likely to die – that kind of thing. I spent three months travelling around Africa in the middle of 2006 and miss it enormously. Bastards like these “friends” of mine (where was my invite eh?) don’t exactly help matters much.

Africa is so much more colourful than England. It’s weird because if you’d have asked me to describe what I thought it would look like before I’d been, I’d probably have said quite brown and barren. It’s not at all. Everything is vivid while England is so dull and grey. There’s a huge contrast. And I’m not dissing England because, lets face it, I know where I’d rather live. I just love the shimmer that Africa has. Where else in the world are you going to get to see a Masai warrior ride a unicycle? 10 months ago I wouldn’t have been convinced you’d see it anywhere.

England needs to buck its ideas up though. Seriously. Lets take something fairly common as an example. Pigeons. We get ‘em everywhere. Here’s a picture of a pigeon:

Lets be fair to it. It’s made a bit of an effort – no feathers sticking out anywhere, few stripes going on in the wings area and it has pink feet which don’t quite go but at least it tried.

In Kenya and Tanzania, the bird you see as often (if not more so) than we see the pigeon is the Superb Starling. Before you’ve even checked it out you’ve got to be impressed by its confidence. “Hey bitch – I’m not just a starling, I’m bloody SUPERB.” And it is. It’s hard too. None of this “lets catch the tube because I can’t be bothered to fly” business. Nope – these superb starlings entertain themselves by pissing off rhinos. Respect. Lets take a look and see what they look like…

Not only is there a lot more colour going on (although I think whoever was painting it was holding it by the head) but it’s also practically iridescent. Check out the eye. Look how mean it is! Now go back and look at the pigeon’s dumb vacant eye. Compare. Which one’s going to take on a rhino and get away with it?

Now, I know some of you are going to claim that it’s not really a fair comparison. A superb starling is, obviously, a starling and not a pigeon. Africa does have pigeons. They’re not as common as the superb starling but you do see a few from time to time. Lets take a look.

It’s only bloody gone and done its hair! Not only that, but it’s thrown on a purple pashmina to brighten up its outfit and a little bit of eyeliner to bring out the colour of their dumb vacant (and yet now pretty) eyes. Frankly I’m a little embarrassed by the show our pigeons have put on. No make up, no outfits – nothing. I can’t help but think that our bird’s haircut is modelled on the Duncan Goodhew of the pigeon world.

Still, I give our pigeons a little credit. They can read.

Note the london underground map on the back. Proof!

Point made. Here endeth the lesson.

Hot or not?

I’ve recently been getting a load of entertainment (purely research related of course…) from Hot or Not which I officially consider to be the most frightening website around. For a start, some of the ugliest people I’ve ever seen seem to be scoring in the 8s and 9s which means either most of the people looking at them are blind or they’ve just been voting for themseves a lot. Secondly, reading their keywords makes me scared for the human race.

A lot of people put “sex” in their keywords/interests and I just don’t understand that. It’s about as interesting to read as “I like going out and spending time with my friends”. Yawn. Who doesn’t? If you’re going to do that, you should probably also mention that you like to breathe from time to time and occasionally eat three meals a day. More even, if you’re like me.

Men also seem to go with a picture of themselves with babies or puppies – that’s guaranteed a high score. If there are no babies or puppies, they settle with guns. I give those men very low ratings though because they’re just not trying. If they’ve got a gun they could easily go and hijack a baby and a puppy. That’s just laziness.

Talking of laziness, everyone declares themselves as fit and into working out. Of course they are. “Caring” also seems to be a popular word with the men, as does “romantic” and “cuddling”. Are women really that stupid? Awww look he’s caring and likes romantic cuddles! I’msa gonna gives him a 10 I ams.

So here we have it: *clears throat*

Hello, my name is Lynne and I hate my friends and rarely go out. I like to breathe from time to time and eat more than three meals a day when I’m hungry. I’m so unfit I can barely get up the stairs. I’m also pretty uncaring and romance makes me sick. Don’t even think about touching me or I’ll punch you in the face. Sex is a no-no. If you like what you hear, hit me up.

I also enjoy some of the emails I get sent. Now don’t get me wrong – flattery will get you everywhere. But there are just some methods that I’m only ever going to find amusing. I just got sent this on myspace:

heya!

HOW THE FUCK are you doin? lol

not sure what a girl like you’d doin on fuckin myspace, you look like you should be in FHM or something. im corny, lol.

xx

Dear God. First of all, myspace attracts a lot of weird people and I really should only let people I know send me messages. I can’t help it though, I find it too entertaining. Secondly, who the hell is he kidding? The only way I would ever get into FHM is if I was a “before” picture.

Still, I particularly liked the ‘HOW THE FUCK are you doin’ – caps AND profanities, what more could a girl want?

I’m off for a cold shower.

Serendipity

Sometimes I can be a sentimental fool. I spend more time than is probably healthy just thinking about things and coming to random conclusions that make sense at the time but later on offer little explanation as to why. This is the problem with blogs (I iz down wiv da kidz lingo innit) because there’s no escaping those moments of what you believed was deep philosophy but in the cold harsh light of day turn out to be nothing short of pukesome.

I wrote the following on 20 February 2004. I quite like looking back over my old journal entries despite hating the person I used to be. I’m fascinated by my oblivion to my naivety and self-absorption (although one could argue that any journal is going to be fairly orientated around whoever’s writing it) and I wonder how I’ll feel about the things that I’m writing now. I still believe, without question, that I am always right. I still know that the world revolves around me. These things don’t change. And yet I have. More than I’d ever realise without having the cringeworthy reminders printed in black and white before me.

Below is one of my “profound” moments which I apparently had at 3am around 3 years ago. I have to admit there are still parts of this that I strongly believe in although I’m not sure I would honey-coat it quite as much if I was writing about it now. I’m also a lot more cynical about life and love although regrettably so. I miss the beauty of the innocence that lies in believing in Happy Ever After.

Anyway, onto the chunks-inducer:

I was in bed, and then I had to get out. I’m sitting here as naked as the day I was born. Sometimes I just have to write, even if it means freezing my tits off. That’s just the kind of girl I am.

Sometimes I hear things – words, sentences, speeches – and they mean something to me, enough that I want to remember it for always.

The Greeks didn’t write obituaries. They only asked one question after a man died: “Did he have passion?”

That was the line.

Tonight I watched Serendipity. Weirdly, my brother recommended it to me. He’s a man’s man and a film buff. He likes obscure movies and films I’ve never heard of. Yet he chooses to recommend to me a love story, a cheesy Hollywood production. I don’t know why. Maybe because he searches for passion just as I do. Maybe he feels the same. If it’s worth doing then it has passion. If it has passion, it’s worth doing.

I constantly put things in the hands of “Fate”, putting the decisions in the hands of life. Making things come to me instead of constantly searching. I consider myself a risk taker and yet remain apathetic and aloof.

Risks are about fighting for passion. They’re about giving things up in order to find them again. They’re about going after what you want and loving every minute of the moment you get there. They’re about looking with your heart as well as your eyes.

There’s no need to be afraid. Live.

There are many things in this I would still think although perhaps am wiser about whether to admit to them in public. First of all, I’m still that girl who would get out of bed and freeze her tits off at 3am simply because she has to write. I know this because it’s now 3.29am and here I am. Things still stick in my head too although now I’m less bothered about doing anything with them. I remember having “kissing with direction” tattooed on my brain when I was 17 which remained until I wrote a poem about it. I still quite like the poem now, although the cheese factor is akin to the journal entry above.

Passion. Yes, I’m still a sucker for that. I’m less convinced by the obituary line but appreciate the idea. I’m also still the apathetic risk-taker, bemused by differences in opinion of my friends and family who consider my “spontaneity” to be frivolousness. It has the hallmarks of being an issue I’ll recognise as naivety (on my part) in another 3 years time but I still believe an entirely safe life is a lacklustre one.

I find it interesting that the several definitions of “risk” in the dictionary are all negatively biased: “exposure to the chance of injury or loss; a hazard or dangerous chance: It’s not worth the risk.” It mentions nothing of the possible benefits to be had from it and only goes on to relate to loss probability and hazard insurance. There’s no room in the definition for the excitement of putting your head above the parapet (oh how I love those clichés!) and reaping the benefits of multiplying your opportunities. Instead the definition remains a safe one and is therefore dull. Perhaps that is why no one reads the dictionary. Well, apart from me.

So it appears one thing that definitely has not changed is the need to philosophise over trivialities during the wee hours of the morning. I think that is something that will probably stick with me for some while. If I could sit here and ponder life’s bigger problems then maybe I could really be something.

But that would be too easy.