She Sells Sea Shells

A few months ago, when I first started seeing my girlfriend (who will be referred to from this point onwards as Sloth, for reasons that I will probably go into at some critical point for maximum embarrassment) I had stayed over at her flat for the first time. I had been slightly intoxicated the previous night. I believe we had taken a taxi there; add to this my general inability to process geographical locations even in Edinburgh (a city I've lived in for over a decade) which culminated in a slight confusion and hangover as I stood at the bus stop the next morning and unwisely decided to ring my parents for a quick catch up.

Mum: (far too brightly for that time of day) Good morning!

Me: (trying not to make noises like a bison being sick) Good morning.

Mum: Oh.

Me: What?

Mum: Where are you?

Me: I don't know.

Mum: What?!

Now, I realise that I should have taken a moment to think about this, because no parent ever wants to hear that answer from their child, but the previously mentioned slight geographical confusion and hangover had cruelly robbed me of my fragile mental filter and common sense.

Me: (flustered) I mean... I know where I am! But not exactly! I mean!

There was a brief and awkward pause.

Me: (muttering) Goddammit.

Mum: I just wondered. Because the traffic sounds different. That's how I knew you weren't near your flat.

Far from this being a horrendous and inexplicable statement unto itself, I would also like to query that surely given the nature of the beast, traffic always sounds different. No? Fine. Let's move on. Last weekend I visited my parents, and the topic of new Sloth girlfriend came up again.

Mum: And where does she live?

Me: At the shore.

Mum: (uncomprehendingly) The...?

Me: The shore.

Mum: (continuing blank face)

Me: The shore. The shore. Where the sea lives. Um. I can't really make that much clearer. The sea? You know what the sea is, right?

Mum: (hesitantly) I've heard of Ocean Terminal?

For those of you who don't know, Ocean Terminal is a shopping complex in Edinburgh, situated... you guessed it. Near the sea. JESUS CHRIST THEY DIDN'T BUILD IT ON A MOUNTAIN AND THEN CALL IT OCEAN TERMINAL.

Me: (gaping and speechless) Uhhh?

Mum: Is that in the sea?

Me: IN the sea? No. No, it isn't IN the sea. How... I can't...

Mum: Well, I don't know. (giggling) I know there's sea there, I just didn't know where.

Me: I give up. You know we live on an island, right?

Mum: What?

Me: (pinching nose) Nothing. Forget it. I'll put the kettle on. Tea?

Mum: Sea?

Me: NO.

A Place Called Vertigo

My friend and colleague Wetsoks, who features a lot in these posts due to our ridiculous but often amusing conversations, has not been feeling very well recently. On several evenings, I received texts complaining about the increasing amount of daylight (something that obviously falls under my responsibility and control) which have not helped to calm her headaches. So when I received the following texts, I was not immediately panicked. This quickly changed.

It is necessary to know that she does not deal very well with bleeding wounds for many medical reasons, and I have in the past been known to shout "clot" at her over and over, in a verbal attempt to assist stemming the blood flow from whatever accident she has just had, while she stares at me with barely concealed irritation. We apparently hold differing opinions as to whether this method improves or disrupts the healing process.

Wetsoks: CLOT! CLOT! WOAH BEAR!

As a sidenote, Woah Bear is the international symbol, among my friends, for (flirting) distress - link here http://witandpendulum.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/in-case-of-bear-attacks.html for those who haven't read this.

Me: Woah... blood?


Wetsoks: Don't freak out, but the paramedic is here.

Me: Are you kidding me? What the hell?


Wetsoks: I'll call you in a bit. It's okay, no panic. Just a Nosey Bleedy thing.

Me: *uncertain ears*


Wetsoks: It's okay buddy, I'm not even going to need to go to hospital!

Me: That is a totally unreassuring sentence. What brought it on?



Wetsoks: I don't know. A cold? Stress? Bad blood? My colleague's cologne? It's cool, the nice man shoved loads of stuff up there. That's not a euphemism. Or is it?

Me: It's probably the alignment of the planets. Looks like you're a prophet. It's a terrible job but it's probably better than the one you have. PS. At least make the nice man buy you dinner first.


Wetsoks: God has spoken to me and his message is that the world should bleed. It's already doing that so let's go to the pub for a drink. Oh wait. I don't like drinking. Or people. Or being outside. Or awake.

Me: Please don't start the list again.


Wetsoks: I'm thinking of texting my boss to say I can't go to work tomorrow because a paramedic inserted a nasal sponge. Yes, that is a thing. I look ridiculous.

Me: Can we start a band called Nasal Sponge?


Wetsoks: Absolutely.

Me: Are you sure you're okay though?


Wetsoks: Oh, sure. You know how I like all the attention for my mad bleeding skills.

Me: Your nosebleeds bring ALL the boys to the yard. As proven.


Wetsoks: My life is better than yours.

Me: Could you teach me?


Wetsoks: I'd have to charge.

Me: What about friend discounts? Mates rates?


Wetsoks: I don't know... will you come over and get me ice cream from the freezer?

Me: Sure, but I'm miles away. I'll be there in, say, 24 hours.


Wetsoks: We're supposed to be friends!

Me: Dude, you know I move slowly. You've seen me date.


Wetsoks: True.

Me: Okay, so I'll check in with you later. Try not to set fire to anything or concuss yourself in the meantime.


Wetsoks: I'm fine. I'll probably be sleeping. You know how I like to sleep. Don't freak out if I'm sleeping.

Me: DON'T SLEEP EVER AGAIN.


Wetsoks: Buddy, I'm allowed to sleep. Nothing is on fire.

Me: Yet.


Wetsoks: Well, I can't argue with that.

Griddle Me This

It was Canada's birthday last Saturday (my flatmate, not the country itself) and thus we partied as usual, in a fashion that Lionel Richie himself would have undoubtedly blessed. There were a number of conversations during the course of the night which have stuck in my brain, so I'll do my best to recount them here.

Please bear in mind that by this point in the evening, we had partaken of "brah-bombs" which were basically Jaegerbombs but in small wine glasses (the only clean receptacles left at this point) and so we cannot be entirely judged on the below. In addition, more than one person present was wearing an animal onesie.

JohnBoy: So, there's a guy who walks around Edinburgh dressed as a giraffe.

I confess that this may not have been the start of this conversation but it was certainly the point at which I started paying attention. I believe that it might have been suggested that the tallest person in the room should be wearing a giraffe onesie in order to fit in with the rest.

Alana: What, like... he's wearing a giraffe print shirt or something?

JohnBoy: No, actually dressed as a giraffe. Like, a giraffe costume. Er. His face is in the neck and the giraffe head is sort of... up there (gesturing vaguely above his own head). And he wheels a little suitcase around behind him.

Alana: Huh. I see a guy sometimes - nice briefcase, expensive dress shoes, and a Pikachu onesie.

Me: (chomping through my second toasted crumpet, because Jaeger makes me crave snacks) I am clearly working in the wrong end of town.

JohnBoy: You've got to wonder if they change for work into business clothes. And if they do, why not wait til they get home to change back into the onesies/costumes?

Me: (through a mouthful of crumpet) I really want an otter onesie. With a clam upon the tummy!

JohnBoy: With a what?

Alana: A clam. On her tummy.

Me: (spraying crumbs everywhere) A CLAM!

JohnBoy: ...I see.

Another friend entered the kitchen at this point and innocently headed towards the sink. In hindsight, this next remark might have been a little over-aggressive, and various bystanders have assured me that she did not even see me standing there, hunched over the toaster like the Gollum of baked goods.

Me: (laser-eyes of death, like those statues in the Neverending Story) HEY. YOU. STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY CRUMPETS.

I'm assured that a protective barrier was formed at that point to shield me and my ever-increasing crumpet rage from the rest of the party. Luckily (for everyone else) this worked until I ran out of crumpets, at which point I simply left the building to go to another birthday and forgot about all of this entirely until the Honey Brahdger reminded me a couple of days later. This in itself is unusual, since the Honey Brahdger rarely remembers anything while drunk, therefore I can only assume that Fate required this blog post to be written, and who am I to argue (or even casually debate) with Fate?

Now please excuse me. I have crumpets to attend to.

A Birds Eye View

Good afternoon, otter minions!

I should possibly begin with an apology for this post, given the subject matter, however by that logic I should have probably have begun most of my inappropriate posts with apologies and clearly did not do so. In this case, I not only refuse to give an apology but retract all previous apologies (even the ones which were not given). Lawyered. And now, onto the point.

I found the perfect photo the other day, and proceeded to gleefully post it on the Fleetch's wall. The Fleetch, avid readers may recall, was my former flatmate who is now living back in Americaland. The time difference combined with our busy lives means we rarely get a chance to speak properly, but when we do, it really does feel like she never left.

"Uh. It's not what it looks like. They were like that when I got here. I swear. I wasn't even hungry. Uh. Yeah." 

(As an FYI - this picture is from Reddit, I have no clue where it came from originally and I'm not about to google "raccoon eating dead bird" since I just ate lunch)

Fleetch: This is the perfect raccoon-sphere. I knew it could be done. I KNEW IT!

Me: And this is why CERN built the Large Hardon Collider. Yes, I said Hardon.

Cublet: I told you not to get my fat side!

Me: I wanted to tag myself as the raccoon and the Fleetch as the dead bird, but Wetsoks said that was "too far". No idea what she meant by that.

Fleetch: Ah yes, Too Farville. It's right past the Line Bridge in Don't Go There County.

Me: I regrettably do not know this place. I've heard of it, but I've never been. Frankly I'm not convinced it exists.

Fleetch: Take the train and get off at I Can't Believe You Said That station.

Me: (recognition dawning) Ahh. I definitely passed through there. Recently.

Wetsoks: If you get to Fuck This Shit then you've probably gone too far.

Me: I think that was where I spent 20 minutes going round the Bitches Be Cray Cray roundabout, trying to figure out where the exit was. Hint: there isn't one, unless you throw yourself off the bypass. That's bad planning.

Fleetch: I miss you guys.

Shortly after, the Fleetch tagged herself as the raccoon and me as the dead bird, restoring the natural balance of things (just not, unfortunately, for the birds in the photo).

Four Legs Good, More Drinks Bad

My friend and colleague Wetsoks normally greets me on messenger the same way every morning. On the days that she deviates from this, it usually acts as an early indicator of some sort of trouble. This morning was no different.

Wetsoks: Oh buddy.

Me: What?


Wetsoks: Rusty. Nails.

Me: Huh?


Wetsoks: ...is what I drank last night.

Me: Oh. I see. Hahaha!


Wetsoks: I'm too old for this shit.

Me: I doubt the veracity of your "too old" statement - my great uncle drank heavily into his 70s. Of course, he died of alcoholism, but the point still remains.


Wetsoks: Bitch. I had facetime with the porcelain throne this morning.

Me: So it's serious then?


Wetsoks: It's an expensive hangover. The client kept buying me £7 drinks. It would have been rude to say no.

Me: Of course. Your logic makes perfect sense.


Wetsoks: I'm never drinking whisky or Drambuie again. Separately or together.

Me: DON'T SAY THAT.


Wetsoks: NEVER. DO YOU HEAR?

Me: No, we're on separate floors. Yell louder. Also, you make whisky sad.


Wetsoks: Whisky is Scottish. It can take the rejection. Drambuie will comfort it.

Me: I'm not sure - Drambuie always seemed kind of flighty to me.


Wetsoks: I have bacon. Bacon fixes whisky.

Me: Bacon fixes everything. Except too much bacon. And even then, there is wiggle room.

I've Got To Hand It To You

To say that my friend Wetsoks is rather accident-prone would be a massive understatement. I've watched her achieve things we mere mortals cannot even conceive of - not least of which was bending the laws of physics so that her 2 minute microwavable chips actually burst into flames in the microwave, despite being, y'know, microwavable chips designed solely to be cooked in a microwave. A year later, this particular incident still troubles me and I give my microwave a wide berth when entering the kitchen, just in case.

It's rare that someone can equal me in terms of sheer lack of spatial awareness, but she manages this successfully. The problem is that it comes combined with her ability to bruise and break (which I myself do not possess, being a rubbery sort of otter - despite several attempts by other people/myself/Mother Nature/gravity to induce broken bones, I have yet to succumb) and this has led to various trips to Accident and Emergency for various ailments. Thus it was earlier this week, when I visited her desk to see if she would accompany me to the canteen.

Wetsoks: Ha! It says 'exact change' and I did not in fact give it exact change and yet look! A can of Coke has miraculously appeared! Score!

Me: (staring vaguely at the chocolate vending machine) Mmm. You one, Universe nil.

She reached into the box at the bottom of the machine to retrieve her can, and let out a very soft 'ouch'.

Me: Ready to go?


Wetsoks: Yup.

We spent all day doing our usual busywork, in separate departments, and so it was not until later that evening that we spoke again. Wetsoks text me unexpectedly after dinner.

Wetsoks: Remember this morning in the canteen when I bumped my hand getting my coke?

Me: No. Why?

Wetsoks: The doctor said my finger is "probably broken".

Me: Jesus tits, woman! Probably?!

Wetsoks: Weeeeeell. I could sit in A&E for 6 hours to confirm it, but I like a little mystery in my life.

Me: Don't we all (pinches nose) Did they bandage you up at least?


Wetsoks: My gimpy finger is taped to my middle finger.

Me: Dude, seriously. You only picked up a coke can. How does a person even manage this?

Wetsoks: It's probably fine. You know what will fix it?

Me: I know this is going to sound weird coming from me, but I am not convinced that a good night's sleep is the answer to this one.


Wetsoks: It is! The doctor said so. And it doesn't really hurt, it's just swollen and bruised.

Me: I honestly don't know whether you're an idiot or a total badass. Or both.

Wetsoks: I have a purple line up my knuckle! Body bling! Natural make up!

Me: I see. I have my answer.

Honey Brahdger Don't Care

Saturday night was a rather drunken one for all concerned, and in fact when I arrived home I discovered my flatmates sprawled hopelessly on the couch together, and the first thing Canada said to my relatively cheery "good morning" was a desperate, apologetic "I threw up in the bathtub! I'm sorry! I cleaned it!"  I possibly shouldn't have been as pleased with this news but frankly it needed a good scrub anyway, and I prefer to find the silver lining where I can.

I'd like to relate a small conversation between myself and a friend - we shall refer to her henceforth as the Honey Brahdger, for reasons that make me sigh and pinch my nose. In any case, the Honey Brahdger called me in the morning to basically moan incoherently like a beached, drunken whale.

Honey Brahdger: Oh my god, brah, seriously.

Me: Feeling rough?

Honey Brahdger: I have had many, many hangovers in my life, but I am currently redefining what the word means.

Me: (wincing in sympathy) Oh dear.

Honey Brahdger: You know when, when.... when you're crawling around on the bathroom floor, and vomiting, and crying and wishing you were dead?

Me: Um, sure.

Honey Brahdger: I'd give anything to feel like that right now.

Me: Oh, wow.

After a few hours, when I'd had a chance to shower and eat and generally start to feel like a normal human again, I text her to check in.

Me: How are you feeling now, brah?

Honey Brahdger: I'm dying on the couch. I feel like someone has violently ripped me open and fucked every organ in my body.

I paused for a moment to consider my response.

Me: So is that... like... better....worse....what?

Honey Brahdger: Yeah actually it IS better.

Me: Good. Good. Maybe you should drink less.

Honey Brahdger: LOL.

Me: Yeah, I thought so. You know I'm going to blog about this.

Honey Brahdger: I expected nothing less.