Wednesday, 23 March 2011

Lady Of The Dance

I tried to buy a bus ridacard yesterday. This is normally an easy process, made even easier by the helpful and lovely staff. However, they did seem to be convinced I was a teenager despite my wallet full of credit cards and work ID still hanging around my neck, and made every effort to assist me as such.
Staff: Right so, is that (looks at me dubiously despite holding my form which clearly states ADULT in huge block letters in several different places, including checkboxes)
Me: Yes.
Staff: And that's an... adult... monthly card, which you'll pay by direct debit, is that right?
Me: Yes.
Staff: So you're not a student or anything?
Me: I am a grown up. Really, I am.
Staff: Right... (still looking at me as if I'm lying to avoid getting a discount, which of course people do all the time)
My problem is that I look a lot younger than I actually am. I'm sure I'll be grateful for the lack of ageing when I hit 30 and still don't have wrinkles, but right now, I've lived over a quarter of a century and it does not show. This means that I constantly get ID'd (even though I am almost 7 years over the legal age) and not just for alcohol. I have also been ID'd for nail scissors, plastic cutlery and hair dye, amongst other things. It can be quite embarrassing, especially if I am wearing my smart casual office clothes and realise with vague horror that the staff see a person in school uniform, rather than a legal secretary who works (reasonably) hard from 9-5pm, pays her taxes and has cat-shaped dependents. It probably does not help that my hair has begun to get to that awkward shaggy length, which, if I don't get it cut in the next week or so, will start to make me look like even more Bieberlicious.

In other news, the the house move is finally complete, which makes me want to do the Dance of Joy (it involves waving your arms like an octopus and jiggling with excitement, and in some ways is admittedly quite similar to the Dance of Intrigue. An expert would be easily able to tell them apart) and scamper about, shrieking happily, because this means that Other Half and I no longer have to live in fear of the ever-growing carpet mould, or the bulging, damp bathroom ceiling. It was unnerving trying to wee and watch the ceiling suspiciously at the same time. I had performance anxiety on more than one occasion.

The cats have been a bit nervous, due to the trauma to being forced into a box and taken for a bumpy taxi ride before finally ariving at a brand new location which does not smell like home. They have taken it fairly well as they are pretty relaxed lads, but every now and then they go for a comfort cuddle together under the duvet in the guest room. I was watching them spoon the other day, and wondering if they knew how gay they were and also, if this was natural cat behaviour (my previous two female cats didn't get on, probably because one of them was blind and the other was a sadistic psychopath who liked to lie in wait on the dining room table until Blind Kitty came stumbling along, and would then slide off the table and flatten Blind Kitty in a wrestling move I used to call 'The Crushinator') when Other Half came into the room. We both looked at the spooning cats for a long moment and then at each other.
Other Half: That is incredibly faggy.
Me: (smirking) I know, right? Cute.
Other Half: (taking out her phone) I'm going to take a photo.
Me: (doing an impression of Roland) GILES, I WISH I KNEW HOW TO QUIT YOU.
Other Half: Just when I thought it couldn't get any gayer. 
Me: It can ALWAYS get gayer.

Trust me on this. It really can.

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