Wednesday, 26 October 2011

A Gentle Ribbing

You know when you wake up, and you feel like your ribs are broken on one side of your chest? No? Well neither did I, until two days ago. It was, shall we say, a distinctly uncomfortable experience, especially since I hadn't really done any exercise since the archery, and I was certain that enough time had elapsed for the archery itself to be cleared of any rib-assault. I was still keeping archery in for questioning, but it was obvious that it wasn't my main suspect. (I feel like these police metaphors might not be going anywhere but they're amusing me for the time being)

I have a theory. Actually, I have many theories, but the one I'm focusing on now is of vital importance. I think we could all agree that the world is full of different kinds of people. That's pretty much a given, when you consider all the countries, languages and cultures there are. But I'm talking specifically - one giant divisive line which separates everyone into one camp or another. To find out which you side you're on, please answer the following question - are you:

A) the kind of person who, upon waking to extreme pain on a part of your body that houses quite a lot of your important organs, immediately and sensibly arranges for medical treatment or at the very least tells someone?


B) the kind of person who, upon waking to extreme pain on a part of your body that houses quite a lot of your important organs, chooses to not only ignore this pain and hope that it will go away but refuses to even acknowledge it by telling a family member or close friend, all the while assuming it will actually kill you at any point in the next twenty minutes, for as long as said pain lasts?

You've probably figured out by now that I am the latter. In fact, my friends know full well that for any ailment up to and including Bubonic Plague, my answer is always going to be "a good night's sleep will fix that." I was proved right when a good night's sleep did fix the rib issue (pretty much) except for a slight soreness when I laugh. Once my friends and colleagues discovered this, they seemed to really get aboard the comedy train, upping the ratio of laughs-per-minute by a zillion percent (and yes, I calculated that). Consider the following conversation between myself and one of my colleagues from Finance:

Him: Sent to Seafield during lunch. Woman standing outside the Range Rover garage with Power Suit, Power Hair and Power Sunglasses – Obviously never looked in the mirror at her Power Camel-toe!!!...Business Attire FAIL!!!

Me: HA. Oh dear. That should really have been the first thing she checked…

Him: Yup. It should go:

  1. Is fanny on display?
  2. Handbag?
  3. Car keys?

Me: Those whimpering noises you can hear are me trying not to implode with laughter. I mean that in a horribly literal sense.

For those of you reading this in the land of Americana, and in case the cameltoe reference wasn't obvious enough, over here "fanny" does not refer to your ass. Do not google the term "british fanny" at work. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. DO NOT FROLIC. These are the rules.

Casting my mind back, the rib thing could perhaps have been caused by a mammoth guitar session, when I somehow slipped into The Zone and played for so long that all the skin on my already toughened fingertips started to flake off gently, like a gross kind of skin snow. 

Mmm. Festive.


  1. I was quite surprised to find my self getting corrected by someone recently with regards the subject of the latter part of this post. "Camel-Hoof" appears to be the new descriptive term, donchaknow.

    As a mon-fri powerdressing besuited being of much tallness and imposingness, my check list is pretty much bang on with what you've got there, only slightly modified for when wearing a skirt:

    1: (clause B) Check skirt not tucked into knickers at back. Repeat throughout day as appropriate so as not to REPEAT WHAT HAPPENED *THAT* TIME!

  2. You make some excellent points here Kate which I want to address - firstly, Camel-Hoof? I don't know why a perfectly acceptable term has been upgraded but I'm not nearly as down with the kids as I once was (I never was). I will remember this for future use and am glad I will no longer show myself up at parties for using the outdated terminology ;)

    And I agree re: the skirt, I too have visited that dark and dreaded land of Embarassment and have no wish to return. Deary me. As if childbirth, PMS and being unable to open jars wasn't enough. The last one might just be me...