Thursday, 20 September 2012

An Apple A Day

When I sat down at one of the tables in my work canteen at lunchtime on this dreary Thursday morning in a pointlessly rain-soaked country, Wetsoks eyed me suspiciously over her box of fruit for a few minutes without saying anything. Eventually, she made a tentative enquiry.

Wetsoks: Um. Did you do something to your hair?

Me: Yes.

Wetsoks: Did you.... dye it?

Me: Yes. Last Thursday.

Wetsoks: (poking at the fruit box) Eww, apple. I don't like apple.

Me: Also, I had it cut. Last Tuesday.

Wetsoks: It looks different. 

Me: That's because it is.

Wetsoks: At least I noticed. Eventually. I don't like apple.

Me: You're such a dude. And for goodness sake, don't eat the apples if you don't like them.

Wetsoks: (stil eyeing my hair and putting a piece of apple into her mouth slowly) I don't like change.

Me: Technically you've been getting used to it for a week, you just didn't know it.

Wetsoks: (chewing the apple) I don't like change or apples.

Me: (pinching my nose and sighing) You know, sometimes I feel like we inhabit entirely different universes and then every day around 12:30, they collide for a few minutes resulting in total mental chaos.

Wetsoks: .... What?

Me: I'm glad we're friends.

Wednesday, 5 September 2012

The Wedding Dance

Sorry for the delay in blog posts, otterlovers, but my aunt got married last Friday. It was an all-day wedding and both I and everyone else had a thoroughly wonderful time. (Note to readers: if you read that and mentally chalked "the otter was drinking for 10 hours" then well done and a small fishy prize will be sent to you shortly). I even had a particularly nice time during the first dance, during which I had been instructed to waltz with my 16 year old male cousin. We behaved well for about 3 minutes and then broke into mutual robot, to the amusement of the watching crowds. It would have brought a tear to your eye, let me tell you.

After dinner but before the second lot of food (we like to be extreme in my family) the main area was cleared away by the hotel staff and turned into a dancefloor. I spent a while eyeing this with caution - mostly because the shoes I was wearing were both thoroughly unsuitable for dancing and totally unprepared to meet a polished wooden surface while the owner was inebriated - but eventually tottered over to it and spent the next few hours in rapturous delight. The live band played a number of excellent tunes, including The Jam, Billy Ocean and Barry White. The following conversation occurred slightly later in the evening (which I am afraid to say does not excuse it from taking place at all) between myself, my mother and father.

We had somehow all found each on the busy dancefloor, when the guitar riff started up and was instantly recognisable as a classic.

Me: Oh, I love this song! *crooning* Once I was a boogie singer...

Dad: Play that funky music, white boy! Now there's a real song. They don't make songs like that now.

Mum: Who did this one again?

Dad: Wild Cherry. The lead singer was... do you know?

Me: (dancing frantically) Not a clue.

Mum: Er...

Dad: George Clinton! Write that in your blog.

Me: I don't actually think that's right.

Dad: It is.

Me: (staring around at all the damns I don't give) Sure. Why not.

Mum: (puzzled) George Clinton? Wasn't he the President?

My father, who after 30-odd years of marriage no longer picks up on all the crazy things my mother comes out with, simply danced off happily by himself into the crowd without paying attention.

Me: That was Bill Clinton.

Mum: Are you sure?

Me: Am I sure? How can you possibly-

My mother's face was a picture of sincerity as she looked up at me.

Me: (pinching my nose) Yes, I'm sure. Shall we get another drink?