Thursday, 28 March 2013

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).

Thursday, 21 March 2013

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: 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: 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.

Friday, 15 March 2013

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.

Monday, 4 March 2013

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.

Friday, 1 March 2013

Heaven Must Be Missing An Angel (I've Seen Wanted Posters Everywhere)

Sarahnator: Guys - how about Hansel and Gretel on Saturday? Famke Janssen!

Wetsoks: I'm good for that.

Me: Um, I may have to decline such a tempting offer. However, what about Cloud Atlas? Do we have any idea when we are all free to go see that?

Sarahnator: I can honestly say I have no idea when you are free to go see Cloud Atlas.

Me: God. What don't I pay you for? Seriously.

Sarahnator: If Wetsoks is okay with going out on both weekend days, then I would propose we see it Sunday afternoon.

Me: I may be (read: will be) hungover, but I can probably make that.

Sarahnator: Let's wait to see if Wetsoks confirms. I heard her and Liara might be breaking up so she might not want to go out much this weekend.

Me: BUT THEY WERE SO GOOD TOGETHER. Also, you know, she's a fictional character from Mass Effect, but whatever. Small details.

Wetsoks: Just because we have an argument doesn't mean we're breaking up. God. Stop being so dramatic!

Sarahnator: I like how you have both referrred to me as God today. From now on I demand to be worshipped! I will reward you in the next life. Maybe. Oh and come on - she is cheating on you. With me.

Me: *gets the popcorn* This is better than the telly I don't have. Anyway, you can be the God of Crocs. And I shall serve your nemesis, the Devil of Fashion. I SHALL NOT REPENT.

Sarahnator: I've never worn crocs in my life! I declare myself the God of Sweat Pants and Trainers. All who worship me and obey my rules shall be comfortable in this life and the next.

Wetsoks: I am the God of Busywork... which I am preoccupied with right now.

Sarahnator: Party pooper! The God of Sweat Pants and Trainers has spoken! There shall be no more hard work!

Me: From this point on, I may refer to changing when I get home as "putting on my church clothes".

Sarahnator: You need to get permission from the God of Sweat Pants and Trainers for that.

There was a brief pause.

Sarahnator: Permission granted. No one can say I am not a kind and generous god.

Me: Allow me to praise thee by doing as little as possible while remaining as comfortable as possible. If that's not devotion, I don't know what is.