When my friend Wetsoks approached me at work the other day, jumping around excitedly, to tell me that our dear friend Fleetch (see here http://witandpendulum.blogspot.com/2011/11/harry-potter-and-draught-of.html and here http://witandpendulum.blogspot.com/2011/11/im-dreaming-of-fake-christmas.html for Fleetch and Wetsoks-related comedy) had emailed to say that she'd sent a package from Americaland, I was likewise thrilled. I miss the Fleetch and the many amusing things she used to do - although one of my absolute favourites was when she would walk around with her bathrobe pulled over her head, yelling "I'm a bacon-making BEAR!" at top volume. She always did have a slightly twisted sense of humour, so it was with no surprise that I found she'd sent this package to Wetsoks, but addressed it to Miss Hermione Granger.
The Fleetch lived in this country for a few years - certainly long enough to know that if you need to pick up a delivery from a Royal Mail depot, you need one or more of the following with you:
- proof of identification, such as a passport
- proof of address, such as a utility bill
- a urine sample
- documents pertaining to the right to name your first-born child
- sacrificial meat to offer to the great Post Dragon who devours all unwanted mail within 5-7 days
So, with this in mind, sending it to someone other than Wetsoks was highly likely to result in hilarity. I totally approved of this. Wetsoks did eventually manage to convince Royal Mail that firstly, Hermione Granger was a fictional character, secondly, that our friend has an odd sense of humour, and thirdly, despite what the package stated, it was actually probably not sent by someone called Severus Snape given that he too is a fictional character and in all likelihood would never have been caught dead using Muggle post. The post office gave in and Wetsoks finally got her package. It turned out to contain not just the promised gift, but presents for all of our group. My present in particular (see below) managed to be both endearing and an insult, for which I must thank the Fleetch.
Yes, that's right. It's a Justin Bieber singing toothbrush. I did not even know that such a thing existed. I challenge you, readers, to find any weirder Justin Bieber related merchandise.
In any case, I wanted to thank the Fleetch for her love and attention. I'm going to have to scour the interwebs to try to beat this one when we send your care package, dude. Challenge accepted!
Some amusing things have been happening this week, my pretty little reader-minions. I'm not even sure where to start - I feel like a kid in a candy store, or perhaps an otter in a river full of juicy trout. Perhaps I should mention that I'm due for a hair cut later today, and thus will inevitably be found complaining about it on Twitter later (I promise that unless something really out of the ordinary happens, I won't blog about my complaints.. this time) so I may as well enjoy my good mood while it lasts. In the spirit of goodnatured joking, I hope you enjoy the following video by the Biebershop Quartet. Incidentally, on a music-related note, I suggested the other day on Twitter that I would be up for forming a gay tribute band called Bi Jovi, if anyone is interested.
One of my colleagues approached me yesterday with the opening sentence "I overheard something really weird and I knew you'd appreciate it". She wasn't wrong. Here the following conversation is between two young adult males of European descent, and was, I'm assured, held with completely serious tones.
Guy 1: Mate. Mate. I just don't get it.
Guy 2: What?
Guy 1: Why do gay people have so many friends?
Guy 2: (without missing a beat) Because they're spies.
Picking this tangled mess of thoughts apart is a task far beyond my mental endurance, much like a politically-incorrect Krypton Factor. The points I could make are all immediately obvious so I won't patronise you by pointing them out, and will instead settle for spluttering in indignation and amusement. In addition, the thought did occur to me that if some of my friends were in fact spies, firstly they've been hiding that damn well, and secondly, I've not been utilising them in the most effective way. Clearly, 2012 is going to be a very different kind of year.
The other amusing thing, which I am loathe to admit (for it makes me and my friend look like complete dillholes) but of course will, for the entertainment of those on the interwebz. I was supposed to meet my friend Sam for dinner last night. We arranged a time, we vaguely had restaurant ideas in mind, and then she text me with instructions to meet her at the clock in Tollcross. Now, for those of you who don't know Edinburgh, there is a large clock outside the Sheraton hotel in the Tollcross area. It is immediately visible as you walk up the hill, and as far as I knew, there was no way of mistaking it for anything else. I arrived a couple of minutes early despite the hurricane winds that threatened to float me Mary-Poppins style into the oncoming traffic and stood around awkwardly under the clock, waiting for Sam to arrive. A few minutes past our arranged meeting time, she rang me. Again, because of the wind, it was hard to hear her but I just about managed to make her words out.
Sam: Where are you?
Me: I'm here.
Sam: Wait...so am I. Are you at the clock?
Me: Yes?
Sam: Are you invisible?
Me: I don't think so....Okay, hang on, I'll walk around the clock.
I walked around the clock. There was no sign of her.
Me: Huh. Weird.
Sam: Wait, which clock are you at?
Me: The one in Tollcross, like you said.
Sam: Oh, I'm at the other one.
Me: What other one? The one on Princes Street?
The clock on Princes Street, I hasten to add, is only a 5 minute walk away, but is clearly on Princes Street itself and could not possibly have been mistaken for the Tollcross clock, especially not by someone who'd lived in the city for years like Sam has. I sighed, rolled my eyes and told her to walk towards me and to stay on the right side of the road. I began to trot towards Princes Street. About half way down, I started to get a sinking feeling in my stomach. I hadn't seen Sam yet and by my calculations she should have been visible walking up the hill. I'd been keeping an eye on both sides of the road, so I was sure I hadn't missed her. I rang her back:
Me: Dude. Where are you?
Sam: (giggling) I'm at the clock in Tollcross now. Did we miss each other?
Me: Okay, this is ridiculous. Where are you?
Sam: Okay, walk back and I'll meet you halfway.
I dutifully returned to the clock at Tollcross, only to find that Sam was nowhere to be seen. I rang her again.
Me: DUDE. SERIOUSLY. We are two adult women and we have now missed each other twice in an area about 600 yards long. How is this happening?
Sam: (now in complete giggling hysterics) I don't know! Let's try again, you walk towards me and I'll walk towards you.
We tried a third time and likewise failed. I called her back.
Me: (mystified and suspicious) Am I on Candid Camera?
Sam: Okay, I will come and get you. Stay where you are.
After another couple of minutes she turned up, still giggling. As if the whole debacle hadn't been bad enough already, we realised that in fact she had been talking about another clock in the Tollcross area entirely. We agreed that next time we'd just meet at the restaurant to save ourselves the 20 minutes of unnecessary exercise.
In conclusion, I am a complete idiot, there are too many damn clocks in Edinburgh, and if I had to guess which of my friends were spies, Sam would not be my first choice.
This week, I have been telling people things and people have been innocently/wilfully/accidentally-on-purpose ignoring me. I'm just back from the hairdressers and am still utterly confused as to how I ended up with this style. I shall explain.
What I Really Said - "Please don't cut anything off, just give me a layer and trim the back."
What My Hairdresser Chose To Hear - "Make it BOUFFANT, my friend! Heap that volumising product onto my head! Go on, don't be shy! I want it to resemble a perfect tousled beehive, or possibly a giant cake. I'm planning to attend a spoof 50s zombie party and this will be just the ticket. Oh and cut whatever you like, wherever you like, with whatever shearing tools you feel necessary. Don't mind me."
I spent a lot of the walk home frantically pressing my hair down in such a fashion that people were beginning to look at me oddly, as if I was perhaps trying to hide an unsightly lightning-bolt shaped scar on my forehead or similar. Now, I've mentioned the hair issue in a previous post (or possibly more than one, considering I get my hair cut about every 6 weeks or so and the same thing always seems to happen even if I switch salons) and although I am still verging on Bieberhair territory, I'm not living in the centre of the Biebertropolis. I suppose things could be a lot worse.
I honestly don't know why people don't listen to me. I quite often talk a lot of sense, although no one seems to be aware of this fact, possibly because no one listens to me in the first place. Take this conversation between me and my friends last Friday night, in a local bar:
Friend 1: So, that group of girls over there...
Friend 2: Yeah. We should...
They exchange furtive, knowing looks.
Friend 1: Exactly.
Me: What are you guys talking about? Are we buying another round, because I already feel quite smashed.
Friend 1 (cheerily): Nonsense! You're fine.
Me: I think I need to sit down.
Friend 2: You ARE sitting down.
Me: Oh. Can I have some Goldschlager?
Friend 1: Anyway, about these girls. You should go over and talk to them.
Me: Who, me? Why?! What did I do?
Friend 1: Talking to a group of young attractive girls isn't a punishment, dude.
Me: Why me? You do it!
Friend 1: No, see... you're the bait.
Me: .....Um...
Friend 2: Yeah, you're like the cute little worm on a string that we dangle in front of hungry groups of lesbians to reel them in.
Me: I'm utterly disturbed by that...and oddly flattered at the same time...
Friend 1: Uh huh. Now go.
Me: Um, you've seen me talk to girls, right?
Friend 2: Oh, definitely. They love that whole shy, awkward thing.
Me: That's not a thing, that's actually me.
Friend 1: Well, it works. Go, young one. Return with hot girls or on them!
Me: Is that a 300 reference?
I still have very little recollection of what happened that night. I do remember on the way home around 3am, we met a guy standing outside his flat trying to call the RSPCB because there was a seagull nearby that wasn't afraid of him. The gull may or may not have been injured but he couldn't get close enough to tell and he was freaking out because he was an environmental lawyer and seemed to really, really care, whereas the bird looked like it was just trying to have a private moment without all these pesky meddling humans around. It was funny, but odd. It's not waking-up-with-plastic-bullets-in-your-purse odd, but it's definitely not an everyday occurence, even in Scotland.
In summary, I shall leave you with this old otter saying - live like it's your last day, drink like it's your first bucket and never turn down an opportunity to play table tennis at 3am with a guy you met in an alley.
If you read the last post I published, you'll know that I had planned a Twitterfest (or rather, Otterfest, if you will) in order to meet some the awesome people I talk to on Twitter. It was absolutely brilliant. I had a splendidly magnificent time, and I'd like to thank @JenClone, @Oddtwang, @SuperRetroid, @TheNatFantastic, @Trishie_D, @JennieSue and @nicelittlestory for making that possible. We came up with some incredible in-jokes during the time I spent in Leeds and Oxford, and thankfully I managed overall not to embarrass myself too much (I think, although I do recall doing a robot dance as we exited a pub which probably wasn't the coolest or most impressive thing I could have been doing). In addition, one of our crew made little badges with otters on them, to commemorate this special occasion, which was a wonderful and very sweet thing to do. I felt like otter royalty.
There was one moment of humiliation, which I've already enjoyed telling people about, during the brunch meeting on Sunday, when we were all standing in the queue for Bagel Nash in Leeds. I was standing between two people taller than me so I was trying to keep track of the conversation as it flew over my otterhobbit head, as well as deciding what kind of bagel I was going to have. Therefore my thoughts were rather preoccupied when a slight tilt of my head encouraged my floppy Bieberhair fringe to fall into my eyes. My immediate reflex was to flick my head to the side, swinging the hair back from my face in a dignified if slightly camp manner. Unfortunately, I had momentarily forgotten that I was standing very close to a chiller cabinet. What actually happened, instead of the graceful L'Oreal Cheryl Cole style hair whip I had intended, was that I stupidly banged my skull against the side of the cabinet, in front of everyone. From a distance, it must have looked as if I could no longer stand the chat going on around me and had decided to suddenly end my existence in a very longwinded and painful fashion. What's worse, this was the response I got:
Jen: Oh my god! Are you okay? It's fine, I don't think anyone saw - hey, everybody! EVERYBODY! Did you see what Otternator just did?!
In addition to this wonderful memory, we had many exceptional moments of banter and learned some very important life lessons. Jen brought up an instance when a man on a dating website sent her an introductory email that was entirely based around watersports. Thus, the following conversation happened:
Jen: It was awful. Really. Not a good start.
Me: You know, I've always found the name very misleading. Because there are actually proper water-related sports. Jetskiing, surfing, that kind of thing. They should call it something else. Like.....WeeSports. WAIT! NO!
SuperRetroid: If you invite people round for WiiSports, you better be very clear on exactly what you're planning. Otherwise that's just embarrassing for everyone.
Oddtwang: Exactly.
In summary, I highly recommend Twitterfests. Just be certain no one's an axe murderer and be sure to take extra socks. You'll thank me later.
I got a text from my friend yesterday morning, asking if I wanted to come to a barbecue in the park. I'm not normally much of a morning person, but I was already up because I had a hair appointment booked around noon, this time with a real stylist (I got it cheap on Groupon so don't worry, I haven't compromised my haircare ethics), who incidentally gave me a shorter cut on the right side of my head on the basis that it "looks edgy". It actually just makes me look a bit lop-sided. If you can, try to picture a puzzled collie. That's pretty accurate.
In any case, I graciously accepted the invitation, by which I mean I replied with "what you're proposing is actually against the law in this country, so I'll be there shortly". However, I hadn't factored in her ability to give directions which might have worked for a normal person, but had certainly not been translated into Otterspeak for me. Therefore, I got to the proposed park (somewhere I'd never actually been before despite it being about 400 yards from a main road I used to live on) only to find that I couldn't see my friends anywhere.
Me: The east quadrant, she says? My ass, it's the east quadrant (pulling out my phone) Okay, it's fine, I'll just call her. No big deal.
Friend: (picking up) Dude, where are you?
Me: You are not in the east quadrant. At all. When the zombie apocalypse comes, I'm not letting you near the map collection.
Friend: I was speaking in terms of the park itself.
Me: Forgive me for thinking that when you said 'east' you meant 'east' as in compass east. Anyway, where are you?
Friend: You can't see us? Okay, take off your shirt and we'll come find you.
Me: Okay, sure- wait, what?!
Friend: We took a vote and we all agreed that it would make you easier to find. And would in fact be a reward for us for finding you.
Me: This is a children's park. I am right next to a sandpit.
Friend: You're always so full of excuses.
Me: I'll work on that.
It turned out to be a lovely day, even if three of us nearly set ourselves/alcohol/food/grass on fire in an attempt to prove that we were tough and outdoorsy enough to light a disposable barbecue with a firelighter tool. It wasn't until we'd finally managed to get the damn thing lit that we realised we'd forgotten to take the cardboard packaging off it, and let me tell you, if they'd included that as a challenge in one of the Crystal Maze rooms, the program would have benefited from the added suspense and danger. I no longer allow myself to watch Crystal Maze reruns as I can't helping myself hurling the most foul-mouthed and harsh criticism at the contestants ("Steven, you ham-fisted bastarding moron, the long bricks are supposed to slot in the other way! You wasted thirty seconds on reading out the instructions and now this? How can you live with yourself?")
I also discovered that with this particular group of friends, all I need to do to be included in the zombie apocalypse group is to agree to take my shirt off. What was I thinking, trying to impress them with my intelligence and language skills? What need do they have for a Risk strategy expert who is also very good with animals and has an incredibly photographic memory? None! None at all. If only I'd known my appeal from the beginning I wouldn't have had to endure the anxiety about being left behind. At least now I feel reassured. Zombies on, shirt off. It's my new motto.
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 an....adult...card? (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.
I went to the hairdressers today. I hate doing this, so I always put it off as long as possible, opting for an extra short cut and then leaving it for several months until I resemble a shaggy sheep peering through a hedge. Eventually, Other Half will start making fun of me and I'll be forced to go to Supercuts. I don't like going to a real hairdressers, partly because I'm cheap and I didn't ask my hair to grow like Harry fucking Potter so I resent paying for it to be cut off in the first place, and secondly because you have to make an appointment and they get really sulky if you forget. With Supercuts you can just walk in off the street and wait in a queue of old ladies. I rather like old ladies. They remind me of my great grandmother, who was 93 in January and still has a tongue like a razor. She is my mum's grandmother, so she not only has authority of years, but also the authority of generations. This means she can get away with conversations like the following and no one can scold her.
Mum: Did you like your dinner, Gran?
Great-Gran: It was lovely, thank you. (stares at mum for a moment) Are you putting on weight?
Mum: (appalled and looking anxiously at her reflection in a spoon) No! At least, I don't think so.
Great-Gran: Hmm. It must just be what you're wearing. What's for dessert?
For this, and for so many other things, she is my hero. I can't wait til I'm old and grey and can be as rude as I want to be. I salute you, Great-Gran. One day I'll make you proud.
Anyway, back to the haircut. I hate being made to stare at my own reflection under harsh, uncomplimentary fluorescent lights. I hate looking at my own reflection in any case and usually avoid it whenever possible. I also don't like being forced to converse with a total stranger who is wielding scissors near my head. They always ask me if I have holidays booked (I don't) and if I have any plans for the weekend (I don't) and what I do for fun (hang about on twitter, take photos of my cats in gay poses, make fun of stuff on the internet, chase Other Half around the house doing spoken-word rap at her) and after that the conversation trails off.
Today, by some cruel twist of fate, they gave me a green 16 year old fresh out of hair school. She comes accessorised with a vacant expression and a selection of scissors that range from nursery school safety scissors - which only shred your hair into Split End City - or hedge shears, with which she will transform you into Lisa Stansfield circa Been Around The World. The latter happened to me a few years ago, and while I can laugh about it now, it took a long time to get over the horror of it. She may also come with some amusing phrases, such as "oh dear, I think I've cut more than you wanted" and may ask highly personal questions regarding the haircare products you use. Batteries and intelligence are sold separately.
I'm sure we've all experienced that sinking feeling as you watch large chunks of your hair fall to the ground and realise that when you said "just a little off the bottom please" or "an inch or so would do, thanks", what your hairdresser heard or chose to hear is something completely different. It takes a brave person to speak up and correct this. It's odd, because I imagine that if you ordered a meal in a restaurant and it arrived cold or otherwise unsatisfactory, few people would have trouble sending it back. Hair, however, is different. From the second they put that rubber mat around your shoulders, they have the power, and you know it. They are your HairMasters. They are your HairOverlords.They will do whatever they want with you and to hell with your feeble protests.
I scuttled out of Supercuts today, feeling my wallet only a little lighter, my hair a lot lighter, and overall managing to look even more Biebalicious than ever before.
Like baby. Baby. Baby. Oh, damn.
Firstly, I'd really like to thank you all for reading my blog. I never imagined that anyone would care about the life and times of an Otternator. Even more thanks go to the people who inspire me - mainly Other Half, my family, and people on Twitter, who have been wonderfully encouraging and complimentary. You guys freaking rock! Okay so yes, maybe I've been watching the Oscars a little bit, and maybe I've been giving my acceptance speech for Best New Most Awesomest Blogger With Totally Awesome Non-BieberHair to the bathroom mirror, clutching a bottle of shampoo to my chest with delight and gesturing emphatically to the imaginary crowds. Nonetheless, I thank you all, and hope you enjoy reading the following post as much as I did writing it.
Other Half and I were in the study the other day, each wandering aimlessly through the internet on our own laptops and occasionally exchanging links to pictures of kittens (the foundation of the internet) and some rather surreal song parodies, when she turned her laptop to face me.
Other Half: Look at my old school.
Me: (obediently looking) That's a very nice, fancy school, dear. Not at all like the shithole I went to.
Other Half: It really is fancy. It costs thousands of pounds to send your child there, even for one term.
Me: My education, and the lack of enthusiasm my peers had for learning, was completely free.
Other Half: (ignoring me) Look at all the ex-pupils who are famous now - there are scientists, and doctors and writers...
Me: A guy who went to my school won the X Factor a couple of years ago.
Other Half (pointing): ...and a Nobel Prize winner!
Me: X Factor.
Other Half: Nobel Prize.
We exchanged a long stare.
Me: What field was it in?
Other Half: Peace.
Me: (sniffing) Well anyone can do that.
This is a perfect example of an ordinary conversation with Other Half. I'm sure if you videotaped us on a daily basis you would find thousands of small moments of pure genius, but my brain can only hold so much information at one time and it's really anyone's guess what I'll remember by the time I've found paper and a pen. Some conversations, however, are too good to forget. We went to bed rather late at the weekend, because of all the moving house malarkey still going on, and as I turned off the light I leant in for a goodnight kiss. After a moment Other Half pulled back rather suddenly.
Other Half: Are you okay?
Me: Yes, why wouldn't I be?
Other Half: Your head is shaking.
Me: Is it?
Other Half: You can't feel that? It's kind of trembling.
Me: (intrigued) Maybe I'm having a stroke.
Other Half: Oh god!
Me: How does my face look? Is it squinty?
Other Half: The parts of it I can see look alright, I guess...
Me: Then we're fine. Kiss me.
Other Half: Sweetheart, I really think we should-
Me: KISS ME.
Other Half: Okay fine. Have it your way. But if you're really having a stroke don't come crying to me about it afterwards.
Me: (happily) Okay!
A Twitter friend referred to me today as a "weaver of fables". I really like this phrase. I wish it was true. In reality, it's more like I catch small, silvery fables in the imagination stream with a old and fraying net, drag them onto the bank and bludgeon them until they stop wriggling before I drag them back to my lair to fashion them into roughly hewn blog posts. It's not an easy job being this surreal, but someone's got to do it.
In conclusion, please don't be afraid to comment if you like what you're reading. Unless you're a fable, in which case you better swim fast.
Since Other Half's words to me this month have consisted of treasured compliments, such as "you know, you look like the bastard offspring of Clea DuVall and Justin Bieber with that hair", and since my friends reading this blog commented on how much more they admire her for putting up with my obvious insanity (and really picking up the Bieber joke and running miles and miles with it), I am going to retreat to a corner, glare balefully at the world, and talk about something other than Other Half.
I work in an office. We have some rather good banter, even though everyone in my department is at least 20 years older than me and most of them have children my age. The lady who sits next to me is very nice. I refer to her as Janette FM, because she sings and hums constantly, in a warbling soprano. She recently got a new mp3 player so this habit has eased up in the past week or so, but it still remains a constant theme of my day.
I never know what exciting song choice she will entertain next. In a single day she could range into multiple genres, including both new and old classics. On Monday last week she treated us to a harmonious hymn mash-up medley followed swiftly by a delightful operatic rendition of We Don't Need Another Hero. You can put in requests, I have discovered, but she does not do Jay-Z or Tinchy Stryder. I consider this a great waste of her talents. You can also join in but since Janette FM is slightly deaf, chances are that she'll belt it out at her own pace, regardless of how you're interpreting the song, and you'll just have to keep up. Breathing exercises help. It's all in the diaphragm.
Janette FM's slight deafness lends itself well to unintentional comedy moments. Her boss Alice sits over a small dividing wall, and our poor, long-suffering colleague Pauline sits diagonally behind Janette FM. I have no idea why the laws of physics and acoustics do not work in this particular spot - Janette can't seem to hear a thing Alice says but can hear anyone else in the same small two metre radius. The conversations, therefore, go like this:
Alice: Janette, do you have the documents for [important sounding acronym for something businessy]?
Janette FM continues working at her computer.
Alice: Janette.
Janette FM continues working at her computer.
Alice: Janette!
Janette FM continues working at her computer.
Pauline: Oh for god's sake. JANETTE!
Janette FM: What?
Pauline: Alice is talking to you.
Janette FM: (looking bemused) Is she? What's she saying?
Pauline: (sighs) Alice, what are you saying?
Alice: I'm asking if she's got the [important sounding acronym].
Pauline: She wants to know if you have the [important sounding acronym].
Janette: I'll have to check.
Pauline; She'll have to check.
Alice: I heard her, I'm not the deaf one!
Janette FM: What?
Pauline looks at me despairingly. People are always looking at me despairingly.
Me: Wouldn't it be much easier if you just emailed each other?
Janette FM: What?
Eventually, I put my headphones on. My ipod Hector - for some reason I really like to name inanimate objects - drowns out the first lines to Sweet Caroline with an awesome Crystal Castles song. Just in time, I think. Just in time.
