Last night I got home and my housemate offered me an aperitif.
Splendid. Lovely pre-dinner drinkies. Just the thing.
Upon relating this occurence to my office mate it became apparent that each of us needs to listen a little more closely to the other (and makes me wonder how many other conversations we’ve had resulting in similar confusion due to poor diction.)
I told Trish that Justine had asked me if I’d like an aperitif. To which I’d responded, “Oooh, yes. Lovely.”
Trish looked at me strangely. “She offered you a pair of teeth?”
“Yes,” said I. “We don’t have them very often. But she had a craving for one.”
“Right,” says Trish. “A pair of teeth. She craved a pair of teeth.”
“Yes, indeed,” said I. “And it was delicious.”
Trish looks confused.
“What?” I asked.
Trish laughs.
I laugh.
Trish: “It wasn’t ‘a pair of teeth’, was it?”
Me: “No.”
Trish: “Just checking.”
Both: loud, extended laughter!!

So, how did you spend your weekend?
Well, I spent precisely 39 hours in the company of just the one person.
And he didn’t run away, arms flung in the air, shrieking.*
What’s more, neither did I.
Curious.
Happy too.
🙂

* (Although he may have if he saw me just before attempting to work out how many hours it was by counting them off on my fingers. And then getting confused and having to start again. Actually my office mate Trish did – but all she did was give me a funny look and offer me her calculator!)

My monthly Metcard is the vital component in my own personal transport arsenal. I use it most days in my to-ing and fro-ing.
As the sole public transporter in my workplace my monthly Metcard is also in high demand from workmates with meetings in the city during the day. Today, for example, it has gone on a trip to the Holocaust Museum in Elsternwick. Yesterday it went in to NAA in the city. My boss borrows it about once a week for her various excursions out and about.
I know they’ll miss me here for lots of reasons when I leave (just as I’ll miss them) but they’re REALLY gunna miss my Metcard!

Prozac.
Seriously.
And no. It’s not for me. (I’m not that upset about the demise of Kim.)
It’s for Miss Maisie and her ‘classic case’ of anxiety-based behaviours.
According to the dog psychologist we’ll ditch the canine treatments and start on the people pills.
And if Prozac doesn’t work … there’s always Aropax… or Zoloft …

Fit balls.
The new bane of my existence.
We use them a lot in training – and they are quite good for ensuring proper technique when doing twenty bazillion abdominal crunches (yes, we’re down there for a while.)
Anyway, today Adam made us do something new. Which seemed to basically involve me falling off one a lot.
Justine had a go first. Perfect core hold. Abs of iron.
Then me. Good start. Then rolling, rolling, laughing, rolling, out of control fit ball, arse in air, knees hit concrete with a resounding ‘crack’. Ouch. Tittering ensues from peanut gallery.
Ok. Try again. Huumphhff. Same result. Further LOUD LAUGHING and protracted discussion of merits of ‘Funniest Home Videos’. Grrrr.
Third time lucky. Makes me a liar. Find self on ground yet again. Decided lack of assistance forthcoming from assembled onlookers who are conversely taking way too much interest in my lack of grace.
Inwardly cursing stupid fit ball. One last go. Perfect execution. Excellent form. Wait, wait. Adam is distracted with tales of what he’s doing on the weekend. Why is he not watching? Clearly he has no faith in my ability to master the fit ball and has lost interest.
“Good try, Marita” he says encouragingly. “We’ll have another go next time.”
“But. But. I did it,” say I.
“Yes, we ALL saw you.”
“But…” Sigh. “Ok.”

Sneeze. Sneeze. Sneeze. SNEEZE. SNEEZE. Sneeze.
Bless you.
‘Fanks.
Snortle.
LOUD and protracted blowing of nose ensues. (….76 trombones in the big parade….)
Sigh.
Repeat in loop.
Enter: “Propel” Fitness Water – The Vitamin Enhanced Water Beverage. (Puhleaze.)
One free sample at the train station this morning. Perhaps it’ll work.
Drinks. Waits. Sneezes. SNEEZES again.
It’s not working. Rats.

I have a new job!
Brand-spanking new.
Shiney and lovely and pristine.
No one has ever done it before.
And it’s mine.
Hooray.
Now I have to go and write a list or several.

History conferences tend to bring together a very weird and wonderful slice of humanity. They’re certainly not all old crusties by any means despite what you may think – there is a fair percentage of young nerdy types too! Actually, ‘nerdy’ is probably not quite right – it’s more like just a bit strange.
As are many of the exhibitors who request table space to vend their wares(?) on these occasions. Many are educational publishers professing profound (ooh, surprise alliteration) interest in history (“I’ve always loved it”. Yeah. Right. I bet you say that to everyone running a conference. Next week at the geography teachers’ conference I’ll bet they’ll be saying how much they like topographical maps. Humpff. Fickle.) Now, where was I?…Oh, yes. The exhibitors. So, there’s booksellers and archives and a whole assortment of cultural institutions with an interest in capturing a slice of the school history pie. Dressing up to reflect the character and content of the goods and or services you offer seems to be a preferred mode of capturing the interest of teachers and students. A cunning costume adds just the right dash of authenticity. Uh-huh?
So where did the pirate come from? He spent quite a bit of time hanging out with the National Trust people (also in costume) but I’m a bit uncertain as to his history credentials. For one thing – he didn’t talk like a pirate. Not once did I hear a “Shiver me timbers” and he was waaaaay (annoyingly so) too liberal with the bad gags. Pirates, I have always assumed, leaning towards the humourless. Secondly, he was wearing brogues. A most unseaworthy type of shoe and nary a big silver buckle in sight. Finally, and most damningly, Trish caught him out shouting into a mobile phone. Most inauthentic for a pirate.

Why did they ring today?
The only day this week I’ve worn oh so casual jeans and docs to work (because I knew I’d be schlepping big boxes of books around and a girl needs to be appropriately dressed) is the only day the recruitment company chooses to ring and ask that I “come in for a chat” about the new job I’ve applied for.
Drat.
Rush out and buy a lovely new outfit? Hooray! Problem solved.
But there’s that $1000 tax bill with two weeks to pay. Ouch. (No new outfit for me. Sigh.)
I guess I’ll sound the same, docs or not. But I wish I was wearing my lovely ‘I’m a tall person’ (and very confident and capable ie. eminently employable) boots. Or that the teleporter was working properly so that I could quickly go home, get glam, and no one would be the wiser. Stupid teleporter.

Hey, I’m about 15 and hanging out in a tram shelter watching myself blow smoke rings in the glass reflection.
Man, am I cool?
In fact, I’m so busy watching my reflection I don’t notice the steadily elongating piece of ash on the end of my ciggie until it drops onto the front of my cool shirt.
Mild panic ensues while I frantically brush off the ash before it does any real damage.
Whoops – in the confusion my ciggie has fallen out of my mouth and sumersaults down my front while I make a valiant, juggling effort to catch it.
Ouch, ouch!! Burney fingers.
But do manage to save it before it hits the ground.
Heh, heh. No one saw that, did they? (Has surrepititous glance about to confirm this. No? Phew. Ok.)
I’m v cool. Watch me watching me blow some more smoke rings at my reflection.

Smirk. Smirk. Smirk. As the sole observer of the above events I thought I did well to hide my mirth behind my novel. It did make me laugh out loud several times later on during the day. Much amusement!