Swinging with the women

Bow ties. Beers. Red wine. Turkey dinners with small amounts of vegetables. Christmas tree table decor. Frank Sinatra soundalikes. Slagging. Dancing. Laughing and drinking.
Last Friday night was the S&UN Chrimbo night out and nine of us gathered in EK’s The Byre for drinks and dinner. Since the depletion of our office work force we hadn't been out so it was good to have everyone out and socialising somewhere that wasn't a Hamilton newspaper office.
Dave and myself were the first to arrive with the help of a local taxi service run by his Mrs, Tracey, not forgetting his two wee boys. The two boys pestered Dave as he drove, demanding sweets and pizza, before we escaped into the warmth of the Byre, Dave immediately ordering up the first drinks while we awaited the arrival of our other work colleagues.
DVD Andy and Creamy Chicken John were next in the door, looking around the subdued golden colours on the bar for any recognisable faces, whilst me and Dave shouted repeatedly from the corner of the room, behind them.
Before Friday, Andy had been speculating as to what I was going to wear to my Chrimbo night out as, much to the amusement of my work colleagues, I always wear a tie to work. He was jesting that I'd probably turn up in my shell suit and trainers or some such. With all this in mind, and since it was a special occasion, I thought I’d roll out the barrel.
While everyone else was probably enjoying a small tipple, beer or wine to kick off their night, before leaving the house, I was struggling with a bow tie. I knew I had to raise the stakes and thought it would be good for a laugh, so had dug it out before leaving the house. Mum and Dad had bought me the red tie last year after I purchased a tuxedo for some sort of, now forgotten, event. After a year of owning it you’d have thought it would have been a little easier to fit but with the complication of resizing it to the right neck width, which, thankfully, hasn't quite started expanding yet, I was somehow standing at the hall mirror for around ten to fifteen minutes.
As John and Andy greeted us at our chosen pew I pulled my scarf down from around my neck to reveal my glorious red bow tie. Andy laughed, shook his head and walked off to the bar to sort out his first pint. Anyway, my toil and effort at the hall mirror paid off as mostly everyone had a good laugh at the tie had a good laugh with me, or at me, whichever. Christine and Lorna were next to turn up, followed by Kathleen and then, eventually, Andy Noble and Andrea who'd taxi'd it over from Hamilton.
Dinner was average. A bread crumb covered Goats cheese as starter followed by a pretty minimal Christmas dinner. A grand total of two pieces of carrot were arranged with my turkey alongside a whole 2 baby potatoes. As always with Christmas dinner there did seem to be an abundance of sprouts rolling around the thin layer of gravy over the plate. Photos were taken, wine was drank, people were slagged, handbrakes dissected and vajazzles were discussed, perhaps a little too loudly. We did get a few looks and comments from a glamorous bunch of women at the next table, out for a Christmas night out themselves, who started chatting John and Andy up as we neared the end of dinner.
After a few glasses of red, the Chrimbo pudding turned up, a small circle of brown in the centre of a large plate. There wasn't even any sign of blue flame flickering over it.
The meal was sufficient. Another overpriced Christmas meal. But it's okay. What do you expect? It's Christmas? Restaurant meals always seem to shrink with the arrival of the chrimbo period. At least on this work chrimbo night out we weren't paying for any surprise wine bills.
After dinner we all descended to the lower levels of the Byre to enjoy the Swing night. A voice had been heard earlier in the night, emanating from the downstairs area so we all took our drinks down to check it out. Unfortunately, when we walked into the darker, louder bar, we realised there wasn't much in the way of swing going on. The 'voice' was no where to be seen. We chose a table anyway and all took a seat as Dave, who'd been silently elected as kitty man, went to the bar once more to sort us all out for drinks. Moments later the bunch of women, from the adjacent table in the dining room, filtered down the stairs and took a table in the corner of the room before the singer eventually crept out from the shadows, from his place at the bar and switched on his music machine. Before long he was swinging away on the small, slightly raised stage at the front of the bar, belting out a few Rat Pack tunes mixed with a couple of Christmas songs and a smattering of more modern numbers from the likes of The Killers and Robbie Williams. As the lower bar started to liven up with our presence we all started to get overly loud, and overly happy, myself especially, it would seem, as I've ended up on camera using a table Christmas tree decoration as some kind of phallic object, DVD Andy was caught in an odd moment of pleasure and John was caught letching the women from the other table.
As we all continued to enjoy the festive spirits, John was suddenly pulled up on to the dancefloor by a couple of the desperate housewives from the corner of the bar, after he'd been asked to do the honours and take a couple of photos. DVD Andy almost spat out his drink as John accepted and swung his way up to the dancefloor surrounded by an excited gaggle of the dancing ladies.
It was then that the wife turned up.
No, not John's wife. My wife.
Ka had been out for dinner in Glasgow with friends, Lynsey and Michelle. They'd enjoyed dinner at an Italian restaurant and then some spiced mulled wine at the German market in St. Enoch's Square. Since both Ka and Lynsey were heading back to East Kilbride on the train, they decided to crash our work night out, disembarking at Hairmyres and then pulling a chair up at our table as the Byre's singer crooned away. Unable to keep the pace, or just unwilling to be manhandled on to the dancefloor, Andy Noble and Andrea escaped early into a taxi leaving the rest of us to drink, dance and shout the rest of the night away.
Lorna, Christine and Kathleen were soon enticed up for a dance and making moves along with Andy and John, and even I was pulled up by one of the dancing women in the female gang of Christmas jivers. Lynsey and Ka made themselves welcome and even got a free glass of wine from the barman for their trouble and my cousin Chris dropped by the table for a quick chat, having just finished his shift in the kitchens.
As always, time seemed to travel faster with the alcohol consumption and before we knew it the Byre's crooner had left the stage, the music had deteriorated into unidentifiable noises and everyone started making their way home, or at least, to the bar upstairs, for a night cap, until our taxis turned up. The taxis waited, waited, and then drove off, replaced shortly afterwards with a short call from Dave on the mobile.
Needless to say the next morning was non existent.
It was afternoon before I managed to open my eyes, enough to watch the first half of 'The Mummy Returns' in bed. Couldn't quite manage the whole movie.

David and his watermelons

“Michael, we’re not selling the buses!” Ka informed me, after our viewer left, her Mum and Dad in tow.
“What do you mean?” I frowned, as Ka moved to finally put dinner on. Apparently during my “flat selling” speech I started rabbiting on about how handy we were for the Number 20 and the number 66 buses, perfect for those bus trips further into East Kilbride or a day out in the city.
It’s a good selling point, I pointed out to Ka. Being close to a decent bus stop would be a great advantage to some people. The viewer may have a tight monetary situation and may not be able to afford the luxury of cars and taxis everywhere. The bus could be their one form of transport, for all we know. The bus is always handy for us when we fancy going into town for a wee pint, so why not to a potential buyer?
The rather unimpressed, bored looking viewer had brought her Mum and Dad along and left after only five minutes in our humble abode. She walked in through the hallway into the living room and commenced her long tour of the flat from there, seeing the kitchen, the living room again, back out into the hallway to the bathroom, out into the hallway before hitting the bedroom, back to the hallway where she took a quick look into the utility cupboard, the hallway again and then the living room again. On her way out she walked through the hallway again. Our home of six years overviewed within the space of five minutes.
The girl who was the main viewer was one of these girls not happy in the skin they're in.
Her big eyes stared, white in a face of browny orange. One of these strange people that, not being happy about the skin they are born with, like to artificially colour their skin by lying in plastic beds of luminous tubes or stand in those plastic portaloos that have no loos but have spray guns in their walls instead. The people that use these devices actually pay for that weird orange/brown colour with which they use to go out on a special occasions. What possesses these people to believe that a special occasion of any kind requires you to colour your almost naked self up in a strange sh**ty brown colour. I’ll never understand that.
Yes, okay, I understand a slight tan. Something to enhance the complexion or contrasts of the skin, get away, be it momentarily, from the Scottish peely wally tones. But that weird overly orange/browny colour? Why?
If it was some kind of camouflage, then yes, I would understand. If these girls, and blokes (yep, blokes do do it as well don’t they) were going paintballing or something then yes, the reasons for painting yourself browny orange would be fairly understandable. You could dive about the forest and probably have some success in hiding out in the foliage. In fact, judging by some of the spray tans I’ve seen in the past, you might be better off simply walking about a paintball site naked to get a bit of colour about you.
I just don’t get it. Why would you want to go out on the town or walk down the aisle with the skin colour of an Oompa lumpa?
The three visitors were pretty hard going. Ka and myself done our best to chat and inform, but the three of them didn’t say too much.
The Mum did seem to like it whereas the Dad looked bored, as if he’d been forced to attend by a firm look from the wife or an arm twisted up his back.
It’s always so difficult to tell whether these potential buyers like what they see. We’ve always had positive feedback from the estate agency after the viewers have reported back but it’s never been so positive that they’ve bothered to put an offer in for our wee home.
We’ve only had a grand total of four viewers the whole time we’ve been on the market. The estate agents, that seem to have only recently really started doing anything for us, (let’s call them ‘Your Maneuver’), gave us a quick phone today to tell us the viewer was taking her interest no further for the not wholly unreasonable excuse of a lack of gas central heating in our flat. Apparently somebody had told her that the underfloor heating that was built into these flats is expensive to run. Someone had also told her that a flat further down the street had sold for a slightly lower price and that that particular property had been recently refaced. All the while, I sat on the other end of the phone, listening to what the someone had told this girl, wondering who this ‘someone’ was. I bet it was her Dad.
Either him or her boss, Willy Wonka.
I thought she may have been informed of the lack of central heating before attending a viewing, by our wonderful estate agents. Ka and myself have survived without gas central heating for six years, using only the old, underfloor heating in the deepest, darkest depths of winter and we’ve comfortably survived. We’ve certainly never had to sit and watch X-Factor with frosted glasses and icicles hanging from our nostrils. Our flat’s always seemed pretty cosy in actual fact, and rarely feels cold in anyway (even in X-Factor conditions).
We’ve certainly never had any complaints from any visitors. It’s probably all the hot air.
Saying that, I did notice, the last time they were here, that some of Ka’s pals’ kept their jackets on. In fact, Ka and her pals’ teeth were also chittering in between talk (between talk is very brief, wondrous moment and you have to be very quick of the eye to notice such an instant. We once got a phonecall from David Attenborough at the BBC to film such behaviour. Women with their mouths closed. Amazing. Unfortunately Mr Attenborough couldn’t find a camera with a high enough shutter speed).
Still, at least I was allowed in the flat last night.
Everyone in work was having great delight in making me feel extremely paranoid and slightly guilty yesterday after I rushed Ka off the phone when she called on the mobile mid morning.
“I really can’t talk just now. I’m busy. I’ll call you later!” or something of the kind, I said rather urgently down the phone, before wishing her a hurried goodbye.
Apparently Ka thought she’d upset me by the tone of one of my texts five or ten minutes before when she hadn’t at all. I’d sent an abrupt text back to her in response to one of her messages which she’d sent at one of the busiest periods of the week, when all our Ayrshire property adverts were being sent to print. I had been, in fact, winding her up about the excited babble she was producing the night before about David and his watermelons.

Ka had arrived home from the theatre on Tuesday night, chatting away excitedly about this David and his watermelons. It was ten past eleven, I was tired and, as a result, couldn’t be bothered with her. The excitable chat was something to do with ‘Dirty Dancing’, the stage production she’d just been to see with Pauline at the Kings theatre. As it was late I wasn’t really in the mood for watermelon talk and left it for the morning, at which point I text her asking about David and his fruit.
As it turned out, it wasn’t David at all anyway. It was Johnny. Johnny and his watermelons. I’m still no clearer and suspect I’d have to watch ‘Dirty Dancing’ in all it’s musical glory to understand, but that’ll not happen any time soon. I’ll just have to struggle on through life in blissful ignorance regarding Johnny’s watermelons.
Anyway, as a result of Ka’s call at work, I was sure I’d upset her and everyone in the work, led by DVD Andy and Dave, were sure I was sleeping on the couch that night, if Ka allowed me into the flat at all.
Sitting in work I was pretty confident though. There was no way Ka could give the sales pitch all by herself. We done our best, for the fourth time, but to no avail. I may need to consider re-evaluating the sales pitch.
I don’t know. Perhaps try not to look nervous when the neighbours are mentioned, attempt to draw my eyes away from any inflamed skinwork and maybe even reduce the amount of the No. 20 mentions. Either that or just install some gas central heating.
That viewer obviously likes heat.
And the sun. Be it the artificial spray gun version.
There’s a professional tanning salon in the Village. You could easily jump on a No. 66 from here to get there. It’s just five minutes down the road. Hmmm, I’ll maybe write that into my next sales pitch.

Hurried and harassed

Christmas. 85 days away, apparently, and it has managed to be one of the biggest conversations/debates in the office for the past few days. Other conversations in the past week have ranged from the debate of whether Creamy Chicken John is, in fact, Bible John, old television adverts, who the woman with the stockings was, whether Andrea will get hit by a bus as she crosses Cadzow Road, the vast amount of people Craig believes are w**kers and what age Lorna is.
It was her birthday today and she brought us all in a treat to celebrate. A rather tasty dumpling, and today it tasted even better, simply because it was Friday.
I’d been feeling a bit down in the dumps of late but today, even though I only managed a mere four hours sleep last night, I strode up to work feeling a little better. Maybe it was just something to do with the fact that as of this afternoon, I have a week off. Time to relax, chill out, look after Ka and perhaps even get some more painting done.
The bright sun shining down over Scotland probably helped cheer me up too.
The Indian summer has started, the news is saying. If Scotland sees much more than one day, I’m Santa Claus.
After the past few stormy weeks of wind and rain going out at lunchtime was like walking out into a foreign country. The Hamilton shops surrounding the office were busy with summer shoppers as Lorna and myself took a stroll up to the local Marks and Spencers to take advantage of their latest Meal Deal for the weekend. The Marks and Spencers Dine in for Two Meal Deal is always popular and pretty good value for a tenner. The main problem is usually getting your hands on any of it. You get a main, a side dish, a dessert and a bottle of wine, but, unfortunately, not always of your choice.
Fortunately Lorna and myself had headed up the street just a little earlier than noon, hoping to beat the lunchtime crowds, so we had a good selection of meals to choose from. It was getting to them that was the problem.
We walked in and before we could wonder where we were headed, we seen the small crowds, straight ahead, gathered at the busy shelves at the end of the middle three aisles.
Little old ladies everywhere. The majority of the crowds were anyway, the rest were rather pi**ed off looking older men, probably waiting on their wives making a decision.
Patiently, I waited on a space to open and then took my chance to weave myself into the crowd.
As I stood deliberating on what to buy for dinner, I spoke to Ka on the phone, asking if she'd prefer haddock or beef roulades. Just as I was reaching for the beef roulades, to try and work out what their green filling was, the corner of a metal hand basket was jammed into my side. Looking down towards the pain, I yelped as a grim looking old woman looked up at me aggressively from my side whilst I recovered from the sharp, sudden pain in the side of my ribs and the abrupt interruption to my conversation with Ka. Two other women were closing in to my left, elbowing my subtly and a large bloke reared up behind, reaching over my shoulder to get to one of the roulades.
I'm not sure I like being surrounded by aggressive old women and I'm definitely not sure I like large blokes rearing up from behind, especially when they're apparently in urgent need of a bit of beef.
Sensing a disturbance in the call, Ka asked me what was up to which I told her.
“I’m surrounded by housewives and mad old women!” I said, perhaps a little too loudly, into my mobile. Shocked utterances and angry comments were made around me, which spurred me on into making a hurried, and rather harassed decision. I grabbed the haddock and ran for the tills, (run for your lives!), swiping a bottle of white plonk from the Meal Deal shelf as I ran.
Never before has Marks and Spencers felt so threatening. I'd obviously caused a little upset by standing before the Meal Deal shelves, undecided on what to purchase whereas they're all allowed to meander around the shops in their slippers, with their sticks and electric wheelchairs, for as long as they like.
After getting out of Marks in, just about, one piece, my gold tie looking a little bedraggled, I popped into the Hamilton Shopping Arcade's O2 shop to ask about the strange symbols that have started appearing on my phone.
Last week I'd visited the shop to get a new Sim card as my phone had taken a liking to switching itself off and complaining about an “INACTIVE SIM”.
The guy that sat me down at his desk last week to take my phone apart, scoffed at my sim card as he plucked it from the back of my mobile. He shook his head his head and looking at me disdainfully explained I had a mere 2G Sim, which were fazed out months ago, and I should have a 3G. Shrugging, I asked him to sort it out for me and since my new 3G sim card has become active it has successfully tripled all the contacts in my address book and been flashing strange new logos at me on the phone's screen.
The same guy was there today but too busy laughing scornfully at some other ignorant mobile user at the time. Another tall, rather gloomy looking fellow strode up and asked if he could help. This rather depressing looking O2 sales character took the phone off me and looked down at it's screen. As I started explaining about the phone and how, up until last Friday, I'd had a 2G Sim card, the O2 man's eyes started welling up. He quickly rubbed his eyes, trying to act natural as he flicked pages on my phone with shaky hands. My explanation faltering a little, I continued, unsure where to look, before real tears started gathering in his eyes. Quietly, and under my breath, I asked if there was a problem. The guy seemed genuinely upset. The other guy had found it hilarious to the levels of smugness but this guy was obviously the opposite and felt nothing but pity for me. Surely having a 2G Sim card wasn't that distressing.
The guy eventually murmured something about hayfever through his tears as he continued to shake his head and rub his eyes over my phone, making me wonder how my mobile and I could have possibly caused such an outbreak of the allergic reaction. As I considered the dusty old ladies in Marks and Spencers as probable cause, the crying O2 man murmured the phone symbols away as temporary problems to do with internet connections. Hurrying the phone from his hands I quickly said my thanks and left the store before I caused the guy any more upset.
Thankfully, I didn’t upset anyone else for the rest of the day, with the exception of Linda, in Advertising, who wanted a visual done half an hour before the end of my shift.
She had no chance.
I was going home for my haddock.
Which was delicious.
Well worth upsetting the old ladies for.

Fruit cases and balloons

Paul is going round the office drawing faces on balloons. Everyone who is leaving the office this week is getting one. They're going to act as a reminder to those that are left of their former work colleagues. Just in case the twelve that are left forget about them, as we walk through the large, desolate, empty office, through the many abandoned desks and computers leading the way through the room.
Paul is using his fantastic artistic skills, perhaps picked up in a far and distant episode of Play School, to draw happy, smiling, rather freaky looking faces. Bright, coloured bulbs, swaying about on sellotape attached to their computer monitors, grinning with sparkling felt tip eyes, shiny pink lips and coloured hair. I'm sure Felix will make his way round the room with a pin at some point, but for the moment they sway at their various posts throughout the large office, like hot air scarecrows. Unfortunately Gail was the first to pop, leaving a pathetic flop of rubber hanging from her monitor. I think she may have inadvertantly taken part in one of the many games of Piggy in the Middle that Mary, Tricia and Paul were playing as they whiled away their second last shift.
Margaret brought in two giant strawberry sponge cakes for everyones' tea breaks, plastered in cream and icing sugar. Not good for those of us on diets, with fruit for lunch but they were eaten all the same.
We'll miss Margaret's cakes. Cheesecakes and banana loaves were the norm with Margaret and Mary. They'd quite often bake a big cake and bring it in, in order to share with DVD Andy, Creamy Chicken John, Stuart, Gareth, Lost Ian and myself. Tempting us with cream cakes while at the same time threatening us with the cupboard if we misbehaved... Our small, coffee break crew has changed over the past few years, with Lost Ian being the first to suffer the dreaded redundancy, Gareth leaving for better things (well, Rangers News anyway) and Stuart now falling foul of the big 'R'. Both Mary and Margaret are leaving this week, along with Tricia, Heather, Julie, Mandy, Gail, Paul, Gary, Alison, Linda, Paula, JP, Diana, Cameron, Davey and big 1066, sorry David Hastings. Absolutely gutted so many people are going. A real loss to S&UN, everyone of them... most of them anyway.
On Saturday night it was the Prepress night out and, from 8 onwards, we were in Arta. Ka was in town shopping with her Mum during the day, so I met up with her afterwards for the cinema and then a short walk down to Arta, the club notorious between my wife and I for being my false alibi on the night of my Glasgow Stag night.
Arta is a rather trendy bar and club, in Glasgow's Merchant City, with decor including stone statues, big comfy chairs, tall candelabras, thick, patterned curtains, giant paintings and vast amounts of fake fruit piled up in baskets. Not sure what the fake fruit is all about but together it all looks splendid. Jill, a good facebook pal and former employee of S&UN, liked the fake fruit so much, she took some for herself and even tucked some oranges down her trousers to try and convince us all, if any of us were in any doubt, that she does indeed 'have balls'. Obviously she's only got the mental balls, the fake fruit looked slightly artificial down her trousers. Well, to most it does.
Ka had part of her Glasgow hen night there just under two years ago and, after a few bottles of champagne or two, Aunty Nancy decided to nick the fruit basket at her table, believing it to be real. Now she has balls. Walking out of Arta with a fruit basket can't be easy to do. Aunty Nancy still insists to this day that the pineapple was real.
It's also got Monks. When the hour strikes (the specific hour I can't quite recall) a monk strides out on to the stone staircase, his face hidden by his oversized hood, and bangs a large gong and as the sounds of opera fill the air, rose petals start to drift down from the ceiling covering all those waiting on entry to the downstairs club. Looking up I could see the waiters and waitresses from the restaurant upstairs, standing over us, on the balcony, emptying large, wooden caskets filled with the petals. As we waited and I watched the milling crowds queuing up below I considered how unfortunate it would be if one of those large caskets slipped from one of the waiters' fingers. It would be especially unfortunate as I'd left my British Red Cross badge and card at home. I had no proof that I was a First Aider?! Linda, Anna and Tam were all office First Aiders too, mind you, so the unfortunate clubber would probably survive. Unless another falling casket hit one of the giant baskets of fruit, sending a whole pile of oranges and apples down over the top of them. After a few moments he, or she, would realise it was all fake fruit and fight his way out the pile to freedom, only to be hit by a pineapple falling from the bottom of the basket, which would knock him out cold.
"Told you!" Aunty Nancy would shout, popping her head out from behind one of the thick, patterned curtains.
Anyway, we were eventually allowed entry to the club below, brushing petals off our shoulders, and all had a pretty good night. Ka and myself left around one in the morning to get a bus, leaving the majority drunk and happy, dancing and loopy, posing for the camera or playing with their fruit.

A flat full of women

"Is it not about time you had y'er flat invaded by that bunch of women again?" DVD Andy asked me this over lunch yesterday and I groaned inwardly. He'd been looking in his crystal ball again. Most men would be excited by the prospect of a flat full of women.
Ka's friends from work were all coming round for dinner last night and by the time I got home they'd all be in full swing, talking to each other, over one another and probably around one another. Not really the best thing to greet you after coming home from a twelve hour shift but I suppose I shouldn't be so miserable. Ka has to have her life too and it certainly doesn't stop when I go to work.
The only member of the group that seemed to look in my direction upon entering my living room was Claire's wee one, Olivia, from behind her Mum's legs to which she'd retreated after I managed to frighten the living daylights out of her in the hallway.
As I had shut the front door behind me I'd heard Ka asking the youngster "who was at the door?". Who could it be, was it Michael and telling Olivia to help her go and see (at least I presumed it was Olivia and not one of her pals being overly curious). So as Ka entered the hallway with wee Olivia, I playfully gave them a big "boo!". The tot nearly collapsed in fright, all wide eyes and quivering mouth. Fortunately for me she stopped herself from bursting into tears as Ka was there to ease the sheer terror of seeing me.
Children, and babies in general, never seem to like me anyway and I've now grown accustomed to it. They either spontaneously burst into tears upon seeing me or regard me with deep suspicion in their eyes, hiding behind the leg of a passing adult - an adult with a prosthetic leg would be particularly helpful as the child could then freely move around the room, though the one legged adult would presumably have some difficulty getting back up off the floor.
Joshua, the latest addition to the Leckie family, for instance, starts crying as soon as I pick him up. He has probably spent the past hour or so happy, smiling, laughing and gurgling away pleasantly to himself but as soon as Uncle Michael picks him up for a chat he suddenly gets very uncomfortable, looking around wildly for help (or maybe a leg?) and eventually objects rather loudly.
Still, at least Olivia noticed me. As I entered the living room the women barely looked up with a hello as they gabbed on. I'm only the man of the house afterall. Saying hello would interupt the conversational flow and the vastly important things they have to say to one another. Things probably too vast and important for me to even comprehend. The ability for these women to talk is incomprehensible in itself. A nuclear bomb could have went off in Long Calderwood outside. A cloud and blast of fire, wind and orange dust sweeping through our large living room window, powering through exploding cracks in the wall, as the room is showered in shards of glass, brick and mortar. I'd be clinging on to a metal fence, watching the city collapse around me, screaming as my flesh turned to dust. Yet they'd still be sitting, going on about transitions, mismanagement and how big 'wee Jake' is now.

Marmite and the current king of comedy

Ka is out for dinner tonight so when I eventually get out of the office I'll be going home to an empty house. Brilliant. I'll be able to watch some decent telly (what I consider decent anyway - I suppose everyone has their own ideas!). For instance, at the moment I'm making my way through seven series, (yep, count 'em, seven) of Curb Your Enthusiasm. I finally got round to starting to watch this series around October time last year and have been chipping away through the series ever since. I love it. Some people hate it. I think it's just another of these tv programmes that is like Marmite - you love it or you hate it.
Incidentally I hate Marmite, it tastes like the scrapings of an unwashed grill. All the congealed bits of cheese, fat, bread and oil with the occasional burnt oven chip from the bottom of the oven thrown in for good measure. At least that's what I imagine the scrapings of an unwashed grill to taste like. I can't say I've ever tried it myself. Maybe that's the smell I'm thinking of more than the taste...
Anyway, Larry David is my king of comedy at the moment. I'm now on the fourth series and Larry has been asked to star in Mel Brooks' stage production of 'The Producers' with Ben Stiller. The relationship that's developing between Stiller and Larry is turning out to be the main draw for series four and is hilairious. The latest escapade being an accidental tooth pick in Ben Stiller's eye and Larry making a blind man dump his girlfriend for being ugly.
It sounds strange but for some reason I see some similarites between myself and Larry David's character in the series. Larry is forever accidentally putting his foot in it, inadvertantly offending people and/or getting into the strangest situations which all seem to snowball out of control. I have done all of the above on more than one occasion and am guilty of the occasional snowballing, opening my mouth before the head thinks. I've proably even done it at some point on this blog. Thankfully only a handful of you actually pay any attention to any of this, so it should be pretty safe for me here.
Actually, some of the guys in work have just realised they are occasionally featured on this here blog. Creamy Chicken John and DVD Andy have seemingly only just sussed that it is in fact themselves that I am mentioning when going on about the crazy and the weird of a routine day in S&UN. Okay, maybe crazy and weird are exaggerations... or maybe not. Today I was threatened by Mary Doll with a trip to the stationery cupboard on Friday. Apparently she'll wear her red bra. Gulp. Do you think that flume will still be in there?

A round in Mosquito

Kenny stood in the centre of the Mosquito bar in Glasgow on Saturday night practising his golf swing. After pulling on his newly bought Pringle jumper, polo shirt and cap he found a small clearing in the centre of the bar and readied himself for a shot. Dad had taken the family out to dinner in the excellent La Laterna Restaurant on Hope Street and treated us all to a slap up three course meal with a good few glasses of wine, finishing with a liqueur which Kenny ordered with a flourish of the hand receiving only an nod from the miserable looking waiters. Perhaps taking slight assumptions as Dad was picking up the bill.
Mosquito was busy, the clientele it's usual mix of ages, from students to older blokes, like me. Ka, Kenny and myself headed in after leaving Mum, Dad and Lynsey to jump on a 66 and met up with Andy for a few drinks. It was then that Kenny decided to pull on his newly bought Golf gear and start practising his golf swing. His shot was not up to much, probably due to the fact he was using an invisible club and ball, but the Dr. Pepper shot was better. A Dr. Pepper was a glass of Amaretto dunked in a half pint tumbler of coke. Very nice to drink and not in the least unpleasant but for some reason we had to down it in one which I did not quite manage and deserved a slagging for. After three Kenny and Andy left Ka and myself standing outside Mosquito after some drunken goodbye cuddles and danced off down Bath Street with their carrier bags of golf jumpers. We called a taxi and unsurprisingly Raymond from the Auldhouse came out to pick us up. Raymond was one of the regulars from the Auldhouse Arms, when I worked there, and now drives a taxi having rescued us from the chaotic, post club hour, streets of Glasgow after a night out on many an occasion recently. As we waited outside the Kings Theatre, watching the road for a Mondeo, a countless number of near collisions between taxis, other passing vehicles and chip eating drunkards entertained me. A growing throng of passengerless taxis piled up as they turned the corner from Elmbank Street swerving, honking and growling as the Glaswegian mini skirted zombies milled around the kerbs of the theatre. Luckily within ten minutes Raymond sped up in his big Ford, various bodies getting knocked to the side as he pulled over after spotting us. Ka and myself dived into the back seat as a few members of the surrounding crowd clocked on to the waiting taxi and we sped off on to the Kingston Bridge. A bad choice of place to get our taxi, Raymond told us. I must owe him a few drinks now for the amount of times he has rescued us from the streets of a Saturday night. I never heard if Kenny and Andy made their midday teeing off timeslot...

Where there's a will

On Saturday afternoon my Dad started reading us his will. He had went hunting for my baptismal certificate, which I apparently need for some sort of pre Wedding religious check up, and had come across his final wishes. Ka and myself had popped up for a visit to show my Mum the honeymoon destination and the intrinsic cuppa and after mentioning the baptismal certificate my Dad had disappeared upstairs. Moments later he had reappeared with his black filing box. One of these plastic extendable filing boxes not unlike some sort of felxible plastic accordian. He settled down in his chair and started rummaging through it, producing report cards from school, old newspaper clippings, souvenir booklets and the aforementioned certificates. He then started reading through his will which we did not particularly want to hear - not that we ever will want to hear it. I'm sure there will be one occasion, hopefully in the far and distant future, when it will be read out to us by some rusty old mumbling solicitor in a big office with oak furniture but not not on a Saturday night as we show off our honeymoon destination.
Talking of our honeymoon destination it is shocking to see the pictures of the effects of the earthquakes to have hit central Italy. The death toll has risen to 250 people. Depressing. It's also depressingly typical of us to have booked our honeymoon where the latest catastrophic disasters are occuring (be them natural)! Creamy Chicken John left for an Easter holiday in Rome at the beginning of the week. Hopefully the devastating effects will not affect his break in the Capital.
John is off to Rome, Andrea is still off, and is due to leave for maternity leave in two weeks time, DVD Andy is on holiday, (probably off walking a hill somewhere or hanging around Tesco for strangers' discarded receipts) and the office is quiet without the bosses around, who have all seemed to have mysteriously disappeared. As a result, we have been quite busy in the office covering for all the absentees and holiday makers. The weather is getting better though and it definately seems that summer, in some form, may be on its way.
Sheesh, I'm feeling optimistic now, considering I've spent the past ten minutes writing about disasters and wills. Maybe it's also something to do with the fact that it's Ka's birthday tomorrow and I'm surprisingly organised and prepared.

Tigers and trivial pursuits

Work is getting busy again. Finally. It was a bit too quiet over the last few months for my liking, especially after the redundancies, but now it seems to be picking up a bit. Tea breaks are once again a welcome break whereas the past few weeks they had been merely a diversion. Over the Chrimbo/New Year period tea breaks had been too much like hard work, having to get up off our seat, go through to the canteen, pour a cup of tea, make conversation, etc, when we could have been continuing our game of trivial pursuit or finishing off that book. Unfortunately I did not win either of the two games of trivial pursuit over the Christmas week shifts. Both games had four teams and in both games Creamy Chicken John took the trophy (or he would have done if there had been such a thing). Managing to complete my circle in the first game I went into the second game quite confidently but failed to complete my counter managing only three or four pieces of pie whilst Gareth and Barry laughed at my answers. One of the questions was: which fiery feline group covered Blondie's The Tide is High? The answer was, of course, 'Atomic Kitten' but sadly I could not think of a 'fiery feline' group for the life of me. After racking my brain I came up with an answer. It had to be a last ditch attempt anyway so I answered with, 'The Exploding Tigers'.
Many dubious questions and answers continued with the pies themselves becoming another case of contention. Are they pies? Our household had always went with pies but it was quite surprising the names other players in the office came out with. Growing up, Trivial Pursuit was a game I used to play quite a lot with the parents, aunts and uncles. Usually it would be on one of our many trips to Edinburgh to visit my Uncle John and Aunt Aileen. We would often go through on the Saturday morning and meet up with them usually with an exhibition trip or picnic planned. In the evening, after another slap up meal on that enormous dining table of theirs and a good few glasses of wine they would bring the infamous game out. Usually I would only stay awake for half the game and leave the adults to finish up which involved a few more drinks and staying up till 4 in the morning. Uncle John and Aunt Aileen always called it pie too.
In the office, Creamy Chicken John called it cheese and another term was cake (I think that one was Mary). We should have just combined the two and called it cheesecake. Strangely enough cheesecake is a delicacy of near mythological status in our tea break collective. DVD Andy yearns for the day when another cheesecake shall be delivered unto us as it is considered a rare and most treasured gift. On Wednesdays gone by, one of the admin women, Margaret, used to treat us to a cheesecake, specially delivered, all the way from Iceland. How she managed that on her bike whilst meeting her murder mystery deadlines I'll never know (that's another story). Nowadays, unfortunately, in these financially unstable times, it is a very rare occasion. The office milk is even getting nicked now every Monday morning leaving us all with black tea all week. I suspect one of those pesky printers... My chief suspect is a printer known enigmatically as 'Spiderman'. He's been known to linger around our canteen at times and walks around, rather oddly, with a farmfoods plastic bag over his right foot. We'll have to get Margaret on the case.

Whose day is it?

Today was just one of those days. A day were stupid things infuriate you and small things aggravate you. I should apologise to all those I work with for being a miserable b****** today. Lost Ian, Creamy Chicken John, Gareth, Andy, Shirley Ann, anyone else? I was just grumpy that's all. Computer crashed, playing catch up with planning the newspapers, playing catch up with car ads... It just wasn't my day - and no, I don't know whose day it was Lynsey Ann.
Getting ready to go out somewhere. Must have been summer time as we were off school. My mum had just accidentally put a heel through the lino in the bathroom. This adding to her fluster she shouted at us to hurry up then sighed, 'It's just not my day'. Lynsey looked up with a puzzled frown on her face ' Whose day is it then Mum?'