Bang to Rights

Ok, so yesterday I was looking at slug repellent. It was marked "not tested on animals".

Anyone else think that's a bit wierd?

The Himalayas are not the scariest peaks

My sister is PA to an interesting man. He's tall, probably about 6', has shoulder-length grey hair curled under in a nice bob, wears foundation, black eye liner, mascara, and eye shadow, plus neon pink nail varnish. Sometimes he dons fake breasts - held in by a bra underneath a striped white men's shirt - dressing in a blouse is against company policy. He wears fitted women's bootcut trousers and slightly heeled pointy shoes.

He sits cross legged at his desk and is a Technical Director. Technical, as in makes and plays with gadgets. Oooh, the irony.

Recently he wanted a wrist wrest for his mouse. He is very excited becuase the one he ordered was purple. His eyes lit up and he started squeezing it frantically upon its arrival, and when my sister had delivered it to him.

I speak to my sister daily to ask how things are...

Today the breasts are in.

Fly me to the moon

Brain cells in a dish fly fighter plane

A friend sent me this link. This stuff is vastly fascinating. Science is completely underrated.

The Best Policy

In town with my sister, and we're off on a jaunt. I decided that I would try donning a black suit jacket atop my red chubby-chicks t-shirt (Steak and Cheese, courtesy of
As Seen On Screen) with blue jeans and white Nikes. I was explaining to her that I was trying something new - young London, the urban cool.

She told me she was wearing sandals to try something new too: getting rid of athlete's foot.

Sometimes, she's too honest.

Clueless

Last night I accompanied my girlfriend and her family to a private showing of a new exhibition in an Art Gallery in the exclusive Cork Street Gellery, London. I met the artist, rubbed shoulders with some serious art crtitics and admired the works. Based on a trip to Venice, there were about 60 pieces and it was all very civilised. I felt quite "young London" and had a great time.

I also enjoyed the free champagne. A lot.

My girlfriend got drunk. And very giggly. Her brother, not unknown for his affairs with intoxication also found more favour in the champagne than a boy of 19 maybe should. When we came to leave they approached me, both in fits of giggledom and demanded to know my levels of enebriation. "Seven glasses in I may be, but drunk I am not." They retired to dispute my claims amongst themselves. My girlfriend's father strolled up - a repsected businessman, well spoken and forthright.

"Fancy the front seat for the ride home?"
"Yeeeessss! Rollin' with ma homies...!" I sang.

My cover was blown. The siblings, racaous and smug in their laughter piled in the back and we began the journey home. Soon we were in the midst of a serious political discussion and I disnegaged my brain, prefering the bright lights of London as they flicked past, the architecture and streaked illumination like fastfood for my tired eyes. All at once we were at a junction and my brain registered a location I recognised. Without thinking I opened my mouth and let the start of an interjection leap out. Midway through my excited exclamation I recoiled and tried to stifle the rest of the sentence, succeeding in muffling only the words, and not the volume. Having gained the attention of the surrounding passengers, and having achieved the dubious honour of interrupting the discussion on the current British foreign policy in Iraq, I was asked to re-enunciate and recommunicate.

"Well, I was going to point out that I got really drunk in that pub and was sick all down myself. But it didn't seem appropriate."

I can't wait...

...I can't for the weekend to begin...

Michael Gray, composer of the infectious and fantastic house record "Weekend" is responsible for my mood this morning. I was woken by the rythmic pulse of a bassline wobblier than the super-size matron of the local McDonalds. Have you ever noticed there is always a huge stern woman ready to serve you the secrets of her government health warning figure at every fast food joint?

I *love* that funky fruity bouncey housey tune. But it's Monday. Morning. The weekend is days away. And to be honest I can still feel the weekend that finished some short hours ago repeating on me now. So far this morning I've rolled out of bed and stepped in last night's pizza box (really, I must buy some food I can cook); I recoiled in horror at the pepporoni nestling between my toes only to hop onto my mobile phone, which leapt out from under my heel and hid under the bed in fear.

Lifting the bed requires some skill at 7.30am, especially when the notoriously morning-phobic girlfriend is slumbering atop it. And isn't amazing how girls can still get mad at you and make you feel useless whilst being completely asleep? They have this look on their faces that speaks to you very simply: "wake me and die".

Once out of the house, post the cereal/off milk incident and the realisation that what I thought was sesame-bread was simply white bread infested with nuggets of mould, I ran to meet my ride to work. My new shoes cut into my ankles, a car offered me a free coating of puddle and I forgot my work pass. I took the chance and ran back to get it, leaving my bag with my ride-partner, sprinted and arrived at my door. Wondering if I checked all my pockets for a 5th time that some miracle would teleport my keys from my bag to my hands, I prodded the doorbell until the gloriously seething face of my damp girlfriend arrived to let me in. Her shower cut short, I feel that I shall face the consequences of my actions later this evening. I know she's not actually here with me right now, but her silence is, and it's cutting.

So now I'm at work. My hangover still persists, the work I slacked off on Friday so I could get away early is here and the overdue warnings are now blinking every 20 minutes (I might just close Outlook and hope they go away). I feel rough as burnt steak, my bowels are still dancing to that wobbly bassline, and you know what?

I can't wait for the weekend to begin.

Grinch

So the company I work for has cancelled the Festive celebrations. No party. Not even a present. So what exact incentive do I have to work harder as we approach the end of the year?

They keep talking about our December deadline and how we should work really hard to meet it... because then we can... oh, wait, you CANCELLED THE PARTY.

So I don't actually care anymore, because after I've finished, we just start a new project. They also added that because of cost cutting there will be no more parties "for a few years".

News flash: there'll be no more staff in a few years.

Careful

Today I saw a removal van with a huge tear along the side. A tear through the metal wall of the van. It looked like it had met a wall and got intimate. The removal company? Allied Pickfords: The Careful Movers.

Jackie Chan

This is what I look like. Just to serve any curiosity you might have.

The first

Ok, so this is the first post on the forum that is "The House of Random". Basically it is here that I will document my life, because that is what people do now, ever since a computer found Tim Berners-Lee's diary and linked it to Arpanet. Or something.

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