NEW BLOG!!!

People!! So I you may have noticed (or not)... I have a new blog!! alotofscribbles.blogspot.com New blog for a new year of my life!! (Had birthday recently, to explain..)
Which hopefully I will be posting on, to make a change. Haha. It won't happen. I know.
But go over and take a peek!!!
Do!
Thank you!!
You're welcome...
Farewell, old blog!

Placemats

My sister is in love with the man on her placemat.

I hold to the view that at three, she is hardly qualified to really be aware of the romantic nature of love, but oh yes, she assures me that she is.

‘I love The Man, he’s my fwend.’ She actually gave him a kiss the other day, before feeding him scraps of mashed potato.

I’m actually quite disappointed in her choice. If she was going to fall in love with someone, she could have chosen a nice, handsome young man of great fortune wherewith she could set up his mansion and bestow generous donations upon her big sister.

But no.

No, she had to give her poor innocent heart to a butcher, of portly proportions in a green striped apron, a white moustache and a bald head, who looks at least over fifty.

Not that I have anything against butchers, although they slaughter poor helpless animals including sweet baby lambs to make themselves a profit. Well, I suppose we all have to live.

But what I do resent is that my sister had to devote herself to one.

The fact that there are several other placemats that she could have attached herself to, which include a good-looking dark-haired gentleman in a toy shop, a young man looking at the toffees in the window of the sweet shop, and – best of all – a blue-eyed boy with a bicycle, delivering to the bakers, makes the whole situation that little bit more depressing.

So, this butcher guy stands in the doorway of his shop, looking thoughtfully out at the world, resting on a sign that proclaims: ‘Belgravian Game Pies, Camp Pies, and Patès’. Did I mention he’s also missing a hand, where the paint got scratched? And his chin is slightly scuffled, due to the vigour of my sister’s solicitous ministrations of potato, rice, bits of meat and veg, and whatever else is on the day’s menu.

A butcher.

Well, at least she’ll be well fed.

My Dislike of French... and Mazes

A few days ago, I used to like French.

I don’t think I’d ever go to the lengths of saying that I loved it, but since we visit the country regularly, my mother did a degree in it and I am doing a course in the language anyway, I suppose I must admit that I did hold some sort of regard for it.

And of course, the thing that is stressed the most when learning a language, is that you practice it, to quote my revered parent.

Not mumbling phrases under your breath, sitting in front of the textbook, but actually speaking it in real life, preferably to real french people – (so they can choke themselves laughing at your abominable accent as they try to work out what you meant, ho yes).

Now, I used to pride myself in having the confidence to air my accent to any french person who happened to be interested. I would hear a ‘Bonjour’ and I’d be up there, listening in, ready to pounce with a few phrases with a knowledgeable grin that made me look like an idiot. (Okay, that was slightly exaggerated)

But note the past tense.

It was a sunny day so we went out for the day.

The place where we went has this amazing maze (oh, what an original pun phrase) and, having never experienced it before, I made my way straight there. Of course, I got myself utterly lost, but as there was a park warden giving instructions to me from the tower in the middle of the maze, I managed to find my way there quite quickly.

  Once at the top, the park warden was struck by my high intellectual abilities, my willingness to converse with him, and my general good looks, and grew rather chatty. He proceeded to tell me the secret of getting to the middle in under two minutes. Armed with this foreknowledge, I felt all the complacency of an expert, and repeated the challenge of the maze twice more, to prove that I really knew the way.

I went off to boast of my prowess to my companions, and then after a short interval, back I went to the maze to find myself surrounded by two coach-loads of french students, screaming, shouting, giggling, sprinting everywhere, and basically behaving like their English counterparts, only rather more hyper.

With a knowing smile, I entered the maze, and commenced to walk lightly along the paths, looking down my nose at the hordes of poor deluded french students rushing past me.

Reaching a crossroads, I took pity on a group of them who had reached the level of undecided bewilderment.

Pleased at a chance of airing my talent for their language, I confidently proclaimed that it was, ‘C’est droit!’ with a dramatic point of the finger.

‘Iz it zat way? Do you know ze way?’ asked a boy who obviously had been attending his English lessons at school.

‘Oui, oui, yes, it’s that way,’ I said, nodding generously.

‘Zank you!’ they said, and followed me as I ran down the path.

Imagine my horror as I rounded the corner and saw a blank and forbidding wall of hedge rise up in front of my eyes.

And there were all those french students a few paces behind me, following me trustingly and innocently because I knew the way.

I actually forced my way through a corner of the hedge rather than face them.

And then I ran, hard and fast, desperately trying to find the middle, or the entrance, but to either way, get out of there!

Unfortunately, running down a zigzag, I came face to face with the boy who spoke English. He regarded me with cold, curious and hostile eyes, with the look of someone whose trust had been broken.

By me.

I managed to get to the middle, and sneak out through the exit, not without meeting a few others of the party, all who stared at me with wounded, unfriendly glances.

Never again will I try to air my French, let alone use it to give directions for a maze.

Oh yes, I have learned my lesson!

Besides, I dislike French intensely.

I strongly agree with the Jo March of Little Women who ‘can’t bear French, it’s such a slippery, silly sort of language.’

She expresses my feelings entirely.

Pointless Orthodontist Appointment

Had a pointless (I stress pointless!) orthodontist appointment the other day. Got there five minutes early, signed myself in, waited half an hour (and I forgot to bring a book :/), and finally my name was called. I walked into the room where I found my orthodontist waiting behind a chair lowered at a 45 degree angle towards the floor. "On you get," says he with a cheesy smile and a pat on the head-rest.
I give the chair a bug-eye and gingerly slide on, half sitting up. "No, lower, lower," cries the orthodontist, "Slide up, slide up." Visibly reluctant, I slide up. When I am finally in a position he seems to find acceptable, I am hanging off the chair with my head perpendicular to the laminated floor, staring up at the wall. "Now," says he, "are you happy with your teeth?"
This is a bit of a poser. Well, of course I'm happy with my teeth, I mean I can't see myself envying my baby sister's mouth of milk molars, or my granny's set of pink dentures. Oh, I am perfectly happy with my teeth, if it comes to that. But then again, I do have a horsey jaw. Which means my teeth do stick out of my head a bit, WHICH is why I have been wearing braces for the last year and a half. "Hmmm, well...um..." I mumble to his chin, clutching at the damp cushiony arms of the chair to stop myself sliding off altogether. My feet must be at least ten feet above my head. I wish he would hurry up. I feel like a dummy.
He goes on to explain that he can do nothing for me and that my braces will be coming off soon.
My mother has come in, and I hear her detatched voice asking "Why?" Noooo, don't ask that!!!!
The orthodontist launches into a detailed explanation. What is he doing?! Can't he see I'm in a VERY uncomfortable not to say EMBARASSING position? I bet my canines I slide off the back of this chair before I can get off it.
Why did I have to get on this chair if he wasn't going to do anything to me?? He may as well have talked to me through the window... aargh, I'm slipping!... As if he read my mind, he tells me to open my mouth, and taps my teeth and gums a little to stress the points he is making.
"There," says he, "All done, off you go, I'll see you in two months for you to have your braces off." With difficulty and a rush of blood to the head, I stagger off the chair, feeling rather silly, and wander out of the room. Just before I enter the waiting room, I stop, contort my face to a suitable expression, and as I walk through the rows of waiting people, I hope they are thinking, "Oh dear, what has that poor girl been through, she was in there for ages, must have had at least a minor operation on her back molars, looks a little pale, glad I'm not her!..." Etc etc etc.
Actually, they don't look like they are thinking that in the least, but I'm sure my face is a little pale...
Well, at least the next app. isn't for another two months!!
xxxx

Buns, Fur Coats, and Dead Dogs

Yup, as the title suggests, this is going to be a very random post. But don't get put off by the latter title heading, it's not actually too gruesome...
The first thing I am going to do, is break my vow and talk about food. I mean, something this serious calls for attention. My dad has recently gone through a phase of making buns. Chinese buns to be exact, the sort that are steamed with a meat filling inside them. Usually, I love them. Right now, I am sick of the sight of them. It started on Wednesday. We had buns for lunch. And dinner. The next day, we had leftover buns heated up for breakfast. Then buns for lunch, and buns for dinner. And the next day, and the next. And the next. Sunday was a climax. We had buns for breakfast, lunch, and tea. I don't think I have ever appreciated good potatoes and pork chops so much.
Anyway, if I carry on I might get on to the dangerously addictive subject of Chocolate Digestives, and then where would we be?
Let me make on...to fur coats. It was REALLY cold the other day, must have been below freezing in the house (no heating again). I was wearing a brown fur jacket to keep myself warm. I don't usually go in for fur jackets, but today I needed it. I was getting ready to go out when Mum said, 'You better be careful, wearing that jacket. You might get bashed over the head with a handbag.'
Rather an original farewell, if I may say so. As it was, I was extremely puzzled. What?!! Does wearing a fur jacket really make you look rich enough to be a potential mugger target? If so -
Actually no, it turned out that if I was seen by an Animal Activist, they would assume the coat was made from the fur of the endangered mink, and they would see red and try to beat me up. It's a shame, because I love minks. And I prefer the idea of being bashed up for looking like a millionaire, rather than for looking like a mink-killer.
But either way, I don't think that they would pick on a young innocent girl in a synthetic Kaliko fur jacket. I mean, the tatty trousers dispel the idea of riches, and anyone could see that the fur coat was not really mink (except for Mum!!! <3 ). At least, I hope not.
But anyway.....I have yet to tell you the climax story of this post. I had hysterics when I heard it. If you don't find it funny, it's your peculiar sense of humour...

Well, my friend's brother's friend's friend was asked to house-sit for a couple she knew whilst they were away on holiday. They had a really old dog, (a REALLY old dog), and they told her that if it died, she should just take it to the vets, who would see to it and bury it. So the couple went off on holiday.
And the dog died.
Well, my friend's brother's friend's friend didn't have a car, and realised she had to find a way of transporting the dead dog's body to the vets. Finally she found a large old suitcase, and managed to stuff the dog inside it. So she was dragging the suitcase down the street to the vets, and a man came up and asked if she needed any help, and she said, 'Oh, yes please', and the man picked up the suitcase. 'Wow, it's quite heavy,' he said, 'So, what's in it then?'
She panicked. She didn't quite know how the man would react if he knew he was lugging a dead dog down the street, so she said, 'Oh, er, I was, er, just taking some friends' laptops down to my house for them.'
'Oh,' said the man.
And he ran off with the suitcase.

That story made my day.
TTFN
xxx

Second Post of 2011!!!! Discussing the Blog's Sense of Purpose

Hey there!
I think I've thought of a theme!! For the blog. You know, the Sense of Purpose thing? I could write about Funny Incidents in Life.
On second thoughts, I'm not sure that I can think of many Funny Incidents. My life is on the whole pretty boring. And although there are probably loads of Funny Incidents out there, I can NEVER think of them when it comes to writing my blog!! It's ridiculous, but it's true. So..... I suppose that idea is out of the window. If there are any Funny Incidents they can sneak in by themselves. I am not going to devote a Sense of Purpose to them, because that would effectually exterminate any trace of them. Shame, I was getting excited....
I have had quite a list of ideas for my Blog's Sense of Purpose.
1. Devote it to friend number one. No.
2. Devote it to friend number two. I don't think so.
3. Devote it to friend number three. This was a joke, so she escapes without sarcastic comment!
4. I could follow my friend's advice and devote it to a good-looking young gentleman. The only thing is, which one? And are there even any really good-looking guys out there that are WORTH me devoting my blog to?  No offence to my male acquaintances, but I can't really think of any... So maybe that idea can wait until I get a husband. And even then.... (jokes!) :)
You know, I bet my Sense of Purpose ends up being, The Search for a Sense of Purpose. It's a shame, strikes me as rather a pathetic theme :( where's my inspiration??
Anyway, gotta go now.
Bex
xx

First Post of 2011!!!!!

Happy New Year peeps!! At the moment I'm not entirely sure what this post is going to be about, but it will probably mutate into the normal babble.

Hmm, well I was thinking about last year, when my cousins turned the TV on and there was a group of people talking about New Year Resolutions during the last few minutes of 2009. I remember it really annoying me!!!! I mean, what sense is there in claiming that you 'have determined to lose weight' and 'never eat another chocolate' when you know that someone only has to shove a box of Quality Streets under your nose and you will scoff the lot??? Pointless.
But why am I being so cynical? Probably because it is raining outside, the sky is grey, the heating has turned off, and I haven't eaten lunch yet. To combat the general cynicism I will add that I have nothing against people who make resolutions and keep them..... (Mum's just turned the heating back on!!)

Saw a funny thing the other day. We were driving up to see grandparents, and passed a large Harvey's Furniture Warehouse. The sign on the side of the building read, 'Harveys, the Proud Sponsor of Coronation Street'. I couldn't hold in the mirth. Will you please tell me WHO would be proud of sponsoring Coronation Street??? Well, obviously, Harvey's Furniture is. But I can't think of a single reason why......

But anyway, back to the New Year theme. (ooooh, this post has a theme!!) Fireworks. We watched the ones at the London Eye. I have never before revealed this, but I am slightly nervous of large firework displays. I am always terrified that something will go wrong and the whole of the London Eye will explode into flames. Last year, there were little fireboats on the Thames, with people manning them, and when I saw the fire leaping from the decks I had hysterics. I always crane my neck to check that no one is inside the Big Wheel capsules. I mean, what if someone the previous day or whenever had accidentally got trapped inside and they couldn't get out and then the fireworks started to explode all around and the capsule cracked, already weakened by the prisoner's frantic bashing on the glass? It doesn't bear thinking about. I mean, what if the person trapped was ME????
This is the sort of thing I get nightmares about.

Mum says I have a vivid imagination. Actually, I think my imagination doesn't even belong to me. It has a mad mind of its own. Sometimes I just have to violently shake it and read a book to stop myself imagining things. It took me YEARS to stop getting scared of the dark. In fact, I'm still not over it. If it's the middle of the night and I want to use the bathroom, I turn on my bedroom light, then stick my head through the door, check the landing, sprint to the bathroom, turn on the light and lock the door. This is at age 15. What am I going to be like when I'm 25??? But you see, who knows what could be hiding in the pitch black shadows on the stairs? If that's a question, the answer is, I actually don't know. In fact, WHY am I afraid of the dark???? I still don't know. But that's all very well to talk about in plain daylight.

Sorry, got carried away. New Year!! Well, I'm not going to talk about highlights and ups and downs of 2010, because it would probably bore you to death...but I do look forward to whatever this year brings. (Did that bore you to death? :) )

Bible Verse for 2011: Trust in the Lord with all Thine heart; and lean not on thine own understanding Proverbs 3 v 5. I guess I need that one because I have a tendency to do the latter!


I'm going to stop. This has to be the longest post I've ever babbled. :D
See ya!!
Bex
x