Wordy Wednesday

Excursion

I've just returned from an enforced day out. My car needed its annual service and MOT, and the garage is about 20 minutes away by car, but an hour and a half by bus, since you have to change twice and the hourly timetables don't match up well. So rather than spend 3 hours getting to and from what would end up being a half day at work, I spent the day in the nearby town.

There were a couple of things I needed to do - pay a cheque into the bank (more about that later), buy a belt, some ear-drops and some ink, and the shops weren't open when I got there, so I spent an hour or so in Starbucks. I'd brought some books with me.

Half an hour later, I'd done my shopping. Half an hour after that I'd done the local museum and art gallery - a meagre collection of bits and pieces dug out of people's gardens and a handful of paintings, many of which were so dark you couldn't really make much out.

I lunched at McDonald's, and even got so bored that I went round the bookshops. I used to like shopping for books, but for some strange reason the shops round here don't stock any in Greek.

I was lucky with the weather - it had rained all day yesterday, but today was dry, and I did finish my book ("The Tenth Photograph", by Giorgos Pavlidis, which had a nail biting climax) but I think I'd rather have spent the day at work.

Monopoly Moment

The other week I had a "Monopoly moment". My ex handed me a letter that had arrived at her house for me, and it was from a bank. You know the Monopoly card that says "Bank error in your favour"? Well, it was like that. They'd discovered that they made a mistake about 10 years ago, and enclosed a cheque for the amount plus interest. It was only a small amount, but I was very pleased as I didn't realise that these things happened in real life. I suppose the next audit they do they'll find I owe them a few million...

Nasal Sex

I was checking my spam the other day - I hardly ever do this, and I was surprised that I had so little. Perhaps the spammers are being credit-crunched. Anyway, one of the mails had the title "Make it as hard as Pinocchio's nose".

I suppose I'm naive and innocent, but it had never occurred to me that the story of the loveable wooden puppet and his expanding organ had hidden sexual overtones. My female readers are probably going to tell me that they've all fantasised about this (actually if you have, please don't tell me), and no doubt a shrink on hearing that a patient had been exposed to this perversity as a child would prescribe an expensive course of pyschiatry and suggest that they sue the parents.


I've never seen the film, which is probably why I'm so normal. And innocent.