Parentheses angst

Sometimes I text people stuff in parentheses so that when they read it in their head, they say it to themselves as if I am saying it to them in a voice like kind of how you would describe as 'under your breath'. (Do you follow thus far? Good. I am not sure I do)

So, ok, to illustrate, I am hoping they read:

'You keep telling yourself that'

differently from:

'(You keep telling yourself that)'

Like, the first would be louder I guess. As if I'm just saying it directly to their face with my eyebrow raised. More blatant dissing. The second would be me sort of rubbing my nose and looking away saying it quietly with a glint in my eye but knowing they've still heard me and trying to pretend like they haven't and then getting all faux-offended when they act real-offended: 'What? What? I didn't say anything! You're so effing paranoid!'.

My worry is that the people I text with these parentheses asides don't actually 'get' that so they just think I'm stupid and don't understand the rules of basic grammar or am mentally deficient in some way and think I'm attempting to make emoticons but haven't quite figured out how yet ("me make happy face lol. now me make sad face boo") So my question is, do I just ask them (which kind of ruins the joke a bit) or forever live in fear of being an unrecognised comedy genius? (WHICH?!!)

So, yeah, I just wanted you to know in advance; if I text you something in brackets then I am probably pretending like you didn't hear me ok? I can record the sort of voice I would say it in if you need a guide for how to say it in your head. It saves me time and angst if I can be sure we're all on the same page 'jokes' wise and I really need to be sure you are doing my jokes justice by reading them to yourself with the right inflections and cadence and shit. Don't ruin it like that stupid woman on 6music ruined by M People joke by reading out my email with the wrong empathsis on the wrong words that one time about three years ago is all I am asking (still bothers me!). Is that really so much to wish for?

(This and Gary Lucy's hair and Charlie from Party of Five is keeping me up at night! For realsies!)

It shouldn't be this hard

The time was 8.47am. I mention this, not because of any particular significance about that time, but because it was before 9 o'clock in the morning. I am not a morning person nor will I ever be a morning person. I've tried being a morning person and though it sticks for a bit there will always be a part of me that just cannot deal with the world until around 10am. After 10 I'm fine. I can hold telephone conversations, crack on with boring admin, exercise, run*, jump*, kick*, climb trees* and most importantly - talk. Up until this point, no matter how early I went to bed or how late I arose, all these things are near-on impossible. 10am is when my brain decides it's awake time now thank you.

So, that is to say, pre-9am is not when I'm at my best. Just to make that clear. However, on this bright and breezy Friday I had promised my bro a lift to the train station so up I was at 7.30 giving the dogs their breakfast and putting on clothes that don't have flowers or Han Solo pictures on (my choice of jimbly-jamblys at this current juncture) and out the door all by 8.30. No sweat. I can cope with all that. On my way back from the aforementioned station I thought to myself 'ooh I could pop into Staples on the way home and pick up get some printer ink quick before work'.

That was my first mistake.

I walked into the store and was greeted by a dizzying array of inks none of which meant anything to me. I stood there open-mouthed and silent for a while, walking from one end of the ink selection to the other, and never quite being able to take it all in at once. There were a lot of inks. I rang my step-father:
'Papa Mikey, what is my printer called?'
'Derek?'
'Funny. What is it's number?'
'Epson Stylus 925'
'That wasn't so hard was it? Also, thank you'

I turned back to the inks. Having this knowledge was supposed to make things easier. It did not. I stood aimlessly for another minute or two before deciding this wasn't the best use of my time as I had no chance of getting the right cartridges. You may well as asked me to go to a fake-tan convention and try to blend in. The chances of either things happening are incalculable by the human brain. (Unless the way it works is the probability is zero in which case I think the human brain could probably handle that. What am I Professor Probability of Statistics University - Tenured? No. I am not) Whatever, I made to leave feeling a little dumb and also a little scared they'd think I'd been nicking stuff.

I was *this* [indicates tiny amount] close to making it out the exit doors and tasting sweet, sweet freedom... Then: 'Did you get what you were looking for today?' came a voice from Dante from Clerks's double
'No' I said.

Here I should point out that I was already predisposed to like this man - he looked like Dante from Clerks (I would have liked him even more if he looked like Dante from Desperate Romantics. Sometimes a human exists who is so beautiful it literally takes your breath away a bit, and not even in a 'creepy stalker Sting song' way but in a very real, tangible 'wah...' way. Dante from Desperate Romantics is in this category. I strongly believe he will only get more attractive as he ages in a George Clooney/Robert Downey Jr -esque journey where youthful arrogance turns into self-deprecating good humour and the beauty becomes slightly more manageable to the human eye - overwhelming beauty is almost as hard to process as overwhelming uglyness. Both things are extremely rare. That's why, for the most part, most of us are pretty passable. Some more passable than others but that's what it really boils down to - passability. Noone is completely perfect. Except Dante from Desperate Romantics).

Where was I? Oh yes, Dante from Clerks (Dear Santa, this year I would like a chunky guy in bovver boots, an oversized t-shirt and plaid. Yours, as ever, Sazzle) asked me if I needed help and after being taken aback by how Dante-from-Clerks-ish he was and assuming that noone just looks like that by accident so he must be good people, I went 'No. I'm looking for a printer cartridge. 925. Epson or something'

This is as coherent as I am able to be pre-9am. Particularly where printers are involved.

'How many cartridges does the printer take?'
'2'
'You should buy a new printer'

I laughed. I thought this was a joke. The world stopped spinning for a moment and he looked at me with such disdain that I could ever find such a serious, and helpful, suggestion funny that I almost was surprised he held back the obvious overwhelming urge to spit on my face.

The air, once clean, became laden down with awkwardness. I resisted the urge to run.

'Something something save £20' he said
'Ok' I said, trying to hurry this along as quickly as possible. I think he sensed my impatience here as I got another scornful look. We walked to the cash register (not fast enough! Not nearly fast enough!) and he rung up my purchases.

'Have you got a Staples card?'
I had already thrown it down , my phobia of social awkwardness suddenly giving me cat-like speed.
'There' I said, trying to hide the note of desperation in my voice.
'That'll be £100 then please.'

I could feel him looking at me slyly from under his downturned eyelids. I wondered if my gulp was visible.

I put my card in the machine thinking 'buying ink should not be this hard nor this expensive but I would pay any amount of money to leave this store right now so £100 is actually kind of a fair deal'.

Tomorrow I think I'm going to take them back. Wish me luck.

*Patently untrue.

We're off to the moon

When I went to go see 'Moon' the other day, in the queue I was thinking; 'Wouldn't it be funny if I walked up and asked for two tickets to the moon?'

I then went up to the booth and before I could censor myself said to the heavily-eyelinered cinema girl 'can I have two tickets to the moon please?'

She looked at me askew. I cannot blame her.

Nothing will ever beat the time I asked for two tickets to 'see Saw' though.

The big day

I have no idea what I wrote last night but I do know I'm too scared-slash-embarrassed to read it. Don't drink and blog is the lesson there methinks. The only reason I was half-cut was due to me going out for dinner and then pub with my brother and housemate Kes so I had a legitimate excuse not to attend my step-dad's sisters hen night (if that convoluted family situation makes sense? Forget Jake, it's extended family as result of divorce town). Hen nights, along with wasps, are one of my biggest fears. Groups of women stumbling around with veils and learner signs and pink cowboy hats with the addition of alcohol? Do not want.*

In fact, I don't really understand any of the wedding stuff that, as a women, is meant to excite and enthrall me. Like when I watch any tv show or film and the wife-to-be walks out in her wedding dress at the wedding dress shop and everyone gasps and goes 'you look beautiful!' I always think 'she looks alright but a fancy white dress is a fancy white dress'. Because, really, a fancy white dress is a fancy white dress. Or when females freak out that their wedding invitations were supposed to be printed on bone card and they've actually been printed on ivory card... Don't get me wrong; I understand perfectionism, I'm a complete control freak, I have very specific ideas on what contitutes aesthetic pleasingness but I can't ever imagine giving a shit about whether a bit of card is this white or that white. I can't imagine spending hours deliberating over what the central flower display is going to look like. Or what shade of violet to make the bridesmaids dresses. I have been to plenty of weddings were this sort of thing obviously has been extensively discussed and it's always lovely but, for me, I'd rather spend the THOUSANDS of pounds it costs to have a big do and fly my nearest and dearest to Las Vegas for a drive thru wedding performed by Elvis and then roadtripping across the states (because, as the first test of marriage, surely surviving traveling for an extended amount of time with them
is a good indication for how the rest of the marriage will go? i.e. if neither one of you ends up dead then it should carry on for another couple of decades at least right?). I just wonder if I'm genuinely an aberration against man and God or whether it's another 'culture makes you feel weird if you don't want to spend the cost of a house on one day of your life' thing.

Having said that, even my heart melt a little when I saw this because who doesn't want their groom to do a somersault down the aisle?


[Via everyone on the internet everywhere but especially Molls... She Wrote and Videogum]

*According to my moms it was actually a lot of fun. Which just proves I'm an uptight heinous bitch sometimes but, when all is said and done, I would rather have a 10 minute conversation about the joy of picking spots than go to Tiger Tiger and watch middle aged ladies get drunk. That's basic Sazz science.

Nemesis

Monday nights are great for doing the 'big shop'. The superstore is practically empty of other customers, the shelves are generally well stocked (I'm guessing Monday is a delivery day as they wouldn't have any on a Sunday... Maybe?), it's quiet and peaceful. I don't have to ram anyone or fight over the tomatoes or stab anyone in the eye for the last pack of falafels. It makes, what I find to be, quite a stressful experience into something a little less of a chore.

All fine and dandy indeed, all apart from that is, my nemesis.

My nemesis, were you to pass him on some sunny southern English street would probably not look like the sort of person that deserved to have his shins kicked in. He is middle-aged, greying round the temples (which is all that is left of the hair on his head as the rest has left him, presumably some time ago). Wiry of body, he wears Cosby sweaters and shorts and sandles and socks. He looks like any good Daily Mail reading member of the middle classes. He also, and I don't say this kind of thing lightly, must be destroyed.

I don't know how we time it, week after week, it must be that he sits in wait for me; louchely chillaxing by the hand whisks and Il Divo CDs, just flicking through a copy of 'For Crying Out Loud' by Jeremy Clarkson, blending in to his surroundings and making no sudden moments biding his time, waiting for me to approach the tills with my trolley, at which point he jumps into action and secures the spot behind me. He will allow me the courtusey of piling around 70-80% of my goods upon the conveyor belt. Each week I am lulled into a false sense of security, thinking that I've got most of the bits up there and he wouldn't possibly cross me again. But he does. He does the oddest and most infuriating thing. He reaches over to get the customer goods separator thing (I have no idea what's it's actually called) and puts it on the belt and STARTS PUTTING HIS THINGS ON. Before I've finished putting my stuff up there! Leaving me no space to finish getting my items checked through the till! WHICH SLOWS THE WHOLE PROCESS DOWN! I do not understand. The only explanation is that he is encouraging me to shoplift for some reason, trying to get me to join his Fagin-esque 'Cosby sweater' gang. Otherwise, I'm stumped. There are RULES and REGULATIONS. They are unspoken but they exist. Rule number one of supermarket etiquette is let the person in front of you unload their trolley before you start unloading your trolley. Rule number two of supermarket etiquette is LET THE PERSON IN FRONT OF YOU UNLOAD THEIR TROLLEY BEFORE YOU START UNLOADING YOUR TROLLEY. It is not hard. It makes sense to have this order. It does not speed the process up to do it simultaneously IT SLOWS IT DOWN. SO WHY ARE YOU SO RETARDED COSBY SWEATERED FAGIN?!?! WHY?!

To be fair, it's only happened once before today and I'm not even sure it was the same dude (but who else does that shit? Really?) and today he was with his wife and as soon as he put the separator thing down she must have seen my face and jumped in to move it off the belt almost immediately. She understands the primal, territorial language of supermarket shopping. Regardless, I still am seething now that he would attempt such a manoeuvre a second time. I went the whole way home replying the event in my head, thinking of how I could have cut that bitch up good by smashing a bottle of Harveys Bristol Cream sherry and used the pieces for some good ol' fashioned shiv practice. Or, just, you know, said something. So, Cosby sweater Fagin - watch out. I've thought of some really good zings for our next encounter that'll have you cowering in fear (example no#1: 'What are you doing?' TAKE THAT (and party) BITCH!)

A Question of Felicity Kendal and my face

I guess I've always been paranoid in nature, assuming that people are looking at me or talking about me for some reason or another (albeit forever a real or imagined negative reason). I'm not sure if this is in fact paranoia or just a symptom of my extreme narcissism that dictates I am the only one people would want to look at or talk about (albeit negatively). But recently I swear to little baby Jesus that people, and by people I mean women (kind of the same thing) have been looking at me funny. Like, constantly. Whenever I meet someone new, or am introduced to someone new (which happens a lot in a job where I have met someone new almost every day since I started as a function of the job itself), people (women) have been looking at me differently than before.

I'm not sure how to categorise the look. It just sort of feels like I'm being weighed up more obviously than has happened in previous times. Like, they'll squint a bit and stare at me a beat longer than I feel comfortable with. It unnerves me and leaves me unsure what to do with my face or my eyes or my hands. I do not like it Sam I am. I do not like green eggs and ham (or women looking at me funny).

The only explanation I have for this sudden unnerving look that I have been on the receiving end of countless times now, is that I'm now proper blond and before I was not.

Which suggests that everyone should be reacting to me differently, but what confuses me most is that I do not think men have been. I've received no more or less attention, have not been treated any worse or better, I maybe get served quicker in bars than before but not by any noticeable amount and I think that's just due to the white blond being fairly eye-catching. So why has it affected the way the female of the species respond to me?

I only mention it because it happened noticeably twice today; from the members of a Young Parent' Group in a particularly joyous part of town (lie) and once from Felicity Kendal (truth).

The young parents of the Young Parents Group all trooped in to the 'Sensory Room' (a.k.a. a room with some throw pillows and lava lamps) and plonked themselves down with a degree of force not becoming of a 'Senory Room' vibe (man) and each made eye contact with me in turn as I smiled and welcomed them to sit down so I could tell them what I was about.

Each gave me 'the look'.

I wouldn't have thought too much about it because these chicks don't need another do-gooder coming in and telling them how they can live their lives better. They've constantly got people telling them how abysmally they're doing and like I know shit to be telling them what to do (I do not know shit). They giving me 'the look' wasn't particularly pleasant but wasn't entirely surprising either so, genuinely, I would not have given it too much consideration had not every lady I'd come into contact with since walking into this 'wrong side of town' centre not given me the exact same reaction. It's like they're trying to stare past my face and see the real me concealed beneath. So obviously when I got out I went and checked my teeth for big bits of lunch still stuck in there - nothing. I gave my face the once over for blobs of make up or pen - nothing. I checked my hair for bits of lettuce or other stray foodstuffs - nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

'She's paranoid' you're saying to yourself. 'She's paranoid and she's crazy. People look at each other all the time, it's nothing to get freaked out about'.

Fine. Think that if you will but riddle me this dear reader, why did Felicity Kendal of The Good Life fame make eye contact with me multiple times during the play I just saw her in?

Hmm? Why, in the middle of a performance, is the professional actor Felicity Kendal distracted by, of all things, MY FACE? WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY FACE?

Actually, don't answer that. Maybe it's best I don't know.

Today's Lesson

You ever been about 5 minutes into a conversation with someone and realised you are not who they think you are but it's passed the point where you can comfortably point that out?

Because I live in a sitcom this is a semi-regular thing for me.

Last week I was doing an 'event' in the office canteen of a well-known multinational corporation. An 'event' for those not cool enough to know is where I stand at a table with lots of leaflets on it and look vaguely friendly when people nervously approach said table. Welcome to the glamorous world of outreach work.

I was earlier than expected and toyed with the idea of hanging around outside but figured I could just wait for my colleague (who had organised the whole thing) on the sofa's inside the foyer.

This was my first mistake.

As I walked up to the reception to check I could just sit quietly and mind my own business, not disturbing anyone, and await my colleague, the King of Nerds came out. I have, for my sins, worked for this particular multinational corporation before. The office I was located in contained, pretty much exclusively, the archetypal Nathan Barley-slash-David Brent character. In other words, they all have spiky hair and are dicks. This office was ancient hippy-slash-nerd central. Jumpers, beards, and sandals. I saw a man smoking a pipe on my way from the car park just to give you an idea of what we are dealing with here (this is 100% true. I even did a double take). I mention this only to draw attention to the fact at how curious it is that animals stay in their packs even when they belong to the same species.

As I didn't know any contact names and had merely walked up to the receptionist as a courtesy to, as I have already said, ask if I may, please, just sit over here and not bother anyone at all, she decided that the King of Nerds who had walked out of the office inner sanctum as I walked in was somehow connected to me.

'This is Sarah' she said 'she can't remember who she's been in contact with but I assume you must know about it' and then returned to playing computer solitaire (probably).

Hi Sarah. I'll just go get everyone else' he said

'This seems a bit extreme for something that had been billed to me as just standing in a canteen and handing out leaflets but ok' I thought.

The rest of the Nerd Herd came out to greet me and then started chatting 'bout shit that made no sense to me. You would have thought that might be my first clue but there's a lot of shit I have no idea about so I generally just try and smile and nod and say 'definatley' or 'oh yep, sure' in the right places whilst my brain wanders off and starts thinking about what I'm going to have for lunch.

'Sure... yes... oh right... mmm, definitely'

I'll be saying to your face

'I wonder if I can stop in at Greggs and get a veggie pasty on the way home. But then where would I park because it's right in the centre and I'll have to pay... Oh but I could park up at the top end of town and walk in, that'll only be 10 minutes in total. Assuming I get served in a timely fashion of course so maybe I should just get a sarnie from the garage? But they're always ming, hmm... Pasty it is. I'll risk it'

So goes my brain.

More often than not if I'm just blindly agreeing with you then I have no fucking idea what you just said. Don't let any of my enemies know about this, it could be used against me. Like when a gay called me Janine Butcher last week and I missed it and just nodded and now I'm being called Janine forever more.

It was around the time when the Mayor of Winchester turned up and I was introduced to him that I realised a mistake of some sort had been made. I am leaflet girl in the canteen that day. I'm not girl getting introduced to Mayor and Mayoress. If you had been watching closely you would have seen a look of dawning realisation followed closely by blind panic cross my face before I returned to polite indifference. I started staring out the window and willing my colleague to materalise in front of me there and then.

'You don't have to sit with me' I said 'I can just wait for Heather here if you have other things to do?'

Please leave please leave please leave. I don't know how I'm going to get myself out of this one with minimal embarrassment.

'No, no, it's nice to have a sit down actually'

Fuck you, goddamn middle-class politeness why do you continue to mock me?

This is when she FINALLY turned up. I've never been so happy to see someone I've only met once before. I practically jumped up and ran out the front door whilst shouting 'here she is!!!!'. I explained to her that I thought some horrible mess had been made and she laughed, walked through the reception doors and sorted shit out in less than 30 seconds. I was right in thinking I had nothing to do with whatever nerd project the Nerd Herd were running. So basically the whole mess was sorted and everyone was left thinking I'm a complete goon.

Again.

In conclusion, today's lesson boys and girls, is don't ever leave the house ever and certainly don't engage in conversation with anyone at all. Ever. Got that? Good.

Love hurts

It's fairly well known that I don't have the rosiest view of relationships. I'm constantly being called out on being too harsh or too cynical in matters of the heart. I choose to believe that I am, in actual fact, a realist not a cynic (but I also acknowledge that my presentation of this may be akin to the person who stands on street corners shouting 'YOU'RE ALL GOING TO HELL' who, deep down, just wants you to believe in God and not to come across as a crazy person (but, does indeed, come across as a crazy person). I'm working on it at any rate).

Having said all that there are some things I thought I could believe in and, to that end, I'm genuinely a bit distressed that the BT couple have split up.

I didn't even know I gave a shit and then, all of a sudden, they're trying to sell me cable tv packages by having a recently dumped man sitting in his batchelor pad considering PAYING to see Bee Movie. Is there anything more gut-wrenchingly melancholic than a man, on his own, thinking about spending money to watch Bee Movie? Plus, there were kids involved! He was learning how to be a good step-dad through all the different telecomms and internet deals that BT offer! He was booking holidays for his missus! And now he sits in the sort of chair that only single men ever own, filling up the lonely days with sub-par films like Bee Movie.

I, for one, am gutted.

Someone once said to me that they found the whole thing fascinating because 'he looks like he only gets to see the bits of their relationship that we do whilst she's living out the whole thing' which may be why he's so nonchalant about them splitting (and did she really dump him because his laptop lost it's internet connection when they were having an argument over instant messaging? Seems extreme). And wasn't he always the one who was getting all the BT packages? So why did he go for a different company in that instance? It's not his M.O. I want my fake commercial couples to BE CONSISTENT if nothing else. And who has important relationship discussions over instant messaging in the first place? How do you convey utter dismay with a emoticon?
Like this I suppose - :/
What about unending disappointment at someone else's actions?
Maybe... like this - :S
Ok, I think I'm getting it.

But what about a sarcastic or ironic tone? Think of all the times you've typed something glib whilst involved in an MSN chat and then had to spend 10 minutes clearing up any confusion about whether or not you are sexually attracted to Sting. Or when you've thought someone was joking and responded in kind but it turns out their cat really did die last night. Aaawkward.

I just don't know how BT expect to shift more shit by making us all depressed. It doesn't seem the smartest marketing tool ever deployed. I can only hope this is all going to be resolved in the (please god) inevitable reunion where they find themselves brought back together through a mutual love of cheap minutes on the telephone after 6pm.

(Please note: It does worry me somewhat that I'm more invested in this than I ever have been with anyone I've dated personally. You don't need to mention it. I'm already aware.)

I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in

Reasons why I am never leaving the house again #57:

Me: Can I get some non-drowsy hayfever tablets and some Athlete's Foot Powder please?
Pharmacist: For your face?
Me: Err no... [looking at my brother's foot as he raises the inflicted appendage off the floor (and I still couldn't tell you why either of us did that)] for... the feet
Pharmacist: Oh.

Reasons why I am never picking up the phone again #256:

Woman: Hi I'm from Blah Blah & Sons can I just ask you some questions? It won't take longer than 30 seconds
Me: [Note that I didn't even get to say hello as I picked up the phone so there was some hesitation while I considered hanging up, but I left it a beat too long so was forced to say...] Umm... Ok
Woman: Are you aged between 30 and 75?
Me: No
Woman: 75 to 80?
Me: No
Woman: Over 80?
Me: No, I'm 25
Woman: Ah

So, it would appear I look like I have Athlete's Foot on my face and I legitimately sound as if I am over the age of 80.

I'm never interacting with strangers again.

Hi honey, I'm home

The last month or so I've completely lost all faith in my abilities to write a sentence that anyone would want to read. Sat here now FORCING myself to type is actually pretty scary and giving me those funny feelings in my tummy - not like the ones you used to get climbing the rope in gym class but the ones you get when you're having an awkward yet polite conversation with someone at a bus stop. That sort of tight, uncomfortable, butt-clenching awkwardness that leaves you feeling a little nauseous and makes you want to run really fast and really far away.

But now I'm here, writing about how difficult it is to write. The 'RUN AWAY' feeling is not abating but I'll persevere. Partly because I received a request for me to return to the blog-o-sphere yesterday, and partly because I don't think fear is a good enough reason to stop yourself from doing something.

This might explain how I found myself booking an appointment to give blood. I'm the only person in my family that doesn't give blood on a semi-regular basis, I always had my brother as a shining example of a non-blood donater which allowed me to continue my selfish blood-retaining lifestyle for many many years, but then even he got his shit together and willingly gave up weed for a while just so he could possibly save someone's life at some point (to be fair, it was sort of coincidental timing-wise rather than the motivating factor but still, it sort of had me freaked). That was months ago now and adds further weight to the deeper fears I have that my brother is actually going to surpass my efforts at living life any day now. He's been actively job seeking and doing his uni work and being generally responsible. I'm just pretty much existing and marking time (Monday morning: will it to be lunchtime, will it to be lunchtime. Ooh! Lunchtime! Will it to be hometime, will it to be hometime. Ooh! Hometime! Tuesday morning: will it to lunchtime... Well, you get the general idea). But anyway, the long and short of it is that when I saw the advert on our intranet pages for the blood-mobile (or whatever they call it) I instinctively picked up the phone. Sometimes I do shit like that. Pretty much every single action, behaviour, sigh, glance, tear, whatever, is coldly calculated, analysed, weighed up, carefully considered and then AND ONLY THEN do I continue with it. Rarely am I known for my spontaneity. However, this time I didn't think: I just did. It was only after I put the phone down that a cold sweat crept over me. I do not cope well with blood, or more specifically, with the thought of blood swooshing about in the outside world when it should be tucked all snugly within your veins. I'm the person that finds it hard to watch the bit in the Simpsons when Sideshow Bob is writing letters from prison in his own blood. The thought of it makes my whole arm go weak and starting aching. However, everyone assured me it wouldn't hurt, that it's quick and easy and would be over before I know it and, most importantly, that I'd get free tea and biscuits. This did not stop the thought of blood draining out of my arm into a plastic vessel of some kind and then being carried around literally make me sick in my mouth. A lot. But when I arrived at work this morning I decided that being a squeamish girl was not a good enough reason to avoid it.

Plus, I figured I'd get to feel a dangerously high level of smugness afterwards.

So off to the van I went. I tried putting my 'mummy's brave little soldier' face on but, apparently, that fooled no-one.
'Are you ok? You look a little faint? You're not squeamish are you?!' was the first question I got having sat down next to another Council employee that was also trying to skive off work and get free food.
'No, no I'm fine'
I was not fine. But I don't get how this dude knew instantly how NOT! FINE! I was. I spend an awful lot of time trying to hide my emotions from the wider world. Only the privileged few get to have a glimpse of the crazy that goes on in this ol' noggin of mine on a daily basis. I figure I must do a kind of ok job at it because people rarely ask me 'are you ok?' with a head-tilt and faux-amount of sincerity even when I'm going through the most traumatic internal conflict and can think of nothing else. People generally just leave me to it no matter what is going on in fact. I kind of like it that way. Maybe the 'LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!' banner I painted and carry around 24/7 helps? Who can really say. But yeah, this dude knew I wasn't a happy bunny and went on to ask when I was going to start biting my nails and whether or not I was shaking.
'HAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahahahahHAHAHAHAhahaha. Ha. ha' wasn't my response surprisingly. It was more like this:
'hmm'
That tight-lipped, non-committal noise you make when you're trying to find an inoffensive way of telling someone you think they're a dick. Although he obviously gleaned 'oh my god, you should be on the stage, why are you not getting paid to come up with this shit? You fucking rock! TELL MORE JOKES TELL MORE JOKES' because he told more jokes.
'Ooh, watch out for the size of that needle! It's huge!'
Fuck. You.
'Yeah they take nearly enough to drain your whole arm!'
Seriously. F-U-C-K. Y-O-U.

Luckily I then got dragged away to be asked whether or not I was a whore, a drug-addict, had ever sex with gay men, or could be infected with any nasty diseases. I answered no to everything but it would have perhaps been more honest to answer 'no, not yet, don't think so, god I hope not'.

Then, after checking if I was anemic (Result: HELLA NO! My blood sank faster than jokes about Amy Winehouse not going to rehab after everyone discovered she is in fact, in dire need of going to rehab), the blood-letting began. I can tell you this: it did hurt. Well not hurt hurt but it was a touch uncomfortable. She poked around for a fair while before hitting the vampire jackpot. And I don't know if it's psychosomatic but I SWEAR it hurts a bit even now. Well, not hurts hurts but I'm aware that my elbow is feeling a little browbeaten. But still. I done it I did. And yes, the feelings of smug did top Defcon RED ALERT levels. I guess that made it worth it alone.

Caring sucks.

Despite finding conversations with the majority of people I don't know to be tiresome and repetitive and useless, I don't actually mind being forced into certain situations where these sort of conversations take place.

Well, no. Obviously I do, as the above sentence says I do but, I mean, when I know I'm going to be stuck in a room with 'unfamiliars' for an hour or more I've reached the stage where I know, if I put some effort in (the 'if' forms the crux of the matter) then I can walk away safe in the knowledge that while they may not necessarily like me they certainly won't actively hate me. Or, they won't hate me enough that they openly flaunt that fact in front of my face.

To some this may not appear a remarkable feat. To those people I say, you know not of Sazz circa 1987 to 2005. That Sazz changed dramatically in appearance many many times (both in stature and in fashion sense: from dungarees to leggings to ill-advised purple cord flares - Blossom you have a LOT to answer for - to the tweed era, which, I'm going to kid myself, was the last time I committed any really punishable sartorial crimes). But where my personality is concerned - although there had been developments; there hadn't particularly been any dramatic changes. 'Wallflower' doesn't even begin to describe it. The thought of any sort of social interaction would make my throat close up and all concept of words, least of all sentences, would be lost to me. I'd get palpitations if a friend left me to converse with a stranger and would just stare blankly at a spot on the floor hoping against hope for the moment to end as quickly as possible whilst getting more and more panicked. Part of the reason I took up smoking as a hobby is that, if your mate has pulled and you're left standing on the edge of a dancefloor like some character from a Pulp song then, rather than being forced into making *shudder* small talk with an odd looking fellow who has similarly been abandoned by his better looking mate, you can light up a smoke and stand there with a scowl and be fairly confident of being left alone (except for all the times I wasn't and felt a bizarre need to not be mean or rude to these guys that had blatantly been told where to go by every other single female in the room so was left with the desperate option of trying it on with me). With a cigarette to hold you can take on the persona of a 'lone wolf' rather than just a 'loner' (seriously kids, smoking IS cool. Or, at least, you feel cooler while you're smoking even if you just look like a sad fat kid who's trying to be cool). This was me then.

Now, within the last couple of years, for whatever reason, I've found how to not be a complete social retard (although I haven't quite escaped the lure of the cigarettes I do still only mostly do it when I want to be left the fuck alone. Melancholy, in particular, works so much better accompanied with a park bench, a wistful gaze, and a roll-up). I couldn't pin point when things shifted exactly but I am aware that it's mostly down to a combination of three factors:
1. Realising that when I do pull out all the stops - it always ends well. As in, if I try hard enough I can make people walk away from talking to me thinking 'she's alright I suppose'. This is a vast improvement on people thinking 'she's seriously fucking weird, or a mute... in fact, she's probably both'.
2. Realising that, when all is said and done, I'm not a bad person. I can even be more-than-ok on occasion.
3. Realising that I don't actually care if acquaintances don't think that highly of me. It's obviously nicer if people do like you where the old ego is concerned but if they don't... meh. The weird thing is, this particular realisation gives you complete freedom to be yourself and thus, increases your chances of being liked. I know right! The crazy world of paradoxes continues apace.

However, even armed with all this knowledge. Even knowing that I'm a different person than before and not really phased by social gatherings one jot, on Friday night as I walked into the pub with the newest addition to my small-but-perfectly-formed circle of pals I was so nervous about meeting his friends that I thought I might throw up. This was bizarre for me. I remembered that feeling as soon as it hit and I remembered that I didn't like it. I'm so glad that I only found out how many people were coming as we were on our way there in the taxi. Had I had a whole week to mull over the number of people I would be expected to impress I probably would have been contemplating throwing myself down the stairs come Friday in order to legitimately get out of it.

The good thing is, this boy knows me. He knows I'm not really a people pleaser. I think it's one of the things he kind of likes about me as he does need the love and affection of everyone he comes into contact with. It amuses rather than disgusts him that I don't. However, I felt pressured seeing as:
- he's ingratiated himself with pretty much every single person I'm close to, without even breaking into a sweat. So, were we to compare our success rates with each other's friends, he pretty much already knows he's scored a home run (or whatever sporting metaphor makes sense when in context of 'won the game').
- I already have a lot of ground to make up as I suspect that, due to some of my history with this boy and some of the youthful escapades (read: being a psychotic girlfriend) this history contains, his friends used to despise me and are probably not thrilled that we're approaching friend-level now.

So there was that to contend with but, and the kiss of death for me acting like me, I was astonished to find that I cared what these people thought of me. Not caring has formed the basis of every social interaction I've had in the last two years. It's my key strategy in the war of the casual acquaintance encounter. Without my key strategy I was lost and frightened. Worse than that I realised I cared because I like him so much. He makes me laugh ("I'm going to call you 'Sazzalicious' because look what the addition of 'licious' has done for Fergie") and even though we haven't spoken much in the last four years or so every time we have met up we've connected again almost instantaneously (give-or-take the presence of 'eep! history and that' feelings). He's a good thing in a world of not-good things so I want him to stick around and be my friend for a while yet. That means having his friends like me too. In the end I gave it my best shot. After five minutes of sat there scoping out all the best escape routes (which the bastard cottoned onto almost immediately. I pointed out that him pointing out you could see the look of terror painted on my face did not help me feel more comfortable. This just amused him further) I sort of tried to join in. I didn't have much choice as he kept trying to draw me in to the table's conversations. I'm pretty sure they thought I was mildly retarded as, for one thing, I was much too enthusiastic with my facial expressions when someone was telling a story and laughed too hard at things that really weren't that funny. But I think I did alright. Not great but alright. Trouble is, my 'alright' is other people's 'one notch below wanting to punch someone in their face'. I haven't had feedback from him on my performance (and I'd be loathe to ever actually ask... make myself vulnerable to criticism or rejection! Ha! Maybe in bizarre-o world!) but at least he texted me to say he liked his birthday mixtape so he's not not-talking to me. This is as positive as I think I can be about the whole thing.

The Curse of the Squeaky Shoe Days

Sorry for my little diatribe yesterday. Note to self: Do not watch Cabaret when hungover as three things will happen;
1. You end up wanting to buy false eyelashes and get a bowl haircut,
2. You wish you had a flux capacitor enabled DeLorean so you could live in 1930's Berlin,
3. You feel sorry for Sally, and then yourself, that neither of you can keep a man and then take it out on everyone else.

Won't happen (publicly) again.

I had a squeaky shoe day today. Squeaky shoe days happen to us all every now and then. For most people it's a metaphorical thing, it's those days you wake up after forgetting to hit 'snooze' and just carry on sleeping for longer than you should and then awake panic-stricken and confused and trip over yourself trying to get out of the house on time (panic + confusion = bruises). Or you leave the house when you're already 10 minutes late, get half way down the road and realise you left your ID badge to get into work and, more importantly, your mobile phone on the dresser (which gives you your only link to the outside world during the hours of 9 till 5.30 and is thus the only tool which has the capabilities of keeping you sane) and have to do a pretty nifty (read: 'slightly dangerous') three point turn to get back home again. Or days when you get this really minging spot one centimetre left of the spot you *just* managed to rid yourself of a couple days before. Or days when you forget to put your car park pass on the dashboard and get out of work to find you have a parking ticket (despite the fact that you need a key card to get into the staff car park in the first place and do NOT drive chitty-chitty bang-bang so can not fly over the barrier and cannot do Knightrider style tricks to make your car drive on two wheels so as to get through the bollards. Plus the fact that yours is the only burgundy 1978 MGB GT out of 100 cars and is thus fairly easily identifiable that you normally park there and normally do have a pass displayed prominently on the dashboard). Yeah, a squeaky shoe day is when things like happen. But it's made all the more delightful if, like me, your slightly below-par days decide to manifest themselves with the aforementioned literal squeaky shoe. I don't know why they do that. I wear the same shoes to work everyday. They're the only shoes I own that are smart and don't rip my feet to shreds from the outside-in.* I wear them everyday with tights (and other clothes too but the tights are the only things that make contact with the shoe itself), the tights may occasionally vary but are rarely anything but Marks and Spencer's finest black 60-denier jobbies. Plus, tights are tights so you would expect them to have the same effect on the shoe regardless... and normally they do. No sqeaks, no peeps, not even an arresting cheep. They're silent. As shoes should be (except for the click-clack noise they make on hard floors which is a sound that I have some weird inbuilt female-brain hardwired setting to enjoy hearing). But on days where everything is predestined to go wrong, where every sucky moment that is normally stretched over a week or even a month, is all compacted into 24 hours... the shoes, they squeak. There's nothing I can do except ride it out and perversely enjoy it. And not spend too much time away from my desk, walking around.

As such, I had plenty of sit-down pondering time today. There were three main topics of ponder:

- Having seen a schoolgirl with ginger hair waiting to cross at the traffic lights that morning and thinking how awesome her hair colour was and whether I could hope to achieve it from the hair dyes on offer at Superdrug, I was struck with a profound sense of melancholy that she probably now, or at some point has had, the piss taken out of her for her hair colour (a bullying staple that I have never pretended to understand). I then realised that I couldn't think of any instances in tv, film, music, real life where an American person has made fun of someone for having ginger hair. Can you think of any? It just doesn't seem to be a stigma over there. If anything, it's revered (I'm thinking of Mr Holland's Opus where the girl who was Cybill's daughter got told her hair was like sunsets... I think... it's been a while since I saw that film. Although, in Cybill, I'm sure she also got 'props' many a-time for her beauteous hair. As did Claire and Ruth in Six Feet Under. AND it was never an issue for The Plastics that Lohan is a ginge). It may be that I just spend too much time watching estrogen-heavy shows where no-one would even think to mock hair colour but really... it's just weird how it's so besmirched here and I can't think of any times when someone's been made to feel bad for having glorious red hair once from our trans-Atlantic pals.

- For some reason this lead me on to the ponder of trying to think of any instances that I ever heard an American person, in real life or in make believe land, say the word 'poo'. Do they use the word 'poo' ever? Is this a just curious British saying? 'Poop' yes, a million times over have I heard the word 'poop' escape an Americans lips but never 'poo'. I know there's plenty of words we don't share but it had just never occurred to me about that particular word before. I'm going to be listening out for it hard from now on. Just to prove myself wrong.

- Finally, I spent a lot of time trying to work out why it seems weird for a stranger to go into the toilet cubicle you've just come out of when there's no queue. It had never even crossed my mind until the last time I was in Leigh Delamere** service station toilet's where there's about 30 cubicles. When I went in the majority of the cubicles were free and yet, and yet, I was compelled to go into the one toilet that a woman had just vacated. She shot me the look of someone who's halfway between terror and puzzlement. To this day I don't know why I made a beeline for that toilet. I just felt this compulsion as I saw the door opening to walk towards it and by the time I cottoned-on to what I was doing I couldn't stop or body swerve as it would have made matters even worse. But why was that so weird? Why did it make us both so uncomfortable? Why did it seem so strangely intimate? If there had been a queue it would have been weird NOT to go in. Social rules and regulations innit, I guess they're mostly a force for good... It's the only thing that makes us all resist smearing slogans on walls in our own faeces (for instance).


*Although I have a fairly impressive collection of shoes that also perform this (some might say) fairly simple and expected task (those would be of the 'male' or 'mum' persuasion generally speaking) they tend to be constructed from leopard-print material, or have sequins or bows or 'Vans' written on them. Or, sometimes, they might have appliqued pictures of baby deer running through forests (I shit you not). None of which, you may be surprised to hear, are suitable for work. Everything else that would pass muster does the aforementioned foot-destroying thing (the pain of having to walk in shoes that have managed to rip a layer of skin off from various points across the sole and heel of your foot rivals childbirth) (probably)

**NB: Sazz's personally endorsed greatest service station in the country... mostly for the name if I'm honest but also for the picture of the manager 'Mark Slatter' who has the whitest teeth and bushiest moustache I've ever seen

How can you become as awesome as you are and still feel like a loser?

Despite my social skills normally hitting somewhere around the 'lame' to 'retarded' mark, I love interviews. You get to sit in a room and talk about how awesome you are for an hour or so. Normally you have to pay someone to provide a service like that, but with interviews it's free! And what's more, it's kind of expected you're going to big yourself up so you have free reign to really lay your awesomeness on thick. I like to pretend to be this dynamic young go-getter who drops corporate-speak into conversation as easily as Britney Spears drops babies. I'm cool, I'm calm, I'm collected. I'm the diametrically opposed version of myself in everyday life. It's like playing dress-up.

But then, THEN, I went and had an interview at a certain County Council today and all my joy at partaking in interviews has been sucked out. Maybe forever.

I arrived on the dot of 11.26. This is about 20 minutes later than I would normally turn up for an interview (I freak the fuck out if I'm not early for everything. It's called 'being a control freak' and will probably contribute to an old age plagued with heart problems... the smoking, all-round-chubbiness, and no exercise might help with that too). This is after having been blown to bits thanks to the ever-so-slightly breezy weather conditions and left with a hairstyle resembling Amy Winehouse on a bad day (relative to her). The signing in process went all quite smoothly although I started to wonder if I'd overdressed a tad as everyone else appeared to be in tee-shirts and mildly-jazzy neck scarfs and I was in my 'I look and feel like a goon but at least I'm wearing a suit' suit. I had been pre-warned in my letter that there would be a one hour exam. 'Oh snap, there's no way I won't rock the fuck out of that shit' I thought somewhat naively (and arrogantly). 'My mad exam skills will see me through anything', figuring that maybe I'd have to read through some examples of the sort of problems I might encounter in the job and then have to apply some super-badass mojo to fix it. Again, bullshitting is one of the few talents I possess that actually does come in handy once in a while (my other 'talents' of procrastinating and sitting down whilst judging people is less marketable in the current business climate). But, no. They wanted me to DO WORK. Like, actual work that I might be asked to do in the job. This is something I'm less able to cope with. Not that I'm a bad employee but I learn by asking questions and being all annoying to whoever is training me. Not by being stuck in a room on my lonesome and having to emerge 60 minutes later with a handful of graphs depicting fuck knows what and a flow chart all about the process of obtaining planning permission.

For the first five minutes I had trouble reading the words and was overwhelmed with an urge to run very far and very fast away from the building and go chain smoke on a park bench somewhere instead. I'm much more comfortable doing that than being shown up as having no right in being given an interview for a job which I obviously know I am no way near qualified for. However, I persevered and then (what felt like) ten minutes later the very lovely-and-obviously-bordering-on-having-a-mental-disorder lady that was tasked with showing me into the office popped her head round and said in a much too jolly way 'Time's Up!'.

I was about two-thirds of the way through the most impossible assignment I've ever been asked to do (to the point that I'm actually wondering if they were just trying to mind-fuck us before the interview to see how we cope under pressure... but then this is LOCAL government we're talking about and not MI5) and was this (*indicates tiny amount*) close to asking for more time but by this point I'd pretty much decided that, to paraphrase George McFly, this job was not my 'density' so figured I might as well get the treat of running through my 'seriously, I'm fucking awesome' speech in the actual interview. The only problem being of course that they now had physical proof that I am in fact a complete wastrel.

At this point I feel I should point out that, even before all this, I probably should have been aware that the job wouldn't be a good fit for me when, well firstly, I didn't quite understand the job description one-hundred per cent. That might have been our first clue. Perhaps. But also, we were required to fill in a medical form which had the AUDACITY to ask 'Have you ever taken any drug for reasons other than medicinal?' I obviously ticked 'no' (as I'm not a complete imbecile) whilst smirking knowingly to myself (because I like to pretend I live inside a tv show at times and figured camera 4 would pick up on the irony). But COME ON! whose business is it of yours 'The Man'? I'm not a skag-hag or a crack-whore if that's what you want to know but other than that... Fuck off. Anyway, depends on what your definition of 'medicinal' is doesn't it? I won't start my soapboxing on the drug laws in this country but the idea that they even have the right to ask that makes me want to punch holes in walls. I even had to provide my average weekly intake of alcohol and tobacco. Am I going to coming into work drunk? No. Am I going to come into work hungover occasionally? Possibly. Am I going to reek of fags all day long? No. Am I giving myself a slow yet assured death due to my smoking addiction? Possibly. But, to be honest, it's got nowt to do with you (or you, or you, maybe you) so leave me alone to destroy myself if I so choose. As long as I guarantee to turn up for work and do the job your concern ends there mmmkay?

So there was all that running through the back of my mind anyway... and then I met the interviewer.

Good.
Grief.

Occasionally men around the 50 mark seem to get a bit 'familiar' with me. I have no idea why; I have Molly Ringwald hair, a nose stud, and I collect Moomin memorabilia. I have nothing in common with a white haired aging hipster (although I do really enjoy air-drumming to the first 3 minutes 24 seconds of 'Heart of the Sunrise' by Yes... but I also have generous-sized breasts and a fair amount of junk in the trunk which may have more to do with it). When I was planning on doing my masters in Guildford we were shown round a house by a man called 'Frank' who had no sense of humour, a cowboy-themed mobile ringtone, and a rather disturbing habit of staring at me incredibly intently when he spoke (even when it was Chloe asking the questions he would still direct his answers at me). Frank really really creeped me out.

The interviewer, almost immediately, reminded me of Frank.

I got up to shake his hand and we had this weird fumbly moment where our hands wouldn't quite get into the right 'handshaking' positions. I'm not entirely convinced Mr CreepyInterviewer wasn't just trying to find ways of holding my hand for longer than is comfortable.

I was then shown into a room where (thank Christ) there sat a pleasantly plump looking chap who must have been about 35. With introductions out of the way the interview FINALLY started. I was confident and relaxed and chatty (mostly because by this point I didn't care). The only moment I was thrown slightly when I caught Mr PleasantlyPlump smiling to himself as he looked upon Mr CreepyInterviewer giving me the eye (or 'sex look' to coin my latest phrase) whilst asking about my 'best attributes'. But I did manage to make them both laugh a bit (Creepy more than Plumpy admittedly) and think I made a good impression overall. But no, I don't know what SQL or GBT, or whatever bizarre acronyms they were asking me about actually mean. Yes, I did start to drift off when Mr Creepy was telling me more about the role (God damn my unable-to-concentrate-even-for-a-second-on-shit-that-I-have-no-practical-interest-in brain). These are probably more important in whether I will be considered for the role than whether Mr Creepy thinks I have a nice rack and Mr Plumpy finds me mildly amusing when I'm being all self-deprecating about my obsessive list-making tendencies. And thus endeth the interview. Although first I had to endure the most uncomfortable five seconds of my entire life and ride down in a lift with Mr Creepy:
'Shall we take the lift?'
['NO NO FOR THE LOVE OF GOD NO' ] 'I'm happy taking the stairs!' ['Forced cheerfulness makes me puke when other people do it Mr Creepy, don't make me be someone I hate']
'Oh, I'm feeling lazy today, let's get the lift'
['IT'S THREE FLIGHTS YOU POTENTIAL DATE RAPIST'] 'Ok!'

Needless to say, I emerged unharmed. Thankfully. (Although awkward social experiences do affect me more than most so we have yet to see if there has been any lasting psychological damage inflicted).

However, the best thing about it all? The fact that I was getting interview experience, or that I managed to overcome my very real and irresistible urge to run as fast as I could and stuck it out, or I didn't get raped? No. The best thing was that as I got out of the building my first thought was 'That'll make a really good blog post'. God, I'm cool.

Protesting airports

Apparently my new coat makes me look like an airport protester.

I say 'new', I stole it out of my brother's wardrobe (oh yeah, by the way, is it alright if I borrow your coat Kieran? Cheers) and it was bought from an army surplus store before that so 'new' it is not. 'Kind of stinky' it is.

Still though, it's perfect for this 'end-of-the-world-is-nigh' summer we've been enjoying. Long enough so I don't flash my gusset when I'm wearing mini's and bending over to pick up whatever item has fallen out of my bag this time* (I'm constantly dropping things of late, I'm not sure if it's because I'm getting clumsier or if my hands are getting slippy-ier - either way the signs for the sort of person I'm becoming ain't pointing any direction good. The worst was when I was in Marks and Spencer's the other day and managed to drop a two-pound coin down the side of the scanner. As Danny pointed out, I'm like those old people in Sainsburys who drop five pence change down the side of the till and make you spend three hours retrieving it because 'that might come in handy later'. We got it back in the end but having held up the busy lunchtime shoppers behind me for a good ten minutes I now have bad queue karma for the next six months)... back to coat... it's also got a hood which is great for those intermittent showers that keep trying (and winning) to make the world think Frizzease was never invented, and yet it's also light enough so I don't look like I've been showering at 12:36 in the afternoon when in fact I'm just drenched with sweat.

All with the added bonus that I end up looking like an airport protester (By the way, in case you didn't catch the memo, I'm bringing grunge back. We know this for certain now because more and more plaid keeps appearing in my wardrobe. Justin brought the sexy, I'm bringing the grunge. I like the keep the world in balance schee.)

However, today I couldn't find my coat. Despite being one of the tidiest people God ever created I have a habit of putting things down wherever I may (tidily of course) and then losing them at the critical moment, this meant I had to wear my 70's green carpet coat instead.

My 70's green carpet coat did NOT go with my outfit. Now my clothing mojo was thrown all out of whack. This is a turn of events that happens rarely (surprisingly) but when it does it seriously affects my ability to function in the world (as we all know I have enough trouble with this at the best of times anyway so anything that adds to my ineptness is something to be avoided at all costs). In times of yore I've been known to text Chloe because my trousers didn't go with my coat and I needed her to bring me a new pair onto campus. I have fashion OCD.

But anyway, point is, I wasn't in the best of moods as I entered the opticians (I was also fifteen minutes LATE, which is something my control freakish tendancies finds very hard to deal with, due to me desperately searching for airport protestor coat, failing, running out of the house when I realised how late I was making myself all for a dammed stinky Swampy coat, running BACK into the house when I realised I'd forgotten my passport application which was the other main reason for me summoning up enough energy to leave the house, running back out of the house already starting to work up a fairly impressive amount of sweat given that I was wearing a coat which was too heavy for the weather). Where was I? Ah yes, already the optician despises me (I've decided). Then, as she sits me down in the wacky in-and-out-of-focus-picture-of-an-air-balloon machine (WHAT DOES IT DO? WHY THE AIR BALLOON?) (Wait, I've just remembered I don't care) I ask if I'm supposed to be wearing my contacts...
'Erm.. No' [voice tone starting to play into my paranoia that she hates me and my wacky outfit]
We look at each other for a moment too long. The silence gets uncomfortable.
'Right. I have nothing to put them in to... I thought this was just a contact lens check-up'
'Well you need that and a proper eye test'
'Ok. No-one told me that on the phone. Can we do both now?'
'If you want to'
Please optician lady. Please don't ask me questions like that. I just want you to tell me what to do. Sit here. Look at this. Look up, look down. Now leave.
'Well, I guess so. If you think I should?'
'You are due to have a proper eye test'
'So that's a yes?'

We look at each other without saying anything again. I don't remember how the uncommunicative, passive, unable-to-make-a-decision duo managed to escape this conversational stalemate but we eventually did. The end result being that I had to come back in an hour for the second part of my test. But oh dear Lord. I haven't had one of those for a loooong time and I'd forgotten what they consist of...

We've already established that I can't make decisions or take control right? That's on the table.

What is the ONE thing you're supposed to be able to do in an eye test proper?

Make decisions.

'Is it better with one or with two?'
'It's... erm... one, NO! Two. Two, yes'
'Sure?'
[NO!] 'Well, they're both, I can't really tell the difference'
'Ok'
'Is it better with this or without'
[LADY I DON'T KNOW] 'With?' [Is it?? THIS IS GOING TO AFFECT YOU DIRECTLY SAZZ! CONCENTRATE. WHAT IS SHE WRITING DOWN? DID I GET THE ANSWER WRONG?]
'How about now? Better with one, or with two?'
[Oh. My. God. I have NO freaking idea but I can't keep saying it's the same or she'll think I'm nuts]
'Err... one?'
'Oh. Hmm...'
['Hmmm'? 'HMMM'? WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN? THAT MEANS I GOT IT WRONG DOESN'T IT? Oh Jesus!]
Et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum.

So, apparently, my eyes are worse, my prescription has changed. Has it actually changed? Or was I just getting so annoyed that I couldn't make a descion that I told her it was better with the wrong lenses and now I'm going to be straining me eyes so much that I get constant headaches and manage to convince myself that I have a brain tumour? Only time will tell.

*I'd like to point out that I don't actually exist purely within a Benny Hill sketch. The gusset I'm flashing ain't no gusset anyone wants to see.**
**Sweet Jesus, I can't believe I just wrote that. I'm sorry for making you be sick in your mouths.***
***I'm sort of not.