Blogger comment verification boxes command me to ’Choose an identity’. Well, today I think I shall be Madame de Pompadour.
It’s only just struck me as vaguely ridiculous request. That is all.
humour
All posts tagged humour
Sooo…guess who came to stay at the weekend?
Yes, that’s right. It was Corporate Zombie….
and his long-term girlfriend, Queen Vampire.
They’re an odd match, often fighting. She has quite a temper and things can get seriously out of hand.
Zombie confided in me
He says he often feels like she’s sucking him dry. Sometimes it’s so bad that he even packs his bags
but there’s something about her that always makes him stay.
Interesting guests, but all in all, I’m glad they’re leaving. I’m afraid I did swear at them under my breath a few times during the course of the weekend. Especially when they wanted me to do their hair. *
How ’bout you? What did you do at the weekend?
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* These little characters aren’t as easy to make as they look, but they are addictive. Having sworn like a trooper during the making of the Vampire Queen, I’m now considering making an Amazon, complete with bikini top and spear! 
is that they are amused
by finding funny angles
to photograph me
and then posting the results
on their blogs for a few cheap laughs
Look - no arms!
This is our big boy Sweet William (all 8 kilos / 17+ pounds of him) , fast asleep on my husband’s side of the bed. He’s strictly a Daddy’s boy. You can tell that because he’s doing his best to burrow into the pillows to gain maximum male ‘scent-age’ from my beloved.
(No cats were harmed in the making of this blog post)
After a troubling week, I am Pine Mouth free and thanks to my friends here have ceased to worry about my current bout of Verbal Diarrhoea.
That makes me feel happy.
And I want to share the happiness.
Oh, I know you groan when you see a YouTube link but seriously, this is, without a doubt, the best advert on UK TV right now – better than a lot of the scheduled programmes actually. So put a smile on your face and click that play button why don’t you?
Have a great weekend!
(A little Sunday smile)
I’ve toyed and toyed with what to post for this week’s Creative Exchange, going around and around in circles, so I’m putting myself out of my misery and doing what comes naturally to me: fall back on humour. (Apologies if I’ve posted this here before a while ago – I clearly need a better way of labelling my blog images).
Now, I’m dashing out to catch a few ‘fog photos’ before it all dissipates in the morning sun. See you all a bit later …
Henrietta made me realise that I should probably point out that this is not a Photoshopped image. (Just an ageing and therefore pretty cheesed-off cabbage).
So I’ve told you of the delays we experienced on our way out to the States just before Christmas. What I haven’t told you is the rest of the story.
Day 1: (Which you already know) …Snowed in at Gatwick.
From the hotel room at Gatwick - it's honestly hard to believe that this light dusting is what made everything grind to a halt.
Day 2: There were flight delays at Heathrow as well because of chaos caused by the snow. When we did eventually get on the plane we sat for four hours on the tarmac whilst staff went through the entire baggage hold, sifting through every piece of luggage. A ‘no show’ passenger meant that everyone went wobbly about the possibility of a terrorist attack on our plane and the relevant bag or bags had to be found and ejected. Some of the natives cooped up in the aircraft cabin started to revolt, complaining vigorously to cabin crew, leading to a very stern old-school/RAF-type captain sharply lecturing us all about ‘nasty men with bombs’, about how he knew what was best for us and about how we should feel entirely free to complain to BA if we felt so inclined because who did we think they would listen to – us, or the guy with the stripes on his jacket? (Gulp). Bag/s found, more delays while the plane was de-iced … although curiously enough, all the passengers sat very quietly.
Day 3 (Going by UK time: 24 hours awake, 48 hours of stress): Arrive in Miami.
Now usually we travel through Tampa – it’s a longer drive down to Naples but we had been told by several people that Miami airport can be a bit of ’zoo’ when busy. So Miami airport was a first for us. As I can’t walk long distances, we always ask for ‘wheelchair assist’, meaning that a wheelchair is brought straight to the door of the aircraft and I’m whisked along, chair-bound, to immigration. Some staff doing the wheeling say nothing, some are so helpful, funny and very nice and like most people, we respond well to the latter approach.
Our Miami Man trundled along and started up a conversation about the delays we had suffered, how as a result he was working late (but he seemed OK with that) and things were going swimmingly – lots of smiles all round. After our oh-so-long journey, we were finally ’here’ and here was a really nice welcome from a good American citizen, with us all chatting happily. Really quite ‘entente cordiale’. Then he asked:
‘Do you think you’ll come again?’
My husband, who was trailing along a couple of paces behind, laden with hand baggage, clearly thought that he meant would we come through Miami airport again and cheerily said:
‘Oh yes, I don’t see why not.’
It became clear that he had completely misunderstood the question.
‘Well that depends on the Lord God Almighty, doesn’t it?’ replied Miami Man, now in ‘pulpit mode’, because he then started on a long speech about the Bible, fire and brimstone, the end of days and 2012.
It’s an odd thing about being partially disabled and in a wheelchair – when travelling ‘at speed’ under the helmsmanship of a religious nutter and in a new environment you can feel really quite vulnerable. The whole atmosphere had changed, we fell into silence, the smiles disappeared from our faces and I shrank down into the chair as we heard all about the evils of mankind and how we are all horribly, horribly doomed. Yes, we had arrived in Miami but our destiny was clearly to go to hell in a handcart by the year 2012.
Not to worry eh? The airport is a public place after all and it wasn’t long before we were part of a crowd again and being processed, probed, quizzed and fingerprinted by the guys at immigration. Only one more hurdle to surmount – Customs. Customs man smiled:
‘Where are you guys from in the UK?’
‘Well it’s a very small island off the south coast called Jersey’ my husband replied, fully expecting the usual confused conversation and explanations about Jersey/New Jersey.
‘Ah, Jersey! I know Jersey!’ said an apparently jolly Customs Man.
‘Really? (Lots of smiles from my husband here). ‘Most people here have never heard of it!’
‘Sure! I know Jersey! As part of our training we had to learn all about third world countries like yours! You were invaded by the Germans in World War II and Churchill left you to rot. He clearly didn’t think much of you!’
Call me picky, call me crabby, call me, at that point, dog-tired and overly sensitive but I wasn’t impressed by our welcome to America. It doesn’t pay to get shirty with customs men however, does it? (I’m thinking: latex gloves). So instead we just smiled sweetly at what, I hope, was just rather inappropriate humour.
I think next time we will be back to travelling through good ol’ Tampa.
A mashup of two failed photos, taken by an overly tired photographer, of our room at the Marriott Miami and a blurry, bauble-covered Marriott reception. (I think I was so tired by this point that I was just clicking for the sheer hell of it).
“Whatchya doin?”
“Planting myself so I grow bigger next spring.”
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Posted for: ‘The August Break’ project, hosted by Susannah Conway
I read the other day that Foster’s have just changed ad agencies. After 14 years with M&C Saatchi, their new agency, Adam & Eve, have come up with what I think is a wonderful new set of ads. Two have aired here in the UK and I can’t wait to see more of the philosophical musings of Aussies Brad and Dan.
Accepting that any one of us could die tomorrow, squished under the wheels of a Number 57 bus, here is a conundrum for you:
If you could efficiently plane hop, forever travelling in an anti-clockwise direction around the earth, over the space of a 10 year period, how much time would you, in theory, have added to your life?
?????????
If I was born on 29th of February 1968, (a leap year), do I have the legal right to claim that I am actually only 8 years old?
?????????
If my brother’s uncle married my sister’s mother’s aunt and their first-born child married my son’s cousin, what relation would I be to that child? (and would they be statistically more likely to be born with two heads and twelve toes)?
?????????
That last question is a complete dud by the way – just included to bulk out this post and it reminded me of the questions I had to answer in the old 11+ school exam – questions I still couldn’t answer to this day, so I have no idea how I graduated on to secondary school.
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This entry was brought to you courtesy of The Summer Silliness Because I-Sorely-Need-A-Break Corporation
Art:Rene Gruau
Art:Rene Gruau
