She stood in the dressing-room.
"What do you think?"
"No," I said firmly.
"Do you think it's a bit tight?"
My inner Mrs Smith laughed uproariously. My inner Mrs Smith wanted to point out that the skirt was as tight as a rubber-band around a Land-Rover. My inner Mrs Smith was ignored.
"Well – a bit," I said, cautiously.
The Land-Rover looked sad. "It's a 14," she said. "I've never been a 14."
I shrugged noncommittally. "Different labels size very differently," I said, with an award-winning degree of vagueness. I picked at my nail-polish, avoiding both her eyes and the boldly obvious, that she had as about as much chance of being a 14 as Nicky Watson did of having natural DD cups.
The Doctor was no less deluded. He had the appearance of a small nocturnal creature forced into the sunlight – blinking uncertainly into a foreign environment. He started off an anecdote, "Years ago, when I was working in Scotland..." which improbably involved himself, a priest, and a lawyer, and ended up with something unfortunate happening to the lawyer. I was quite confused.
"Oh dear," I said, "Was the lawyer badly hurt?"
He continued, with more anecdotes, starring himself, and an unlikely cast of drunks, nuns, and quite a few shared acquaintances. The penny eventually dropped with a resounding clang – he was telling jokes. I have never before heard jokes told in such a fashion.
I hate jokes. I hate knowing that at some point I have to laugh (a minor smirk is never sufficient). Jokes make me feel like I am performing in someone's badly-written play;
Doctor: (gabbling faster and faster) … then the priest said, 'don't worry, I got him with the car-door!'
Mrs Smith: (vein throbbing in temple) Oh! Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Very good! Ha ha ha.
Doctor: ...and there was the time I was working in Africa with three nuns…
Mrs Smith: (brandishing a knife) Take that!
Doctor: Arrggh gurgle thud.
That ending doesn't work well, so instead I ha ha ha’ed painfully through some more real-life jokes, then exited stage left while murmuring something about seeing if the hostess needed any help in the kitchen. Later the Doctor cornered me again, and was saying how his daughter was also studying medicine, and hoped the younger one would too.
"She has what it takes to be a doctor," he said, eyes shining with pride, "a really great rapport with people."
The sub-text to his words was I am a doctor. I have a really great rapport with people.
That was the funniest thing he said all night.
Anyway – we have all met such people – those who think they are witty, or charming, or clever, or whatever, when others think they are anything but. And one does begin to wonder what delusions we have about ourselves. It's a grim thought.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
She stood in the dressing-room.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Mere moments ago, I found this in my kitchen;
It is huge! About 20 centimetres long! However, I behaved quite admirably - I uttered no sound upon seeing this monster lurking suspiciously by my right foot - but anyone watching may have thought I was doing a mime version of Edvard Munch's 'The Scream.'
According to Landcare Research, it is a stick insect, Clitarchus hookeri (sounds rude).
It has a shoe-box sitting over the top of it at the moment - Mr Smith will have a pleasant surprise when he gets up.
Labels: Things I Loathe
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Stream of consciousness blogging…
Have you ever noticed that in all the house/garden type magazines – no-one has a television?
If one goes to a fashion designer's birthday party – does one HAVE to wear the designer's creations? The odds of wearing the same ensemble as someone else are high. Would it be rude to turn up wearing Tamsin Cooper? Or an organic wool aran jumper?
Three-cheese tortellini at Cin-Cin is fabulous, delightful mounds of creamy loveliness on a fork – but what’s up here? This used to be a fairly decent place to strap on a nose-bag, but the view of the grubby 'smoker's tables' outside is reminiscent of some horrid westie bar. Cin Cin's ambience is getting dangerously close to AC/DC on a jukebox and chips in a basket.
Speaking of chips – why does the "fine dining" French Cafe have chips (sorry - french fries) as a side dish? What is your chef, like 8? (P.S. Dear Engine Room – I had been going to book dinner with you, but your website was so repugnantly impossible to read, I gave up.)
Note to all – don't ever say in public, "Mortgagee sales are a really great way to pick up some bargains." People look at you with stabby-eyes of hate if one does. Really very rude of them. Not my fault their mortgages are creaking at the seams.
What's the fuss about Havianas? Aren’t they just $50 jandals?
Anyone else going to the polo on Sunday?
Thursday, February 07, 2008
We had Herr and Frau Fossil staying with us over the weekend. I am battered and bruised from the storm of disapproving looks fired my way. The Disapproving Look is swift – a mere ‘up-down’ glance, and were pinging off me by the end of Tuesday like I was caught in a hail-storm.
Saturday night - we sat down to have a glass of wine. After one, they declined more, and started drinking water. I poured myself a second glass. Peow! Disapproving Look. Glass number three – peow, peow!
I have also learned that the very people who say that they "are not fussy eaters – we eat anything," are invariably the fussiest eaters of all. These "not fussy eaters" did not eat:
Red meat, potatoes (althought Herr Fossil did help himself to some, for which Frau Fossil rewarded him with some peows of his very own), soft-drinks (I had a Diet Coke – peow!) and anything that might contain butter, milk, sugar, etc.
We took them out for lunch – the meal portions were too large (peow), but I still managed to eat the majority of my meal (peow) and had a beer (in the daytime! Peow).
They have now been released into the wild – on a grand tour of our fair isles, so I wish to send a storm warning to the South Island. Despite the weather forecast, temperatures over the next fortnight will be chilly, and there will be storms of Disapproving hail.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Looking up something on the internet yesterday, and accidentally stumbled across a very special type of website.
Thought I had a fairly innovative imagination, but must say, fantasies involving demented creatures from the dark side had never occurred to me before.
I'm back! No – I didn't run away to join the circus. Realise that a skill is probably required, and I'm scared of heights, and don't think being the Incredible Shopping Woman would be much of a draw-card.
Oh – about the missing penis. Should point out here that bike-shorts are not for everyone. While riding a bike is a very good form of exercise, I am not convinced that full racing gear is necessary (or appealing) apparel for non-athletes.
Mrs L and I were sitting, having a glass of wine on her verandah, escaping from the furnace blast of the afternoon sun, when Mr D rolled up on his bicycle (must come up with a better system for naming people. Think I might now have multiple Mr Ds). He was wearing an ensemble fit for a fatties version of the Tour de France. Tour de Fattie ha ha! He looked very surprised by my presence, I by his penis' absence. I could not stop staring at his groin.
The tight lycra pants had smeared his genitals into a flat, barely undulating mass like a hot knife on beurre. He had – dare I say it – a camel toe. Did you know that men could get camel toes? I didn't. Amazing. Perhaps the circus has a position available for the Incredible Camel Toe Man.
He stopped long enough for a beer, then cycled off again. I thought little of it (apart from pondering his smeared penis), until the same thing happened again yesterday. Given that he has been 'cycling' for some time now, without any discernable difference to his girth, I suspect these bike rides are much shorter than he is telling his wife. Indeed, for various reasons, I strongly suspect his two-hour bike rides take him no further than once around the block, with a prolonged pause for aerobic activity of a different type.
By the way – the herd of Hollywood types that rushed through our diminutive isles over the last month caused a nauseating amount of activity on the social front. The number of people who suddenly decided to dash off to Waiheke in hopes of bagging a Charlize Theron or a Jack Nicholson was embarrassing. When members of the herd were spotted in the Coromandel, or at the car races, the hunters swung their sights that way with remarkable alacrity.
I have no interest in famous sorts… I have met heaps, and the most I can say about them is that they are A. very short. B. fairly dull. C. have surprisingly bad skin. My cleaner could be thus described, and I wouldn't rush off anywhere to see her.