Today it rained in the kitchen. Not the usual course of events.
This is what happened:
I came downstairs expecting to make a fulfilling cup of coffee. It was raining in the kitchen. From the ceiling. I wondered if the ceiling might have become a cloud overnight. Indeed it had a bulbous appearance and the drops were definitely emanating from it. In a minor rainy-day sort of way. Splashing merrily onto the floor. Dripily-dropily.
At first having a cloud for a ceiling didn’t seem like a very sound idea. Most builders, architects and DIY impresarios like myself tend to eschew the whole cloud-ceiling idea as impractical, technically tricky and a little overcast. Yet, I thought, as I watched the gentle rain falling gently on the floor, dripily-dropily, maybe it’s not so bad. It might certainly further my ambitions to live with my head in the clouds especially since my house is a small cottage designed for dwarf-like Welsh minors, no, miners, and therefore the ceiling is extremely adjacent to the floor. And, after all, a cloud for a ceiling implies that upstairs, in the bathroom, there is probably a cloud for a floor. I might walk on Cloud Nine (except my house is number eight but that’s a trivial incongruity), or roll cherub-like amongst the fluffy whiteness, or discover that in fact my bathroom is heaven.
And so I went upstairs putting on my best cherubic expression, trying to look plump-of-limb and prepared for heaven. I was disappointed. The floor was much as it had been aside from a tad damper. The carpet resembled a beige quagmire and made delightful squishy-squashy noises when trod upon. There was also a similar dripily-dropily thing going on. This time not from the ceiling but from the cistern.
The gods of toilets love me not.
After removing the 22 pieces of tongue and groove panelling attached by 66 screws I wrapped the cistern in a towel. The dripily-dropily stopped. The cistern felt cosy.
I went back downstairs to inspect the kitchen ceiling. It bulged some more. The dripily-dropily had become more of a dripliy-plopily. Knowing a thing or two about how bad-tempered plasterboard can be when asked to hold up a lot of water I poked it with a screwdriver. It pissed on me.
The gods of ceilings love me not.
Now I am likely to fall through the cloud as I’ve had to lift all the floorboards to dry it out. I am also in need of some sort of gangplank to access the toilet. And more towels as the cistern has wet the ones already provided. In fact a new bathroom/kitchen/house might come in handy.
But strangely I miss the gentle dripily-dropily squishy-squashy not-heaven.
Showing posts with label Comedy Improvisation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Comedy Improvisation. Show all posts
Sunday, 8 June 2008
Saturday, 29 March 2008
What Not to Do on Your First Date
I’ve been dating. This is a hugely confusing experience. The truth is that I’ve never dated before. It, along with many other experiences, like South America, the 1950s and enormous willies, is something I’ve only ever see on television, read about in the doctor’s waiting room or fantasised about.
I need to say here re the fantasy thing that I am very worried about men, the male population and people with willies. I saw a program on BBC3 about penises. Apparently 78.235% of men think their willie is too small. And I just need to say STOP IT your willie is fine. And be happy – 70% of women don’t even have G-spots, and of those that had them, many have been stolen by people from the future. We don’t fantasise about big willies, we read Mills and Boon (and possibly the Karma Sutra) (pop up edition) (yes this exists) (willie size is not mentioned).
I’ve been dating. This is a hugely confusing experience. Obviously this lack of dating thing has very little to do with a lack of partners thing. It just seems that my previous methods of attracting the male of the species, cunning ventures like simply hanging out with them and/or propositioning them on MSN, has taught me nothing about dating complete strangers.
This is what I’ve learnt so far in terms of essential dating do’s and don’ts:
Don’t propose marriage on the first date.
Do wear clothes.
Don’t tell them about your blog that talks about G-spots and penis size.
Do arrive at the correct place.
Don’t tell them your G-spot was stolen by a person from the future.
Do arrive on the right day.
Don’t tell them you are interested in sex.
Do arrive.
Don’t tell them you are not interested in sex.
Do pretend you are interesting.
Don’t tell them you need to sleep with them NOW.
Do keep your big fat mouth shut.
Don’t wear the big, long, white dress with excess skirts.
Look demure (they may believe you).
Should you have failed in many of the above then there is one simple solution. Call your date. Apologise profusely for how someone cunningly impersonating you (your evil twin sister probably) kidnapped you, chloroformed you, hid you in the boot of your car and turned up on the date. This totally explains how they got the wrong time, place and totally misunderstood the clothing conventions. As well as the whole sex thing.
Ask, beg, plead, cajole and if necessary (which it will be) bribe them to dismiss the whole sorry episode from their mind and meet you again. That you will be a completely new person (not your evil twin sister). And normal.
Please?
I need to say here re the fantasy thing that I am very worried about men, the male population and people with willies. I saw a program on BBC3 about penises. Apparently 78.235% of men think their willie is too small. And I just need to say STOP IT your willie is fine. And be happy – 70% of women don’t even have G-spots, and of those that had them, many have been stolen by people from the future. We don’t fantasise about big willies, we read Mills and Boon (and possibly the Karma Sutra) (pop up edition) (yes this exists) (willie size is not mentioned).
I’ve been dating. This is a hugely confusing experience. Obviously this lack of dating thing has very little to do with a lack of partners thing. It just seems that my previous methods of attracting the male of the species, cunning ventures like simply hanging out with them and/or propositioning them on MSN, has taught me nothing about dating complete strangers.
This is what I’ve learnt so far in terms of essential dating do’s and don’ts:
Don’t propose marriage on the first date.
Do wear clothes.
Don’t tell them about your blog that talks about G-spots and penis size.
Do arrive at the correct place.
Don’t tell them your G-spot was stolen by a person from the future.
Do arrive on the right day.
Don’t tell them you are interested in sex.
Do arrive.
Don’t tell them you are not interested in sex.
Do pretend you are interesting.
Don’t tell them you need to sleep with them NOW.
Do keep your big fat mouth shut.
Don’t wear the big, long, white dress with excess skirts.
Look demure (they may believe you).
Should you have failed in many of the above then there is one simple solution. Call your date. Apologise profusely for how someone cunningly impersonating you (your evil twin sister probably) kidnapped you, chloroformed you, hid you in the boot of your car and turned up on the date. This totally explains how they got the wrong time, place and totally misunderstood the clothing conventions. As well as the whole sex thing.
Ask, beg, plead, cajole and if necessary (which it will be) bribe them to dismiss the whole sorry episode from their mind and meet you again. That you will be a completely new person (not your evil twin sister). And normal.
Please?
Sunday, 10 February 2008
How to Tell if a Man Fancies You – Or Can Cosmology Prove if a Man Fancies You?
Recent advances in theoretical thinking have been used to good use to attempt to prove a Very Import Thing. That God Exists. Or That God Doesn’t Exist. I can’t quite make out which.
The Argument goes thus –
1. Whatever begins to exist has a cause.
2. The universe began to exist.
3. Therefore, the universe has a cause.
(Have you noticed that when proving some theoretical point in philosophy it is the norm to have three bits – Statement. Statement. And a neat little bit on the end that starts with either ‘Therefore’ or ‘Thus’? And yet, like life, one is left yearning for more. For a neat little bit that explains what the hell is supposed to be going on.)
Now we all know that proving whether God exists or doesn’t exist is very important. It’s a task of the utmost urgency and relevance to modern life. We all appreciate that and think that philosophers and physicists and the like are generally underpaid saints (if God exists) or underpaid geniuses (should God not exist). And these academics are worth every hour and strain on one’s suspension used driving them and their collection of ‘Physics Today’ magazines, cuddly toys that sing ‘Old MacDonalds Farm’ and plethora of stilettoed heeled boots to and from the aforementioned academic institutions.
But like so many of the academic endeavours endeavoured by our academics these days they are simply NOT addressing the question that people really really really want to know the answer to.
This is the question:
How Do I Know if a Man Fancies Me?
So, being the mother of one of the aforementioned academics I feel it is my duty – nay, my obligation to use whatever methods come to my disposal to answer THE question.
So let’s apply a little reality to the philosophy –
1. Whatever begins to exist has a cause.
2. The Question began to exist.
3. Therefore, the Question has a cause.
4. Therefore the cause is that the man fancies me.
Note how I have added that essential forth part that makes everything totally clear.
In my case of course it was all already totally clear – he doesn’t.
The Argument goes thus –
1. Whatever begins to exist has a cause.
2. The universe began to exist.
3. Therefore, the universe has a cause.
(Have you noticed that when proving some theoretical point in philosophy it is the norm to have three bits – Statement. Statement. And a neat little bit on the end that starts with either ‘Therefore’ or ‘Thus’? And yet, like life, one is left yearning for more. For a neat little bit that explains what the hell is supposed to be going on.)
Now we all know that proving whether God exists or doesn’t exist is very important. It’s a task of the utmost urgency and relevance to modern life. We all appreciate that and think that philosophers and physicists and the like are generally underpaid saints (if God exists) or underpaid geniuses (should God not exist). And these academics are worth every hour and strain on one’s suspension used driving them and their collection of ‘Physics Today’ magazines, cuddly toys that sing ‘Old MacDonalds Farm’ and plethora of stilettoed heeled boots to and from the aforementioned academic institutions.
But like so many of the academic endeavours endeavoured by our academics these days they are simply NOT addressing the question that people really really really want to know the answer to.
This is the question:
How Do I Know if a Man Fancies Me?
So, being the mother of one of the aforementioned academics I feel it is my duty – nay, my obligation to use whatever methods come to my disposal to answer THE question.
So let’s apply a little reality to the philosophy –
1. Whatever begins to exist has a cause.
2. The Question began to exist.
3. Therefore, the Question has a cause.
4. Therefore the cause is that the man fancies me.
Note how I have added that essential forth part that makes everything totally clear.
In my case of course it was all already totally clear – he doesn’t.
Saturday, 10 November 2007
How Not to Improvise
I’ve been going to improvisation classes. To learn to improvise. Yes, yes, I know, I already am fully cognisant of methods to improvise my way through life’s hair-pin bends – I can whip up a meal from only a tin of paint and a small aubergine, I can fix a leaking water main using a pair of stripy tights soaked in mulligatawny soup and I am well known for my skills in shed-creation/restoration equipped only with a couple of old doors, some slightly mouldy flat-packed furniture and a rotting marrow.
This is comedy improvisation. It’s supposed to make people laugh. It mostly makes me laugh aside from when I cry or bang my frontal lobes on the nearest trapeze.
But last night things went seriously awry. This is what happened:
Our instructor (an experienced, wise, thoughtful sort of person who is mostly a clown but mostly isn’t) instructed his class (that’s me and another disparate dozen of desperate fools. Sorry – aspiring fools) to imagine taking something off a shelf. The important thing about this exercise was not to think what was on the shelf until it was in our hands. To have a blank and empty mind with no preconceived idea as to what might be lurking on a dozen imaginary shelves scattered around the space.
You see already what fun this class is. I’ve mangled my way through many types of education and thus it is refreshingly refreshing to be told to not think. This, I thought, I could do (although that actually countered the not-thinking thing). I applied my mind to not thinking.
After a few moments of bringing strange objects off imaginary shelves I began to be slightly troubled by who had actually stacked these shelves and the high level of irresponsibility involved. Frankly the managers of the Coop, Waterstones, even ToysRus would have been appalled. I was appalled and I’m quite open-minded when it comes to shelves, cupboards and general storage devices.
This is what they had put on the shelves:
A hippo with a flower in its mouth
A green rubber ball that smelt of wet wool
Half a red stilettoed boot with teeth-marks on
A man
A pair of cats-eye marbles fused together humming ABBA songs
A small box of kittens (assorted)
An enormous statue of a turkey
A wet sponge in the shape of a woman’s breast
A wet sponge in the shape of a man’s breast
Twelve yellow African camels
…. It went on….
But this wasn’t the end of my problems. It was one thing for the anonymous shelf stacker to load this imaginary shelf but it was an entirely different issue as what the fuck I was supposed to do with all this stuff.
I began by neatly stacking it around me – the hippo was balanced on the ball which in turn was balanced on the boot. The box of kittens I shoved under the statue of the turkey. The marbles I fed to the man. But when the bloody camels turned up I just had to say something.
‘Oh noble instructor,’ I said, feeling some sort of deference was probably due to the arranger of such an exercise, ‘I have been most successful at emptying my mind,’ I continued, just so he felt I understood, ‘but now I don’t know what the fuck to do with all these things I have gotten off the shelf. The room is becoming most crowded and as you can see these camels are chaffing.’
‘Just discard the stuff once you know what it is,’ he answered, ‘throw it over your shoulder.’
I stared in disbelieving disbelief. ‘No! What?! Just throw all these things away? No! What!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?’
He raised his eyebrows. I raised my eyebrows.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and I was, ‘I just can’t do that.’ I led my camels, men, hippos, kittens etc out of the building keeping my eyebrows aloft.
Lucky my improvisational skills at shed mending are better than my comedy. Does anyone know what to feed camels?
This is comedy improvisation. It’s supposed to make people laugh. It mostly makes me laugh aside from when I cry or bang my frontal lobes on the nearest trapeze.
But last night things went seriously awry. This is what happened:
Our instructor (an experienced, wise, thoughtful sort of person who is mostly a clown but mostly isn’t) instructed his class (that’s me and another disparate dozen of desperate fools. Sorry – aspiring fools) to imagine taking something off a shelf. The important thing about this exercise was not to think what was on the shelf until it was in our hands. To have a blank and empty mind with no preconceived idea as to what might be lurking on a dozen imaginary shelves scattered around the space.
You see already what fun this class is. I’ve mangled my way through many types of education and thus it is refreshingly refreshing to be told to not think. This, I thought, I could do (although that actually countered the not-thinking thing). I applied my mind to not thinking.
After a few moments of bringing strange objects off imaginary shelves I began to be slightly troubled by who had actually stacked these shelves and the high level of irresponsibility involved. Frankly the managers of the Coop, Waterstones, even ToysRus would have been appalled. I was appalled and I’m quite open-minded when it comes to shelves, cupboards and general storage devices.
This is what they had put on the shelves:
A hippo with a flower in its mouth
A green rubber ball that smelt of wet wool
Half a red stilettoed boot with teeth-marks on
A man
A pair of cats-eye marbles fused together humming ABBA songs
A small box of kittens (assorted)
An enormous statue of a turkey
A wet sponge in the shape of a woman’s breast
A wet sponge in the shape of a man’s breast
Twelve yellow African camels
…. It went on….
But this wasn’t the end of my problems. It was one thing for the anonymous shelf stacker to load this imaginary shelf but it was an entirely different issue as what the fuck I was supposed to do with all this stuff.
I began by neatly stacking it around me – the hippo was balanced on the ball which in turn was balanced on the boot. The box of kittens I shoved under the statue of the turkey. The marbles I fed to the man. But when the bloody camels turned up I just had to say something.
‘Oh noble instructor,’ I said, feeling some sort of deference was probably due to the arranger of such an exercise, ‘I have been most successful at emptying my mind,’ I continued, just so he felt I understood, ‘but now I don’t know what the fuck to do with all these things I have gotten off the shelf. The room is becoming most crowded and as you can see these camels are chaffing.’
‘Just discard the stuff once you know what it is,’ he answered, ‘throw it over your shoulder.’
I stared in disbelieving disbelief. ‘No! What?! Just throw all these things away? No! What!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?’
He raised his eyebrows. I raised my eyebrows.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and I was, ‘I just can’t do that.’ I led my camels, men, hippos, kittens etc out of the building keeping my eyebrows aloft.
Lucky my improvisational skills at shed mending are better than my comedy. Does anyone know what to feed camels?
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