I’ve been updating my Google iPage. As you may recall last time I did this, ah, I can’t recall, still, I did something.
This time I felt it was time to become more intellectual, better read and generally cerebral.
Gone is the fortune cookie who was always telling me that I was popular/brilliant/gorgeous. Despite moments of being on a low ebb, flattery from bakery products just wasn’t working for me.
Gone is the horoscope that told me what to do and think as doing and thinking seemed to just work by itself.
Gone are the girlie snowflakes, butterflies and leaves that floated across my screen in a disorientating confusing confusion of seasons.
This is what I’ve put there now:
Place of the day to see before you die
Scientific American headlines
New Scientist headlines
Einstein Quote of the day
How to of the day
National Geographic picture of the day
And
The weather
This is all going to lead me to be a better and cleverer person. I can read all this stuff and be inspired to write grown-up blog posts that are no longer thinly disguised metaphors for sex.
This is what I learnt today:
Before you die you should go to Jamaica and lie on a beach (possibly naked).
How to swallow a pill.
Scientists are designing prosthetics for men.
Fizzy water powered ‘super’ geysers on Mars
How to tell if an sausage is bad.
Birds gotta fly
The sun is shining
Levitating joystick improves feedback
There will soon be wormholes in Geneva
And
Size matters.
I believe my readers and I are about to lead richer, more intellectual, less innuendoed and generally more fulfilled lives.
Showing posts with label RUN AWAY. Show all posts
Showing posts with label RUN AWAY. Show all posts
Wednesday, 19 March 2008
Thursday, 14 February 2008
How Not to Meet Mr Right on Valentines Day
It was Valentines Day today. It still is. But luckily there’s only 35 minutes left.
This is what happened:
I received something red in the post.
Some twelve hours later I discarded it as I really do have loads of those elastic bands that the postman uses already. We have a ball of them even. Called Cyril. The ball. Not the postman. Although the postman might be called Cyril. I’ll ask him tomorrow.
So, today was Valentines day. It still is. But luckily there’s only 33 minutes left. A day for finding love.
This is what happened:
After a lengthy discussion with my mother as to where all the handsome rich men with cute children hang out I decided to go to the gym. Because it was a good a place as anywhere to start on my search for Mr Right.
And obviously any sexy blokes, or even just ok blokes, or even just blokes with all their tackle intact, who were in the gym on Valentines night were bound to be single. Or in serious trouble. Thus my arrival on Valentines night (as opposed to my arrival on every other night this week) would cunningly lead to my knowing exactly which of those sweating regulars were, or were not, single. Cunning eh?
I went to great lengths to look good, wearing my new M&S gym trousers – ‘cotton fresh’. ‘Feel me’ the label said. I left it on. As well as the label ‘£12.99 fantastic value’ in case any of the men I was about to meet happened to have £12.99. I washed, brushed, put on several bras (needing all the support I could get) (especially whilst running) (which I might have to do) (if I met Mr Right and he tried to run away).
With a jaunty step and a J-Lo like wiggle to my bottom I stepped into the gym. And glanced around. And peered around some corners. And under some running machines.
There were no men.
There were lots of women.
Like me. Except without the labels.
None of the men whose physique I’ve been admiring all these weeks are single.
This is disappointing.
It was Valentines Day today. It still is. But luckily there’s only 25 minutes left.
This is what happened:
I received something red in the post.
Some twelve hours later I discarded it as I really do have loads of those elastic bands that the postman uses already. We have a ball of them even. Called Cyril. The ball. Not the postman. Although the postman might be called Cyril. I’ll ask him tomorrow.
So, today was Valentines day. It still is. But luckily there’s only 33 minutes left. A day for finding love.
This is what happened:
After a lengthy discussion with my mother as to where all the handsome rich men with cute children hang out I decided to go to the gym. Because it was a good a place as anywhere to start on my search for Mr Right.
And obviously any sexy blokes, or even just ok blokes, or even just blokes with all their tackle intact, who were in the gym on Valentines night were bound to be single. Or in serious trouble. Thus my arrival on Valentines night (as opposed to my arrival on every other night this week) would cunningly lead to my knowing exactly which of those sweating regulars were, or were not, single. Cunning eh?
I went to great lengths to look good, wearing my new M&S gym trousers – ‘cotton fresh’. ‘Feel me’ the label said. I left it on. As well as the label ‘£12.99 fantastic value’ in case any of the men I was about to meet happened to have £12.99. I washed, brushed, put on several bras (needing all the support I could get) (especially whilst running) (which I might have to do) (if I met Mr Right and he tried to run away).
With a jaunty step and a J-Lo like wiggle to my bottom I stepped into the gym. And glanced around. And peered around some corners. And under some running machines.
There were no men.
There were lots of women.
Like me. Except without the labels.
None of the men whose physique I’ve been admiring all these weeks are single.
This is disappointing.
It was Valentines Day today. It still is. But luckily there’s only 25 minutes left.
Sunday, 9 December 2007
How to be Successfully Single or How to be Single Successfully
There are those who have chosen, of their own volition, to be single. Those people who enjoy a sunset stroll along the beach holding their own hands, an evening in front of the fire with nothing more to caress but a faux-fur cushion from ASDA, to tuck themselves up in bed with a hot water bottle cunningly disguised as a bunny-rabbit. These people are either lucky, sad, or seriously deluding themselves.
Then there are those whom the entire population of the opposite (or in some cases same) sex have decided that they should be single. This is an example of an unusual, but possibly encouraging, world-wide collaboration seldom seen in the fields of politics, religion or taste.
Here are a few handy tips for the unwilling, unwitting and unwary single person:
Get rid of all forms of communication such as telephones, the internet, letter boxes, and carrier pigeon roosts. If they can’t get in touch you can work on the joyful assumption that they would if only they could.
Dispense with of all types of media such as televisions, radios, the internet, books and windows. If you can’t see other people enjoying relationships then you won’t miss having one yourself.
Don’t go to clubs, pubs, evening classes, supermarkets, street corners or anywhere past your front door. If you can’t meet anyone then, again, you can work on the joyful assumption that if you did then you would surely meet your perfect mate.
Get a cat. These feline friends obviate many of the more awkward aspects of singledom such as having nothing to cuddle, having no one’s sick/faeces to clean up, and the natural proclivity to talk to oneself.
Should you find yourself still struggling with appreciating the joys of singledom then get another cat, or a few more, or possibly a dozen.
The above tips surely show that you don’t have to be sad to be single and you don’t have to be sad to be single. Life is still full of fun, joy and lots of things to do. Such as talk to the cats.
Then there are those whom the entire population of the opposite (or in some cases same) sex have decided that they should be single. This is an example of an unusual, but possibly encouraging, world-wide collaboration seldom seen in the fields of politics, religion or taste.
Here are a few handy tips for the unwilling, unwitting and unwary single person:
Get rid of all forms of communication such as telephones, the internet, letter boxes, and carrier pigeon roosts. If they can’t get in touch you can work on the joyful assumption that they would if only they could.
Dispense with of all types of media such as televisions, radios, the internet, books and windows. If you can’t see other people enjoying relationships then you won’t miss having one yourself.
Don’t go to clubs, pubs, evening classes, supermarkets, street corners or anywhere past your front door. If you can’t meet anyone then, again, you can work on the joyful assumption that if you did then you would surely meet your perfect mate.
Get a cat. These feline friends obviate many of the more awkward aspects of singledom such as having nothing to cuddle, having no one’s sick/faeces to clean up, and the natural proclivity to talk to oneself.
Should you find yourself still struggling with appreciating the joys of singledom then get another cat, or a few more, or possibly a dozen.
The above tips surely show that you don’t have to be sad to be single and you don’t have to be sad to be single. Life is still full of fun, joy and lots of things to do. Such as talk to the cats.
Sunday, 25 November 2007
The One with the Pigeon
There’s a pigeon by the car. It’s big. A Wood Pigeon I strongly suspect, although I haven’t asked it. Mostly because it’s dead.
I’m not one of those people who object to pigeons per se. Indeed I believe that they are fine upstanding members of the bird community. Their gentle cooing can get a tad annoying if directly outside an open window on a day with a hangover, but nevertheless, pigeons are ok.
Should the aforementioned pigeon have been a bit more alive I would have greeted it with a cheery ‘Greetings pigeon!!!!!!!’. Maybe or maybe not with that number of exclamation marks. It was neither mine nor the pigeon’s fault that in fact I greeted it with a resounding ergggggggg and a slight shiver followed by a meandering feeling of nausea.
I have a bit of a difficulty with dead things. It is perhaps inexplicable or possibly rooted in a deep psychological problem that stemmed from an incident in my childhood that I have erased from my memory (a wise move).
My attempts to erase the pigeon from my memory have so far failed. One might not think that one dead and silent pigeon would be a major obstacle to my day. One might think very wrongly.
It is by the car. Dead. On it’s back. Probably to illustrate just how very dead it is. I therefore cannot get into the car. It is causing an obstruction.
‘Why the hell don’t you just move the sodding pigeon?’ I hear you ask. Although you may not have sworn.
I have a bit of a problem with dead things.
Even small dead things are not good. From woodlice up I start to be quite irrational. Mammals are the worst but birds come a short second. It is very lucky that I have never had to move a human corpse. Even the sight (previous) of the Beloved (previous) asleep could be quite disturbing. Thus at least the world can be assured that it is unlikely that I would murder anyone as the impossibility of moving the body, tying concrete triangles to their feet and throwing them into Hudson Bay is, essentially, an overwhelming obstacle. When the detectives begin their in-depth investigation re the murderer of whoever the first person they always eliminate is me. Because of this obstacle.
Like the pigeon.
I can’t get in the car. So I can’t go to the Coop to get milk. Or bread. We are going to starve to death. Thirst to death.
But I am not a woman without initiative. I have a plan. I will text the Beloved ‘Help! Dead pigeon!!!’ Using exactly that number of exclamation marks. He will leap out of the arms of his new Beloved and rescue me. Or I will starve to death and he will have to move my body, tie concrete triangles to my feet and throw me into Hudson Bay. But prior to that he will have to move the pigeon. In order to get to the car. So, either way, I win.
I’m not one of those people who object to pigeons per se. Indeed I believe that they are fine upstanding members of the bird community. Their gentle cooing can get a tad annoying if directly outside an open window on a day with a hangover, but nevertheless, pigeons are ok.
Should the aforementioned pigeon have been a bit more alive I would have greeted it with a cheery ‘Greetings pigeon!!!!!!!’. Maybe or maybe not with that number of exclamation marks. It was neither mine nor the pigeon’s fault that in fact I greeted it with a resounding ergggggggg and a slight shiver followed by a meandering feeling of nausea.
I have a bit of a difficulty with dead things. It is perhaps inexplicable or possibly rooted in a deep psychological problem that stemmed from an incident in my childhood that I have erased from my memory (a wise move).
My attempts to erase the pigeon from my memory have so far failed. One might not think that one dead and silent pigeon would be a major obstacle to my day. One might think very wrongly.
It is by the car. Dead. On it’s back. Probably to illustrate just how very dead it is. I therefore cannot get into the car. It is causing an obstruction.
‘Why the hell don’t you just move the sodding pigeon?’ I hear you ask. Although you may not have sworn.
I have a bit of a problem with dead things.
Even small dead things are not good. From woodlice up I start to be quite irrational. Mammals are the worst but birds come a short second. It is very lucky that I have never had to move a human corpse. Even the sight (previous) of the Beloved (previous) asleep could be quite disturbing. Thus at least the world can be assured that it is unlikely that I would murder anyone as the impossibility of moving the body, tying concrete triangles to their feet and throwing them into Hudson Bay is, essentially, an overwhelming obstacle. When the detectives begin their in-depth investigation re the murderer of whoever the first person they always eliminate is me. Because of this obstacle.
Like the pigeon.
I can’t get in the car. So I can’t go to the Coop to get milk. Or bread. We are going to starve to death. Thirst to death.
But I am not a woman without initiative. I have a plan. I will text the Beloved ‘Help! Dead pigeon!!!’ Using exactly that number of exclamation marks. He will leap out of the arms of his new Beloved and rescue me. Or I will starve to death and he will have to move my body, tie concrete triangles to my feet and throw me into Hudson Bay. But prior to that he will have to move the pigeon. In order to get to the car. So, either way, I win.
Saturday, 20 October 2007
How Not to Fall Out of Love
There comes a time in many people’s relationships that’s called ‘The End’. It seldom causes the same sense of satisfaction as those mystical words rolling up as a classic film finishes, nor does one get the opportunity to discover who it was that actually played the leading roles, directed or who the mysterious man that looked like your father’s uncle was. Sometimes, often the better times, the end of a relationship is of one’s own volition. Oft as not though it is because one has been dumped, rejected and generally thrown out into the world of singledom without a by-your-leave, an excuse-me or even a darling-would-you-mind-if-I-just….
This leads to a key question many a dumpee has been forced to ask – ‘How do I fall out of love?’ Here are a few top tips:
Do not think about the object of your affections. At all. A tall order indeed but there are a number of practical aids around the house that may help –
Remove all evidence of the Beloved, including:
Photographs (especially photographs).
Items belonging to the Beloved that may have been accidentally left behind including socks, CDs, books, and pubic hair adhering to household surfaces.
Items belonging to the Beloved that may have been purposefully left behind including uncomfortable chairs, CDs of embarrassing seventies groups, books so trashy that even the Beloved thinks he doesn’t own them, and pubic hair adhering to household surfaces.
Anything that may remind one of the Beloved such as ashtrays he made for you in pottery class in 1978 when pottery classes were de rigueur, cupboard doors he may have smashed in a fit of pique, and walls he painted colours you really never liked.
Anything that may look like the Beloved such as muddy boots, life-sized models of Arnold Schwarzenegger (or possibly Woody Allen), and the Beloved’s children. Ok, perhaps not his children as they are also your children. So best simply disguise them using false beards, face-paint and gorilla costumes. Assure them that Halloween has been extended to an all-year event.
Now you have thoroughly cleansed your house all that remains is to cleanse your mind. As your mind is smaller than your house (unless you live in a world even more bizarre than the one I live in) this shouldn’t be too difficult. Perhaps. Or not. A few top tips on self-brainwashing include:
Never use any words that start with the same letter as your Beloved’s name.
Don’t, under any circumstances, watch, listen to, or read anything that is to do with love. This boils down to essentially not watching, listening to or reading anything at all. Ever.
Avoid places that you have ever made love. Hence going to bed is definitely out, as is laying the table, having a bath, taking a shower, the sofa, building a nice fire, driving, canoeing, ice skating, and bungee jumping.
At this point I can hear you asking ‘But what’s left if I avoid all of the above, good and excellent advice as it is?’
Fret not. There is still a life after being dumped. Don’t imagine that there is nowhere to go and nothing to do.
If you have a toilet that is not in the bathroom that will prove a good place to hang out. Failing that any convenient cupboard large enough to squat in will prove excellent. Then, simply cover your ears in case anyone should try and play love songs in your vicinity. Cover your eyes in case you see any stray pubic hairs that you failed to notice in your house-cleansing ritual. Close your mouth firmly lest you utter any words that begin (or for that matter, contain) any letters that are in your Beloved’s name. And voila! Out of love. Fucking sorted. Oh, but don’t use the word ‘fucking’.
This leads to a key question many a dumpee has been forced to ask – ‘How do I fall out of love?’ Here are a few top tips:
Do not think about the object of your affections. At all. A tall order indeed but there are a number of practical aids around the house that may help –
Remove all evidence of the Beloved, including:
Photographs (especially photographs).
Items belonging to the Beloved that may have been accidentally left behind including socks, CDs, books, and pubic hair adhering to household surfaces.
Items belonging to the Beloved that may have been purposefully left behind including uncomfortable chairs, CDs of embarrassing seventies groups, books so trashy that even the Beloved thinks he doesn’t own them, and pubic hair adhering to household surfaces.
Anything that may remind one of the Beloved such as ashtrays he made for you in pottery class in 1978 when pottery classes were de rigueur, cupboard doors he may have smashed in a fit of pique, and walls he painted colours you really never liked.
Anything that may look like the Beloved such as muddy boots, life-sized models of Arnold Schwarzenegger (or possibly Woody Allen), and the Beloved’s children. Ok, perhaps not his children as they are also your children. So best simply disguise them using false beards, face-paint and gorilla costumes. Assure them that Halloween has been extended to an all-year event.
Now you have thoroughly cleansed your house all that remains is to cleanse your mind. As your mind is smaller than your house (unless you live in a world even more bizarre than the one I live in) this shouldn’t be too difficult. Perhaps. Or not. A few top tips on self-brainwashing include:
Never use any words that start with the same letter as your Beloved’s name.
Don’t, under any circumstances, watch, listen to, or read anything that is to do with love. This boils down to essentially not watching, listening to or reading anything at all. Ever.
Avoid places that you have ever made love. Hence going to bed is definitely out, as is laying the table, having a bath, taking a shower, the sofa, building a nice fire, driving, canoeing, ice skating, and bungee jumping.
At this point I can hear you asking ‘But what’s left if I avoid all of the above, good and excellent advice as it is?’
Fret not. There is still a life after being dumped. Don’t imagine that there is nowhere to go and nothing to do.
If you have a toilet that is not in the bathroom that will prove a good place to hang out. Failing that any convenient cupboard large enough to squat in will prove excellent. Then, simply cover your ears in case anyone should try and play love songs in your vicinity. Cover your eyes in case you see any stray pubic hairs that you failed to notice in your house-cleansing ritual. Close your mouth firmly lest you utter any words that begin (or for that matter, contain) any letters that are in your Beloved’s name. And voila! Out of love. Fucking sorted. Oh, but don’t use the word ‘fucking’.
Friday, 27 April 2007
How Custard May Actually Take Over the World
There have been some disturbing developments on the custard front. The fun is over. The physicist now fighting at the forefront of knowledge in order to write up the project. Various anomalies in the theories have come to light. Graphs that are supposed to wiggle one way are wiggling in ways only understood by understanders of second order differential equations. And not even by her. In a last ditch attempt to prove the ground-breaking (or should I say custard-breaking) theory she is resorting to having to use various powers that ordinary souls are completely innocent about. Since we are those ordinary souls I will keep you (and myself) in the dark about these powers, let it only be said that there is a great deal of formulae and superscript and strange Greek lettering involved.
But this is not the worst of it, not by far. I have, only today been handed a confidential DVD containing photographic evidence of how Custard may, and probably will, take over the world. Since I don’t believe in the confidentiality of science, I am publishing this herewith.
It started innocently enough with an ordinary school physics lab. A lab usually restricted to the normal pursuit of physics. Actually, no, it started earlier with an innocent physics teacher advising as to the nature of what constitutes an A level physics project. An informative and extensive list of probable, possible and practical conundrums for your probable, possible and practical physics student to undertake. Fine. Fair enough. Good teaching practice. But here was his mistake… he added a small but dangerous coda– ‘I doubt very much if you will be able to come up with anything different from these.’ Fool. Mad idiot. Didn’t he know? My physicist was in his class. Come on man, she’d been there for nigh on two years generally asking difficult questions whist trying to look innocent. It was trouble waiting to happen. Well, we know a lot of the rest http://ceciliamorreau.blogspot.com/2007/04/how-custard-could-save-world.html but these new dangers have only now come to my attention.
This is what happened to the innocent teacher and his innocent teacher friend:
this is what happened to the physics lab (the one in the green is the perpetrator of all this trouble) :
Ok, well this is obviously all bad enough. But it seems contained within the bounds of a secondary school physics lab. Ok, powder and gooey mess not popular with your modern-day over-regulated institute of learning, but surely not a danger. Well, maybe not. But there’s more. Start by carefully observing what is happening behind the well-meaning if a little deranged physicist. Yes, there are two more physicists. No, they are not conducting their own projects. Yes, they are filling balloons with Non-Newtonian liquids. Custard.
So far all innocent fun. But here is where it gets scary. The mad, messy and challenging one in the green lab coat, (by the way I never brought her up to do such things…I did try Barbie dolls and cute dresses, honestly) decided to further the knowledge of science by finding out what happens if you agitate custard.
NEVER AGITATE CUSTARD
This is what happened. It is well spooky. If you are faint-hearted look away now. If you don’t want to know the score also look away now.
If you need to know what present and future dangers are threatening the planet look now:
Score: CUSTARD 328 – GIRL 0
Advice – RUN AWAY. NOW.
But this is not the worst of it, not by far. I have, only today been handed a confidential DVD containing photographic evidence of how Custard may, and probably will, take over the world. Since I don’t believe in the confidentiality of science, I am publishing this herewith.
It started innocently enough with an ordinary school physics lab. A lab usually restricted to the normal pursuit of physics. Actually, no, it started earlier with an innocent physics teacher advising as to the nature of what constitutes an A level physics project. An informative and extensive list of probable, possible and practical conundrums for your probable, possible and practical physics student to undertake. Fine. Fair enough. Good teaching practice. But here was his mistake… he added a small but dangerous coda– ‘I doubt very much if you will be able to come up with anything different from these.’ Fool. Mad idiot. Didn’t he know? My physicist was in his class. Come on man, she’d been there for nigh on two years generally asking difficult questions whist trying to look innocent. It was trouble waiting to happen. Well, we know a lot of the rest http://ceciliamorreau.blogspot.com/2007/04/how-custard-could-save-world.html but these new dangers have only now come to my attention.
This is what happened to the innocent teacher and his innocent teacher friend:
this is what happened to the physics lab (the one in the green is the perpetrator of all this trouble) :
Ok, well this is obviously all bad enough. But it seems contained within the bounds of a secondary school physics lab. Ok, powder and gooey mess not popular with your modern-day over-regulated institute of learning, but surely not a danger. Well, maybe not. But there’s more. Start by carefully observing what is happening behind the well-meaning if a little deranged physicist. Yes, there are two more physicists. No, they are not conducting their own projects. Yes, they are filling balloons with Non-Newtonian liquids. Custard.
So far all innocent fun. But here is where it gets scary. The mad, messy and challenging one in the green lab coat, (by the way I never brought her up to do such things…I did try Barbie dolls and cute dresses, honestly) decided to further the knowledge of science by finding out what happens if you agitate custard.
NEVER AGITATE CUSTARD
This is what happened. It is well spooky. If you are faint-hearted look away now. If you don’t want to know the score also look away now.
If you need to know what present and future dangers are threatening the planet look now:
Score: CUSTARD 328 – GIRL 0
Advice – RUN AWAY. NOW.
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