Day 265: I Cannot Sleep

In the olden days, I worried about many things. This meant I could never sleep, which meant I worried more. Things I worried about included:

1. I am going to die alone, definitely.

2. And when I die, I will die having done nothing of any import.

3. They smile at me, but secretly they hate me.

4. I shouldn't have said that thing in 1987.

5. Why does soap make the bubbles go away?

6. I am not like other people, and not in a good way

7. Will I ever be able to jump up and down in front of a mirror without puking on my feet?

8. Even if I die when I am 86, it is unlikely that I will be able to read more than 10,000 more books

9. Despite the fact of my fancy job and title, any minute now I am going to be found out

10. If I hadn't said that thing in 1987, I would be happy now

11. Surely it must be better than this

12. I wish the cat would die.


Anyway, time has passed and now I lie awake at night worrying about different things. Last night, they included:

1. An 11 x 4m inflatable packet of crisps

2. Argentinian whisky

3. Posters in Italian motorway caffs

4. Who are the bigger twats, KLM ("savoury or sweet?") or Air Canada ("ice cream?")

5. Whether it's worth investing 30 Euro in a crutch at the medical supplies shop up the road on the offchance of an upgrade on Friday

6. Whether the name of a biscuit translates into English

7. Pacman

8. Pathology.


I'm not sure what's worse, frankly.

Day 264: I Think About Rhubarb

Day 263: I Am Looking For Chris de Burgh

This splendid chap is Ian Moor, winner of Stars In Their Eyes, 1999. As you can see, he is a Chris de Burgh impersonator.

I very much need a link to him doing a duet of Lady in Red with the actual Chris de Burgh. (And if anyone can find a photograph of his* daughter winning Miss World in 2003, so much the better.)

* Chris de Burgh's daughter, not Ian Moor's.

Day 261: I Am Reminded That Over-Familiarity Breeds Contempt

"Good afternoon. Is that Monkey? This is Jeff from Orange, calling about your contract." No, Jeff. Stop. Stop now. Do not use my Christian name*. You are twenty. I am thirty-seven, and we have not met.

I am "Miss Monkey" or, if you must, "Ms Monkey". ("Ms" is such an ugly political point to make, like non-leather shoes.) If you must insist on using my Christian name do not, once you have started talking to me, use it in every sentence. It does not make me trust you more when you do it. It does not make me feel that you are listening to me. Please stop it. We do not live in the Mid-Western States of America; you are not selling used cars, and I am not the sort of person who buys Diamantique chandelier earrings from QVC.

If we were to meet, looking me straight in the eye, giving me a long, firm handshake and using my name all at the same time would not encourage me to think of you as trustworthy; it would encourage me to think you had been on a training course outside Leicester.

Moreover, if you have met me once - albeit in fairly informal circumstances - do not, under any circumstances, call me "you nutter" or "you idiot" in an email. Never, ever say (either out loud with your mouth or written down in an email), "You're MAD, you are!". (You do not, I am sure, want to discover the full extent of my insanity for the first time when I kill you with my hands.)

Calling me 'Madam' is, however, entirely appropriate. As is the following introduction to a telephone call (from John Lewis, of course): "Good afternoon, Miss Monkey. It is Peter from John Lewis calling about your account card. Is now a convenient time to talk?". Yes, Peter, it is.

* No pedantry about "Isn't it Non-working?", if you please.

Day 260: I Am Injured

Regular readers will be aware that I am, for the time being, living in Amsterdam and working in a job. Because I do not want to look like a tourist, I own a second-hand bike that carries me about the place, as that is what you do when you live in Amsterdam and want to blend in. (You also wear clogs all day and carry bunches of tulips. This is the absolute truth.)

But I am not Dutch! I was not born in one of the carts that Dutch children are bicycled around in; I was not brought up on the back of a tricycle; I never amused myself by balancing on friends' handlebars and I cannot ride my bicycle with one hand whilst juggling, weaving in and out of bollards and adjusting my headphones, as the Dutch can. (The last time I rode a bicycle properly was 1987, when the fastest route to school involved cycling round Hammersmith Broadway. "Did you cycle round Hammersmith Broadway today?", Monkeymother would ask, shining a pocket torch in my eyes. "No!", I would yelp. "You are lying!", she would then shriek, before beating me to a pulp with a rolled up copy of The Independent.)

I am therefore cautious on my bicycle. I indicate with my arms to show the other bicyclists where I am going; cars frighten me, despite the fact that I KNOW that they are more scared of people on bicycles than we are of them. (It is something to do with the law here: even if a bicyclist rides into your parked car whilst looking you in the eye and and pointing at the bonnet they have directed their front wheel at, you will be blamed and subsequently executed.)

But not cautious enough, it appears. For on Tuesday evening I was bicycling home and a car growled behind me. I swerved and fell; had you seen the incident from a long away, you might have mistaken me for an elephant tumbling off a unicycle. Two kind men appeared through a window. "Are you OK? We will pick up the bike for you and brush it down! Nothing is broken, yes? Please twist about your ankle this way and that for us to make sure." And then they sent me home. "Have a nice evening!", they said, as the nice Dutch people do sometimes.

It isn't broken, but the usual things apply.

Bad things about spraining your ankle:

1. Immobile. Unable to walk, cycle or move much
2. Hot swelling, strange scab; looseness that implies something fleshy has snapped
3. Bed sores
4. Concern that will not be able to visit pathologist in case leg explodes in the air
5. Cry with vile self-pity when nice lady gives me hug**

Good things about spraining your ankle:

1. Immobile. Unable to walk, cycle or move very much.
2. Hot swelling, strange scab
3. Looked after like stupid dog by nice people in office
4. Driven to and from work by a tiny Dutchman called Ralph
5. Drugs
6. Bruise that makes people scream like girls, even if they see it in a photograph:



Please note: this is the censored version. The full show includes a hole the size of a 50p piece - and many more besides!












Anyway, if that's made you feel sick, here's a picture of the work dog sitting on my work computer on my work desk:



















And if that hasn't helped, maybe you could put your mind to the following conundrum: at what point did The Quality Hotel in Altrincham (not 'quality', by any means; "Any chance of a double bed?" "No.") think that this looked like a good deal?






















* Visitors to Amsterdam: GET OUT OF THE FUCKING WAY OF BIKES, you CRETINS.

** A very bad word. Like 'cuddle', it gives a pleasant thing thing a very, very bad name.