Monkey on a dog-horse

It was sent by my friend Dan, whose wise words ("Never, ever interrupt a man when he's making a cunt of himself") are a source of constant comfort in these troubling times. In fact, it is number one in my List Of How To Work With People:

1. Never, ever interrupt a man when he's making a cunt of himself
Wankers, idiots, the political, the whining, the dishonest and the manipulative constantly reveal themselves, whether they want to or not. This means you have no need to reveal them, or indeed get worked up about it - which is very good news!!

2. Listen to what people mean, not what they're saying.
This is probably in one of those Who Moved My Cheese books, but I do not care: it is very useful. (As is, in fact, listening generally - something that the young people are not able to do anymore, as they have been brought up by stupid parents who told them from the time that they were a tiny child that everything they said was important.

This is not true. Most of the things most people say are not important and most people won't listen to you most of the time. The sooner you realise that, the easier your life will be.)

3. Most people are idiots
Poor them. Be nice.

4. Most people mean to do the right thing even if they are annoying
Also true.

5. Treat everyone the same
For me this means I treat the managing director like the receptionist, but seeing as I treat her like I would treat anyone that is OK. Also it means that the managing director gets to order couriers for me and (occasionally!) send stuff overseas, which he likes.

6. Try not to shout, cry, tell me I'm a cunt, blame everyone else, be accusatory, not take any personal responsibility, etc
Particularly try not to do all of them at the same time whilst asking something from me. It will not work!!

7. Have good manners
If you do this everything else is easy.

In the middle of the night, I wake up

What is this shit? Five nights out of seven I wake up at 3 or 4, and am awake for two hours. And it is not just any old awake!!! No. It is the awake of the 'active mind'.

In fact, my mind is so active that it is often at this time that I am at my most productive. I have, in the past, been known to write entire presentations, letters to friends, shopping lists, 'to do' lists (general) or applications for "Britain's Got Talent" in the middle of the night, waking the next morning to find that not only can I not remember doing it, but that it is usually - in the case of work-related matters - of a very high standard!! It is odd (but not that odd, considering there are no distractions at all e.g people asking for stuff, crying because they haven't been promoted, wanting to know how to unblock the photocopier, asking me to be in meetings that are a waste of life, etc.)

I have heard that this is in fact entirely normal, as is the desire (and one I heartily endorse!!!*) to have a kip in the middle of the afternoon. In the olden days, apparently, people would hop out of bed, light a pipe, read a bit, wander around a bit and then go back to bed; sometimes they could be quite sociable, these middle-of-the-night wakingnesses, and you might find two or more people in eighteenth century nightclothes gathered about the fire in amusing hats talking about things.

Since discovering that it is normal I have worried less. And yet still I am tired! My accursed mind. So full of nothing and everything, whirring about the place. I am put in mind of a poem by Fleur Adcock that goes like this:

Things

There are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public.
There are worse things than these miniature betrayals,
committed or endured or suspected; there are worse things
than not being able to sleep for thinking about them.
It is 5 a.m. All the worse things come stalking in
and stand icily about the bed looking worse and worse
and worse.

And yet it reminds me that my non-sleepingness is not fair, for even if there is nothing standing icily about the bed, I still wake up and whir in the head! I am thinking of trying out 'meditation', but I am too tired to find somewhere to go and do it.


* When I worked for Britain's best-selling quality daily newspaper, I would often crawl round the side of my desk, between it and the window, and have a little sleep. It was really good, until I got found out and photographed.

I have visitors

Two of my best friends arrive from London with all the newspapers. My friends are what I miss about England. I don't think about it because there is nothing I can do about it (I will be living in Canada for a while), and thinking about it would make me mad; but even nine months has made little difference: we still make poo jokes and talk about cheese.

When I read the newspapers I am glad to see that nothing much has changed in the UK, including:

Posh has a hairdo (but still has a common little face)

Nikkkkiii out of Big Brother is still in the newspapers

As is Jade Doughface Goody (who had children with her identical twin)

As is also Jordan, who has breasts and a face with airbrushing

And that woman out of Men Behaving Badly with the lips.

Pikeys are still beating each other up and puking on stuff and having ASBOs and what-have-you

There is still a ginger prince and a bald prince going out with a girl who wears mini-kilts

Sanctimonious arseholes who you wouldn't want to have a drink with still write in to The Guardian (and for the record: Bill Vellutini was a fucking great bloke, and having known him I can guarantee that there was nothing inappropriate in him saying that Nigella Lawson was good looking: she was, and is)

The Sun assures me that there is no global financial crisis, and that there is crime sex etc.

The Telegraph has photographs of monkeys at desks and ads for special baths.


Like I say, not much changes.

It is my one year anniversary of living in Canada

How I got here is another story altogether, and one that may, one day, be worth telling. (I am thinking of doing it in the form of an epistolary novel, but will try and make it more interesting than for e.g. Clarissa by perhaps writing to imaginary friends and/or celebrities, who then write back, except the letters will be made up.)

Suffice to say that if you had told me two years and three days ago that I would be living in Montreal with a French-Canadian veterinary research histopathogist, I would have laughed in your silly face. But it is true!

(Thanks again to Dave Shelton, virtual friend and genius illustrator, for my 'hot pix'.)

They're sending in monkeys again

Look at this!!!! It is apparently a squirrel monkey in a tree, gracefully provided by a new reader who goes by the mysterious name of Icy Mt.




Regular readers are only too aware of the gallery, but new readers may look at it if they wish (there is a 'link' on the right, entitled "Splendid Monkey Gallery").

Should you wish to submit a splendid monkey of your own, I would encourage you to look at the original post, which provides monkey picture enthusiasts with some 'guidelines' for submission.


Come on readers!!! Spank my monkey gallery!!!