In line with the responsibility angle of a lot of these blog posts, I’ve invented a new pseudo condition – dyscalculexia. This, for the less medically inclined is a (made up) mixture of difficulties reading both words and numbers. It isn’t a medically recognised disorder, but it can only be a matter of time. It is possibly also a way of avoiding hate mail. Continue reading
That Danish trip again (see also)..this is a long, long one. These flight stories are going to sound made up, I’m sure but it’s all true (well apart from officials’ swearing).
Travelled from seaside town to Copenhagen airport with the lovely Cornish Debbie I’d met at the conference. We laughed our socks off remembering pig toilets in India in the 1980’s. She left me at the BA check in as she wasn’t flying back for several hours. Continue reading
I was shopping in Ikea with little sis, Sammy Seal, when an announcement came over the tannoy; ‘Would Sarasiobhan please make her way to Customer Services. Sarasiobhan to Customer Services’.
‘OMG! This is it! I’ve won a prize!’ I said to the Seal. ‘Whoo hoooo!!! Probably the millionth customer, or maybe the billionth globally!’ She didn’t seem overly excited as we went to find Customer Services. Would it be a cash prize or a supermarket sweep type jobby, I wondered. How funny. Five minutes ago I was an ordinary shopper, now I could have a lifetime’s supply of Billy bookcases.
‘I’m Sarasiobhan’, I said to the woman at Customer Services. ‘Oh’, she replied, ‘You left your purse in the toilet’.
This story will, eventually, evolve into a flight nightmare post but before then, other stuff happened. I flew to Copenhagen two years ago to go to a conference somewhere by the sea in Denmark. Not a good trip.
I caught the train from the airport into Copenhagen. It was like the London underground with seats long ways on each side. A gang of kids got on at the same time. One of the boys sat next to me, while the rest performed some elaborate, loud distraction routine at the end of the carriage, trying to engage with other passengers. I don’t speak Danish but I do speak the language of life. My suspicions were aroused. I looked down and saw the little bastard had his hand in my coat pocket, millimetres from my purse. Continue reading
Rosie’s little mate, Charlotte, bounded across the playground before school one morning shouting “Sara! I saw Laughing Boy on the eel bus yesterday!” Whoa. Wha? The eel bus? Laughing Boy? “Slow down a bit, Charlotte.. what’s the eel bus?” “You know, the bus that takes all the eel children”.. Eh, you lost me? “The eel bus? Where did you see him?” “On the ring road in the bus with the other eel children” (silly).. Ah. The ‘ill’ i.e. disabled children.
That was when I first started to wonder about where all the eel children were taken.
I used to like making soft toys from kits. I was pretty rubbish at it but I like to think it was an early indication of my interest in disability. Luckily I captured them all in a photo shoot in the back garden so here’s the gang;
(From the top going clockwise); Red felt buffalo, Patchwork cat, Pixie (lurking), Knitted mauve teddy, Soft brown dog, Brown panda, Pooh (lurking), Felt owl, Cute little cow guy. I think there may be one in between Knitted Mauve teddy and Brown panda – a sort of brown soft thing – but I can’t remember it. Maybe it’s just some mud.
Rosie and I were booked on very exciting trip to Genova, leaving on her 13th birthday. She got a cow case in advance. A few days before, I couldn’t find my passport. Panic.
Got accountant mate (anon) to sign the forms to get a speedy replacement (just had enough time luckily if I travelled to passport office the next day and waited for it to be processed). She filled in the form (A) so carefully, then got confused about a box she signed. She put a line through the signature, then filled in a second form (B) leaving the box blank, just to be safe.
Off on the bus to London, queued at passport office for about 40 mins, then handed over the form (B) to the most deadpan person ever. I blathered on about the Genova trip with Rosie, leaving the next day, blah blah blah. 13th birthday, blah blah blah. She gave the form straight back to me and said that mate hadn’t signed the box. ‘Ah, no, here’s another version where she did sign it’, I said cheerfully, pulling form (A) out of my bag. ‘It’s got a line through it, she will need to sign it again’, said Deadpan. Sob. ‘She works about 10 miles in the countryside from hometowny which is 1.5 hours on the bus, which is 20 mins on the tube from here, it’s not physically possible’, I blubbed. ‘Fuck off you loser’, she replied.*
credits: thanks to Tracy for literally spending a day searching with me
*She didn’t really swear, but said words to that effect.
Here is a convoluted story. Checking in to Marrakech airport last Oct with Richy Rich (RR), I got a bit suspicious of a Moroccan guy in front of us (Red Fox). Just one of those funny instincts, confirmed about 20 minutes later when he passed the passport control matey some cash in his passport. Had a tense wait at the gate wondering what to do. Board? Raise the alarm with staff? Warn all the passengers? Look a total numpty? RR went off “to tell a guard” about my suspicions . What a relief. He came back five minutes later and said he was joking. He’d been to toilet.
We boarded and sat a few rows behind Red Fox and his mate. I nearly broke the skin on RR’s arm when the pair of them went to the toilet together. Red Fox was wearing a zipped up, very padded jacket. He waited in the kitchen area while his mate was in the toilet, then they swapped. They returned to their seats and I scoobied to the toilet to look for a device. I went through the rubbish bin and did a finger tip search of the ceiling panels. Nothing. I realised if they were going to blow up the plane, it would be over London.
I went back to my seat. RR was so fed up with me he was feigning sleep so I made a plan. We had to stop them returning to the toilet once we were over the Channel. There was a tagine in the luggage rack that looked like it could do some damage. RR could throw my coat over one of them and grapple him. We could block the aisle hopefully calling on the support of other passengers. It was a very, very long flight.
Three hours later we reached London and landed. We shuffled off the plane but the doors into the airport were locked. We stood in a line in a corridor, people muttering and getting a bit irate. After 20 minutes, the door opened and we walked through to a heavily policed passport area. Red Fox was taken away.
Today I nearly saw Michelle Obama twice. Richy Rich texted to say she’d just driven past our road into town and she’d probably head out our way later going back to London. Laughing Boy came back from school too late to keep an eye out for her so I wandered round to the Co-op a decent time later hoping to catch a glimpse. Unfortunately, according to a stunned woman in the Co-op car park, I’d just missed her but she saw her hand. Shame. I wanted to tell her about my new blog.
The Co-op, where I nearly saw Michelle Obama
Ok, this is a bit of a random mystery. I was reading in the garden the other weekend, went to make a cup of tea and when I went back outside, half a human poo had appeared on the grass. I panicked a bit and got rid of it before I took a photo, so I’ve recreated the scene using felt tip pens.
So, A is the poo. B is where the clear break is. C is the chair I was sitting on. D is next door’s fence and E is evidence of flattened grass.
My first thought was that it fell from a plane. This can happen; (http://bit.ly/heSIdo)
mydaftlife 