“Mar-vaaah!”
“Eh? Wha?”
“Mar-vaaah!”
“What are you saying LB? I don’t understand you.”
“Mar-vaaah! Do you like Irish lorries, Mar-vaaah?”
Mar-vaaah
Reply
Tag Archives: humour
The Killing
We started to watch The Killing last week, about 12 years after the rest of the country. On Monday morning, after 11 episodes over five nights, Rich realised he could do cracking impressions of the main characters. Given that he only does two other impressions (Mick Jagger and Jeff Goldblum in The Fly) badly, it was very funny.
That evening, I was in the kitchen when I could hear some distant shouting outside. We live in a lively area at times, so I didn’t pay much attention to it.
Tom appeared in the kitchen doorway, hovering nervously.
“What is it?” I said.
“I think there’s someone at the door.”
I went into the hall and could see a very short figure shouting something through the letterbox in a very deep voice.
“EEEEEEK…” I thought, “Maybe someone’s been stabbed or something.”
I quickly shut the dogs and Tom in the living room and opened the front door.
It was Richy, bending over.
“WHATTHEHELLAREYOUDOING?????”
“Shouting “Troels!”* through the letterbox,”
“WHY?”
“I thought you’d find it funny,” he said. “You laughed this morning.”
Shrek modelling my Sarasiobhan Lund Christmas jumper
*Troels Hartmann is the key murder suspect at the moment (no spoilers please).
Prick or prank?
“Ok, LB. I’m going to get the washing in and then we’re off.”
“Prick.”
“Wha? Whatdidyousay????”
“Per…prank Mum. I said prank. Not prick. I’m sorry Mum. I won’t say it again Mum.”
The missing money and the ipatcher
Back from work this evening and, as agreed with Tom, start investigating why Sims 3 isn’t working. The ipatcher keeps quitting before it installs. Yep. That’s what I’ve been told. And the challenge is on.
Sleazyjet and the balance problem
My recent sleazyjet experience cropped up during a fireworks do last night and I mentioned how on both outward and return flights, rows of seats were ‘shut’ to passengers. There was no seat allocation but cabin crew directed us to particular rows. They said we needed to spread around the plane to maintain balance because there were only 60 passengers. They’d put down the table things so we couldn’t sit in certain seats.
The punched ticket
Long, long week of grindingly vile news, including (in no particular order) Gaddafi coverage, Fox corruption, Dale Farm eviction and Ricky Gervais being a knob. But then I noticed this when I was sorting out my expenses;
How COOL is that? The ticket person hole punched a witch on a broomstick on my train ticket. I love it! I want to know if it’s a rogue operator, who sprinkles cheer among commuters across the year with custom punchers for different occasions, or whether Southeastern Rail have provided them. Either way, thank you for making me chuckle and adding a bit of humour to the every day. Lovely timing.
Yer mum jokes
Tom was telling us at breakfast about how, in a science class, there was a description of a blubbery, hairy animal and someone shouted “That’s yer mum Tom”.
“Oh,” said Richy, “that’s not very nice”.
“It’s a yer mum joke”, said Rosie and Owen in unison, chuckling into their pancakes.
Richy and I sat there with blank faces.
Fieldwork
Fieldwork. Life on the road. Possibly romantic in, for example, the wide open spaces of the States. Bumbling around the UK on trains and buses, staying in typical British budget hotels, is not quite so enjoyable. Here’s a taste of one journey, a couple of years ago, and the spaces I passed through on that journey. Some a helluva lot quicker than others.
So, first the cross country sleeper, London to Aberdeen. Fun, though odd, waking at midnight and opening the blind to find we were at Crewe station. Bit of a surreal bed/private/platform/public situ. Plus there are no cabin keys; you’re supposed to call the steward to re-open your door. I didn’t want to bother Stew so did a quick loo dash leaving my door wedged open, hoping some thieving bastard didn’t filch my stuff.
The panic button
I bumped into an old mate, Nicola, in town today on the way to work. She, too, is in that horrible, horrible space between children’s services and sweet fuck all. After a quick catch up (that was pretty negative because of the sweet f.a. situ), she asked if I’d heard of seizure alert dogs. Her son, 17, has developed epilepsy, she doesn’t want to put him on medication and her son’s consultant ain’t very happy about this.
“Well, funny you ask because….” I started.
“Ha ha ha ha!!!!!! You always know something funny about things, Sarasiobhan!”, she laughed.
“…I read about this woman,” I continued, “she had a seizure alert dog who was brilliant. He sensed when she was about to have a seizure and nudged her, so she could take medication. She had a panic button installed in her flat that he could press with his paw to call the paramedics if she became unconscious…”
“Wow, that is amazing. I will definitely look into it for Billy”, said Nicola, paying proper attention at last.
“The funny thing was, if he felt she wasn’t paying enough attention to him, or felt like a bit of attention from the paramedics, he would walk over to the button and stand, with his paw raised, ready to press….”
“Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha”, Nicola howled, hysterically hanging on to my arm. Her laughter was infectious and we stood, a couple of hysterical women, in a sea of commuters and Summer school students. Bit of a chuckle and tonic.
More details of the story of the young woman with the seizure alert dog, and other young people’s experiences of epilepsy, can be read here.
The moonlit wings reflect the stars..
Part 3 of the overland saga and I’ve even grubbed around in the attic for my old sketch pad.
Sleeping. By the time we reached the desert we slept where we lay our sleeping mats. Scattered around the truck in two’s and three’s. Generally as far from the canoodling couples as possible. There were no roads, just space. It was pretty cold at night, so we’d bundle up in sleeping bags and doze off watching the shooting stars party.
mydaftlife 