Conversation between a manager and a French exchange student this morning during a pre-meeting chat, with myself and a colleague in the same office around the same desk, listening intently.
Manager (to French student): "So how long will you spend here?"
Student: (long pause, vacant look, visibly struggling for vocab) "errrrr, eez seeks munths"
Manager: "So you've been here for how long already?"
Student: (even longer pause, fear seeping into her trembling eyes) "errrrr, arrround four munths"
Manager: "So you've got two months left then?"
Student: (massive long pause, smile) "no".
Manager: "Okay, I think we'll leave it there shall we?"
Dublin was four days of endless drinking, mindless banter and non-stop laughs, but that will be written up in full a bit later.
We returned on Tuesday evening after far too few hours sleep, our livers and wallets reeling from the weekend's debauchery. Bearing in mind that I was due to start a new job the very next day and was quite nervous about it, this probably wasn't a good start. An early night beckoned, but never materialised and come morning, I was knackered.
I hadn't shaved for two days and the stubble growth was unacceptable. I wanted to be well-presented for my first day in the new job and decided that, despite the excessive fatigue, I would shave and make the effort so that I was nice and clean and tidy.
I tested the running water until it was the right temperature, went to splash my face in preparation for the shave and promptly head-butted the stainless steel tap. Consequence? Large bruise under left eye. Great.
Last night, Alex M invited me out with two girls he knew from his university days. I had never met these girls before and we were due to meet them for a curry and a beer in the Moon Under Water in Watford town centre.
Fifteen minutes after they arrived, we had chosen the curries and Vicky and I went to the bar to order. I stood next to an elderly gentlemen who was very keen on getting served and waited patiently at the bar.
Slowly, he turned round and looked at me. I could see at least a dozen hairy, crusty moles sticking out at me, he went to speak and I feared the power of his breath.
"Is this your girl?" he croaked, turning towards Vicky who was on tip-toes trying to see over the bar.
"Ummmm" I momentarily forgot how to talk.
"Is she your friend?" he re-phrased and my brain clicked my tongue back into action, so to speak.
"Ummm, yes, I suppose so".
"Well," and he paused to gulp down the mouthful of saliva that had built up over the past few minutes. He turned to us again.
"The reason I ask" he continued, with another irritating pause, "is because the clocks go back this weekend".
"Riiight", I said, trying to contain my laughter. "Thanks for that".
But it wasn't over yet, the barmaid had come over and asked him what he wanted.
"A big wine please".
He took his drink, wandered off and we waited patiently for the barmaid to take our orders.
'Tap on the shoulder'
"Could you give this to the young lady that served me please?" He was back, glass of wine sloshing in one hand, twenty pence bit in the other. Worryingly, he didn't seem drunk. So I handed the twenty pence to the barmaid, told her not to spend it all at once and retreated back to the table, giggling incessantly. Watford always seems to provide some sort of entertainment.
Over the past ten days or so, I have noticed two things about myself:
1) I have a constant hunger and am permanently looking forward to my next meal. Is this me fattening myself up for the winter, or am I exerting so much energy through daily life and sports that my fuel supply requires repeated regeneration?
2) I have developed the habit of waking up in the morning humming/singing songs in my head. Am I going mad? They are totally random too - for example on Tuesday I woke up and broke into a chorus of George Harrison's 'I've Got My Mind Set On You' which is a song I haven't heard for several years. Other examples include Right Said Fred's 'I'm Too Sexy' and Kylie's 'I Should Be So Lucky'. This is extremely embarrassing when questioned by housemates and work colleagues.
Any ideas, or should I seek help right away?
So there I was, sat at my desk, working away on something or other when my mobile rang. It was Alex M.
"I need a favour mate, I need you to write an email to XFM Radio telling them why I should win tickets to see REM in a 150-strong private performance. It's a competition they're running, see, you have to tell them you're a world record holder for something and the best one wins a pair of tickets....."
"OK, I'll get onto it" I replied and before long the following email was winding its merry way to Zoe Ball, Richard Bacon and the rest of the XFM team.....
'Dear Zoe
I am writing on behalf of my housemate and I have a bit of a sob story. He is a massive REM fan (he's not obese, what I mean is he adores their music) and he had tickets for the Brixton show a few weeks ago, but he couldn't go because he suffers from nosebleeds and once he starts, he can't stop. I believe him to be the world record holder for nosebleeds and not attending the REM show was a major blow (!).
Please please make his day and let him go to the show (I'll make sure he packs his hanky).
His name is Alex and his number is 07*** ******. Make his nose bleed with surprise! Thanks.
Jon'
And now we wait.....
"Come on mate, we ought to go" I said to Mark yesterday morning as we both hurried to get ready for work, me panicking about the interview I had scheduled for 9am.
So we set off in good time, allowing that little extra for any unforeseen traffic but in the knowledge that Friday had always been the easiest day to get to work. I read my interview notes once more, Mark hummed along to The Thrills and we headed for the M25.
Large queue on the slip lane. Stuck there for 15 minutes without moving. I began to sweat as it dawned on me that I was going to be late for this interview, therefore creating such a bad impression. What could I do? Ring the interviewer - good plan.
DAMN, I don't know her extension number. Ummmm, CALL HELEN (fellow graduate).
"Hi Helen, please can you tell Human Resources that I'm stuck in traffic on the M25 and may be a few minutes late for the interview"
"Of course I can, I'll ring you back in a minute".
"Right ho".
Quick scan through interview notes and racking of brains to conjure up intelligent questions.
BRRRRRRRINNNNNNNNNG.
"Hi Helen"
"Hi Jon, don't worry, Human Resources aren't even in yet so I left a message. Have you made any progress?"
"Not really, no, we've hardly moved"
"Apparently they've caught the horse" she said matter-of-factly.
- SILENCE - (me rapidly trying to work out if she's making some sort of joke)
"ummm, I'm sorry, WHAT?"
"there's a horse loose on the M25, a Shetland Pony apparently".
In what seems to be some sort of rebellious animal uprising this week (please see Wednesday's cow article), it turns out that a horse had broken through a fence and began to run riot on the M25.
How bizarre, but a good way to start the interview, even if I was 10 minutes late.....
So there I was, happily driving down the road, just about sticking to the 40mph speed limit and merrily singing away to Easyworld's 'Junkies and Whores' when a police car came the other way. I slowed down a bit, a few more cars went by and I approached a corner.
As I rounded the corner, a knackered old Fiesta went in the opposite direction, followed by a silver BMW Z3, followed by a brand new Range Rover, followed by a cow.
By this time, the police car that had gone by moments ago had returned and stopped not far behind me, and a back-up police car had blocked the other way. I was trapped.
Out leapt at least five police officers, all flailing their arms wildly and trying to direct the cow back through the fencing it had broken and into the field with Dobbin the horse.
After ten minutes of flapping arms, standing in its way and motioning (as if the animal would understand pointing!) the cow was eventually persuaded to step back into the field and continue munching on the grass.
And everyone lived happily ever after. Except the fence.
Last night Channel 4 screened the second episode of the second series of 'WIFE SWAP' - an ingenious programme where the wives in two families switch roles for 10 days and take on their lives, jobs, families and responsibilities.
To say it was lively last night is a bit of an understatement. Lizzie and Mark were from a council estate in Uncouth Street, Rochdale, were on benefits worth an incredible £37,000 a year and had a rabbit-like EIGHT children. Devonians Emma and Colin pulled in £27,000 a year, lived in a smart street and had a comparatively conservative two kids.
What amused Mark and I during the build-up to the switch was the fact that Channel 4 played circus-esque music when filming Lizzie and Mark (electric plugs hanging off walls, chain smoking, kids as far as the eye could see) and normal stuff when Colin and Emma were on.
Needless to say, when the switch was made, they didn't get on. Lizzie shouted and screamed about absolutely nothing and never made a point, Mark smoked and swore an incredible amount whilst Colin and Emma were tolerant, peaceful and assertive.
When the show finished, the narrator announced that chatting with the stars of the show was possible in their online chatroom, so I duly logged on with another 2800 people and so began the forum.
Half an hour later and Mark and I had instigated a political debate about how £37,000 in benefits was possible, thus sparking a 'we hate the Labour government' campaign in the chatroom. Then, to cap it all off, it was decided amongst the hundreds of people contributing, that hanging and gas chambers should be brought back to rid the world of awful, uncouth people (I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions - I wouldn't want to be sued for libel...)
Tune in next week.....
Nine months ago, when I was working in a different department in a different building, my colleagues always ridiculed me about the number of times I went to the coffee machine - creamichoc, cappuccino, cold water, leafy tea - you name it, I'd be drinking one. They always said that the coffee machine would break down from over use and that I'd be heckled for preventing them from their refreshment.
Today, on a brief visit to that department a full nine months since departing, I ambled off for a coffee while the person I needed to talk to finished his meeting. I put my money in, selected '711 - Creamichoc' and the machine spat out the cup and promptly filled it.
'Better get one for Andy' I thought, so I popped in some more change and EEEEEEEEEK, ARRRRRRRRRR, KLUNK, 'Error #41 - Call Technician' went the machine.
I left rather quickly.
At the cashpoint in Watford town centre last night, Mark, Alex and I were waiting behind a couple who were handing out flyers for a drum and bass night in one of the bars.
Their conversation with me was as follows:
"Alright mate, come to Pane And Table tonight - got some kickin' drum 'n' bass goin' on" (man thrusts flyer at me)
"oh, well, we might do I suppose" (trying the fob off)
"come on, it'll be a wicked night. What music do you like?"
"rock 'n' roll"
-glazed look comes over tout's face -
"well that's not much good is it"
"well you asked the question."
We then went to Chicago's where we laughed at the woman with the thick-lined stockings dancing with Simi from the Eddie Murphy film 'Coming to America', got scared by the tall hideous ogre woman and laughed at Alex avoiding the midget he pulled a few weeks back....
Come morning, I woke up on the sofa and Mark fell asleep on the bathroom floor. Splendid.
Many thanks to Mark R for this account of our bus journey from Luton airport to Watford Junction on Monday afternoon:
'The bus is there when we get back to the airport so on we jump. Marvellous, what a stroke of luck we thought, as we hand over three whole new pounds and ten new pence. Cases dumped at the front, seats with legroom at the back. Excellent. Off we go.
Half an hour later we see a sign saying we are one mile from the airport. ONE MILE. We have also been via the local council estate and are now trying to understand the accent that the local sportswear-wearing native scutters are using, but it would seem that only they can understand each other when conversing entirely with one word beginning with F. Perhaps it was the tone, volume or speed they said it at that made the others understand...
At somewhere called Harpenden an odd bearded fellow sits in front of Jon and proceeds to make even odder gargling noises while twitching every thirty seconds.
My suitcase then falls loudly off the rack in the front. (Mother's tacky greek pot is intact you will be glad to hear). I rearrange it to block off two seats at the front. All the women that subsequently get on the bus want to sit in these two places. They all tighten their lips and look around to see whose it could be.
The odd man then tries to talk to two women in front of him. The younger one gets off and he follows her, pawing, panting, drooling and generally being leacherous.
3 young girls got on and surround Jon. They are sharing one lollipop. NICE. Then one of them decides her pot of foundation was 'manked up' and drops it, decorating the floor. It rolls under the seats and hits a nice pair of shoes on a woman near the front. The nice pair of navy shoes now have a foundation colour heal on the right shoe.
So much for the 45mins journey time quoted by the train station man.
2 young boys of negligible and undeterminable origin loudly went straight to the back. Five minutes later there is some sort of alarm. The rear emergency exit is now open. They move to the other side of the bus. BECAUSE OF COURSE IT WASN'T THEM. Oiks. Bus driver stops bus and shouts at them to shut it. They don't move. He calls them some sort of name and they shut it. Must have been a local dialect.
At 6.05, after nearly 2 hours we pull in to Watford, relieved that there was no attempted theft of our suitcases, but mentally scarred from the ordeal.'