I
am in a prolific mood today and seem to be in a good seam. However,
have you ever had one of those days where everything you do, creates a
further job or mega levels of frustration. I think that every inanimate
object in the world has a built in critical detector. Just so that it
can destructively test your stress levels. However, I now have a new
strategy, whenever it happens to me, I tend to act a bit nonchalant so
that the job in had does not get any indication of my angst or stress
levels.
To be honest, I am not convinced that my nonchalance is convincing enough to convince the job in hand, that I don't actually give a damn. So now I am about to begin issuing expletive laden verbal reminders as well. I will also instigate 'Basil Fawlty' style beatings to any inanimate object that might have the gall or temerity to refuse to work. Furthermore, I also believe that there is some true merit in doing so. I admit I only have a limited command of the Anglo Saxon expletives and I'm not totally convinced about the voracity and depth of my knowledge.
However, help is close at hand. I'll explain.... Picture the scene.....
It's February 2010, a thin film of ice is just forming on the canal surface. We have just arrived at Hillmorton locks and we are about to moor up for the night. The Memsahib says, "I don't like the look of the towpath just here, lets move the boat a little further along." As she begins to pole the bow away from the edge, the pole slips, I hear her shout. When I look, her hands are on the towpath edge, her feet are still on the gunwale, she looks a bit like a small arched canal bridge. However, the front is slowly drifting out. I scoot along the gunwale and arrive in time to see her hands slip on the towpath edge. She performs a perfect faceplant into the mud, followed a second later by a belly flop into the cut.
From time to time, the Memsahib AKA 'Attila the Hen' has due cause to draw attention to my lack of interest in everyday - run of the mill - domestic issues. She usually does this first by trying to cajole me along. Then when she sees that I am having difficulty in containing my complete indifference. She switches to full confrontation mode, a bit like a bad tempered cat, with the low growl interspersed by hissing and spitting.
This onslaught is always prefixed by the word “Michael” at which point I prepare (flinch) ready to receive her full frontal, attitude adjusting advice. I must admit to sometimes standing open mouthed, in both shock, awe and admiration. Trembling at the knee of a grand master of the expletive vernacular. I am always amazed at how quick and creative she is at contriving new word mixtures. Always done in an ever challenging, ingenious and resourceful manner.
But stood there in the freezing water of the North Oxford canal, hair and face covered in mud. The Memsahib's world standard of swearing reached the level of an art form.
To be honest, I am not convinced that my nonchalance is convincing enough to convince the job in hand, that I don't actually give a damn. So now I am about to begin issuing expletive laden verbal reminders as well. I will also instigate 'Basil Fawlty' style beatings to any inanimate object that might have the gall or temerity to refuse to work. Furthermore, I also believe that there is some true merit in doing so. I admit I only have a limited command of the Anglo Saxon expletives and I'm not totally convinced about the voracity and depth of my knowledge.
However, help is close at hand. I'll explain.... Picture the scene.....
It's February 2010, a thin film of ice is just forming on the canal surface. We have just arrived at Hillmorton locks and we are about to moor up for the night. The Memsahib says, "I don't like the look of the towpath just here, lets move the boat a little further along." As she begins to pole the bow away from the edge, the pole slips, I hear her shout. When I look, her hands are on the towpath edge, her feet are still on the gunwale, she looks a bit like a small arched canal bridge. However, the front is slowly drifting out. I scoot along the gunwale and arrive in time to see her hands slip on the towpath edge. She performs a perfect faceplant into the mud, followed a second later by a belly flop into the cut.
From time to time, the Memsahib AKA 'Attila the Hen' has due cause to draw attention to my lack of interest in everyday - run of the mill - domestic issues. She usually does this first by trying to cajole me along. Then when she sees that I am having difficulty in containing my complete indifference. She switches to full confrontation mode, a bit like a bad tempered cat, with the low growl interspersed by hissing and spitting.
This onslaught is always prefixed by the word “Michael” at which point I prepare (flinch) ready to receive her full frontal, attitude adjusting advice. I must admit to sometimes standing open mouthed, in both shock, awe and admiration. Trembling at the knee of a grand master of the expletive vernacular. I am always amazed at how quick and creative she is at contriving new word mixtures. Always done in an ever challenging, ingenious and resourceful manner.
But stood there in the freezing water of the North Oxford canal, hair and face covered in mud. The Memsahib's world standard of swearing reached the level of an art form.
Later....
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