Yanda Time

January 6, 2007

New Year's Resolution #1 - Dress like a Sumo-Wrestler

I have been punished by a vengeful God for not making any resolutions on New Year's Eve.

Said deity gave me a good 54 hours before unleashing its wrath. Or maybe it was just waiting for the first decent opportunity to cause me injury. In any event, 10 minutes after getting on my bike for the first time this year, I came off of it again. Unfortunately, I did this with a minimum of grace and a generous amount of brute force.

I was riding along Canonbury Place when I spied a small green car stopped on a side street. I like to think of myself as a wily old cyclist. I'm fully aware that even if a fellow traveller has a human-shaped skull, it does not mean they have an actual functioning human brain inside of it. Accordingly, when I spied this car, I scooted back a bit on my seat, adjusted my hands on the brake levers, and moved slightly further out into the road to make myself more visible. The driver looked right at me. I made eye contact with her and then I did a foolish thing. I relaxed. It was plain that she had seen me, so I let my weight shift forward and I started pedalling again. The driver also did a very foolish thing and pulled out right in front of me.

I immediately hit the brakes. My front wheel gripped the ground admirably.

I am a weighty fellow, though, and this means I carry a fair amount of inertia with me when moving. This inertia caused the bike (and me) to rotate around the front wheel and slam into the ground. The rotation converted the vector of my inertia downward rather than forward. This prevented me from sliding into the car. However, it also meant that there was an awful lot of force directed at the paved street. Paved streets are unyielding things. One of the problems is that they are usually placed on the surface of a planet, and planets are big. In any war of inertia between a planet and one lone man and a bicycle, the planet is bound to be the favourite.

In retrospect, if I had been wearing one of those big padded fake sumo-wrestler suits, everything would have been fine. Instead, I opted to absorb the force of my epic battle with planet earth with my skeletal system, thus cracking one of my ribs.

I've been thinking about it for the last couple of days and I've decided I don't like having broken ribs. Thus from now on I resolve to make my new year's resolutions promptly. The first of these is to break no more ribs, perhaps by donning an enormous foam rubber suit if it looks like I am going to smack into a planet again. Admittedly, this may prove difficult under the circumstances, but resolutions aren't meant to be easy. Many people find it impossible to quit smoking, yet they resolve to do just that every year. So for my impossible resolution, I hereby resolve that the next time anyone with the brain of a ferret pulls out in front of me, I will attempt to find, rent, and put on a large sumo-wrestler costume before hitting the ground.

Posted by YandaMan at 11:43 PM | Comments (2)

December 27, 2006

Many many socks

I received eleven pairs of socks for Christmas. I wasn't in desperate need of socks, but I do like them. I've had a few traumatic experiences in the past where I lacked clean socks and it's still a bit of an obsession with me. A pair of comfortable clean socks fills my heart with unreasonable glee.

These eleven pairs mean I have an awful lot of socks now. In fact, as I went to bed on Christmas night I found myself for the first time thinking, "Gee, I really need to organise my sock drawer." For me, this is no longer a facetious excuse to get out of going to dinner with Stephen Fry and Scarlett Johansson. My sock drawer truly has become so extensive that it demands organisation.

Basically, I've got two main categories of socks: summer socks and winter socks. Each of these categories can be further subdivided into cycling socks, dress socks, and socks I wear on my johnson when no one's around.

I'm thinking of building a revolving two-layered drum thing that reacts to the ambient outside temperature so that my sock drawer will present me with my summer or winter selection as appropriate. Or perhaps it should be based on the length of darkness. I seem to recall this is how trees tell when spring is upon them. Basically, if it's dark for too long they get all depressed and shut down for the winter. Once the period of darkness shortens past a certain threshold they know it's spring and start showing off their gonads again, literally extruding them from within their own flesh.

That's what I need -- something that reacts to what the weather is like outside and what season it is and extrudes an appropriate pair of socks from my wardrobe. "Extrude" may not be completely the correct word here, but I'm sticking with it because it sounds cool. And, hey, maybe my magic sock drawer really could extrude my socks -- or, better yet, the footboard of my bed could extrude them right over my feet in the morning.

Think how wonderful it would be to be woken up this way! Rather than an annoying clock radio suddenly blaring out "thought for the day", you could be woken by a considerate footboard, lovingly extruding socks over your feet. Someone please build such a wonderful device! I would love such a thing as a Christmas present next year.

Actually, I would love anything besides socks next year. If any of my friends or family are reading this, please take this as a hint. For Pete's sake, enough with the Goddamn socks already!

Posted by YandaMan at 10:58 PM | Comments (1)

September 30, 2006

The correct order of dressing for a gentleman

Toes are the main problem. You need to cover those little protuberances as soon as possible. There are two reasons for this. The first is in case anyone walks in on you while you are naked. As any armchair psychiatrist knows, the phallus can be threatening when encountered unexpectedly. Toes are phallic in shape. And there are ten of them. And they are constantly erect. Think how terrible it would be to suddenly come upon a naked man with ten erect phalluses protruding from the ends of his feet.

If this argument doesn't work for you, just picture in your mind a naked man. Now picture a man wearing nothing but socks. Which is less threatening? It's obviously the dude with socks on. He looks like a fool. The guy with naked toes is far more threatening.

"But why does this matter?" you may ask.

The reason is simple. Men are a violent, combative gender. When we feel threatened, we respond with violence. Picture the following scenario: You've cycled into work. You've showered. You are standing there, butt-naked, wondering which article of clothing to put on first. But you've forgotten to lock the door. It opens. Another male of the species barges in. He sees your toes. He feels threatened. Before you know it, the two of you are locked in mortal combat. Your antlers are entangled and the cubicle is awash with blood.

All of this could have been avoided if only you'd put some socks on as soon as you stepped out of the shower.

The other problem with toes is their pokiness. They stick out and catch on things -- things like underwear. Thongs are the worst because they are the thinnest. If you haven't put on your socks and you try to put on a leopard skin thong, there is a serious risk that it will catch between your toes. At this point you are standing on one foot, bent over with both hands and one foot tangled up in the thong. You lose your balance. Your supporting foot slips out from under you. You fall over, banging your head on the sink. Maybe you fall on the chair placed there to keep your clothes off the floor. What if you forgot to close the door again? The mysterious, antler-clad stranger opens it. You're draped over a chair, completely naked except for a leopard skin thong jammed between your toes - your rump pointed to the sky. It may suggest an invitation you didn't intend.

So, trust me, put the socks on first.

The thong goes next as it will be under pretty much everything else. Then it's decision time. Do you plan to tuck your shirt into your trousers or not? If you plan to tuck, put on the top; if not, then the trousers. Once again, having the socks on will help smooth the way for the trousers. It's almost as bad to have someone barge in on you when you're bent over a chair in a leopard skin thong as it is to be completely naked at the time.

Once you've got your shirt and trousers on, you should put your shoes on. The shoes need to come before the hat. If you put the hat on first, it will fall off as soon as you go to tie your shoes. This is especially true if the hat is very tall -- for example one of those big black furry hats worn by the guys who guard the queen.

So in summary, this is the correct order of dressing for a gentleman:
1. Socks
2. Leopard skin thong
3. Shirt
4. Trousers
5. Big black furry hat

Posted by YandaMan at 11:17 AM

September 18, 2006

Not the Dutch

I finally succumbed to YouTube while on my way back from Amsterdam. This is the latest little video nonsense I posted. It is, if I say so myself, uniquely insightful.

You can see more of my Youtube film-making genius at http://www.youtube.com/profile_videos?user=YandaBear

Posted by YandaMan at 11:25 PM

August 5, 2006

How to Make a Caipirinha

1 lime 1 shot of rum 1.5 shots of sugar syrup several crushed penquins

A Caipirinha is a cocktail made with cachaça (Brazilian rum), limes, sugar syrup, and crushed ice. I made some fantastic ones when we were on holiday in Italy, but a week ago I made a batch which were far from perfect. I've done some experimenting lately and have decided to share with the world my recipe for making the perfect Caipirinha.

Sugar Syrup

Some people think the rum is the most crucial ingredient in a Caipirinha. These people are fools. They have tiny tiny brains and are only one evolutionary step above trout. Do not listen to them. Sugar syrup is the key to a good Caipirinha.

Fortunately, sugar syrup is easy to make. The key is to wedge as much sugar in the water as possible. And this is where we need something called science. You can't just go about shoving grains of sugar into a cup of water as you would clowns into a tiny car. Water and sugar are completely different states of matter. One is a liquid and one is a solid. Clowns and cars are both solids, and, in fact, both begin with the letter "C". This makes it easy to combine the two.

In order to get sufficient sugar into the water you need to apply heat. Do this carefully, without arousing suspicion. Pretending to make tea is a good ruse. Pour yourself a big mug of boiling water. Simply omit the teabag and milk. Just keep adding sugar and stirring until no more sugar will dissolve. This will probably be far more sugar than you think. Recently, through careful science, I discovered exactly the correct proportions. I started with 150ml of boiling water and began adding sugar in small increments, one tablespoon at a time. After four tablespoons of sugar, it looked like the rate of dissolvamentation was slowing so I switched to adding sugar in 1/2 teaspoon increments. This turned out to be premature. I finally reached the saturation point 18 measures later by which time I was well and truly bored and my wife was convinced I was insane.

Anyway, you need roughly 2 parts of sugar to 3 parts of water. I.e.
150ml of water
100gm of sugar

Now that you've made the sugar syrup, put it into the fridge to cool.

Limes

Remember to wash your limes! It may be less of a hazard for some of you, but for me, living as I do with the crazy landlord, I can't be certain that any fruit in the house hasn't been involved in some kind of filthy sexual highjinks.

You should only need one lime per Caipirinha. Cut it into eighths. You can do this with a hatchet or a knife. Chainsaws are not recommended. Place the eight pieces of lime in a large sturdy mug. Add one shot of tasty rum, preferably cachaça. Add 60.13ml of chilled sugar syrup. Then take any large lump of wood (once again, make sure it is very clean) and muddle the limes with it. The technical term for muddling is "smushing".

Ice

You need shaved or crushed ice. I like to use ice in interesting shapes like penguins or pieces of lego. It's a bit pointless really because they get smashed beyond recognition. Maybe I just harbour a secret hatred of penguins. I don't know. It's just more fun.

Note that shaving ice can be quite tricky. I advise against whittling. For one thing, to properly whittle, you need to be in a rocking chair on a porch in the deep south of America. The heat in such an environment will make your ice melt in your hands and you will cut your thumb off. There is also a danger that the Caipirinha will be tainted with the smell of hound dog and engine parts.

On alternative method that works quite well is to put the ice in a plastic bag and wrap it in a clean piece of cloth such as a towel or evening gown, and then smash it with something heavy like a tuba.

Finally, fill a glass about three quarters full with crushed ice and pour the muddled concoction of rum, lime and sugar syrup over it. Hold it up to the light, sip it, and smile. You have just made the perfect Caipirinha.

Posted by YandaMan at 11:19 PM | Comments (3)

April 8, 2006

The Cat Burglar and the Carlton in Cannes

At 5:00am yesterday morning I walked into the lobby of the five-star Carlton Hotel in Cannes. I had bare feet and was wearing my baby blue pajamas with the pink stripe on the pocket. Despite the early hour, the lobby was busy with very important television executives and the hideously rich, all catching sleek black Mercedes to the airport.

My pajamas had been a gift from my friend Bernie. She had made them herself. They were soft and fluffy. I have been told they make me look like Cary Grant. Admittedly, that was by a woman blinded with lust (i.e. my wife). Still, the concierge could tell by looking at them that I was a person of quality.

“Bonjour, Monsieur,” he said.

“Bonjer,” I said. “Jay oon problem.”

My accent produced the faintest of deep physical revulsion from the concierge. “How may I help you, sir?” he asked.

“Well, you see, there was this woman,” I said.

He nodded.

“No. It wasn’t like that. She’s a lesbian,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows.

“We work together. We were sharing an apartment a couple of blocks away. She left this morning, but something happened and she was shouting up at the window and somehow I ended up in the street in my pyjamas.”

“I see, sir,” he said. I could sense the most ephemeral of smirks straining behind his eyes.

“Let me try again,” I said.

A woman came up beside me clutching a small dog and a bottle of champagne and a bottle of scotch. “Henri, can you look after these?” she asked, putting the bottles on the counter.

“Absolutement, madam,” he said.

The woman’s eyes flicked up and down my pyjamas. She frowned, shielded her dog from me with her body, and continued into the hotel.

“Never mind,” I said to the concierge. “I’m locked out. But it’s only a spring lock.”

“Ah, bien,” he said. “You would like a piece of plastic to force the lock.” He elegantly mimed sliding a card into a door jamb.

“Exactly!” I said.

He held his hands palms up in a shrug. “I think it is very difficult,” he said. “Maybe there is someone you could call.” He looked up at the clock. “I think maybe it is too early, though.”

“I think I might as well try to open the lock,” I said.

He nodded and vanished from behind the counter. A couple of minutes later he reappeared with two blank plastic room keys.

“Merci,” I said.

“Bonne chance, Monsieur,” he said.

I left the Carlton and walked through the flurry of chauffeurs in front of the hotel. The sprinklers were on and the paving stones beneath my feet were wet.

A work colleague and I were in Cannes for a conference. We lost our hotel rooms at the last minute and the organisers booked us into a two bedroom flat.

My companion was catching an early flight and a car had come to pick her up. As I lay in bed, I heard her getting ready and open the door. Then there was a period of silence. It occurred to me that she would need her key to get the elevator to work. I got up to see if she needed any help. Her luggage was there propping the door open but she was nowhere to be seen. Very odd. I was still a bit asleep. I wandered into the lounge. She wasn’t there. I peered out the window. There was a car below the apartment. A man in a suit stood by the open driver’s door. I couldn’t see my friend anywhere. I could hear what sounded like a bird making an odd strangled cry.

I opened the window and poked my head out of the apartment. The driver noticed me and waved at someone over to my right. “Alors!” he said. “He is here.”

My friend came from around the corner. She had been shouting up at my window trying to get my attention. Being English and a lady, she had been trying to shout discreetly and so ended up sounding like some kind of exotic bird rather than a human being.

“I’m sorry, Chris,” she said. “I’ve locked myself out. Can you help?”

“No problem,” I said. I closed the window and looked around for her keys. I couldn’t see them anywhere so I went back to my room and got my own. Soon I was out in the street with the luggage. My friend kissed me on the cheek as the driver loaded her bags into the car and then they were off.

I went back inside the building and took the elevator upstairs. I put my key into the apartment door but the lock wouldn’t turn. I suddenly had a mental picture of where my friend’s keys were. They were inside the apartment, stuck into the lock from the other side.

I fiddled and strained and jiggled but to no avail. The lock wouldn’t budge. I went outside and peered up at the building. I considered trying to climb up to the balcony. There didn’t seem to be an obvious route that didn’t involve one of those cool rappelling things that batman always carries around in his belt. I wandered out into the middle of the street. It was deserted. The streets were annoyingly free of litter. If I was in London, I was sure there would be all manner of rubbish including discarded wallets filled with customer loyalty cards perfect for popping the locks on French apartments. But here an army of invisible minions kept every brick and knob polished at all times.

And so, a short while later I found myself two blocks away in the lobby of the Carlton.

The concierge was right. Popping the lock was difficult, but not impossible. Once I was back in the apartment, I found my friend’s keys right where I pictured them to be. I took them out of the lock and put them on the table in the kitchen. Then I washed my feet in the bathtub and went back to bed.

As I slept that morning in my Cary Grant pyjamas, I dreamed of the film “To Catch a Thief”.

Posted by YandaMan at 10:34 PM | Comments (2)

January 17, 2006

Nose Hair Trimming

I have entered new realms of personal weirdness thanks to the aging process and an urge to mate with the opposite gender -- in this case, my wife.

She has complained for a while now that hair has begun to sprout from various orifices in a way she considers unseemly. Personally, I see this as just part of the overall package that is me. Surely she must love my whole -- my brawny thighs, my winning smile, my raging tumescent manhood, and my nosehair.

But, apparently not.

It started with my eyebrows about a year ago. In preparation for my 40th birthday she coerced me into getting my eyebrows trimmed while getting my semi-annual haircut. When I say "trimmed", I mean "waxed". An otherwise pleasant young woman applied hot wax to the area immediately above my eyes and then ripped it off with what I like to think of as "the cloth of sadism". Then she attacked me with a pair of tweezers. I now know why they no longer allow these weapons on airliners.

My wife was pleased with the result for awhile. But then she noticed other facets of my appearance in need of cosmetic surgery. E.g. the luxuriant hair flowing from my proboscis and the winningly eccentric tufts portruding from my ears. I fought against this affront to my vanity for many many months.

But then, at Christmas, I received a gift from my crazy landlord. My charming spouse beamed as I held it in my hands. When I opened it she clapped her hands with glee. It was an electric nose hair trimmer.

For the last three weeks I've been using the excuse that it was important to make sure it was fully charged before I switched it on lest I damage the battery. Tonight, though, I bowed to pressure and fired up the infernal device.

It is a odd feeling to take a madly vibrating phallus tipped with gnashing metal teeth and jam it up one's nose. It takes a certain amount of preparation and focus. It does not help to have one's spouse at one's side jumping up and down like a schoolgirl after her first double espresso. After several false starts and a great deal of foul language I forced her out of the bathroom and bolted the door. A few minutes later the deed was done. I can only hope that the lack of protection those follicles would have afforded me won't shorten my lifespan too much.

Posted by YandaMan at 11:32 PM | Comments (2)

March 30, 2005

Hyujnm

(more pics of the flat in Grasse)

Hyujnm. Right now, that is the worst word in the world for me. I've burnt my right index finger you see. And typing "hyujnm" uses that particular finger for every single one of its letters.

Now "Ow!" is a fine word to type. I could type "Ow!" all day long. It doesn't use my right index finger at all. It feels great when I type "Ow!" Not "hyujnm" though.

"Political Freesias" is fine. As is "Wackadelic Dopers" or "Exacerbated Excesses".

"My Hymn-book Is Munjy" is a bad one. And I should definitely avoid "Hymen! Hymen! Hymen! Who has my Hymen?"

In retrospect, the key was probably not to light my finger on fire in the first place. It's easy enough to do though. All one needs is a loving attentive spouse and the temporary sabbatical of one's own brain cells.

My spouse and I are on holiday at the moment. We've rented a beautiful one bedroom flat in the French city of Grasse, eight miles Northwest of Cannes. We found it at http://www.homelidays.com/ which I'm putting in a plug for because I'm so pleased with the flat. It's lovely, well-equipped, in the centre of the old city of Grasse, and 300 Euros for the week including linen and heat. You can see the flat itself at http://grasse.2pieces.monsite.wanadoo.fr/index.jhtml.

And because we're on holiday, I stayed in bed this morning while my loving attentive spouse got up to make us some coffee. In fact, as soon as she got up, I rolled over to go back to sleep.

Except that I could hear her trying to light the stove. "Click!" -- that's the noise she made every time she pushed the stove lighting button. "Click!" I don't mind typing that; it doesn't use any of those right index finger letters. "Click! Click! Click!"

It was driving me mad. So I got up to help her. The previous night I'd spotted a lighter in the cutlery drawer and I assumed the stove starter button just didn't work.

"Let me try," I said as I entered the kitchen.

"No, I think I've got it," said my wife, pointing towards a burner at the back of the stove. "It's just that…"

"Which burner are you trying to light?" I asked.

"Well, I was trying to light the one at the front, here," she said, indicating a burner at the front of the stove.

"Okay. Let me try," I said. I held the lighter against the ring of the front burner as she turned the knob. It instantly roared alight, burning my finger. "Ow!" I said.

Actually, I said quite a few other words but they all have the letter "h" or "u" in them so I won't repeat them here.

"Are you all right?" asked my spouse as I thrust my finger under the cold water tap.

"Ow!" I repeated -- (or words to that effect).

"Sorry," she said. I tried to tell you. "I think the gas was off. I just turned it on." She gestured towards the back of the stove again. This time I spotted there was a gas valve there.

"Ah, right, that would be it," I said. "Glad I could help."

Fortunately, the flat has a lovely little kitchen with a lovely little window above the kitchen sink with a lovely view of Grasse. I spent quite a while looking at that view, leaning over the kitchen sink in my y-fronts with cold water running over my finger.

My wife, meanwhile, finished making the coffee and went back to bed.

Posted by YandaMan at 2:44 PM

March 10, 2004

Ben gets dabbed, Chris gets deluged

(more pics)

The missus and I went to the christening of Vicky's and Nicky's boy Ben in Liverpool on the weekend. It was lovely to be around a big extended family event. Neither of us have family here in the UK so such occasions are rare enough to be a treat.

For me, the highlight of the trip had to be the shower in the Hollins Hey Hotel though. Not because it was particularly enjoyable - quite the opposite. But it was such a challenge it went beyond being an annoyance to being an experience to marvel at.

To begin with, the shower was one of those handheld thingies in a bathtub with half of a glass shield instead of a shower curtain. A sticker on the side of the glass shield warned not to stand beneath the shower when turning it on. It was therefore a good thing that you could remove the shower sprayer whatsit from the support thingamabob as otherwise there would be no way to turn the shower on without having most of your body directly under the spray.

The sticker warned about water temperature and scalding but the real danger was enormous, fire-hydrant-like water pressure and the fact that this enormous torrent was focused through a rather cheap plastic shower nozzle. In keeping with our modern age, the taps were digital. As far as water pressure went, they had two values: 0 and 1 billion.

Vicki showered first and came back into the room laughing. "Look out for the shower" was all she said.

And so I took it very carefully. I turned each of the taps the smallest increment I could, literally a degree at a time. At first there was nothing, but then, one degree more, and water burst out of them as if I'd removed a little Dutch boy from a dike.

The temperature seemed all right though. So I stepped into the shower, grasped the hand held shower thingmabobinchab (I think I'm just going to call it a "wand" from now on) and clicked the little lever that redirected the waterflow.

The wand immediately flew out of my hand and started writhing around the bottom of the tub and up against the wall. I scrabbled around on all fours trying to trap it and received several nasty blows to the head and other important bits of the body. The whole while the wand blasted water all over the bathroom and myself. In a panic, I hit the lever again and the wand fell dormant to the bottom of the tub.

I now tried putting it in the support whatchacallit. I flicked the lever and the same thing happened. The wand took on a life of its own and had to be subdued by killing its source of evil power.

You may assume that I was irritated and angry at this point but you would be wrong. I was simply amazed and a bit amused. And now it was a challenge. Other people must have mastered this shower and so would I.

I grasped the wand tightly in both hands, then leaned forward and carefully nudged the shower lever with my knee. The wand immediately tried to leap free but I managed to control it. Now that it knew who was the more powerful, more sentient being, the wand was tamer. I was able to direct it with only one hand and soap up my nasty bits with the other.

I continued to soak the rest of the room, however, because the pressure was so great it shot out of the back end of the wand as well as through the nozzle. I tried covering up this back spray with my hand but I almost dropped it again so soon gave up.

A short while later the job was done and I turned off all the taps and switches and spent the next ten minutes drying as much of the room as I could with the towels that we had.

In fairness, I should point out that the rest of our hotel room held no surprises and was, in fact, quite lovely with a big four poster bed and if I'd just taken a bath instead of a shower I would have nothing bad to say about the place.

And the christening was lovely. The Canon from Cantrememberwhere did the service and he was an entertaining old git who sat down at the piano and played an impromptu song partway through the ceremony. Afterwards there was tea and beer and nibbles at one of the grandmothers' house and it was all very pleasant. And I suppose, in a way, my experience in the shower was just God's way of making sure I was properly baptised myself before I went to the ceremony.

Posted by YandaMan at 8:38 AM | Comments (2)

February 22, 2004

Magically Delicious

Went I went to bed, there was only Vicki and myself in the house. This morning it is awash with Irish. There are at least eight of them. It's like a box of Lucky Charms exploded in the house. Where do they all come from?

Well, I know where they come from. They shag like rabbits, the little buggers. Two of them are banging away even as I write this. Tomorrow, no doubt, there'll be 16 of the freckle-faced midgets dancing jigs around the kitchen, making tea.

Oh well, at least they're a charming race (for the most part) and don't take up too much room.

Posted by YandaMan at 10:28 AM

February 13, 2004

Reasons to be Grumpy: #1 - the Towel

I forgot my towel this morning. I didn't realise it until I had finished showering. All I had were my cycling clothes and my clean clothes. Now, obviously, I couldn't dry myself with my clean clothes because I needed to wear them. And, equally, I couldn't dry myself with my cycling clothes because, well, because they're made out of some high tech fabric that isn't actually of this Earth. They're not the least bit absorbent. They're kind of like some kind of alien plastic pretending to be cloth.

And so I stood there, dripping, and swearing quietly to myself. I tried shaking the water off and waving my limbs about, but it was pretty humid in the shower cubicle and it didn't seem to make much difference.

I thought maybe if I waited a bit I would dry off enough to put my clothes on but there are only two shower cubicles in the building and they're in high demand so it wasn't long before someone was banging on the door asking what the hell I was doing in there. It was obvious they wouldn't wait much longer. Soon there would be an angry mob and they might start throwing leeches over the door and trying to take the shower by force.

I rummaged through my pack looking for salvation and I thought I'd found it - a lighter! This should speed things up, I said to myself. Unfortunately, I held it a bit too near my skin and burnt myself. Which caused me to drop the lighter on to my alien plastic clothes. Which, being made of alien plastic, immediately burst into flames. And that, of course, caused the damn sprinklers to go off, so I got all wet again.

I stood there peering up at the sprinkler wondering "why me?" and somebody started banging on the door again. This time it was one of the fire wardens and he dragged me out of the building buck naked.

But now, at least, I had a good excuse so it didn't bother me too much. I mean there was a fire and everything. And what with the wind and all I dried off pretty quickly once I got outside.

And, not only that, but I caught some of the girls from the office checking me out. I think they were very favourably impressed.

Posted by YandaMan at 11:31 PM | Comments (3)

February 11, 2004

Morning Half Full

I've decided I'm a "morning half empty" person. My landlord is a "morning half full" kind of person. He wakes up every morning thinking "Woo Hoo! I didn't die in my sleep last night! More air to breathe! More fun to have! More wine to drink!"

I, on the other hand, wake up slightly disappointed that I didn't expire the night before. "Bugger," I think, "another day to struggle through. What if I get hit by a bus today? What if I stub my toe? What if I develop an allergy to the colour orange? I love orange."

The worst part of this discrepancy is the singing.

My landlord sings in the morning. I stumble downstairs wary of everything around me and ready to flee back to the duvet at a moment's provocation. He bounces around the kitchen like Tigger on speed.

"Hello! Welcome! Bienvenue! How are you?"

"Fine," I grunt. "Must drink tea. Stand away from the kettle."

He then giggles and skips out of the room singing some obscure Eighties punk band track.

You'd think his cheerfulness would cause me to perk up a bit. It does not. It just makes me even more depressed. Not only do I have to worry about the colour orange, but now I have to worry about the fact I'm a grumpy old man.

Fortunately, my mood dissipates once I get on my bike and I'm usually quite chipper by the time I arrive at work. I think it's the traffic. I find chaos soothing. Or it may just be all the bus exhaust I end up breathing. Whatever. By the time I put my bike away and sit at my desk there is a smile on my lips and glee in my heart.

Posted by YandaMan at 8:53 PM | Comments (1)

December 15, 2003

The Trouble with little Green Stickers

One of the problems with living in a foreign land is that your gifts come labelled as to their contents courtesy of that evil green custom's stamp. Usually this isn't a problem. I avert my eyes. I stick a post-it over the offending little bastard. Or I just rip off the outer covering and hope the contents have been double-wrapped.

Not this time though. This time my good intentions were thwarted. All because my crazy landlord has no knowledge of meat curing techniques.

To be honest I'd kind of guessed what was in the package before the incident in question. It came from the west coast of Canada. It was a long flat rectangular box that was vaguely squishy. Have you guessed yet? Yes, Smoked Salmon. Yummy smoked salmon. Good for what ails you. And it's a tasteful orangey-pink colour. Brightens up any meal. Yay! I like smoked salmon.

But, of course I wasn't sure. It might not have been smoked salmon. It might have been, say, a really big novelty tie. Or maybe an inflatable hammock. Or a brand new Rolex cleverly wrapped to look and feel like a box of smoked salmon.

But my crazy landlord forced the issue.

"Hey, shouldn't you put that in the fridge?" he said.

"Why would I put it in the fridge? Do you know something I don't?"

"Well, it just looks like the kind of thing you should put in the fridge."

"Nonsense! It looks like an inflatable hammock!"

"Yeah, but you can tell what it is..." he said. "And it should probably go in the fridge."

"No," I said firmly, "No you can't tell."

"Sure you can. It's written right there." And then the little varmint pointed at the sticker.

What is it about fingers? Why do we follow where they lead? What makes them the messiah of all digits? He pointed. My eyes followed and then I knew.

I knew absolutely. There was no doubt. My package contained smoked salmon. I sat down, deflated, all the joy I had built up as a little tyke fled my body. I now knew what I was getting for Christmas. And yes, I was happy with it, and yes, when the time came I would eat it with relish. Well, not with relish as in the green pickled spread, but with vigour and enthusiasm; you know what I mean. But the mystery was gone. That amazing energy you get from the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle of Christmas had dissipated. And why? Because my close friend and landlord thought because something said "fish" it meant "refrigerate instantly or risk death".

I sighed. "It's smoked salmon. Why do you think they smoked it in the first place? So it will keep. That's why the art of smoking meat was invented: as a preservative. Plus the thing is probably vacuum-sealed anyway. Trust me. It will keep 'til Christmas."

"Okay. I was just worried."

"It's all right. Everything will be fine."

It was a small happening. The entire conversation took less than a minute. And I bear my dear semi-departed landlord no ill will.

However, I now harbour a secret burning vendetta against Canada Customs. It is no coincidence that those stickers are the same colour as the Grinch. You can be sure the next time I cross the border it will be carrying diamonds which have been hollowed out and carefully packed with opiates and more than my duty-free allotment of cheap cigarettes and booze. And you can be damn sure I won't be wearing any damn green sticker.

Posted by YandaMan at 11:08 PM | Comments (1)

October 21, 2003

Comfortable Underwear

I always get homesick this time of year. Autumn has always been my favourite season. There isn't really much of an autumn worth mentioning here in England, but autumn is a noticeable and lovely season back in Canuckville.

The charming spouse and I did a spot of shoe shopping the weekend before last which made me reminisce even more for the great outdoors. She ended up buying her new shoes in an outdoorsy store and I was filled with consumer lust for all manner of cool outdoorsy things: four season tents, thermarests, high-tech hiking socks (ooh socks, I love good socks), just stuff.

Leathermans now come in all manner of bright colours! Did you know that? Is that Cool, or what!

And so I was thinking of the old bush life when I was at this dance show. Which may go some way to explaining the following dialogue.

VICKI: So, James, did you like the show?

JAMES: Absolutely. There's nothing better than watching a group of young women prance around in their underwear.

VICKI: Was it the underwear you liked or the dance?

JAMES: Oh, the underwear.

CHRIS: Yes, nothing better than ladies underwear. I'm wearing some right now.

JAMES: Me too.

CHRIS: I knew a guy when I was working in the bush that swore the most comfortable undergarments in the world were women's underpants worn backwards. Apparently they provide a great deal of room at the front and act as a kind of thong at the rear.

JAMES: Are you wearing yours backwards now then?

CHRIS: (PAUSE) Well, no. I lied about the ladies underwear thing, James. I'm actually wearing boxers.

JAMES: Oh... Right.

CHRIS: Of course, these days, with the fashion having turned to proper thongs, I suspect the comfort factor no longer holds backwards.

JAMES: Yes, a thong worn backwards might be a touch distracting.

And then the performance began again.

It's times like these that really make me miss the bush. There's nothing like some crisp clean air and being trapped in a camp in the middle of nowhere with a man in backwards facing panties to make you feel alive.

Posted by YandaMan at 9:20 PM | Comments (1)

December 11, 2002

The Barber

Last night my crazy landlord came home drunk and insisted I shave his head. I did my best to dissuade him. Eventually, after saying no repeatedly, I ran upstairs and hid in my room.

I emerged about a half an hour later to the sounds of an electric razor. The crazed fiend had attacked his own head without benefit of a mirror or any sense of balance or fine motor control. The plug for the razor was held into the socket by a mess of masking tape. He was naked from the waist up. One arm of his shirt dangled in the toilet bowl, and most of his head was a field of stubble with several mutant looking tufts spurting out of his skull.

He seemed proud of his handiwork nonetheless and I agreed to tame the mutant tufts. Truth be told, if I had known he was just going to raze it down to a short short bristle and no naked blades would be involved, I would have succumbed to his demands much sooner. I had envisioned a terrible business involving straight razors and shrieking and ears left on the bathroom floor. As it was, except for the continual swaying, it was a fairly straightforward job.

He has yet to arise this morning so I don't know whether he is happy with last night's sudden coiffure change. I hope so.

Posted by YandaMan at 8:51 AM