Hell is other people - Take it out back

 

Yesterday I was at the video store.   I only had five minutes to run in and choose something because my friend was in the car and she needed the bathroom.  These are the realities of life, and I sympathized with her.

So it's Two For One night - a free old movie if you get a new one.  So I am hunting in the Drama aisle for Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence and I hear a commotion up front.

At first I think it is whatever movie they have playing on the TV perched precariously above the door, but then I see that it's two sales people behind the counter, arguing.

I know the woman - I've seen her there many times - but the guy seems new.

They are bickering like two kids in the back of the car on a long road trip, where neither of them wants to let the other one have the last word.

I didn't hear all of it, but here's what I did catch:

Woman:  "...tired, OK?  If you had a baby, even as a man, you'd be fucking tired."

Man [in a high voice]:  "Oh little Miss know everything.  She knows everything about every movie!"

Man turns to poor customer who has been waiting at the counter while all this has been going on...

Man: "What is your account number?"

Customer:  "Uh... uh... I can't remember."

And who can blame him?  I would've forgotten my name in that situation, it was so fucking awkward.

So it comes to my turn and I ask where I can find Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence because I looked in the Drama section and it wasn't there.

So the Woman looks it up on the computer and goes:

"Oh, it's under Japan."

and she takes me over to the right section.

"Oh," she says.  "We only have it on video.  Do you still have a VHS?"

"Uh... NO."

Wow, what year is this?  Her turn to feel awkward, I guess.

Still, I feel sorry for her because, even though I don't like rugrats and never plan to have one, if she really has just had a baby then it makes sense that she'd be tired.  Or maybe they were talking about a character in a movie.  But then she'd be right, the character would be tired.  So, based on the small part of the argument that I heard, I decide that she is the victim here, and I decide to lighten things up for her.

So we go back to the counter and she rings up the DVDs I've chosen.

"We still owe you Crank 2," I tell her.  "We'll bring it back tomorrow.  By the way, that movie is a massive, smelly, steaming pile of shit, and you shouldn't lend it out to anyone else... ever!"

 At least I made her laugh.

Still, even though I felt for her, they shouldn't have made a scene like that in the store.

Not exactly what you'd call customer service.

Hell is other people.

Hell is other people - I don't need you to narrate my life, Bitch

 

I fucked up today.

There's no other word for it and there's no-one else to blame for it. 

It was me - and I was fucking up. 

But what I didn't need was some uppity Bitch making it worse.

I was driving Fluffy Bear to a drinks thing with his friends and I ended up in the wrong lane.  I needed to turn right.  Perhaps, I thought, some kind soul in the right turning lane will forgive me for being stupid and let me in.  So I put my indicator (signal) on and was watching the rear view mirror to see if the little white car would slow down and let me go.  And it did.  How nice!

What I wasn't watching was the pedestrian crossing and, as I turned, I suddenly saw some poor girl on a bicycle, on my right, brake at the last minute and nearly get hit by our car.  I braked hard and said I was sorry to her.  She said it was OK and got her balance back. 

I wanted to say more to her when Bicycle Bitch came up on my left.

I just want to say up front that Bicycle Bitch stopped me from making another, proper apology to the poor girl I nearly ran over, and that is what I am most mad about. 

Second, I am mad that she rode accross from the other side of the road to come and shout and me.  Because that is fucking sad and pathetic.

Third, I am mad that she thought it appropriate to yell at me immediately after what could have been a horrible accident, when I was still in shock.

Last but not least, I am mad about what she said.

"Geez, Lady!" she yelled.  "You just turned accross oncoming traffic [note - not true] and then headed right accross the CROSSWALK!

"Thank you so much for pointing that out to me," I told her in my most upper class, withering, look-down-your-nose, British accent.

"That was," I continued, "very considerate of you.  It was also so very helpful, because I am completely incapable of recognizing or analyzing my own mistakes."

Fucking Bitch.

Hell is other people.

Hell is other people - Get the fuck off your arse

  

I went to a concert a little while ago.

I grew up in South Africa and, because of Apartheid, bands wouldn't tour there.  This was the extent of my live concert experience as a teenager:

• Rolf Harris
• Richard Clayderman
• Boney M

Yes, I am scarred for life.

Ever since I got to the UK, I've been making up for it, and I've continued that in the US. 

For me, it's not about keeping up with new music.  It's about catching up on those bands I've missed.  So I tend to go to the shows by 80s bands that have reformed, or are still going.

Enter Depeche Mode - one of my absolute favorite 80s bands.

So there we are, Bill and I, at the concert.

Behind us are sitting four Suburbanites who, when we arrive, are talking about the last time they came to the arena.  For all of them, it's been years, and the last time they were there it was for a sporting event.

Then the Cute Crazy Couple arrive.  Two guys, probably in their 30s, ready, willing and able to PARTAY.  They come into seats in front of us, and the more outgoing of the two introduces himself to everyone sitting around him, talks about how excited he is and generally just gets the fun going.

"Oh my GOD!"  I hear spat out from behind us.  "Imagine if we were sitting behind him!"

The Suburbanites continue by criticising the opening act and, when Depeche Mode finally take the stage, their arses stay glued to their seats and polite clapping ensues. 

They sit throughout 80%, silent.  At one point, the one on the aisle starts an argument with a girl who has walked down the steps to the edge of the seating block to see the stage because, as he is sitting down, she'd be obstructing his view.

Eventually, when the concert rises to a crescendo and Depeche Mode are belting out some of the old No. 1s, with the crowd singing every word and generally going insane, the Suburbanites stand up.  I turned around at one point and almost burst out laughing right at them... the oldest guy, pot-bellied, was swaying from side to side, shuffling his feet.  In his head he was 16, greasy-haired and covered in acne all over again. 

As for Bill and I, we danced pretty much the whole time.  We sang, we clapped, we waved our arms in the air.  I was sweating like a piggy wiggy, my voice was hoarse and my palms were red from being hit against each other.

Tell me, what is WRONG with these people?

If you want to listen to the music without participating, get a high quality CD and sit sipping lite beer in the basement media room of your McMansion!

Years ago, I went to a Pet Shop Boys concert in London.  It was a strange venue - the Tower of London.  I guess that what would have been the moat back in the day is now a strip of grass between the main part and the outer wall.  They put up a small stage and mostly, during the festival, there were jazz and classical performances. 

There was a tent where you could buy a picnic with champagne to have before the concert on the grass.  It was that kind of festival.

The first block of seats were beige deck chairs.  They hadn't been offered for sale, but rather given to media types and music reviewers.  My friend, Cameron, and I were in the first row of the second block of seats.

As soon as the Pet Shop Boys came on stage, we jumped up and started dancing.

I got a tap on the shoulder. 

I turned around to find a very red-faced, small man who spewed the following invective at me in that vicious camp tone that only gay men can pull off.

"I didn't pay 30 quid for my ticket to come here and watch your fat arse jiggle!" he spat.

Cameron is gay, fearless, extremely intelligent, blessed with an extensive vocabulary and has been exposed to a very wealthy and refined lifestyle, so he can look down his nose at HRH Lizzie if he wanted to.

Cameron said several very rude things to the man which included the phrases "fuck off" and "fat old queen," something that, as a straight woman, I would never have been able to pull off.

By this time people were starting to move into the aisles to get closer to the stage, and were being shooed off by Security.  Cameron noticed that, in the front block of free-ticket-giveaways, there were several people leaving their seats to head back to what must have been a well-stocked free bar.

We sneaked down the aisle and slipped into seats left by two people who were clearly not into "this modern crap they call music" and ended up in the second row.  We spent the first five minutes there turning around to our detractor, even though he probably couldn't see us from way back where he was sitting, and making rude hand signals at him.  We were very, very close to Neil and Chris, so God only knows what they thought we were doing.

Again, what is WRONG with these people? 

Did Mr CampyBitch really think that the Pet Shop Boys is the kind of music you sit and listen to, with reverence?  If he wanted that he should have come back the next day, bought a champagne picnic and bloody well air-conducted to some Mozart.

The whole point of a live concert is to sing and dance and clap and wave and be part of thousands of people who are singing and dancing and clapping and waving too.

At a live concert there is always someone, somewhere, singing the wrong words to the song, and that is exactly how it should be.

Because it doesn't matter.

It's about being there. It's about loving it. It's about letting go and having fun.

Hell is other uptight concert people.

Get the fuck off your arse!

Hell is other people - Health shop girl

 

I love Nordstrom.

It's the best store in America.  It's that simple.

I'm too poor to walk into Barneys or Saks and get served and people who shop at places like that and pay over $300 for a scarf are out of touch with reality.

Macy's is OK, but often dirty, and I just don't like the tought of buying sweat shop clothes at the cheaper stores.  Not to say that I don't ever buy from them - I do (especially now that I am an Ex-employee) - but I don't like to.

Why do I love Nordstrom?  Well, because this would never, ever happen there.

I walk into a health shop near my house.  I need a few things, including rice protein for my morning smoothies.

The shop is small, and I am the only customer in there.

Then I hear her.  

A shop assistant talking, at high volume, to a colleague.

"You know this lotion?  Well you know how it's made of organic stuff and, if you open a bottle and let air in, you can't sell it?  And you know that there is a tester on the shelf below it, right?  And it says 'Tester' on it?  Well I've had another customer open one of the bottles to smell the lotion!!!  I mean, dude!  I'm like, this is a thirteen dollar bottle of lotion.  And now we can't sell it!  This is, like, the third customer to do this!  I'm like.... what?!?!?!"

OK, so let's break it down:

• At Nordstrom, they would never talk about customers doing something silly in front of another customer
• At Nordstrom, sales people actually have more than half a brain, and they would realize that, if something happens three times, then their set up is confusing for the customer and has to be changed
• At Nordstrom, sales people are empowered to make changes and, instead of bitching about it, they'd change the display so that the tester bottle was in front of the real bottles rather than below it

So I got my rice protein, waited at the till (cash register) for Little Miss Monologuing Diatribe to finish and walk over to me, paid and left.  I did not buy any of the other stuff I needed, which I chose to go somewhere else - where I didn't have to listen to a stream of invective - and buy.

The little fountain, the wooden and bamboo interior, the soft music.  These things were clearly set up by the owner to create a soft, welcoming and soothing atmosphere in their store which, I'll remind you, is all about health, natural remedies, etc.

Waste of money when you don't train your staff how to behave correctly.

Hell is little, loud sales people.

Hell is other people - Being neighborly

 

I got home this afternoon and I had a strange burst of cleaning productivity. 

It all started when I drove Bill and Ted (yes, I tend to be a childish when I give my friends pseudonyms), to get a BBQ.  To fit it in, I had to put the back seats down.  That's when I saw it... a quarter inch deep stripe of tightly packed Puppy Dog hair in the crease where the chairs fold flat.  Blergh!

Later, as I pulled into a parking spot in front of our house, all I could think of was the hand-held vacuum.  I spent the next half hour or so, using the brush attachment, trying to scrape and suck the hair out of the car, and occasionally cursing Puppy Dog.

The hand-held vacuum ran out of charge before my housework energy burst did, so I grabbed the garden hose.

A week or so ago, Fluffy Bear bought this amazing attachment for the hose which has a dial on it. You can turn the water in a jet that reaches 20 feet away, a shower of big raindrops, a soft mist... pretty much whatever you want.

I can stand at the top of the bank that lies between our front porch and the sidewalk and, using different settings, water all the grass and plants on that side of the house. 

So I'm standing there, spurting the plants next to the sidewalk with the Jet setting, making rain on the grass with the Soak setting and gently spritzing the Lavender plants with the Mist setting.

Then a neighbor walked past.

"You know," she said, "it's going to rain tonight."

"Really?" I replied, looking up at the gray, cloudy sky as if noticing it for the first time. "Oh, yes, I see." 

I smiled and shrugged, and she went on her way.

I was being neighborly. 

Yes, I was.

Because, you see, here's how the conversation went in my head:

Neighbor:  "You know, it's going to rain tonight."

Me:  "Is it going to rain tonight in Mexico, too?"

Neighbor:  "Why do you want to know if it is going to rain in Mexico?"

Me:  " I don't.  I was just wandering how far you'd go with spouting useless information that I really don't give a shit about."

Neighbor:  "What?"

Me:  "LEAVE ME ALONE, BITCH!  I'M HAVING FUN!"

Hell is other people.

Hell is other people - Shut the FUCK up!

Last night we went to see a movie.  It's so damn hot that my friend Bill called around to see who had good aircon, and we went to see what they were showing.

We therefore abandoned our dogs, which I feel bad about, but Puppy Dog seems to have survived.

So... the cinema we choose is a little upscale.  Let's face it, no-one has the tolerance for the proletariat when it's hot.  We needed a baseball-cap-free-zone.

This place is over 21 (the ridiculously high American age when you're allowed to drink), has full bar, armchairs, footstools and drink delivery to your seat half way through the movie. 

Very civilized.

Very cosmopolitan.

Very downtown.

But, sadly, not everyone watching the movie was.

Perhaps it's a sign of our times, but young people who have grown up with flatscreens and DVDs don't seem to know how to behave in a cinema.

Take my niece, for instance.  The first time she was taken to see a movie, it was something like The Little Mermaid.  She got popcorn, diet soda, candy - she had a great time.  Then, as the credits rolled and other people got up to leave, she turned to her mother and said:

"Rewind, Mommy!  Rewind!"

No amount of explaining could pacify her and, as my sister-in-law tells it, she was dragged screaming and crying from the cinema.

This generation - in many ways and in many situations - simply has no idea how to behave correctly.

So here we are, about to watch The Hangover.

I'm with good friends, the aircon is blasting, we have great seats.

I'm set.

I have my champagne, I have my glass of water, I have my Nicorette.

I'm set.

I'm an intelligent woman, I have a great sense of humor, I have a keen appreciation of irony.

I'm set.

But, no.

No.

You see, I clearly am not able to truly "get" what is going on without the help of the couple sitting in the row behind me.  And they - Good Christians that they are - will help me out.

And so, after each line that they thought was funny, or each line that they felt confident they could predict before the character voiced it, they articulated - loudly.

Alan: It's time to let the dogs out!

Good Christians: "Let the DOGS out! WAAH HA HA HA HA HA!"

Cellphone rings.

Good Christians: "It's Doug!"

Phil: It's Doug!

Baby is heard crying somewhere in the suite.  Stu, Phil and Alan open a closet.  They see a baby.

Good Christians: "It's a baby!  WAAAH HA HA HA HA HA!"

Alan wakes up, hungover, and stumbles into the bathroom for a pee.  As he is taking a leak, we hear a growl.  He looks to his right and, not quite believing his eyes, sees a tiger.

Good Christians: "It's a TIGER!  WAAAH HA HA HA HA HA HA!"

Hell - blistering, piercing, eviscerating, lacerating hell - is OTHER FUCKING PEOPLE!!!!

Hell is other people - Sometimes you just gotta boom

 

It is hot today where I live.  Very hot.  Damn hot.  Pizza oven hot.  Searing fires of hell hot.  Blazing branding-iron hot.

We are uncomfortable.  We are sweaty.  We are tetchy.

So I go out into the garden with my laptop to sit in the shade.  Somewhere from across my back alley, from a house up the hill from mine, live the cliche - the Loud Americans.

Not all Americans are like this but, in Europe, we tend to unfairly stereotype those kinds of tourists who stand in the middle of a busy piazza, neck bedecked with massive camera, and yell "Isn't it just great, Herbert?"

Suffice to say, it's a type of person, irrespective of nationality - one who insists on talking at a volume inappropriate to the proximity of those around them - that I detest.

And just because you are in your own back yard, doesn't mean that consideration isn't necessary.  We live in the city.  The back yards are postage stamps.  I can hear you flush your toilet.  You can probably hear me fart.

So there I am, hot and bothered - and not in a good way - trying to literally and figuratively chill out.

And then I hear it.

Screeching little girl:"I won, Daddy, I won!"

Muffled conversation.  That kind of conversation where you can't hear every word that is being said, but it's loud enough, and - in male base tones - deeply booming enough, to distract and annoy.

Screeching little girl:"I won, Daddy, I won!"

Continued muffled conversation.

Screeching little girl:"I won! Did you see? I WON!"

Continued muffled conversation.

Screeching little girl: "Daddy!  DADDY! LOOK! I WON!"

Continued muffled conversation.

Screeching little girl: "I WON! I WON! I WON! DADDY! DADDY!"

Continued muffled conversation.

And now I shall let you in on a little secret.  I studied Speech and Drama.  In fact, when I was 11, I won a competition in my province for the best recital of a poem and got free Speech and Drama lessons.  My parents kept them up and I did this as extra-curricular activity (outside of school - they were private lessons) from the age of 12 through to 18.

One of the things you learn in Speech and Drama is to project.

You imagine hitting the back wall of the theatre with your voice.  It's not about shouting, it's about speaking normally and yet achieving a huge range at the same time.  It's about allowing your mouth and throat to open up to create caverns which let the sound circulate, amplify and BOOM.

"Daddy," I boomed.  "Please take a moment to tell your daughter that it's great that she won."

Pause....

"Good job, honey!"

"Thank you."

Silence.

Hell is other people.

Hell is other people - Listen up Barista Beeach

 

I drink a complicated coffee. 

 

I have an accent.

 

Coffee shops can be busy, noisy places.

 

And so I say my order slowly and clearly.

 

"One Grande Decaf Soy Latte and one Grande Cappuccino, dry, please."

 

Barista Beeach ("BB") takes my order, disappears around to the coffee making area and her colleague walks by her to ring up the order on the till.  

 

"One Soy Latte and One Cappuccino, Grandes," I hear her tell him.

 

She didn't say decaf for mine.  So first I think that maybe the decaf and the normal are the same price and, for someone who is just ringing up the total, decaf is irrelevant information.  Therefore BB has effectively edited her conversation for reasons of efficiency.  I pause and ponder the odds of this being the case.  Hmm..... pretty slim.

 

"Please can you make sure the Soy Latte is decaf?" I ask the nice boy taking my money.

 

He sticks his head round the counter:

 

"The Soy Latte is Decaf..... What?.... Oh, you knew that?  Oh, OK."

 

"She's got it," he says to me.

 

Satisfied, I step around to the coffee collection area. 

 

"Did you say that that Cappuccino was normal?" BB asks me, taking an attitude.  

 

Her voice asks that question but her tone asks this question: "Did you really tell me that the Soy Latte was Decaf?  I don't think you did.  So YOU fracked up, not me."

 

"Yes," I say, between gritted teeth, giving attitude right back.

 

Then, right in front of me, Little Miss Yeah-She's-Got-It yells:

 

"FREE SOY LATTE!  ANYONE WANT A FREE SOY LATTE?"

 

Ah, so you DID frack it up, didn't you dear? I think.  

 

She gives me my two coffees and I stalk out of the store.  

 

Childish, but vindicated.

 

Hell is other people.

 

Hell is other people - Poor Mr Jackson

 

Who would have thought that a kid on your block practising the trombone at full volume every day for the last two weeks could get worse?

Well, it can.

Because now the kid is on vacation and has his friends round.  And they - too young, you would think, to care - seem to believe they should pay homage to Michael Jackson, after his untimely death, by tunelessly warbling his songs to a karaoke machine.

Worse still, they think they can riff and harmonize.

You are not alone... (YOUNOTALONE!)

For I am here with you... (IHEREWITHYOU!)

Though we're far apart...

You're always in my heart...

Poor Michael must be rolling in his grave.

As for me, I am being driven to a glass of wine.

Hell is other people.

Hell is other people - How not to sell a renovated house

1. Hold an open house before the renovation is finished and the varnish on the deck is still sticky.


2. Put a "Media Room" in the basement which is so narrow it can only fit two small armchairs side by side


3. Make interesting spend/no spend decisions in the kitchen: a special water tap next to the stove, but no water/ice dispenser on the fridge; two sinks but no garbage disposal


4. Show the house on a sunny day with the windows closed so it's hot. When a prospective buyer asks if the house has air conditioning, tell her "No, but all the windows open!"


5. Create an upstairs deck which is off the two kids bedroom rather then the master bedroom


6. Create a walk-in closet in the master bedroom that's so small only a nudist's wardrobe would fit in it


7. Put interesting art all over the place, like a five foot diameter clock with massive Roman numerals, a strange 6 foot long, 3 foot wide metal arrow. When people visit a house they want to visualize themselves in it, not deal with your taste in art. When a prospective buyer whispers feedback that the art is distracting from the overall house, say "I'm an expert in this," and walk away.


8. Put the house, in an area where comparable houses have sold for $500 - $800K less, on the market for over $2 million

WTF?

Yeah, good luck with that.

Hell is other people - Get outta my personal space

Want the button pictured? Get in here.

So you get to the dance class last.

You're late.

We're all in there, standing in nice rows. There's a space at the front (there always is).

So why do you make your own special row by standing in front of me?

And why do you do your dance moves in such a way that you slowly shove me further and further back and to the side until, eventually, when I do the sequence of two steps to the left I end up hitting the Spin bikes?

Why?

Are you a moron?

Are you pathalogically selfish?

Are you devoid of periferal vision?

Are you completely oblivious to anyone around you?

And, just by the way, you dance like an elephant on acid.

Hell is other people.

Hell is other people - Elevator Yak Yak

I get into the elevator. There are two people already in it. One is laughing nervously. He is clearly uncomfortable. He gives me a very grateful look, which I initially don't understand. Then I realize what is going on. He was hoping that my arrival would shut his colleague up.

But no.

On she goes.

"...can you believe it? I just couldn't believe he even said that. You know, I spoke to someone else about that guy and you know what they said? They said 'Don't work with him!' He doesn't work for you, does he?"

"No," said the poor little man and practically sprinted away as the doors opened to his floor.

I just stared at her.

I mean, HELLO!

Elevator-inappropriate conversation!!!

 

Hell is other people.

Hell is other people - Lil' Chatty Cathy

Get the button pictured here.

Finally, the sun has come out.

You've walked the dog, you have mud all over your shoes and your jeans, but thank God, the dog is prepared to sleep quietly in the car. You find somewhere to park (a miracle!), you find a restaurant with a table outside that is free (another miracle!). You have your sunglasses on, you're ready for some major chillaxing.

And then the Perky Interrogator arrives.

She isn't satisfied with just taking your order.

No.

She wants to chat.

She wants make inane obvious comments about the weather.

She interrogates you on how you have been spending this glorious day.

She has to explain how one type of bread is finished so she'll be bringing you another - like you care.

Her lack of empathy borders on the sublime.

She doesn't take the hint of the monosyllabic answers that border on the impolite.

She is blissfully ignorant of the extreme imperative of moving her ass so you can get your much needed, refreshing Mojito.

She seems unaware that, the sooner she gets out of your face, the sooner she can tend to the other tables, which are all also waiting.

Her voice is as high as her perky tits and her ponytail, and you start to fantasize about the various ways you could kill her.

Her smile is as wide as her rosy cheeks will allow, and you start to think about how far the barman would be in making your Mojito right now if she had just gone away and given him the order.

When your drink finally comes, you slurp it down so fast it makes you burp audibly. You are so wound up by this stage that you need another, but that would mean talking to her again...

Hell is other chatty people.

Hell is other people - Scope dope

Hell is other people who, in the first milestone meeting for a project, decide they'd like to completely change the scope yet keep the same delivery dates.

Then they piss off on holiday for two weeks.

Hell is other management people.

Hell is other people - I'm surrounded

• Hell is other people who leave toilet seat covers on the toilet after they leave, so you have to gather them up, put them in the water and flush before you can pee.


• Hell is other people who have loud, naked, inane conversations in the gym locker room about not being able to work out with their hair down and having to once tie it up with a piece of string.


• Hell is other people who when I am on my way up to my office first thing in the morning and after I have rejoiced at the fact that no-one is getting off at a floor below mine, run up last minute, hold the doors with their arm, get in, and push the button for one floor down from me.

Hell is other people

Hell is other people - A Fall

"So," the massage therapist said, reading my intake form, "you had a fall?"

I answered with a monosyllabic affirmative, but a thousand thoughts were going through my head.

A FALL?

Since when am I old enough to have A FALL?

Why am I freaking out about this? Simple. The way in which we describe an unintentional rapid communing with the ground beneathe us is one of those little things that changes as we age.

For a child or toddler, we make light of the fall, scooping them up and making high pitched noises that communicate to them that it is nothing to be worried about. After all, children are as strong as cyborgs and bounce like rubber balls.

Hence:

"Did you go boom? Huh? Huh? Baba go boom-si-daisy? Oopsie! Boom-boom! Oopsie!"

When we are kids and teenagers the key is to cover up our deep embarrassment at drawing any attention to ourselves and pretend the entire thing never happened or, if you are quick-witted enough, turn it into a clever joke.

Hence:

"Dude, you just totally kissed the sidewalk!"
"Goddamn! Did you see that? I just ducked and rolled like James Bond, Yo!"

When we are adults, we tend not to fall, unless we are drunk, which is funny in anyone's book. No need to comment, just giggle and guffaw along with anyone who happened to see you.

But then old age sets in. The muscles waste, the skin bruises easily, the bones are fragile. Falling down turns into a major hazard, a source of real injury and possibly even a trap, if you can't get up again. At worst, it can compromise your dignity and become the final straw that sucks up your last vestige of independence, leading to constant supervision and a sense of being a burden till the Grim Reaper comes. It also becomes a conversation point that can last for weeks, especially in the lives of those who are no longer very active and therefore make a lot out of a little.

Hence:

"Did you hear? Mary had a fall."
"No! When?"
"Last night. She got up to go to the bathroom."
"Is she hurt?"
"Oh, yeeeeessss. They found her on the floor this morning when they went in to help her dress. She had peed herself."
"They'll be transferring her to the main building soon, she'll be with us!"
"Well she won't be sitting at my table at dinner time! She smells of cigarettes!"

And so, maybe I'm being a bit paranoid here, but I have always dreaded getting to the point where bumping Mother Earth was described as a fall.

In fact, when Puppy Dog pulled me over yesterday, I was pretty impressed at how quickly I bounced back up and how I didn't feel terrible afterwards. Even this morning, when I woke up and couldn't move my neck, I decided all I needed was a good massage and I'd be fine. I was handling it.

Till that skinny little bitch spoke to me like I'm an eighty year old.

Worse still - and I am not exaggerating - she gave me the worst massage I've had in years.

Hell is other people.

Hell is other people - Happy Clappy

Today was one of those days at work. Every meeting I had was with a cross between The Girls Next Door and a Duracell Bunny .

You walk into their office and they don't just say hello. They screech-sing at you:

"HI!"

That's when you know how it's going to go. Throughout the meeting they will be beaming blinding positive energy at you. Conversation will be peppered with a sprinkling of annoying Americanisms such as "awesome", "kinda" and "totally". And any input will be immediately followed by "You are so right!!!!" no matter what BS you spout at them.

Where the hell do they get the energy? How come they find their everyday job so delightful? Why aren't they tired and run down and bloody well sick of the rain like I am? Is there some secret store of happiness and bounciness that only American citizens have access to?

Sometimes I fantasize about putting on my thickest English accent and seeing if I can get away with something like:

"I think the point you're making is startlingly simultaneously morbidly fascinating and patently puerile, and I think that we should sketch out some action points round it so we can take this forward, align our efforts and ensure ongoing collaboration."

But I haven't got the energy to be bothered to do it.

Hell is other people - In Training

Training.

It's draining.

The room seems to get stuffier (read: smell of other people's farts), my brain gets mushier and the neon lights seems to increase the malice of their flicker frequency as the day goes on.

And yet, like the gasping marathon runner, you have to keep going. As soon as the runner loses concentration, he trips and falls. In training, if your mind wanders, you suddenly find that you have no idea what the presenter - let's call him Ben - is talking about and realize you are the only one that can't answer the question he just asked or complete the calculation that has somehow magically appeared on the whiteboard.

The last straw is my own inner policeman, who tells me I can't have anymore coffee.

After that, my tolerance is gone - Poof! - in a puff of smoke.

And so, I start to hate her. I am sure she's a nice person. Hell, she may even be good at her job. But she just doesn't keep up... or shut up.

And so I have to channel my fury by renaming her in my head.

From this day forward, her name is UmBen.

"Um... Ben... did you say that this refers to the manager or the team?"

"Um... Ben... could you please say that sentence again?"

"Um... Ben... are we on point 5 or point 4?"

"Um... Ben... when you say divide by 3, do you mean divide all of it by 3?"

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

Hell is other people.

Hell is other people - And they're everywhere

[To buy the button pictured, click here]

Things irritate me.

When they do, I tend to have a dialogue (OK, OK, a monologue) with the people who cause those things. It's only in my head, of course, but it makes me feel better.

Here's what irritated me today:

• The guy who came up to the roundabout at the same time as me, on the opposite side, and turned left instead of going around it, almost hitting me. It's a roundabout, Asshole - the clue is in the name. You go round it anticlockwise and you give way to the left!


• The person in the Escalade who almost stole my parking outside the Fast Food Joint. Hey! Listen, Asshole. And yes, I know you are an asshole because you own an Escalade. That was my parking! I was sitting here, with my indicator on, waiting for that parking space and you saw me doing it. So nice try on taking to get in there but I guess my little car is more agile than your fucking tank. Tell me, Asshole, did the credit check for that car consist of valuing your bling bling? Does it have a special holder in there for your baseball cap? Did they give you a free velveteen tracksuit when you bought it? Huh? Huh?


• The Receptionist at the Chiropractor who asked me if I had any plans for the weekend. It's five o' clock, Honey, and you've been here since 9am. Have you asked everyone that inane question? Did anyone actually give you an interesting reply? I'd ask what you are doing this weekend but, here's the thing - I don't care.


• The male barista at the coffee bar who sat there reading rather than getting up to ask me what I'd like to drink. Get the fuck up and do your job, Numbnuts. Don't fool yourself that you are above all this because your grungy little music career is "about to take off". You're 29 and you're still here so how about you grab some coffee beans and get grinding.

Hell is other people.