The Neknomination Equation

The Neknomination Equation is a convenient & oh, so simple, Societal, shall we say, 'Sorter'.

I am confident that the Results show significant statistical accuracy.

THE EQUATION

Doing a Neknomination = 

"ooooooo, look how crazy & dangerous I am" = Embarrassing Loser.

There's more.

If you are:

< 25 years old - *pssssssssssssst*
                          Sweetie, you look ridiculous.
                          No, really, Honey, you ARE being ridiculous.
                          All you are doing is showcasing Your Ridiculous

> 25 years old - *rolls eyes*
                          Have a word with yourself, would you?
                          Surely by now you have grown out the "look at me, everyone! I drink booze.
                          I must be sooooooooooo cool" part of your life.
                          No?
                          Shame.  Most of us were done with that by about 18*

*adjust to 22 yrs old if you are a male of the species

THE WORKING OUT

Fact - There is a positive correlation between how loudly a Person declares how c-razy & 'fun' they are, with their embarrassing need to compensate for something.
(Note: we can all see it, y'know)

or, to simplify:

As (A) is to "Hey look at me, aren't I crazy?!"

so (B) is to  "It's all a bit pathetic, isn't it?"

Just to finish:

Hey, Pretty Girl, taking your clothes off in a supermarket to 'neck' a can of whatever.  It is pointless.  All we can see your bum AND your Stoopid.

Hey, Assorted People, 'necking' pints of repugnant alcoholic abominations, in quantities that very actually might kill you & then, doing a 'stunt' that might also do the same - is it worth it?
Really?
Would your Mummy be proud of you?

I don't really want to talk about this much more.
The subject matter is in danger of infecting me with its pointless vapidity.

The Legend of Shep - International Travel, Forbidden Love &, finally, Healing

He is a sheep & his name is Shep.

His roots - Worthing, Sussex.

Sussex in England (in case there are others).

It was Summer when we met. The Summer of 1977.

We have not be separated since.

From 1977 till, I think it was 2003, we have never travelled without each other (apart from those 72 hours in Boston).

Even through the University Years with all HK-UK, UK-HK flights, Shep was my Tonto to his Ke-mo Sah-Be, in my hand luggage, jammed in with the green apples & chedder (standard in-flight sustenance of the period).

Many, MANY, were the eyebrows  raised at Hand Luggage Security Check at LHR.  I would, in return, raise my chin, meet them straight in the eye.

"Yes? I know", I would haughtily respond, "His name is Shep."

He was my Security Sheep but that wasn't all.




Shep even enhanced the attributes of the Window Seat (the Seat of Choice).

I digress for a second:
The Window Seat, affords One privacy and, instantly reduces, by 50%, the battleground for the inevitable elbow/arm-rest territorial combat.
An agonising scenario for the British, especially for those of the 'We Don't Like To Touch Strangers' variety.

I could jam Shep in the gap, up against the wall, and hey presto, snoozy-dribbly happiness.  PRIVATE snoozy-dribbly happiness.

See?
If that one by the window had a Shep or equivalent,
see how much more comfy that picture would be?

Shep travelled with me to every student house I ever occupied.

Shep has been by my side in 3 hospital beds.

And, Shep has cruised.  An Alaskan cruise (yup, Shep made it all the way to Anchorage).

There was even a 72 Hour, Lost in Boston incident, of which he has never since spoken.

We shall never know what happened during that time but, let us not belittle the distress a certain 24 year old endured on the road to Kennebunkport when his absence was discovered.

Nor the joyful reunion.

Thank you, Housekeeping Team of Marriott, Boston 1993.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Things have not always been easy for Shep.

There were the tearful Teenage Years.
There were multiple 'Woe Is Me, We Should Listen To The Smiths Now' & 'My Life is a Nightmare cos' I am Missing the School Disco' incidences.

He weathered them, unscathed.

He also survived the Student Years, unharmed. Stronger for it, probably.

That which does not kill us ..... etc etc etc.  Ditto, me.

And then, Alan came into our lives.

This is Alan.

Alan had designs on Shep.

Carnal designs.

Unhealthy. Unnatural designs.

First time we noticed it, we said "oh sweet. Look, Alan is giving Shep a hug".

Alan was NOT giving Shep a hug.

Trousers said "Is he .....................?"

Me: "NO! God. Gross. Of course he isn't!"

Moments later.

Me: "OH!!!!! God!! Yes HE IS!!! Alan, stop it!!! Stop it, Alllllll-aaaaaaannnnnn, st-oppppppppppp!!!!"

So, what to do? We had to do what we could to keep them apart.

But, one day, Alan 'got' to Shep.

And this happened:
(WARNING: Those of a nervous or sensitive disposition, look away now)

Injuries incurred 

Yes. Alan literally sh**ged the stuffing out of Shep.  Shep was sh@gged to pieces.

TO PIECES, PEOPLE!!!!!!!!

But, all is not lost.

Take heart, Dear Reader.

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*
*
*
*

Some years (& Alan too, in fact) have passed since The Great Unpleasantness

Alan did show greater restraint in his latter years.

But, sad to say, however, Shep never quite recovered.  And, I am ashamed that I never sought help for Shep.

Until today.

I should have done it sooner, granted.  Trousers IS a vet but ... I didn't.

Until today.

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*
*

Thank you, Dear Colleagues.
We shall not forget your kindness & patience.

OFFICIAL STATEMENT:
We ask for some privacy at this emotional time, while Shep and I process the trauma & dramatic developments of today.
We are confident that our future is bright & that one day, we will be able to travel together again. 
xxxxx

Together Again

A Book Bore, needs the Zing. And Wifi

I like to think of myself as a groovy Tree-Hugger.

Leave the trees, say I.

The Lungs of Our  Big Blue Marble.

In July, I waxed a little bit lyrical on my love of Trees ( see Hug A What Now?).




So, "Yes!", I roar, "Leave the Trees alone!!!!"

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*****
******
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Unless, it is to make books ............ in which case ....... CHOP 'EM DOWN! CHOP 'EM ALL DOWN!!!!!
(not really)




And so you see my dilemma.
I love paper.

I love my newsPAPERS papery.

I love stationary shops. (This is worthy of a post of its own)

But most of all - most, of all, I love my books real.

Yes.
I do have a Kindle.
And Kindle and I have a respectful relationship.

We can see each other's worth.  I respect the Kindle hugely.  Kindle has a place.

Kindle, for me, is that person you KNOW would be a really good choice as a girl/boyfriend.

This is the RIGHT way

That person that ticks all the right boxes.

Oh, you know, things like:
a job,
mostly able to leave house in matching socks*,
holds knife and fork properly**,
likes animals.....
those sorts of things .............. annnnnnnnnd yettttttttttt................. something is not quite right.

* mind you, this has never been a deal-breaker
** this HAS




No *ZING!*

Gotta have the Zing or this thing is going nowhere.


Buying a book.  Selecting a book.
It's finding a new friend.
Opening a door to a new place, to new people, to new adventures or experiences.

The best thing ever.

The physical manifestation of a book is a joy that makes my heart sing.  Words. On Paper

(Too much?  I did think it was bit much but I have left it in anyway)

You don't get that with a Kindle, do you?

I enjoy the ritual of buying a book.

Personally, to maximise the thrill, I need all the senses to the 'zinged'.

The Feel of the book - the paper needs to be right. The Cover too. (btw, 'right' is subjective & indefinable.  I know when it is & I know, when it isn't) 
The Smell of the book - ain't nothing like it.
The Sound of the book - that creak of the spine as you open it. The crispness of the edges of untouched pages
The Look of the book - the font needs to be right (not too big, please, I am not 7).

You don't get that with a Kindle, do you?

The quality of production is important too.

This thing is going to be with me, for the duration, either:

by the bath,
on the dining table,
on the sofa or by the bed,
in my bag,
by the pool

I need the pages to stay where they are.  Pages falling out of a book are socks sliding down the back of your shoe, a scratchy label on your neck.  Irritating & distracting.

In Praise of The Kindle
There are two things for which I do respect Kindle.
Two reasons why I will never end it completely with Kindle.
Two reasons why, I suppose, one could say I continue to string Kindle along.

Kindle allows me the chance to have a book (several in fact) with me at all times, regardless of size and, when I hear of a book that I NEEEEEEEEED now, I can scratch that itch almost instantly.
Assuming the Wifi is working.

I see Rude People.

Not much gets my goat more than people being rude to other (also, btw) PEOPLE, who work in shops, restaurants or other forms of the service industry.

You people makes me cringe.  You make my soul cringe.

And, just FYI, it is a deal-breaker as far as any kind of friendship might go.

If you are the sort of person who:

*  snaps superiorly, completely unnecessarily & disproportionately, at someone trying to help you or respond to your request,

*  speaks condescendingly or mockingly,
*  do either or both of the above, in a loud voice just because you have or, would like to ensure, an audience

then ... we are done.

( frankly, I am disappointed you broke through my usually very reliable screening process.  I will be reviewing my Insufferable Idiot FireWall)

********************

Dear Rude Person,
I would ask that you consider whether you would speak to that same person in the same way, in your home country, if they were the same nationality / race as you.

..........................................

No, I thought not.

You embarrass me.
I am embarrassed for you.
Because you are a Class A arse-hole.

There is no excuse for that kind of behaviour.  None.

Sometimes, VERY occasionally, frustration can take you places you, later, feel disappointed you had to go. However, you can always remain respectful and dignified.

Nothing wrong with complaining, if you are not satisfied but, sweetheart, you don't have to go nuclear, you don't have to be rude and you don't need an audience.

At the other end of the scale, I have seen people 'complain' with such class and dignity & ultimately, far more successfully than any of you squawking Jumped-up FishWives or brash puffed-up chests 'Big' Men,

And, you know what makes this already shameful scenario even more unforgivable?

Carrying out your ridiculous carry on in front of your children.

Way to parent.

Hang your head in shame.

And show a bit of class, would you?

The next day:

Spotted and sent to me by a (NICE) friend.

Word.

Sister got a Onesie

She resisted for the longest time.
She scorned.
She condescended "WHY would anyone want something like THAT?"


Then, ............. she got one.

And now, she is a Onesie-Junkie.




On the upside, seems She ain't alone.

Turns out loads of us got Onesies this Christmas - so Facebook informs me.

So?  What is it like Inside the Onesie?

It is like ..... getting an all-over, full body hug.  Is it a returning to the womb thing?  I dunno.  Don't care.


There are no words.  Truly, it rocks.

Which is ironic as it is, to the core, the single most UN-rock & roll thing. Ever.

Again, who cares.

So soft. So cozy. Nothing squeezes anything.  You don't need to suck anything in. There are no spaces for drafts to get in. And, no spaces for the warmth to get out.

To power up the Goo-Goo-Ga-Ga effect, go Hood.

TOP TIP:
avoid opening the door to unsuspecting visitors.  Wiping the WTF!?! of their face, is a Herculean task.  Be kind, don't make them work that hard.  It's Christmas.

How do I know I've got it bad for the Onesie?

Well, because, daily, I look at my watch and wonder "Is it too early to go Onesie?".

The answer, sadly, is usually 'yes'.

Because, sadly, it is usually around 3:30pm.

I have established that 3:30pm is too early to Onesie.

Once you have Gone Onesie, it is like you are calling time on the day.  It is like a fuzzy, snuggly full stop on your day.

'This is me, out', it says to the World.

Who loves Onesies?

Know who loves Onesies? EVERYONE. Everyone who has experienced a Onesie. If you are a girl (big or little).
Boys (big or little) do not love a Onesie.
How do I know?



Husbands look sad when the Onesies turn up.  Husbands and Onesies will never be friends.

Onesie Admin

As a new Onesie Wearer, I have some questions & observations.  I have discussed these matters with others but, it is always worth canvassing for more opinions.

*  Does One sleep in One's Onesie?

*  Unzipping One's Onesie to 'spend a penny' (as my Nanny used to refer to it) is deeply traumatising, yes?  All cold on the top half, right?
Which brings me to the question, what does One wear (if anything) under One's Onesie? Which brings me back, full circle, to the trauma of a chilly pee.

*  One needs to be careful when performing the above-mentioned penny-spending to ensure all sleeves, dangly pompoms etc are accounted for ............. so as to ensure no inadvertent & accidental dipping of any of those things into the .......................... I give up ................ lavatory.

In short, DON'T PEE ON YOUR POMPOMS!!!!

And finally

*  Am I going to know when it is time to let the Onesie go?
I am at odd with the Non-Onesie-Friendly Climate here in Dubai.
I am now a font of information on the region's meteorological activity.
I watch for signs that might drive the Onesie away.

Stay, Onesie, stay.  Don't leave me.

Goodbyes suck. All of them

(an extract from a post back in October)

I've just done a Goodbye.
I didn't love it.

Goodbyes.

That is what I want to talk about.

Good byes are the hidden Expat Tax. And it weighs heavy on us all.

There are the most commonly thought of Goodbyes -
* the agonisingly sad driving away from home, airport-bound.

* the stomach-churning Let's All Be Brave & Practical Until the Very Last Second and Pretend This Isn't Really Happening.

OR the hideous farewells actually AT the airport.  The Stomach-Churn will follow you here.  You cannot escape the Stomach Churn.

Both scenarios.  Horrific.  The guilt.  The good ol' fashioned waaaaaa-hahhaahahaaaaaaaaa sadness.  The suppression of the I Wanna Drop Everything and Run All The Way Home reflex.


There is another kind of Expat Goodbye too.  Which also hurts.  And doesn't require you to go anywhere.

The one where people leave YOU.

No no no.  WE leave!  WE do the leaving! Goddammit. ..................................WE do NOT get left!

This Goodbye happens when other Expats leave, to either stop being Expats or, to go be Expats somewhere else.

Making strong connections with other people can be really hard anyway, but, when you are an Expat can be really extra-hard.
Our world is very transient.

When you live away from family & friends, people that have known you through the bad haircuts, teenage dramas or relationship euphoria and hiccups, when you DO make what feels like a real connection, it can be quite intense.

I've touched on this Friend thing before - in The Rugby Post & also, in The Happiness Vampires

Friends, the good 'uns, become an immediate practical source of support when you do not have your family immediately at hand.

Sometimes that support comes in the very simple form of just a Proper Belly Laugh.

Maybe handing you a cold one, that makes you contemplate a certain algebraic equation.  Remember what we were talking about earlier?

Or letting you roll in their Money-Pit.

Goodbyes suck. All of them.
Whether you are the Leaver or the Leave-ee.

A Christmas Miracle - Day 16

Here we are, Sweeties, on the final approach.

Not much longer now.

Christmas Day, minus 8 days.

Current status:
mad panic!!

Why?

Well, in a few days time, we are throwing a party for 50+ people at home :)

Looking forward to it massively, though One feels tremendous responsibility when undertaking the Fostering of the Festive Feeling, for Folk Far from Home.

We all have to work a little extra hard at getting all Joy To The World & Frosty The Snowman.

Stands to reason when, daily, we must battle decidedly unMerry elements - blue skies, temperatures in the 20's (Celcius) and all this goddamn sunshine.

However, by hook or by crook, I am getting my Noel on and I'm taking every man jack of you down with me.

Also, we have, like, 3 glasses.  The Maths are against Us.

******************************************************************

I do.  I, seriously, LOVE Christmas.
There's so much to love.

But today, I only want to talk about ..........

The Tree

Doesn't everyone
have a Christmas
Sea Monkey?

The Tree is plastic.  There. I said it.

Built and decorated complete with Family Tension.

The Tension is de rigeur & as much part of Christmas as eating mincepies in the morning throughout December & running out of sticky tape on Christmas Eve with a mountain of presents STILL to wrap.

Also, there is only tension because He, The Big Boy of The House, does it all wrong.
He is a Christmas luddite.
Who, WHO, puts the tinsel on first?
FIRST???!!!

I mean I ask you.

Christmas friggin' Caveman.

Finally, we agreed.
translation: I did it

In any event, I love plastic and, spare me the gushings about the smell, blah blah blah.

As a kid, the tree was always plastic, so Arôme Arbre de Noel Plastique is a very exciting, happy one for me.

Further, no pathetic tree corpse will be lying outside our house in early January.  Discarded.

We don't need you now, get out.
No one wants your smell in January.
In January, Tree, you stink.

How do you people live with yourselves?!

Come the Resurrection of Christmas Trees Past, I tell you, I am in the clear.

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Also, there's something else.
If we have a real one, the dogs would wee on it.

So you see? The Christmas miracle has come early.  Day 16 and Tree has NOT been soiled.  Yet.

This, Friends, is a PB for Ollie (The Stripy One).

Our very own Christmas Miracle.