ten thousands spoons, no knife

 Actual train I take to work. Actual scenario at play every morning.


A swirling bucket of ironies are occurring around me today.

Seasonal misinterpretations.
It's by far the sweatiest, hottest day of the year today. And I've dressed in tights and clonky, heavy leather boots for the occasion. Don't know why. What a dick. What a wasted opportunity.

Lifts versus trains.
People won't utter a word to each other in train carriages, even if they're bunched together and within sweating distance of each other's pits. Not a word. But in a lift? Jesus. Stop the anarchy.

Conversations going back and forth that start with, "Is this the lunch rush? Isn't it mad how muggy the weather is? My boss is on holiday so I'm not working, no." type of chit chat. Being thrown amok within the 1x1 metre human cannister, at will. Across you, next to you. Forcing me to conclude that going up and down incites conversation more than transport going in horizontal directions.

Balls. 
Just when I've finally settled on which Mulberry bag I will buy, after months of painstaking research and dry humping the display rack at Peter Jones over the weekend, I have realised that I now can't afford to buy it. I am going to Japan in September. Japan is going to cost, like, four Mulberry bags, of which I am very happy to pay. (Experiences are better than things). But the bag that I hope will wait for me come October, that I have finally settled on is......a Del Rey.

I can smell the buttery leather through this freaking screen.

The Welsh on dinner parties.
I work with a Welsh guy who has decided that dinner parties just aren't for him, and expressed this across the lunch table the other day.
"I don't know what to bring, how to sit, and what to say. I don't drink wine, and inevitably I'm going to tell a penis joke at some point which will probably upset someone. No. No it's not for me."

(Actually, what he said was: I dawn't knaw what to breeng, how to sit, and what to se. I dawn't drink why-ne, and in-ev-it-ta-blee, Aye'm gawing to tell a pee-nuss jawk at some poyn-te, which will upset someone. Naw. Naw it's not for me.)

We discussed the underlying reasons for his dinner party anxiety, from the table settings to the formal atmosphere, and why he just didn't bring a six pack of beer if he didn't drink wine, and presumably his mates would know he'd be cracking penis jokes anyway.

Naw. I yet it. (No. I hate it.)


The Aussie invited him over for pizza, and said maybe a casual setting not involving cutlery would set him at ease. Could he eat pizza with friends around a table?
"That's a grey area," he said. "Not sure to be honest. Probably not."

So it was the actual table and chairs then.

The Aussie then offered that he come around to eat pizza on the settee.

"Yeah, alright. I can do that."

There's no irony here, we just found it all rather amusing.