The Mentor at the Bank

With the current financial crisis and the recent G20 summit, where world leaders met to *cough cough* waste money being photographed in a pitiful spin exercise agree how to save the world (don't they need to save the cheerleader first?), I'm reminded of a prank I pulled with a friend at university. The link is pretty tenuous - the prank was at a bank.

At the time my friend, Ray, who later became my best man and one of my daughter's godparents, tended to wear a long, black, Matrix (leather) coat. One day we were on campus and I needed to go to the bank to extend my overdraft. Ray had a great idea. We would go in together and he would pretend to be my 'guide' or 'mentor'. Whenever I was asked a question I was to look up at him, and he would nod to indicate that I should proceed. It seemed terribly funny at the time.

We were called forward to the desk of one of the 'personal bankers', an austere lady with a giant blond bouffant and pearl earrings. She reminded me of one of my primary school teachers. "Please take a seat," she said. I took a seat and Ray stood rigidly behind my left shoulder.

"How may I help you?" she asked.

I looked up at Ray, who nodded cautiously. "I'd like to extend my overdraft," I said. She asked for my debit card. Once again I looked up at Ray. He paused for a second, as if weighing up the situation, and then nodded again. I handed over my debit card.

The lady stiffened and peered at me over her spectacles. She glanced up at Ray, and then back at me. The bouffant grew visibly larger, the pearl earrings winked in unison, a terrifying stoniness came into her grey eyes. Had I listened hard I expect I would have heard a dog barking in the distance.

"Who," she said, "is THAT?"

I looked up at Ray. A sense of acute discomfort came over me, maybe this wasn't such a great idea after all. Ray had the appearance of a Neo who was wetting himself with fear. He nodded again, a little reluctantly.

"This is my mentor," I said, employing my very best poker face.

"Well," she said, as if scolding a pair of naughty kindergartners, " either your 'mentor' leaves RIGHT NOW, or I call the police."

I turned to Ray. Once standing proud and upright, he was now drooping like a wet sock. "You wait outside," I said. He regained his composure and strode out Neo-like while I sorted out my overdraft.

The Dirty Tissue That Broke My Spirit

I know you are fed up of the same old same old. One grumpy twenty-something-going-on-ninety-something tirelessly recounting commuting stories. One long drawn out moan. Well tough. The things I have to put up with.

When I got on my train home today there was only one seating area unoccupied. Following protocol (of course) I chose not to invade the space of others and commandeered the free area, despite the fact that the table was covered with trash. It was as if the entire Von Trapp family had been there, with an enormous entourage, and scoffed a feast of cheap travel food before leaving the remains in one collective act of (G20?) defiance.

I was knackered. A week of crazy long days at work. Getting home late then working in the evenings. Busted my back playing football. Creme egg prices going through the roof. And now the aftermath of a Von Trapp family scoff-up.

An old man burst onto the train. He was one of those people that, when they get on the train, you shudder inside and think no, not here, not opposite me, pleeeeeeeeeeeease. He was out of breath and crashing about with a huge rucksack, one of those spatially unaware people that simply should not be allowed to carry bags of any form.

He stumbled into the seat opposite me and knocked half the trash onto my lap.

"Thanks for that," I said politely. I wasn't in the mood for some random miscreant to knock half-eaten Von Trapp chicken legs onto my lap. Maybe that was overly harsh of me, I felt a little awkward when he apologised. I chose to ignore him, the trash and my now skanky trousers, and quietly read my paper.

A few minutes later the old man took off his coat. A grubby, well-used tissue dropped out of the sleeve and landed on my lap. It was the straw that broke the camel's back. It was the dirty tissue that broke my spirit. I got up and scurried away, thinking of the hot bath and beer that I would have when I got home.

Hot baths and beer, just a few of my favourite things.

The Hypothetical Hell Day

Today I have the pleasure of announcing an exciting triangular guestival. I'm posting over at More Mindless Rambling, blognut is posting at Show My Face, and Cate is posting here. Our task, which we chose to accept, was to post on our hypothetical hell day. When you're done here head over to More Mindless Rambling and Show My Face. And now, I bring you Cate...

It's me, Cate, taking over Mo's blog today. Our agreed-upon topic? Hypothetical Hell Day. For him, it could be that allowing me to run amok on his blog would be part of his day from hell but it's too late for that now! I mean, I kind of like it over here. I think I'll stay awhile!

For me, Hell Day would likely fall on a Wednesday. Most Wednesdays, I'm able to work from home. This means I am able to sleep in until about 7:59am. But on Hell Day, I would not be working from home for some reason, which already puts me in a foul mood. My husband, Joe, would not realize this, allowing me to snooze for far too long.

Nothing starts my day off on the wrong foot like rushing to make it to work on time. And I do mean "on time" - my boss is quite unforgiving with the 8 o'clock sharp thing.

On this particularly awful day, something would undoubtedly make me late despite driving 80+ mph (Google tells me this is 128.75+ kw/h for those of you on Mo's side of the universe). I'm guessing it would be a school bus in my path, stopping every 20 feet to pick up the little children who are so delicate that mommy had to drive them the half a block from their house to the corner because they can't wait in the cold. Which now means mommy has to help them from the car, hugs and kisses, do you have your lunch?, have a nice day before putting them on the bus. Ugh. When I was a pretty pretty princess, I had to walk to school, uphill both ways, in the snow!

Once at work, the boss would eat my face for arriving at 8:02 without calling. Yeah, I'll "work" an extra two minutes at lunch. Since there's rarely any work to be done, "work" is only differentiated from "lunch" by whether or not the door is pulled shut while I read blogs. Bossman would then proceed to visit my office every forty minutes or so to rant and rave about something I have no control over or interest in. My boss IS the drama llama.

By the time quitting time rolls around (at exactly 5:00 pm, of course), a stress migraine would be in full-blown marching band mode. Just for kicks, cue the heavy rain and idiot drivers for the commute home. The best part of hell day is realizing I'm in my garage, no idea how I got there, and crawling upstairs to bed for a nap until Joe shows up.

After slicing my finger or burning my hand, Joe will seize control of dinner, which is just as well because I'm not going to want to eat it anyway. And it's safer for everyone involved. Migraines + fire + sharp objects = trips to the emergency room. We learned that lesson the hard way.

The evening would end with me being too stubborn to go to bed early, instead watching television until President Bush (what, I know he's not President anymore but NOTHING is more hellish to me than that!) interrupts Lost to proclaim victory over his sweatpants. Mission accomplished for sure!

And that's about all I would be able to take. At that point, I'd finally succomb to the evil of Hell Day and retreat into bed. Rather than curling up next to me for a snuggle and purr, the cat would attack my feet, causing one final increase to my blood pressure and head throbbing before I give in to the medication and passing out.

The Nothing Box

I bought myself a coffee this morning while waiting for my train. I was thinking about life, the universe, everything and in particular, the nothing box.

"What are you thinking about?" asked my wife yesterday.

"Nothing," I replied.

"You can't be thinking about nothing," she said.

Truth is I was and I do. This state is known as 'the nothing box'. It is where men go when we are zonked and are literally not thinking about anything. Having thought about the nothing box I then got into the nothing box and wandered down to my train. At least, I assume I wandered down to my train as I found myself on the train, but I don't remember the wandering bit.

The train pulled away from the station. I blinked for a moment. Something was missing. I had paid for my coffee but left it at the booth. £1.60 down the drain.

Damn that nothing box.

The Robin Bastard

Today's story is not that funny, but it really tickles me so I'll tell it anyway. If you've been coming here a while you'll know I try to keep my posts clean, but today there is a profanity which is a key part of the story so I'm going to leave it in.

Not long ago my friend's dad went on holiday to Turkey for a few weeks. His name is Robin.

Each day he ate his lunch at a little cafe close to his hotel. It was a local-yocal little joint, always busy and populated by the same regulars. The cafe was run by a large jovial man named Irfan.

Irfan well and truly ran the show. He was a great bearded beast of a man with a booming voice and roaring laugh, a prolific anecdotalist captivating his audience with stories and gags.

On the final day of his holiday Robin went to the cafe for the last time. Having finished his lunch he said his goodbyes to Irfan. Realising they had never been properly introduced, Irfan asked Robin his name.

"Robin," he replied.

"HA!" exclaimed Irfan, "you're a Robin Basssssstarrrrrrrrd!"

When the Revolution Comes...

The carriage was empty. It was divided into groups of six seats, four seats and two seats. I made my way to a group of six and sat by the window, stretching out my legs and emitting a deep relaxing sigh.

A man got on and made a beeline for the seat opposite me, completely ignoring the millions of vacant seating areas, plonking himself down with the air of a gimp grandchild who has no understanding of personal space.

I shifted to the next seat along and glared at him. He squirmed uncomfortably.

A few more people came into the carriage. Another man joined our area, pulled a little laptop out of his bag and proceeded to type away. My adversary watched him intently, studying his laptop, apparently examining everything he typed.

The man looked up from his laptop, clearly irritated, and glared back. Our adversary squirmed once again and looked away.

I took out my book and began to read. This incognizant hooligan sat there scrutinising the cover of my book. I put my book down impatiently and glared at him. He squirmed like a worm and looked out the window. I took out my phone to check for blog posts. He studied it intently. Once again I glared at him. He noticeably quailed.

We reached my stop. I stood up, gave him a killer of a glare and left. I didn't feel the need to say anything, my glare was an open book, written against him and his kind. The man with the laptop caught my eye as I walked past, we shared a moment of collective frustration.

Where do these people come from? Protocol Violators I call them. I once saw a Protocol Violator watching a fellow passenger do a Sudoku puzzle, it was the most heinous violation of intellectual privacy I have ever witnessed.

When the revolution comes the Protocol Violators will be the first up against the wall.

The Modern Man and the Glass Eye

The bar was staffed by an elderly lady who looked exactly like I imagine Miss Marple. She was wearing a whopping great monster of a ring, a silver behemoth with a glass eye instead of a stone. I had a feeling the glass eye was watching me.

"Two pints of Sussex Best," I said.

"Sorry, what did you say?" she asked.

"Two pints of Sussex Best," I repeated.

She only filled one pint.

"Excuse me, I asked for two pints," I clarified.

"Sorry, what did you say?" she asked.

It was tempting to suggest she should have worn a ring with an ear, not an eye, but I refrained. I eventually walked away with two pints.

My wife and her mother were out shopping, leaving Steve and I to look after Bubba Stoneskin. That suited us fine, we'd rather look after the baby than be dragged round the shops for hours upon hours. We took Bubba down the airfield to drink beer and watch the planes. Steve and I that is, not the Bubba, she doesn't like beer and isn't interested in planes.

We hadn't been there long before Bubba needed her nappy changing. I was tempted to change her out on the windswept airfield took her indoors. I asked Miss Marple if there was a changing mat in the gents' toilet.

"Sorry, what did you say?" she asked, sunlight glinting off the glass eye.

"Is there a changing mat in the gents' toilet?" I asked.

She shook her head forlornly and suggested I used the disabled toilet.

"More space in there," she suggested helpfully, pointing in the general direction of the disabled loo. I swear the glass eye winked at me. I wandered off with the crying Bubba, the glass eye's steely gaze piecing me from behind.

The disabled toilet was occupied, but standing in the doorway of the ladies' was another old dear.

"You can use the changing mat in here," she said. "I'll stay here and make sure you don't get into trouble." This seemed an excellent idea at the time. I had an audience - her daughter and granddaughter were inside. I didn't mind. It was a chance to demonstrate that I, the culmination of the evolution of the modern man, could change a nappy quicker than you could say "Sausage and Egg McMuffin".

The problem was the alignment of the changing mat. Instead of allowing me to stand at her feet I had to stand at her side. Changing the nappy wasn't an issue, but from that angle getting her little baby tights back on was surprisingly tricky. Meanwhile my audience was growing. Ladies were coming in but no-one was leaving, they were all captured by the spectacle. Bubba cooed, grinned and giggled. I sweated like a Turkish wrestler. After what seemed like years I was finished, I carried Bubba out with my tail hanging low. Mad Dog had been defeated. Bubba looked like she had been dressed by a monkey.

You could have said "Sausage and Egg McMuffin" twelve million times. I blame the glass eye.

The Escape Of The Stripy Sock

Contrary to popular belief I actually quite enjoy travelling by train, as long as I have a seat and it runs on time. I found my seat with plenty of time before departure, set my coffee down on the little drop-down table and unpacked my bag.

The contents of my bag are always the same. A couple of books, the latest copy of The Spectator, enough old receipts to make a papier-mâché fortress and my trusty notepad. I carry that notepad everywhere, scribbling in it frantically the moment blogging material presents itself.

The train rapidly filled up and by the time it left London it was packed. My gaze wandered lazily round the carriage, taking in my fellow passengers. Ah yes, the usual black fedora. There is ALWAYS a dubious chap in a black fedora. In every pub, at every bus stop, in every train. Does he think he's in Capone's Chicago? I'm getting paranoid, he's probably following me.

Something caught my attention. A stripy orange sock lay in the aisle halfway down the carriage. Solitary, lonely and very, very orange. You have to be a real twit to lose a sock. A total klutz. Especially a sock like that, a sock that offends the fashion conscious, a sock that no sane person would ever own, the type of sock that only a complete loser would wear. Only an absolute giraffe would go outside wearing something like that. Conceivably it could have been dropped by a mole. But what would a mole be doing on the 18:30 from London Euston?

And then it dawned on me. It was MY sock. One half of my favourite pair. It must have been travelling in my trouser leg, waiting for the perfect moment to drop out.

A stronger, prouder man would have let it go, sacrificed the sock in order to save face. I couldn't do that, I HAD to retrieve it. I hatched a plan so cunning that, had they heard about it, all the foxes and weasels in the world would have worshiped me as the god of cunning.

I walked down the aisle past the sock and "went to the toilet". I stood in the toilet cubicle for what I deemed to be an appropriate length of time, during which I untied my shoe, then strolled nonchalantly back up the carriage.

Reaching the sock I stooped down to tie my shoe, scooping up the sock and hiding it in my hand with the subtlest of movements. The god of cunning was at work. I rose and headed back to my seat, the master of the known universe, the most brilliant strategist since Alexander The Great. I had got away with it.

As I walked up the carriage a lady caught my eye. "Nice sock," she said.

Falsely Accused : I DO NOT wear slippers in bed

I sauntered into the bedroom with the air of a man whose belly was full of venison, beer and wine. A startling coincidence as that was exactly what was in my belly. I was not pickled to the tonsils, far from it, but a fly on the wall would have noted a certain insouciance about me. It was bedtime and I was as happy as Larry.

My wife was already asleep. As I came in she lifted her sleepy head and made an outrageous demand of me.

"Darling before you get into bed please take off your slippers."

I laughed out loud. I have never gone to bed in my slippers. In fact I have never gone to bed wearing socks either. I prefer to sleep in my birthday suit with my feet unrestricted.

My wife has come out with similar nighttime chestnuts before. One time she was trying to get out of bed to go the toilet and found her foot tangled in the bed sheet. She woke me with a slap round the face . I kid you not. "That's NOT very nice," she scolded. I remember feeling very indignant. Being falsely accused of such a juvenile prank is bad enough, but nothing riles me more than being woken at 3am by a hamster gnawing at my nipples slap round the face.

In response to the demand to remove my slippers I decided to humour her.

"For you, my dear, I'll take off my slippers. But just this once."

Many thanks to Diane for giving me this lovely award. I'm going to give it to my most faithful commentor, Kylie from Slightly Cracked. I love her blog, every post is beautifully crafted and always makes me smile.

P.S. If you have plenty of time on your hands and/or you love me then please check out an old post of mine featured as a guest post here.

The Writhing Paper Snatcher

The man across the aisle was trying to read my paper. This is a heinous violation of train protocol and I was having none of it. I did what any sane person would have done, holding the paper in all sorts of exiting positions to make it impossible for him to read.

He squirmed, he leaned, he craned, he writhed. Uriah Heep would have been hard pressed to writhe with such intensity and vigour^*. It was a genuine feast for the eye and I was grudgingly pleased. At this rate my antagonist would go home with a cricked neck, severe eyestrain and a pounding migraine.

In order to preempt any accusations of being a polyktonous misanthrope let me say this. If he had politely asked if he could have the paper when I was finished I would have handed it over with the geniality of a true gentleman.

His furtive squirming was driving me mad. It would have been nice to rely on Natural Justice showing itself, as demonstrated in my last post, but Natural Justice is an unreliable beast. Sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands. In such moments it is important to stay calm, which is exactly what I did. I breathed slowly and deeply, then demonstrated unparalleled cold-as-lager brain work.

For a split second my antagonist was looking out the window in the opposite direction. With a subtlest of movements I slid the paper onto the table to my right (i.e. as far away from him as possible). What followed was priceless.

"Can I have it?", he blurted out, then scrambled over legs and bags to the table, snatched the paper and then stumbled back to his seat. The train was crowded, his outburst was in full public view.

I shared a precious moment of smug and tasty camaraderie with the other five commuters in my seating area. Justice may not have been actually served, but the entertainment value was tremendous.


^{* I have made reference to Uriah Heep in an earlier post (i.e. if you are moaning about repeated analogies then I apologise), and also touched on this incident another time, but I can't remember when that was and I wanted to do it justice.}