Two things that will probably turn into more

Partner Dan and I were taken out to lunch the other week by the creative directors of the place we are working.

PD is in charge of conversation. I chip in when I'm not daydreaming or when I think it's worth opening my mouth. Unfortunately, on this occasion when I chose to partake in conversation, it resulted in something pretty much word for word to this:

Scene: a pizza place. A pizza is placed down in front of each of the involved people: PD, me, CD 1 and CD 2. As the last pizza is being placed down in front of CD 2, the kind of shy one, I say:

"Bloody hell, you've got a small one!"

Thinking sometimes helps, yet never happens.

Today, I was in a meeting presenting some work. I was sitting next to one of those alien like conference phone contraptions. It started ringing as the 'set up' was being done, so I cleverly worked out how to stop the noise; I hung up on them. I looked around the room for approval. I saw props in their faces, smiles, admiration for sorting this problem out so promptly. High five freelance girl, they thought. I had done well. I mentally congratulated myself. Ten seconds later, the phone started ringing again. Persistent bugger, I thought, and I got ready to press the magic button again. The dude who was 'setting up' took one swift move to answer the phone, almost putting a rip in his bone (I know) coloured trousers. Apparently it was the announcement that the head marketing president whom we were waiting for was waiting patiently in reception.

One day I will be impressive. Mark my words bitches.

Penis Update

I have been inundated with requests (two) for an update on Penis.

Yesterday afternoon, Penis was up to his old tricks. Partner Dan's usually good natured demeanor was rattled when he slammed* his pen down and said:

'You alwight there?'

No, PD doesn't have a speech impediment (although debatable) but I wanted to get his Englishness across for my international (5 including mum) readers.

Penis replied:

'I'm just trying to steal some ideas'

Argh, he's such a dick muncher!! Dan has now tried doing the same to him, this has unfortunately bombed, resulting in enforced Dan and Penis conversation about Penis' boring work. Sucker (Ha! Sucker).

While we're on the subject, I was working quite intently this afternoon, you know, saving the world etc, when I heard this noise:

'Mumble ggrrrraaah, grahhhhh, thesfghkldjfds, grahhhhhhhh, grrrraaaahh mumble.'

I looked around. I looked behind. I looked in front. And there it was again. That noise.

'Mumble ggrrrraaah, grahhhhh, thesfghkldjfds, grahhhhhhhh, grrrraaaahh mumble.'

I looked around. I looked behind. I looked in front. I looked to my left. Penis was talking to me.

I imagine this is what alien communication will be like if a. they exist b. defy light year travel

I wished he'd learn all 'chit chat' is done through Partner Dan. We're like good cop/silent cop.

* huge exaggeration

A tribute

I thought it was about time I dedicated a few words to the people who wait at the bus stop outside our house.

A few words of guidance.

Some helpful hints.

Food for thought.

I understand it's probably too much for people to look around (preferably between the hours of midnight and 6am, Mon-Sun) and see there are houses surrounding them. I understand that what they have to say is probably very important at the time. Repeating 'do ya know who I am'? for ten minutes at the top of your voice definitely gets the message across. Because, yes, I fucking know who you are; an illiterate pain in the ass. And sure, if you're a tramp, there's probably no better way to discard your bottles of £2 cider other than to smash them on the ground. Or, if you're feeling super friendly, throw each other against the bin after. Finally, I'd like to say to Redmond and his two friends who were conversing at 5:30am this morning, I hope you resolved your beef because I didn't need to sleep, really, a good three hours on the weekend is sufficient.

To the people who did a blues jam when we first moved in, you can come back. You were pleasant, albeit 1 am on a Sunday night was a little late. Screaming children, tramps, Redmond and illiterate people without voice control should move to the next bus stop.

Thank you

Just a thought

Does singing to yourself make you appear friendlier? Or just a dick who sings to themselves?

His name is Penis

As I embark on my 5th week of freelance, I am stopping to take a moment to think of the lack of penises I've met along the way. All but one penis, with whom I am currently sitting on the same table.

For the sake of continuity, let's just call him Penis.

Now we, as in me and my work partner, met Penis on our first day at our new gig. He seemed ok, but he was a big talker - a lot of talk to say not much. And a starer. Both of these attributes tire me.

For the first three days, we were away from Penis. Life was good. You know, quiet. Now, on day six, we are both tired of the Penis with his talking and staring. But why this dislike you may ask? Well, firstly, he's nosey. Secondly, he has an annoying voice. Thirdly, he has one of those jobs that he's clearly made up himself. Fourthly, he whinges about working hard. Welcome to advertising d-wad.

Today, Partner Dan (I'm not sure where this name has come from but I'm feeling kind of Western) was scamping. As I was image searching (sorry for the boring detail), I noticed Penis doing his usual peering. I kept my eyes straight except to check whether Partner Dan had clocked Penis. PD was scamping very intently, refusing to look up, which was unusual, as PD will usually find any excuse to be entertained by anything else other than work. After a good THREE minutes of staring without results, Penis went back to his work.

Me to PD [whispering]: Did you...

PD: Yes..

Enough was said. We continued working silently, in unity, to defer any entry Penis might have into a conversation.

Penis defied. Take that Penis!

Wrinkly love

I was looking at a couple on the tube the other day. They were married, in their late fifties, trying to navigate their way around the Central Line. I think one of them might have been wearing a bum bag which, by the way, while I can see the practical benefits it is still unforgivable unless you are a carnie/pikie (like how I'm catering for my audiences?). She, was a little thick around the waist with a crazy, crazy, boof of hair and he, thicker, less hair with a large serving of grey. At first, it made me wonder what they were like at 28, which then led me to wonder how they saw each other - whether it was of each other now or, of each other young.

Aging is a peculiar thing. Naturally, none of us really look forward to it. Shallowly, it's kind of cruel. Emotionally hard and sad to grasp yet mortally, totally understandable. Truthfully, I'm not sure how well I'm going to take aging seeing as though the prospect of 30 is giving me tri-monthly freak outs and raised veins and loose skin makes me have to shut my eyes and go to my happy place. But all of that aside, when you age with someone, you have a mirror to your own change. It must be a strange yet comforting experience to grow old with your partner and similarly, your friends. Every wrinkle of yours will be matched by theirs, every grey, every bag, every added inch to the waist you once had. But with every gravity defying year also comes another series of moments shared. And that, is a beautiful thought.

So that takes me back to my original question, when you've spent the good part of 20, 30, 40, 50 years with someone, when you look into the eyes that haven't change, but everything around them has, which version of them do you see?