I hope you’re all well and good; it’s around 20:30 as I write this, which is quite late for me to write, especially after a long day of school. I’m noticing the difference; I’m typing slower and making frequent finger-slips. But that isn’t, as usual, the point of the post. well, in a way, I guess it is. Today’s post, if you don’t mind, is essentially me releasing a little of my nonexistant comedic talent, to try and cheer us all up; HEY, IT’S A MONDAY! It sounds cheesey but go with it; I want a laugh, OK?
I thought about the best way to do this, and I thought I’d just sum up some things that have happened recently; I rarely talk about my actual, physical day-to-day life here. So, without giving too much away and breaking my anominity, here goes…
Note: If it’s not funny, just bloody laugh will you? It makes me feel better.
Note to Self About Note: That looks super self-centred, try again.
Note: If it’s not funny, don’t laugh. It would make me feel better if you did, but I’m not self-centred.
Note to Self’s Advisor About Note: Happy now?
Note to Self About Note to Self’s Advisor About Note: Now you look needy…
so earlier on this week, I began the process of applying for a Guide Dog. Discussing the idea with the dog people, they kept referring to it’s toilet breaks as it’s ‘spending time’. I corrected them, suggesting that ‘pooportunities’ would be a better term; it does what it says on the tin. They, unlike me, didn’t find this funny, and they didn’t even crack a smile when we walked past the petrol station on an assessed walk and I came out with: “Oh yeah, I forgot to ask: are the dogs petrol or diesel?”
There was also the postman moment. Admittedly, this wasn’t particularly recent, but you need to hear it, I think. So basically, I was being British one lovely summer’s morning and making myself a lovely cup of tea [white, no sugar]. After hearing a knock at the door, I opted to finish pooring hot water into my mug before answering the door, because I assessed that answering the door wielding a kettle full to the brim of boiling hot water would look aggressive. So, I finished my pooring and hurried to the door, to answer it. I was sure it was the postman; he has a special knock, and that’s all cool. When I answered the door, he had clearly given up, assuming that nobody was home, and was just walking back down the path. I opened the door as he reached the gate, and in a moment of complete brain shutdown, I blurted out [rather loudly]: “so, are you an axe murderer?” I died. I don’t think I died from his axe; more embaracement and shame, but you don’t know, do you?
There was also my awkward train escape experience, which I call railscape. I’m pleased with that, no? So I was going to Clapham Junction from Brighton, and had a nice window seat [a lot of use to me] with a plug socket and table. I was happy, until someone sat next to me at Gatwick Airport. Bloody Gatwick, I hate you! You and your stupid little planes and holidaymakers who never spare a thought for anyone else, and sometimes [like with me] put their cases on your head. No, that wasn’t this time. so basically, this dude fell asleep next to me.
I. Don’t. Like. Confrontation.
I wasn’t prepared to wake him up; how awkward? “Excuse me Sir, budge up, it’s my stop.” No, mortifying. So I opted for the stylish departure from the train to the platform fancy]. I decided to crawl under the table to the seats opposite which, thankfully, were empty. Then I threw myself over the top of those chairs, overnight bag in toe, and under the glass wall thing to get to the doors. Ninja on the move was what I thought. It probably wasn’t the best idea to have been on the phone at this point, and have my friend laughing in my ear the whole way.
When I finally made it to my feet, bag still in toe, I received the most awkward round of applause ever! Commuters, clapping the blindie for railscape. Again: I died.
I really hope you’ve enjoyed this post. It certainly made me laugh whilst writing it, and I wish I could tell you [truthfully] that it’s all made up.
Have a brilliant evening and tomorrow.
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