Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Monday, November 19, 2007
Toxic Waste
Ok, slightly later than promised, but here is a photo of the sweets you (should) have all been looking for!
I knew this would be a challenge that Trainee Paramedic couldn’t resist, but it seems even he couldn’t find them!
“I did actually look for them (albeit discreetly, being 22 and all, he he) but to no avail”
It seems I shall have to embark on a mission to find which stores stock them.
But TP continues:
“The most sour sweets I know are from an old fashioned sweet shop near where I work, and I love buying them, and handing them out at work to see people's reactions. I find it hilarious, but I have received a few choice words in response! ha ha.”
Hehehe, TP I like your style! But I wonder how the two sweets compare…
Friday, November 16, 2007
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Retail Therapy
I love shopping. I love finding the squeaky trolley that won’t go the way you want it to. I love being sandwiched between the slow shoppers in front and the ones trying to get past me from behind. I love having my personal space invaded by shoppers who seem to follow me into every aisle and stand close enough for me to feel their breath on my neck. I love having to stand around for ages waiting for that person to move out of the way of that shelf I am trying to reach. I love it when the item I want is out of stock, or when there are only a few of them left and the person blocking my way grabs all of them. I love it when that person with a trolley full of shopping sees me heading for the till with only five items in my arms, and rushes to get there before me. I love being given a handful of change because the cashier doesn’t have any notes. I love not being able to move my car because a couple of shoppers have decided to stand around and have a conversation in front of it. I love the sound of my shopping falling over in the boot, and I love it when the bags split as I lift them out.
It’s no wonder women love shopping so much.
It’s no wonder women love shopping so much.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Full Toxie Head!
Well, I’m not sure what’s going on at the moment. Bizarre things always seem to happen to me at this time of year. Last year I lost my brain function and couldn’t drive or spell anymore. This year… I don’t know…
I accompanied Mr Man to another Table Tennis match on Sunday. After watching a ball flying around for three hours I usually begin to lose the will to live, but this time we were there for over six hours! I hate to say it but… I really enjoyed it – what’s going on?
And…
This evening I went to the shop for some milk. Now usually I would come home with various bars of chocolate (and probably forget the milk), but you know what? I didn’t buy any chocolate! Now I know there is something wrong!
What I did come home with though was some lovely sweeties! No, I’m not talking about Foxes Glacier Mints, Werther’s Originals, or some other hard boiled sweets designed for the over 60’s. I’m talking about the “hazardously sour candy” – Toxic Waste!
On the plastic pot reads:
How Long Can You Keep One in Your Mouth?
60 seconds – Full Toxie Head!
45 seconds – Toxie Wannabe!
30 seconds – Cry Baby!
15 seconds – Total Wuss!
Not knowing what to expect, Mr Man and I both popped one in our mouths at the same time to see who would be the first to spit it out! I’m very proud to announce that we both lasted 60 seconds and beyond!
So now it’s your turn! If you don’t try this out and tell me how long you managed to keep one in your mouth for I’ll presume that you were just too scared!
I accompanied Mr Man to another Table Tennis match on Sunday. After watching a ball flying around for three hours I usually begin to lose the will to live, but this time we were there for over six hours! I hate to say it but… I really enjoyed it – what’s going on?
And…
This evening I went to the shop for some milk. Now usually I would come home with various bars of chocolate (and probably forget the milk), but you know what? I didn’t buy any chocolate! Now I know there is something wrong!
What I did come home with though was some lovely sweeties! No, I’m not talking about Foxes Glacier Mints, Werther’s Originals, or some other hard boiled sweets designed for the over 60’s. I’m talking about the “hazardously sour candy” – Toxic Waste!
On the plastic pot reads:
How Long Can You Keep One in Your Mouth?
60 seconds – Full Toxie Head!
45 seconds – Toxie Wannabe!
30 seconds – Cry Baby!
15 seconds – Total Wuss!
Not knowing what to expect, Mr Man and I both popped one in our mouths at the same time to see who would be the first to spit it out! I’m very proud to announce that we both lasted 60 seconds and beyond!
So now it’s your turn! If you don’t try this out and tell me how long you managed to keep one in your mouth for I’ll presume that you were just too scared!
Thursday, November 01, 2007
World Domination – by Sat Navs
As mentioned previously, Grannys.Myth.Peeler is doing a grand job of peeling away the myths and lies of this world, even though some people may doubt the truthfulness of his tales. I for one am completely convinced of the truth of these accounts, having experienced similar situations myself.
Allow me to draw your attention to his post Will Robots Ever Have a Sense of Humour? Well yes, I believe they already do, but for those of us on the receiving end of their “humour” it’s rarely, if ever, funny. Consider this true life account:
We bought our Sat Nav a couple of years ago now. I should have known from the start that there was “something not quite right” when the female voice started giving me directions after I had specifically selected the male voice. So obviously, being the strong and determined woman that she is, she wasn’t impressed with me referring to her as “the bimbo on the dashboard”. I meant it as a joke, but women can be so touchy.
The problems started one night when I was driving to an unfamiliar area in the next town. She suddenly started giving me vague directions like “bear left” instead of “exit left” when I was on a dual carriage way. I was unimpressed. After much shouting on my part, along the lines of “You stupid Bimbo, what the hell does ‘bear left’ mean?” she decided to retaliate by taking me round a whole housing estate before finally directing me to my destination. I’m sure this road looks familiar... I kept thinking to myself. It must have taken about an hour just to get to the next town.
Directing me home she took me on a completely different route along dark country lanes. I had no idea where I was and I was starting to doubt the reliability of this thing.
“Bear right” she said eventually.
“Bear right? There’s only one lane!” I shrieked.
“Bear right” she said again.
In the dark I suddenly noticed a turning to the right, sign posted with the name of my home town. I slammed my foot on the brake and screached to a halt just before the turning. What happened to ‘turn right’? Once again she was being deliberately vague, but my journey home only took about 10 minutes compared to the hour it took me to get there! She was obviously making a point – I was dependant on her; completely at her mercy; in no position to be insulting her at all.
“Stupid Bimbo” I muttered.
“Continue for 26 miles” she told me on another recent trip, and then seconds later “Continue for 3 miles”.
“Make your bloomin’ mind up” I complained.
Further along the road she said “In point 6 miles exit left”. Now, I don’t know about you but personally, not being a human odometer, I don’t know how far 0.6 miles is of the top of my head.
(Of course the mathematical part of my brain is now telling me that there are 3600 seconds in one hour, so if I was driving at 70 mph it would have taken me 51.428571 seconds to drive one mile, which means 0.6 miles would take me 30.857143 seconds. But it would have taken me more than 30.857143 seconds to work that out, by which time I would have missed my exit.)
“Exit left” she reminded me as we approached the slip road, and then
“At the roundabout take the fifth exit”.
“Umm, but that’s going back the way we came…” Maybe I took the wrong exit off the motorway? I thought to myself. Dutifully I rejoined the motorway. About 3 miles down the road (which I’m guessing may have taken me approximately 2 minutes and 34.28571 seconds) she said:
“In point 6 miles exit left” and then
“At the roundabout take the fifth exit”…back onto the motorway again!
I could be driving up and down the motorway all day at this rate, I thought. Predictably, 3 miles down the road she tried to get me to leave the motorway at the same exit again!
“No! I’m not doing it!” I shouted.
“Exit left”
“No!”
“Exit left”
“I’m not playing your silly games anymore! I’ll find my own way home!”
I’m not sure if I heard her huff with annoyance, but once we had passed the exit she reluctantly gave me the correct directions:
“Continue straight for 23 miles”
We had reached a “stale mate”.
I wonder if she considers us “even” now. One thing is for sure – I won’t be calling her a bimbo again.
Allow me to draw your attention to his post Will Robots Ever Have a Sense of Humour? Well yes, I believe they already do, but for those of us on the receiving end of their “humour” it’s rarely, if ever, funny. Consider this true life account:
We bought our Sat Nav a couple of years ago now. I should have known from the start that there was “something not quite right” when the female voice started giving me directions after I had specifically selected the male voice. So obviously, being the strong and determined woman that she is, she wasn’t impressed with me referring to her as “the bimbo on the dashboard”. I meant it as a joke, but women can be so touchy.
The problems started one night when I was driving to an unfamiliar area in the next town. She suddenly started giving me vague directions like “bear left” instead of “exit left” when I was on a dual carriage way. I was unimpressed. After much shouting on my part, along the lines of “You stupid Bimbo, what the hell does ‘bear left’ mean?” she decided to retaliate by taking me round a whole housing estate before finally directing me to my destination. I’m sure this road looks familiar... I kept thinking to myself. It must have taken about an hour just to get to the next town.
Directing me home she took me on a completely different route along dark country lanes. I had no idea where I was and I was starting to doubt the reliability of this thing.
“Bear right” she said eventually.
“Bear right? There’s only one lane!” I shrieked.
“Bear right” she said again.
In the dark I suddenly noticed a turning to the right, sign posted with the name of my home town. I slammed my foot on the brake and screached to a halt just before the turning. What happened to ‘turn right’? Once again she was being deliberately vague, but my journey home only took about 10 minutes compared to the hour it took me to get there! She was obviously making a point – I was dependant on her; completely at her mercy; in no position to be insulting her at all.
“Stupid Bimbo” I muttered.
“Continue for 26 miles” she told me on another recent trip, and then seconds later “Continue for 3 miles”.
“Make your bloomin’ mind up” I complained.
Further along the road she said “In point 6 miles exit left”. Now, I don’t know about you but personally, not being a human odometer, I don’t know how far 0.6 miles is of the top of my head.
(Of course the mathematical part of my brain is now telling me that there are 3600 seconds in one hour, so if I was driving at 70 mph it would have taken me 51.428571 seconds to drive one mile, which means 0.6 miles would take me 30.857143 seconds. But it would have taken me more than 30.857143 seconds to work that out, by which time I would have missed my exit.)
“Exit left” she reminded me as we approached the slip road, and then
“At the roundabout take the fifth exit”.
“Umm, but that’s going back the way we came…” Maybe I took the wrong exit off the motorway? I thought to myself. Dutifully I rejoined the motorway. About 3 miles down the road (which I’m guessing may have taken me approximately 2 minutes and 34.28571 seconds) she said:
“In point 6 miles exit left” and then
“At the roundabout take the fifth exit”…back onto the motorway again!
I could be driving up and down the motorway all day at this rate, I thought. Predictably, 3 miles down the road she tried to get me to leave the motorway at the same exit again!
“No! I’m not doing it!” I shouted.
“Exit left”
“No!”
“Exit left”
“I’m not playing your silly games anymore! I’ll find my own way home!”
I’m not sure if I heard her huff with annoyance, but once we had passed the exit she reluctantly gave me the correct directions:
“Continue straight for 23 miles”
We had reached a “stale mate”.
I wonder if she considers us “even” now. One thing is for sure – I won’t be calling her a bimbo again.
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