Try these generators to liven up your day…
Are migrants ruining the identity of the Queen?
Thou curmudgeonly apple-worm!
Widen that envelope! Use your synergies!
Have a wordy day, won’t you!
My local radio station, BBC Radio Tees, runs a headline competition on its breakfast show.
Here’s the story.
Here’s my headline.
FACE STIFF PENALTIES”
Have a tabloid day, won’t you!
Even though I’m not Catholic, I had been feeling a bit of guilt. I decide to phone my Mum, hoping for some sensible, intelligent, conversation that doesn’t revolve around:
Conversations with my mum tend to be somewhat negative. If you have a bonfire, she’ll empty her bladder over it.
“It’s taking a while to get a new tenant in my house.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have used that agency.”
Sadly, my sister, V, is a mini-me of my mum, only with:
Yesterday I mentioned to our mother that V had un-friended me.
Why? What have you done?
Not, “Why? What happened?” An immediate accusation.
There was a discussion about Northern Ireland. I was asked what I knew about Northern Ireland. I explained I had relatives who had served there in the British Army. V leapt in with a diatribe against Dad. I told her politely that this was not the right forum to go into family disputes when people were debating Northern Ireland. Nobody else is interested anyway.
Cue immediate defence of V.
But your dad is an (expletive deleted).
Ginge in Germany:
But a public discussion about is not the right place to hang your dirty laundry in public.
A curt reply:
That translates as:
You are right, but I am not prepared to speak against my mini-me.
Do you not see why that is wrong?
Do you not understand?
It just doesn’t sink in. Sometimes, frankly, I wonder if my mum has autistic tendencies due to her tactlessness and lack of empathy towards other. In the end I give up and say that Schatz and I havae to head out now, catch you later.
Sometimes I feel like just not bothering to call her and see how long it takes for her to contact me. Regrettably I know it’s all my fault. I chose to be born with the wrong set of “equipment” down below. My fault. Hands up. I admit it. I am ashamed of the bad choice I made.
Honour your mother and father, yes, good idea. But honour and respect don’t come at the drop of a hat. Honour and respect have to be earned.
Have a commanding day, won’t you!
Every language has untranslatable words and expressions.
Today’s untranslatable expression is:
I’m not sure if it’s a British expression. (Americans, do you use the same expression?)
What does “back-seat driver” actually mean? Let’s turn to www.urbandictionary.com.
1. A passenger in the back seat of the car who criticises the driver.
2. Anyone who offers unwanted advice.
I am sometimes asked what the role of church warden is like. To ex-military people, I tend to explain thus:
It’s a bit like being RSM in a regiment.
It’s a bit like being a shop steward.
22:30 on Saturday evening: Beep-beep. WhatsApp message from Back-Seat Driver (BSD).
“The church website is down for maintenance. Why?”
“Probably because our webmaster is doing some updates.”
“But why’s he doing maintenance work on a Saturday evening?”
“Because he’s doing it in his spare time, and he’s doing it for free.”
“When’s the new-look church website going to be ready?”
“I cannot answer that question.”
“Why not? You said you were aiming to get the website up and running this month.”
“I cannot answer that question.”
BSD has a habit of advising others on how it should be done better. In fact, he gives more “on-the-spot guidance” than Kim Jong-un, President of North Korea.
“We” in this context, in fact, means:
Anybody except for me.
Have a guidance-free day, won’t you!
It’s been for me a pressured week or two for me.
First world problems, I know. But everyone reaches their limit. This week I’ve been aware that I need to ease off a bit and give myself some “me-time.” Who guards the guardians? Who cares for carers? Sometimes – nobody. Sometimes the caring moves on an Einbahnstrasse: a one-way street.
This week I’ve been quite blessed to have two fellow members of congregation possessing pastoral skills, who have been taken a large amont of “payload” off me, dealing with a member of congregation, who has been ill in hospital the past fortnight. This member of congregation has Ted Stryker tendencies. He is very “admin-intense” to use a British Army expression. (But Ted and his ways will form material for another blog article or three.)
All this week I’ve been feeling fatigued on coming home after work. Hour-long long lie-down next to tower fan, my current best friend in the heatwave. Earlyish into bed. No energy to even give my bathroom and kitchen a good clean-up. Many thanks, Schatz, for being Mrs Mopp this weekend. 🙂
After church service today I unloaded to two church confidantes to the effect that I was – for the first time in months – going to head home for a lazy Sunday afternoon. V asked if I would like to join her on a pastoral visit to “Ted.” I politely declined the invitation, explaining that “Ted” had been too “admin-intense” for me the past week and a half, with contacting hospital chaplains, as well as reading SMS messages that, in length, but not quality , rivalled Paul’s letters to:
I just needed time away from Ted. To correctly quote Greta Garbo:
I just want to be left alone.
V then thanked me for everything I do in church, which left me with a lump in my throat. I’m not a child. I don’t expect a pat on the head, a gold star, or to be sent to show my nice, neat handwriting to the headteacher. Nonetheless a sincerely expressed thank you is always well-received.
This afternoon I have spent precious hours flopped out on the sofa, writing my diary, listening to the radio and also planning further blog articles based on:
All things that I can really only do when I have proper “me-time.”
Then, while I was scribbling away in my diary, I remembered this beautiful hymn that I first heard a year or so ago. It has become my ear worm du jour. Here it is.
Have a well day, won’t you!
That’s 4.1kg off in four weeks. I am happy.
So what had happened? A week ago I had blipped upwards due to a slack weekend. I had had food porn –
Irish English breakfast – down the Irish pub in the city centre, bread rolls and a few cocktails. No regrets. It’s a way of eating, not a diet. I now know after several weeks on this diet/WoE, that as soon as I get back on track without making anny big fuss, the weight comes off, generally within 3-5 days.
On a positive point, friends have started noticing my weight loss, asking what diet I am trying. Two of them have ordered the book and have started within the last fortnight.
“If Ginge in Germany can manage it, so can I.”
And my new Marmite cycling top fits me just nicely. It even has a nice jar-like shape. Not long now till the Tour de France starts in Düsseldorf. Los!
Have a love it-or-hate-it day, won’t you!
Vocab point for native German-speakers: debt collector = der Inkassobeauftragte or der Schuldeneintreiber. They are people whose job it is to knock on your door and get the debtor to pay their debts. I think you get the idea, especially if one these people hass ever paid you a visit.
What I wonder is this:
I can understand why youngsters will tell the careers adviser that they would like to, would love to, would dream of becoming one. But has any careers adviser ever had a year 11 student ever say:
Please, Sir, my career ambition is to become a debt collector.
My first experience of dealing with a debt collector hammering on the door was back in 2003.
The place: a village in North Yorkshire, England.
The time: tea-time on a Friday evening.
Boom, boom, boom, tap, tap, tap, thump, thump, rattle, rattle on letter box.
I leave the sofa and the ITV news to head to the door, while my Dad enjoys his tea, for I was visiting him for the weekend NB: Chain is on door. Old HM Forces habits of being security-conscious.
At the door – a man looking like a stereotypical night club doorman.
Good evening, sir. Are you John Barleycorn?
An unfriendly scowl from the visitor, holding his clipboard.
Never heard of him, I’m afraid.
Yeah, yeah, everyone tells me that. Are you Mr John Barleycorn?
Well, who are you?
Well, who are you, first of all. Can I see some form of ID, please?
Tut and humph and sigh, and ID badge with name, Nick H***, on it. Acme Recovery Services. “Recovery” being a euphemism for “debt collectors.”
Can you produce some form of ID then?
No. I don’t have to.
Well, do you know where John Barleycorn has moved to?
Time for a bit of fun (for me, at least)…
Actually, I do know where he lives. John Barleycorn, you say? Now, hang on a minute. He did leave a note, giving a forwarding address. Now, I had a tidy-up yesterday. I can’t find the piece of paper right now, but it’ll be somewhere in my study. Tell you what, I don’t want to have people knocking on my door again, wasting my time and their time. If you could give me your mobile number, I can give you a bell and give you his new address. I think it’s somewhere in Northallerton.
Would you? That would be much appreciated, mate. Here’s my calling card, with my mobile on.
Conversation ends. Our man walks off back to his 4WD.
Two minutes later a quick phone call to my old boss.
Mike, you’re not exactly interested in the opposite sex. Can you give me an address of a good gay dating website, please,? Oh, and some good buzzwords to use. I’ll explain later.
Er, yeah, whatever. Try www….
Within ten minutes I have registered a profile for our visitor on the website, including his mobile number.
25 year old bi-curious guy in London seeks new adventures, etc etc.
Fast forward two weeks. A payphone in a Yorkshire village. Insert coins of the realm. Dial 07… etc, the debt collector’s mobile.
I get voicemail. A gem. Ein Knaller.
A grumpy, annoyed and altogether unhappy-sounding voice announces:
This is Nick H. Unfortunately I have had to change my mobile number. Please leave me your number, and I will ring you back from my new number.
(I wonder why he changed his mobile number…)
Have a mischievious day, won’t you!
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#ActuallyAutistic - An Aspie obsessed with writing. This site is intend to inspire through sharing stories & experiences. The opinions of the writers are their own. I am just an Autistic woman - NOT a medical professional.
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