Tuesday, March 25, 2008

DSC_1217 - White Meat (22/366)Unexploited web-address typo of the week: laft.fm, a site to record trends in listening to Radio 4 comedies. Number one this week: The Now Show. Number two despite not currently being on: The News Quiz. Joint number three: Quote Unquote and that lawns-grow-quicker gardening quiz.

But instead of exploring the curiosities of the Radio 4 schedule (hmm, how about a live version of the Moral Maze mixed with Michael Buerk's last job, 999 [911 for the US franchise, 112 when it has French subtitles]? This week, a pregnant illegal immigrant has fallen in a flooded abandoned quarry and is currently unconscious floating face down following a series of unfortunate incidents worthy of Casualty. How long do you think aid should be refused? Should she rescued but not receive medical treatment? Should Radio 4 be airing programmes created with 5-Live embryos? What is the price of fish?) I have few tips gleaned from the great river of life (don't ask what percentage of water is post-treatment).

When dragooned into swimming and so wearing swimming trunks under jeans when walking to the pool do try to think about the return journey in advance.


In the snow.

Way to go.

I'd put pants in the bag and then changed bags because I didn't need to take all that stuff.

And swimming while watching snow flurry round the chimneys and spires of London at the end of the pool is slightly strange (but vaguely reminiscent of a indoor pool which grew dimmer whenever a ferry went past).

When coerced into playing Cluedo for the first time do try to remember where bits of information came from and so not waste a go by managing to get one's brother to show one the hall card again when trying to work out if he had Professor Plum.

When volunteered into playing Cluedo for the first time do try to remember not to ask after one's go, in the library with the revolver and suitable suspect, what one should do if one thinks one knows the answer as this may encourage one's charming brother to promptly call for Mrs White, one's character, in some inconvenient room. Still won.

Hang on, does one have to work back to the scene of the crime or can one just call it? Oh well, bit moot by now.

When pressganged into a slightly awkward conversation with one's brother do try to make sure that he's not about ask one to be his best man rather than any of the other do-we-have-to topics that nearly come tumbling out instead.

When doing 366* do try to consider future conversations which may result from it, especially if one has forgotten that both one's brother and the co both know about the account and the aforementioned woman actually Flickrs (not in the shonky Torchwood effect way) and thus might be likely to notice random shots of entire thighs and might wish to talk about it, even if it's only the title of the Rushdie book. And I still don't know if they know about this and if so if they've read it.

* I was 'encouraged' into doing that too.

Oh and Em (not the Em with the Ess) I didn't change the blue-eyed comment; parents are forgetful things, as possibly are you. And as are mine. Bloody pointless, long, forgetting that I pay to listen to it voicemail messages listing all the things in the freezer, their various states of decomposition and resulting consistency and texture. "Freezer bust" would have done it. It's not like I needed to know instantly or could do anything about it.

Back to the Smarties thing, my brother's possibly related comment (not directly related because he can't remember, or claims not to), albeit spoken as I spiral-peeled a clingily reluctant mandarin, that "that is so [Any]", followed by explaining that I "choose something difficult to do and do it" as well as "not just doing something but doing it in a way that satisfies on several other levels" (not the most accurate of quotes possibly, but gisty; taking notes while my brother speaks would odd, which is why I did it in a later conversation).

I wasn't sure whether I needed to point out that his obsessive removal of every bit of pith was so Bro.

Wow. I think we've just about managed to get through a day without any snow or hail. Bizarre.

And speaking of notes of fraternal wisdom, writen completely sans context on one page is the immortal line: "Always resort to the truth if you get stuck."



Without wishing to say "I told you so", I did ask you whether you really intended to post your thigh shot as a public picture the first time it flashed up on my screen.

Not that it isn't a very nice thigh, of course. Aren't you going to tell us what they said about it?

I knew there was a reason why I only see one brother once a year and the other one once a decade or so.
Well, one of them's seen it in countless changing rooms and the other will presumably have seen something genetically very similar to it. The comment was about the title of the book not the clue. I was just thrown as I'd completely forgotten they knew about the account so had to flail round remembering. The SIL made some comment about enjoying the series, but I can't detect sarcasm or mockery in a Scottish accent so have no idea what she meant by that.

Nice thigh? It's about as toned and honed as that of a Tesco chicken.

What did your brothers do to you (or vice versa) that annually is as often as it gets? For all his righteousness (by which I mean his tendency to be bloody well right and not coy about saying so beforehand thus allowing him to be magnanimous in not saying "I told you so") I'd dread a world in which I saw him that little.
Oh, my family is (or should that be was)just ordinary dysfunctional. We're too far spaced (three and a half years each way) to ever have been particularly close. My elder brother is what my Mother used to describe as "a selfish sod", so when he left his wife and children for a mid-life crisis on a South Pacific island we've just tended to leave him there [he was last seen at our Mother's funeral]. My younger brother is fine, which is why I see him so often but, honestly, we don't have much in common beyond a set of genes and a predisposition to drink far to much.

Our parents weren't much better, to the point that we all dreaded family get togethers [my personal idea of Hell is a family Christmas] and moved as far away from Bedford as it was possible to get [Australia, Edinburgh and Bournemouth respectively: my move to London was a concession after my Father died], so I don't think any of us particularly regrets the situation. As a result I find people who have close family relationships a bit strange, but if it works for them that's just fine. Funnily enough I know far more people who don't get on with their families than people who do.
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