I overheard the following conversation at the cinema last night between a young boy and his (I assume no longer live-in and not happy about it) father. Bitter enough to almost spoil Source Code, although not in the end because Source Code was excellent.
Boy: Dad, did you hear? We're going to get a dog!
Dad: Yeah. Well that's your problem mate, not mine.
Boy: I don't understand.
Dad: It won't work. Dogs are a total pain in the arse. Not. A. Good. Idea.
(awkward silence)
Boy: (under breath, mutinous) I think he'll be brilliant.
Dad: Oh, just get a move on, will you?
Sunday 17 April 2011
Wednesday 13 April 2011
Talking the talk
The missus was out and about tonight so I went for a solo dinner near my office. If that sounds in any way like a plea for sympathy, sheath your hankie - I bloody love eating on my own. You get to read, which is brilliant. You get to eat, which is even better. It wasn't quite the perfect scenario - that goes without hesitation to the Saturday morning solo breakfast - but all seemed fair for a decent trough.
But there was a hitch. The tables of the mid-priced chain food-straight-from-the-freezer-but-served-in-a-ramekin-with-an-eathernware-jug-for-the-tap-water-so-that's-ok joint I'd chosen were perilously close together. It's not a good arrangement for anyone - I hate hearing other people's conversations, and other people hate the guttural spray that accompanies me eating a bowl of spag bol without removing either hand from my newspaper.
As I sat down I reviewed the two women on the next table, and my inane-babble-ometer immediately overheated and exploded.
Things started badly when the older of the pair called her daughter to say goodnight. Loudly. There was a brief amusing lull when she handed the phone over the table to her visibly startled companion, who had the kind of awkward conversation unique to an unmaternal woman and a 3 year-old talking on a mobile phone over restaurant noise.
At this point it was time for the nuclear option. I put my fingers in my ears. It might seem extreme, but as someone who finds it hard to concentrate with background noise I spend much of my working life hunched over documents looking as if I expect them to explode. This can - and did - provoke dirty looks from nearby diners as it looks both accusatory and weird. But it was all for nothing, as the older woman had the kind of voice that a mere digit in the ear canal cannot stifle.
So I had to listen to their entire one-sided conversation. The kid's dad is a partner at a law firm. They used to work together in Germany: she was his secretary and someone else was his wife. Hanky panky ensued. They married without having lived together, which was a mistake. If they'd co-habited, she'd have noticed that he was "a bit bi but mostly gay". There was some moment of revelation involving "masturbation" discussed in hushed tones that I was too slow to yank my fingers from my ears to catch. Still, she got a beautiful daughter out of it. She then pulled the kid's diary from her handbag. The waitress asked if I'd like to see the dessert menu. "I AM GOING TO SCHOOL WHEN MY MUMMY GETS DRESSED FOR WORK". Not this time, just the bill please.
As I scarpered I felt guilty for abandoning the quieter woman, who was wearing an expression of growing distress by page three of the diary. I also felt sorry for me and my barely touched newspaper. As I stood waiting for the bus, a friend called and, as I chattered, the man standing next to me took a brisk step away from me.
But there was a hitch. The tables of the mid-priced chain food-straight-from-the-freezer-but-served-in-a-ramekin-with-an-eathernware-jug-for-the-tap-water-so-that's-ok joint I'd chosen were perilously close together. It's not a good arrangement for anyone - I hate hearing other people's conversations, and other people hate the guttural spray that accompanies me eating a bowl of spag bol without removing either hand from my newspaper.
As I sat down I reviewed the two women on the next table, and my inane-babble-ometer immediately overheated and exploded.
Things started badly when the older of the pair called her daughter to say goodnight. Loudly. There was a brief amusing lull when she handed the phone over the table to her visibly startled companion, who had the kind of awkward conversation unique to an unmaternal woman and a 3 year-old talking on a mobile phone over restaurant noise.
At this point it was time for the nuclear option. I put my fingers in my ears. It might seem extreme, but as someone who finds it hard to concentrate with background noise I spend much of my working life hunched over documents looking as if I expect them to explode. This can - and did - provoke dirty looks from nearby diners as it looks both accusatory and weird. But it was all for nothing, as the older woman had the kind of voice that a mere digit in the ear canal cannot stifle.
So I had to listen to their entire one-sided conversation. The kid's dad is a partner at a law firm. They used to work together in Germany: she was his secretary and someone else was his wife. Hanky panky ensued. They married without having lived together, which was a mistake. If they'd co-habited, she'd have noticed that he was "a bit bi but mostly gay". There was some moment of revelation involving "masturbation" discussed in hushed tones that I was too slow to yank my fingers from my ears to catch. Still, she got a beautiful daughter out of it. She then pulled the kid's diary from her handbag. The waitress asked if I'd like to see the dessert menu. "I AM GOING TO SCHOOL WHEN MY MUMMY GETS DRESSED FOR WORK". Not this time, just the bill please.
As I scarpered I felt guilty for abandoning the quieter woman, who was wearing an expression of growing distress by page three of the diary. I also felt sorry for me and my barely touched newspaper. As I stood waiting for the bus, a friend called and, as I chattered, the man standing next to me took a brisk step away from me.
Sunday 3 April 2011
Saturday 2 April 2011
RIP the Daily Sport
RIP the Daily Sport. How you lasted so long peddling photoshopped pictures of celebrity's heads grafted onto naked bodies is a complete mystery.
The first time I remember being aware of this mutant feature-length Page 3 was the day after Ayrton Senna was killed. I was scanning the front pages, which on first glance were uniformly heavy on explosions and flying tyres. There was one brave exception, however, who led with: "Man traps pubes in lift door!"
The first time I remember being aware of this mutant feature-length Page 3 was the day after Ayrton Senna was killed. I was scanning the front pages, which on first glance were uniformly heavy on explosions and flying tyres. There was one brave exception, however, who led with: "Man traps pubes in lift door!"
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