Dead or alive

Trip Start May 27, 2010
Trip End Aug 31, 2011

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Flag of United Kingdom  , England,
Monday, September 19, 2011

In a world where tradition is waning and things are being done differently to times past, a new tradition has crept into my life in the form of The Plough.  It was realised on Monday night when I finished work and got home to Philo who, not surprisingly, didn't feel like cooking (he doesn't cook).  For a change neither did I.  So we went over to The Plough in Harborne for their brilliant two for one pizzas. 

The tail end of Hurricane Katia whipped through us all this week, gusts of over 60mph battered the continent and ruined the hair of many women and precious men.  The wind was so loud against the windows at night that it kept me from sleeping.  And so it was a great relief when Katia got her shit together and eased off with that wind.  

As I battled the strong winds on my walk to work I happened to notice a guy parking a car.  Nothing suspicious about that.  But when he left the car to put money in the metre I noticed in the back of his car an object wrapped in plastic wrap, shaped suspiciously like it could've been a person.  I thought "no, surely not" and kept walking, using my powers of deduction to satisfy myself that it wasn't in fact a corpse and was probably something of a similar shape.  But then I started wondering what objects are the same shape as people, and couldn't think of any.  I reasoned "why would anyone of sound mind park a car in the middle of town with a dead body in it?"  I started to think that maybe continuing on my merry oblivious way wasn't the right thing to do, and in fact I should've been alerting police to the suspicious-looking shape in the back of that little green car.  It was one of those "Do I? Don't I?" situations where you don't want to cause unnecessary alarm over nothing, but then you don't want to not saying anything just in case.  People these days tend to adopt the "mind your own business" attitude, and so that was the option I took, and opted not to get involved.  

Me:  "A tishu!" (sneezing)
You:  "Bless you." 
Me:  "Thanks." 

Sneezing.  We all do it.  Some of us have even snotted out our noses when sneezing.  And commonly, blessing someone after they have sneezed is acceptable.  But when people hold in their sneezes, is a blessing really warranted?  I don't think so.  Why do people hold in their sneezes anyway?  Is it something that stems back to school and not wanting the guy you've got a crush on to know that you're human and you sneeze?  Or is it actually the result of a deep-seated fear of blowing snot all over the place?  I've never understood that (apart from when I was younger and my crush was in the classroom at school).  I have my own rule that unless a sneeze is a proper sneeze, the sneezer won't get blessed.  By a similar token, when someone sneezes repeatedly I don't think it's necessary to bless them for every sneeze.  Take Brooke for example, who has forever sneezed more than once at a time, and in fact I would wait for the 6th sneeze before I give her my blessing. 

Phil left for work bright and early on Friday morning, and as usual I went back into my dreamtime until the alarm woke me from my slumber.  But this morning it didn't do its job, and the alarm failed to wake me.  When I eventually woke up I looked at my phone to check the time, thinking that it was unusually light, and then realised that I had overslept an hour and a half, and would most certainly be late for work.  Of course the usual chain of events unfolded as it always does on days like that, when I got ready super fast and bolted down to the bus stop and missed the bus.  When I got the next bus and arrived at the train station I was informed by the overhead announcement that the train would be running late.  Awesome.  So my 30-40 minute ETA was now going to stretch out to more like an hour.  One hour late on a Friday, just (not) what you want. 

Villa played Newcastle on Saturday and we were fortunate enough to get hold of a season ticket to go to the game.  I was witness to some people being ejected for sitting in the opposing team's stand, the Villa supporters disgusted that there was a traitor in the ranks.  It proved to further highlight just how seriously these people take their sport. 

Afterwards, we got the bus into Kings Heath and started our session at the Hare & Hounds.  Finding a nice spot in a corner booth we had free run of the corner seat for a good hour or so, until, one by one, we were taken over and swamped by a group of people that felt more entitled to sit in the booth than we.  Defiantly, we stayed put and didn't offer to move in order to give them more space.  We were there first, after all.  But there comes a time in situations like that when defiance turns to stupidity and we started looking like the losers for sitting amongst a group of people who don't know who we are.  We considered kissing and cuddling and generally making them feel uncomfortable, but realised that it was in fact us who would be made to feel uncomfortable.  And in a timely manner, the boys walked through the door and we were able to say "oh, our friends are here" and vacated our seats. 

There was a lot of Addlestones consumed and many jagerbombs skulled, and it left a very nasty aftertaste in the mouths of those who partook.  On Sunday heads were sore, and so were knees from suspected falls, and it was finally time: for the KFC bucket meal.  On a hangover eyes are generally bigger than stomachs, and I was only able to fit a couple of pieces into my shrunken gut before going back to sleep to try and get rid of the lasting effects of the hangover.  It was 8pm before I started to feel any better, and I was even so bad that Phil had to make the spaghetti bolognese for dinner, forcing me to retract my statement above that he never cooks.  I was proud of his efforts and glad he's such a good egg to look after me in the sorry state I was in. 
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