The soundtrack in our home at the moment is the Lurgy Duet; featuring my husband on sinuses, myself on lungs, with special appearance from Ms Candy C Cat singing the Whine Aria.
We bought our tickets for the trip to the UK this December. Hooray, white Christmas?
I still can’t find a home for Candy.
I had a surprise work trip last week.
I’ve nearly finished my current salsa class. Other than some moments of despair to the effect of I’LL NEVER LEARN TO DO DOUBLE SPEED TURNS, it’s going OK. I can’t decide whether to do the next salsa course, pick up zouk at another studio and do salsa on another day (casually), do bachata on a Friday at yet another studio… I have a week to make up my mind.
I went to the first class of a performance routine. I backed out when I realised there were two lifts involved – I’m not about to ask anyone to hold my weight. Dance with, yes, dip and drop and turn, yes, hold entirely? no. I still bought a pair of new dance shoes, and will be selling the ones I’ve had since last year and wore once before I decided they’re intolerably uncomfortable.
I went to Cirque du Soleil by myself, as T had a headache. Poor man. Mum commented that, since I started dancing, I’ve gained confidence. She’s right, too. I don’t mind doing things alone, and I’ve started trying to make friends. With some success, I have a semi-regular dinner arrangement before dance with one of the women in my glass. She’s lovely, and I’m enjoying it.
T’s busy at work. It’s stressful in the right kind of way – he enjoys what he’s doing, and with the inevitable exception (there’s always one), likes his colleagues. It’s nice to have him happy with his work.
Everything changes, everything stays the same.
I’ve spoken to one of the older chaps at work a fair few times lately. He’s a lovely chap, one of the real Old Guard who still hang around in the workplace; doing the job they’ve done for the last forty years, where they started out with pencil and paper and now try to get to grips with computers. He wandered down to the IT area last night, introduced himself, trying to catch me before I disappeared for the night. He stuck out a hand, so as you do, I returned mine to be shaken.
Instead of a handshake, my hand was kissed! I haven’t run into that old-fashioned sort of courtliness in years.
It was sweet. He’s a nice chap.
I got to the carpark this morning, and went to pay – and there was a screeching harpie trying to rip the poor attendants a new one because she didn’t understand how earlybird parking works.
See, she’d parked on level 3, discovered the machines on level 3 don’t take credit cards, and so she’d driven up to level one to pay. Instead of, y’know, leaving her car down two levels and walking up to the booth like the rest of us. Apparently the fact that the levels aren’t labelled (lady, they’re still in the middle of construction) is MISLEADING and she can’t work out what level she’s on – “it’s the PINK ONE isn’t that GOOD ENOUGH????!??!?!?” She was doing the whole nine yards, the “WHY WON’T YOU TAKE MY MONEY???!!?!?!?!?”, and I just lost it in laughter when she actually started jumping up and down in frustration. This is a slim, mid-40′s woman in high heels, business clothing… and she’s jumping up and down clacking her heels on the concrete like a toddler in a tantrum. She just would not be told that you’re supposed to LEAVE your car on the third level, not just visit it in passing.
She turned to the queue building up behind her to apologise for the communication failure; judging from the snickering behind me (and also the way no-one was willing to catch her eye) no-one agreed with her. I kind of wish I’d spoken up, but I couldn’t face arguing with an idiot before I even started my shift.
Eventually they gave up arguing with her, and she drove off, presumably to go back down to level three and park (I wouldn’t count on it).
My own transaction went quite smoothly.
Me: “Hello, I’m parked on Level Three!”
Her: “Excellent, that will be Twelve Dollars Please!”
Me: “You know, I never thought parking here was terribly complicated.”