Today I noticed that my left hand fits inside my rainbow slinky far more smoothly than my right. Now I'm not one to dwell on the meaningless minutiae of an increasingly pointless existence.....but then again I do enjoy minutiae, and surely all existence is on the side of lacking point, if not totally without. So, I figured, perhaps this anatomical phenomena was worthy of further detailed study.
Firstly, it's worth pointing out that there is no noticeable difference in size. Possible reasons though are as follows:
- My right hand is bigger because I write, type and (occasionally) throw cricket balls with it
- Some way I'm holding it makes the slinky bend less / more when inserting my left hand
- Left hand could be double-jointed in thumb, giving it smaller overall radius
Shit.......as I was writing that final point I think I've solved it. It's that one. Thumb isn't necessarily double-jointed, but certainly bends in towards palm much more easily. It's also worth me saying that Clare's (totally unhelpful) reason was that, 'all those years of hideously barbaric self abuse have obviously given you very strong muscle definition.'
I'm genuinely beginning to think that suffrage was a mistake.
Today is Valentine's Day. Aside from all the (pretty legitimate) cynicism regarding its status as a cash cow for the greetings card industry, I've always scorned this occasion since its corresponding fixture in 2006, 'The Day Of Unalienable Catastrophe.' If you'll indulge me, I'll enlighten you.
Being young (21), free (from meaningful responsibility at least) and single (ditto), I was offered a night's work in one of Norwich's least lauded and most avoided Italian restaurants. Having absolutely nothing better to do, I accepted. It being Valentine's Day, every table was for two, with confetti hearts strewn over them and a themed set menu whose content, both in food and bad metaphors, made my stomach twist into gruesome intestinal knots. The restaurant was rammed, and we had a busy night on our hands.
Twenty minutes into service, the chef - with whom I'd exchanged barely ten words - was found slumped on the men's toilet with a belt around his arm and a syringe hanging from it. I tried to be helpful by telling the manager, 'he could just be diabetic,' at which point the chef awoke from his grim, opium-induced catatonia just to say that he wasn't. He was fired on the spot and removed from the kitchen on a stretcher, and I was lambasted for being a liar. If the manager had had any sense, she would have closed the restaurant down. But seeing it full she panicked, and enlisted the help of the seventeen year-old sous chef, who made up for in youthful pluck what he lacked in ability, expertise, skills, training and experience.
Result: absolutely unmitigated disaster.
Spent the next five hours essentially apologising profusely for every possible mistake that can be made in any kind of social establishment, restaurant or otherwise. Including to my smug ex-girlfriend, who was there with her new, even-more-smug boyfriend. A little part of my soul died forever when I had to call him 'sir.'
Then had to apologise to a girl I was seeing after I broke up with the ex-girlfriend just two tables away, and her new boyfriend. A big part of my soul died forever when I had to call him 'sir' too.
After the last furious patron had been wearily lead to the door, I slumped against it with a moan of anguish akin to that of a dying horse. At this point the manager approached me and told me that I wouldn't be paid for the evening's work, seeing as so many customers had refused to pay and technically it was only my first shift, so could be construed as a 'trial.' Lacking my usual articulacy I told her to go fuck herself and walked out. It was raining.
By this point, the knots in my intestines actually spelled out the word: SURRENDER.
When I got home I was jilted by the girl I liked.
Happy Valentine's Day.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
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