X is for Xerox

Alrighty then, I really must get cracking with this. Am I the only one who feels that the word xerox simply isn’t quite right? No really, do hear me out, I have excellent opinions on this. I’m sure that you probably never thought quite so much before in your life about this seemingly inoffensive little word. However, as far as I’m concerned, xerox sounds altogether far too fancy and futuristic for such a workaday exercise in drudgery as photocopying. Now I’m relatively certain that there must be a host of perfectly rationally cogent and exceedingly explicable reasons involving complicated and scientific words like xerography and forays into the world of corporate branding as to why xerox means what it does but I’ve decided on something of a whim that it’s entirely nonsensical.

Perhaps my illogical dislike of the reality surrounding xerox is that it’s entirely too American. I was momentarily unsettled by the episode of the popular television show Friends where the plot centred around infidelities and relations entered into with a girl who happened to work in a copying establishment (this confusion didn’t last though. I totally worked out what was going on. I’m incredibly intelligent. It’s probably not a good thing that I feel the need to assert this fact…). Maybe I was increasingly desperately casting around for something to write about and this seemed like as good a thing to discuss (you may choose to read that as blither on about if you wish, you cheeky scamp) as any.

I’m sure that it’s highly safe to say that none of this truly and actually matters. There are far more important things that we really ought to concern ourselves with; the rapidly dwindling supply of fossil fuels, the worrying situation with ISIS (or ISL or whatever they’re calling themselves nowadays. Or is it what we’re choosing to refer to them as? I lose track. I should probably give reading the papers a go) or indeed which glorified muppet we’ll choose to lead the country next year.


W is for Woo

What could I possibly mean by my use of the word woo? Am I sneakily turning things around to the world of romance? Could this be my incredibly subtle way of trying to get into your pants (oh get your mind out of the gutter you horny monster. I’m simply not available. I totally didn’t bring that up just so that I could say that truthfully for pretty much the first time in my life)? Obviously not. There are other uses of the word woo after all. Employ it twice and you could be ordering a choice cocktail (I’ve never had one, I wouldn’t know what they taste like).

So I’m rather sorry to say (I’m not sorry at all but you knew that already. I just needed to find a different way to frame my sentiment) that I’m not veering into the land of all things relationship shaped. No, I’m focussing instead on the word woo. It’s not quite onomatopoeic but if you say it properly you’ll feel the correct level of excitement that it definitely ought to bring. Go on, say it. The word woo, as long as it isn’t said sarcastically (which is of course very easily done), is an exclamation of unbridled joy. Alright, that’s taking things ever so slightly too far but I feel that woo is an underrated entry in the lexicon.

At this point you might not quite be feeling the love. You could be hunched with folded arms, the grumpy expression of a recently smacked cat slapped across your face and a thunderous cloud of being a downer rattling through your mind. If this happens to be the case you’re probably something of a lost cause. However, stand up (just do it. I mean it. I will find you if you don’t), raise your arms to the ceiling with feeling and shout woo. At least you’ve got some attention now.

V is for Vitality

Yesterday I proved beyond all shadow of a doubt that I definitely understand absolutely everything there is to be known about being a woman. That’s not even remotely up for debate. What I’m reluctant to admit is that I might just be not quite one hundred per cent up on what’s happening with the fellas. I suppose that fact shouldn’t be so very surprising. After all, I am slightly lacking in the broad shoulders and deep majestic tones of a chap and my feet are far too winsome and dainty to fit into the majority of their shoes (not that I’ve gone round trying them on or anything in a haphazard attempt at fact checking).

One thing I have learnt is that size doesn’t actually matter (I don’t think it does anyway but feel free to disagree with me, write in with your intensely fascinating anecdotes and the world will be all the way behind me when it comes to paying due attention to them) but a lot of time is devoted to it. Size directly correlates to potency, efficacy, ability to put up shelves, earning potential and obviously vitality. I know full well and for damn sure that you can forget everything you thought you knew about palmistry because one’s destiny is a far cry away from being in your hands.

What can you do if you’re not entirely happy with your lot in life? What if you find yourself feeling that you don’t really measure up to expectations? Well, for starters you have simply got to accept that there are some things you can change and others you just can’t. If you’re still not totally satisfied then I’ve been led to believe that there are places on the internet you can go to for pills and pumps and creams that will take out a chunk of your savings but won’t actually work. I’m sure you’ll feel better about your situation though. Shrunken ruler anyone?

U is for Unbecoming

It’s high time and past that I taught you how to be a freaking lady. I’m sure you think rolling your eyes at me like that makes you look worldly and sophisticated in an unconcerned, unruffled and nonchalant way. I’m afraid that you’re only under that impression because you can’t see what that expression is doing to your face. I can totally tell how bothered by it you are. But it’s alright, even your mildly hopeless case is salvageable. Even as you sit there, slack jawed with your arms and legs completely akimbo, tragically mussed and unkempt and struggling with various bodily emissions struggling to make their way out of you, I promise that I really can tell that there’s some vestige of hope for you. Possibly.

Perhaps I shouldn’t get too overly concerned with what you ought to be doing. After all, it’s so much more fun to tell you off and inform you what you certainly shouldn’t be getting up to. It’s also a lot easier for me to think up a long list of things that are entirely unfitting behaviour for a lady, for it is entirely down to my thoroughly arbitrary decision process what is unbecoming and what is not.

So to be delicate and feminine, one must engage in no farting, no scratching, no getting of lower back tattoos, no outspoken language, no sitting astride horses, no stomaching blood or any level of gore and simply no refusals to whip up delicious baked goods at the drop of a dapper bowler hat. On the other hand, it is incredibly important that you also bear in mind that proper lady life really ought to include no settling for less than you deserve, no accepting the gender pay gap as just being par for the course, no not rising to various challenges thrown your way and quite certainly no submitting to the patriarchy.

T is for Time

Time for what? Time to what? I have got to stop setting off on these things without a clear idea in mind. It’s a waste of everyone’s time. Not mine obviously, I’ve got to do this anyway and it’s slightly vaguely more efficient for me to embark on something of a random waffle rather than spend simply ages puzzling over what might make an actually halfway good idea.

It’s easy to start believing that you’re running out of time or that you’re not making the most of however much you may well have left. Such thoughts could be the jumping off point for heartfelt conversations about how you want your life to turn out or what goals you’ll set for yourself to achieve. Then, knowing you, you’ll realise that the kettle is freshly boiled and prime for that cup of tea you were so recently fancying or that the brand new episode of The Apprentice is just about to come on and you can’t bear to miss a single second of it. From that moment on the pseudo philosophical thread of your mind tapestry rapidly unravels and becomes next to impossible to pick up again. Even with a crochet hook (yeah, I know I’ve hopelessly mixed up the handicraft metaphors. Let’s not get too bogged down with it, shall we? We just don’t have the time for such frivolity).

So what’t to be done when you finally understand that you’re hurtling through history at breakneck speed, that if you were to blink for slightly too long you’d miss your entire natural lifespan? There’s the sensible advice involving sorting out your priorities, loving your family and friends to the fullest of your shrivelled raisin hearted capabilities and yada yada ya. However, do any of you really and truly have the space available in your busy schedules for that? Of course not. I advocate panic in as loud and spirited a manner as possible.

S is for Seemingly Ever Slumbering Pusscat

My local Tesco has accomplished something rather incredible. They have managed to find a way to cheer its customers’ days without going to the terrible expense of having to spend any money. They have simply allowed a cat to live in the warm conservatory like area between the outside world and the actual shop. I’ve noticed the smoky creature (I mean smoky as in its colouring. It’s a beautiful shade of grey. It would be another thing entirely if I meant that the feline was regarding everyone with its head cocked to one side and a cigarette, or even a pipe, dangling from its mouth. It would probably be that little bit more remarkable though decidedly less sweet) on many occasions in the past few weeks (my dad employs the top up method when it comes to the purchasing of his groceries. It’s one of the perks of being retired, you can go shopping whenever you damn well please) and it appears that the thing is always asleep.

You can’t really blame her (I’ve decided that referring to the animal as an it is rather impersonal and that she deservers a gender. It’s a fifty fifty gamble after all. She’s hardly going to get wind of it if I’ve got it wrong now is she?) can you? And yet, even in her barely conscious state, she has throngs of admirers. It’s very hard to pass her by without giving her a quick stroke or rub behind the ears. Even if you can resist such an urge you can’t help but smile just a little bit.

So clearly this is how all supermarkets can raise the morale of their customers and most likely their overall profits (because who isn’t more ready to buy tat they don’t really need when they’re in a more positive mood?). Simply place a snoozing cat somewhere near the entrance in plain sight and watch the extra cash roll in.

R is for Rumour

I’m sure that by now you’ll have heard. I’m hardly the kind of person who’s first to get wind of this sort of thing. Really? You haven’t the faintest clue what I could possibly be referring to? Oh you poor little uninformed creature. Allow me to preen and bask in your ignorance for just a moment or two, it’s a rare thing I have the opportunity to feel quite this superior (you could look ever so slightly more surprised by that admission. It’s a bit hurtful that you take it as read that I wouldn’t be even remotely aware of information this juicy. I know that I said as much at the beginning of this paragraph but it’s the sort of thing you can freely admit about yourself but cruelly morphs into a hideous insult should you start spouting off about it being applicable to others).

Well, I’m sure you know about the man who carried out that extraordinary feat not so very long ago. It was in all the papers. The internet positively glowed with praise of his glorious deeds. It provided everyone with the chance to feel good and hopeful about the future of mankind once again. Which promptly got rather boring and caused the media to immediately cast around for faintly reputable sources that might, with the merest hint or so of pressure, be relied upon to issue forth the most salacious gossip about said chap as possible.

And I’m sure that at this point you couldn’t possibly imagine what he can have got up to that would be so terrible. Allow me to gleefully shatter your existing preconceptions. He’s a liar, a cheat, a lusty and flint hearted wine bibber. He’s had secret meetings and consultations with all manner of shady characters. One old soul (who definitely wasn’t drunk out of her mind at the time) swore she witnessed him having remarkably spirited and athletic congress with the beast. The rumour mill has begun grinding away, is picking up speed and is very far from likely to ever stop. Isn’t it fun?