I have reached the age where weddings and babies are a common occurrence amongst my friends, and so for the second time this year I find myself organising a ‘hen do’.
Whilst emailing prospective ‘hens’ my brain started to whirl and wonder, why the hell am I referred to as a ‘hen’?
The groom and his boisterous group of roisterers get to be called stags.
It made me think.
I want to be a sodding stag. A stag makes a great first impression. A stag is powerful. It’s proud. It’s got integrity, it’s got poise and it demands respect.
But as I paused for thought I asked myself, what is the point in lusting after unoriginality? Why set my sights on what the men have got?
So I have decided to go one better. I’m going with something magical, something mystifying, something that’s got grace and vigour by the bucketload, but is also shrouded in a superhuman, supernatural strength that no one can ever quite put their finger on.
When I get married, I’m having a fricking Unicorn Do.
Much like my Monday pondering, The Daily Post is asking what sparks our ideas this week. This post was inspired by my whirring brain and a couple of the many eclectic treasures I have hidden around my home.
This afternoon I realised that it takes me four minutes and 29 seconds to peel a satsuma. That’s over 31 minutes a week, which is around 1,631 minutes a year… otherwise known as 27 hours.
It has come as quite a shock to me that such a block of my time is dedicated to one of my five a day, and it has had me wondering how much time I waste on other humdrum tasks.
Five minutes more wasted and I have come up with this little list.
- Trying to get rid of pins and needles – 260 minutes
- Hiccuping – 312 minutes
- Stifling a yawn – 60 minutes
- Proofreading my text messages – 1,820 minutes
- Figuring out the meaning of an emoji – 60 minutes
- Trying to decide if I want sugar in my tea – 260 minutes
I hope you can understand why I am keeping this post short. I’m off to invent some time-saving, multi-tasking techniques.
NB If you think my satsuma peeling time is excessive, it’s because I have a fear of the straggly white bits.
Oxford. The city that saw me trawling museums as a child and drinking holes as a teenager. It is also home to a reprobate character or two…
Five things I learned this weekend.
- A man (that you do not know) will find no qualms in stealing a sheepskin rug from under your bottom on the rooftop of a bar because he is cold and there are no blankets left.
- A man will also find no qualms in standing with his bum pressed up against your shoulder even though there is a shedload of floor space around him and you have spent the last 30 minutes shifting your chair across his toes.
- The Ashmolean Museum is filled with staff members on ‘backpack watch’ (probably because they’ve seen a knuckle-headed tourist wipe out an irreplaceable Ming vase with the oversized load on their back). The dunderheads always ruin it for the rest of us.
- Massage therapists will touch your feet even when you ask them not to (and then look shocked when they narrowly miss a roundhouse to the face when they do lay their paws on yours).
- Waitresses no longer find it necessary to apologise when you inform them that there is a hair in your cucumber sandwich, and they will only replace it once you’ve fully tucked into your scone and hence no longer have the palate for savoury. Of course at this point you have also forced yourself to power through the high tea, forgetting all thoughts of said hair and her return only reminds you of the discovery and makes you want to throw the jammy creamed cake at her phlegmatic face.
Otherwise the city of spires is quite a delightful place to spend your hours.
Thank you to the Daily Post for inspiring my photo-taking for the second time this week.