Take Away Chinese...
'plawn bowl?'
'er, nope, prawn balls please.'
'Yes, plawn bowl'
And thus it goes on and on trying to order a chinese takeaway when I'm bladdered on the bus on my way home. It doesn't help that my flatmate and my other (worse) half think that prawn balls are the funniest thing and keep miming a prawn with pendulus testiculae while I'm trying to order egg flied lice.
And to make matters even worse, I'm partially Chinese myself and so it seems like a genuine piss-take.
As it was Friday night I happened upon my usual watering hole which is a really old wine bar where the place is held together with years worth of dirt. Indeed its the nicotine and tar that keep the place together, along with the ash and wine spillages. Its a quaint old place filled with seasoned winos, faux-posh girls toasting Chardonnay's impending wedding with Rioja, and seriosly posh boys yah-yah-ing and rhubarb-rhubarbing away into their petit beaujolais.
Being a regular there, I only have to turn up and there will always be a gaggle of people to greet and chat to. Its a brilliant way to while away the time, especially since I am abandoned until 8.30pm each Friday while the other half stiffens his resolve to go to the gym and become the body beautiful, while I stiffen my resolve in that I am the body beautiful and believe in it more with each glass of colombard...
Speaking of the gym, I was having a conversation with my German flatmate the other day. Earlier this year I proclaimed to everyone who would pay me any attention that this would be the Year of The Body, and with a week had joined the Uni Gym and would traipse over every day to work on muscle groups I never dreamed I had. Somewhere along the line I tired of it and so all my hard work went to pot and the (little) pot belly returned. Now I'm thinking of rejoining the gym and am trying to persuade my German flatmate that she needs to come along too as before.
The gym really is quite an antisocial environment. Throngs of people ignoring each other while the fat ones look at the slim ones in disgust, and the thin ones veil their smirks by concentrating on the bald patch of the newsreader on the Bloomsberg Stock Channel. I remember there was this one time when I thought it would be a good idea to take up core training. This is exercise done on a Swedish ball and you use dumbells while balancing on said ball. Well, I went to this class and it turned out that there were only women there and everyone was filing in and out of the small store room that held dumbells and other core training paraphernalia. Being the only guy there I thought that I'd show these women what being a man was all about. So while the ladies were picking up 1kg dumbells I opted for the 5kg ones instead. What I didn't bank on of course was that the instructor for that particular class was Brenda* who was well known as an ex-SAS officer who was prone to making grown men cry. I didn't cry, I'm proud to say, but I very nearly soiled myself when she walked through the doors...
But I digress. I've now decided that 2006 will be the Year of The Body Beautiful and I will once again endure torture to have the six pack in preparation of my fabulous summer somewhere after all these Sodding Exams are over.
*Names have not been changed to protect the identities.
In my next installment I shall write about my neighbours who live in a different universe altogether.
'er, nope, prawn balls please.'
'Yes, plawn bowl'
And thus it goes on and on trying to order a chinese takeaway when I'm bladdered on the bus on my way home. It doesn't help that my flatmate and my other (worse) half think that prawn balls are the funniest thing and keep miming a prawn with pendulus testiculae while I'm trying to order egg flied lice.
And to make matters even worse, I'm partially Chinese myself and so it seems like a genuine piss-take.
As it was Friday night I happened upon my usual watering hole which is a really old wine bar where the place is held together with years worth of dirt. Indeed its the nicotine and tar that keep the place together, along with the ash and wine spillages. Its a quaint old place filled with seasoned winos, faux-posh girls toasting Chardonnay's impending wedding with Rioja, and seriosly posh boys yah-yah-ing and rhubarb-rhubarbing away into their petit beaujolais.
Being a regular there, I only have to turn up and there will always be a gaggle of people to greet and chat to. Its a brilliant way to while away the time, especially since I am abandoned until 8.30pm each Friday while the other half stiffens his resolve to go to the gym and become the body beautiful, while I stiffen my resolve in that I am the body beautiful and believe in it more with each glass of colombard...
Speaking of the gym, I was having a conversation with my German flatmate the other day. Earlier this year I proclaimed to everyone who would pay me any attention that this would be the Year of The Body, and with a week had joined the Uni Gym and would traipse over every day to work on muscle groups I never dreamed I had. Somewhere along the line I tired of it and so all my hard work went to pot and the (little) pot belly returned. Now I'm thinking of rejoining the gym and am trying to persuade my German flatmate that she needs to come along too as before.
The gym really is quite an antisocial environment. Throngs of people ignoring each other while the fat ones look at the slim ones in disgust, and the thin ones veil their smirks by concentrating on the bald patch of the newsreader on the Bloomsberg Stock Channel. I remember there was this one time when I thought it would be a good idea to take up core training. This is exercise done on a Swedish ball and you use dumbells while balancing on said ball. Well, I went to this class and it turned out that there were only women there and everyone was filing in and out of the small store room that held dumbells and other core training paraphernalia. Being the only guy there I thought that I'd show these women what being a man was all about. So while the ladies were picking up 1kg dumbells I opted for the 5kg ones instead. What I didn't bank on of course was that the instructor for that particular class was Brenda* who was well known as an ex-SAS officer who was prone to making grown men cry. I didn't cry, I'm proud to say, but I very nearly soiled myself when she walked through the doors...
But I digress. I've now decided that 2006 will be the Year of The Body Beautiful and I will once again endure torture to have the six pack in preparation of my fabulous summer somewhere after all these Sodding Exams are over.
*Names have not been changed to protect the identities.
In my next installment I shall write about my neighbours who live in a different universe altogether.
posted by Marmoset at
12:13 pm
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