Wednesday, July 20, 2005

Strike! | Roy Keane! | Deadpan Conversations!

Have just found out that the strike at my place of work has been called off. This is great news for me: I've started pronouncing it 'industeral action', which is quite embarassing, and I'll be glad to get rid of that.

Went bowling last night, which was good fun. I've not been for a long time, but managed to enjoy myself and play quite well. I came consistently second, which I would normally consider to be a good thing. However, infused as I am with the spirit of Roy Keane, I now consider this to be appalling. If I don't go out and win every time, I'm not fit to wear the red and black bowling shoes. I shouldn't even be playing this sport if I don't have the desire. I was playing in my comfort zone. I am disgusted at myself. I'm going to quit the sport.

Plus, I've got a hangover from drinking generic continental lager, which I think puts me in a Roy Keane frame of mind.
Scene: My doorstep, having answered the door to my next-door neighbour, who is clutching a parcel from Amazon.

Next-door Neighbour: Hi. I've got a parcel for you.
Me: Thanks.
NDN: We get a lot of your post.
Me: Oh.
NDN: You know you're 157B, don't you?
Me: No.
NDN: Well, you are.
Me: No, we're 157. It's on our contract and all the bills. It's the address the Royal Mail have got too.
NDN: Well, it's got to be 157B. We're 157A; it makes sense, doesn't it?
Me: Hmm.
NDN: We get a lot of your post, though.
Me: It might just be the things that don't fit through our letterbox. [Demonstrates by attempting to push the parcel through our miniscule letter box. It fails.] I could put up a sign to tell the postman that this is 157 and you're 157A though.
NDN: Yes, it is quite small.
Me: Thanks for the parcel.

This was a very strange conversation to have, and while I feel sorry for him that he sometimes gets some of our post, I think the telling someone else what their address is was an oddly intimate thing to do. Especially as he was wrong. Hmpf.


  1. Hmmm. Speaking from experience, I'd have to concur with you on this one, although it is a sticky subject.

    Your next door neighbour has assumed as he is an A you must be a B, quite an assumption to be honest. But you've flipped the tables right back at him. While he is an A you're a straight ahead numeric and thus the house number top trumps is settled. Well done to all at 157.

    Alas I return to my lowly A.


  2. I too have lived the shame that is life at an A, while downstairs the neighbours cavort and make merry in their number-only pad. I will go home this evening, knock on the door of 157A and hug the man until all the tears have flooded out of his body. I will then march straight down to the Chief Executive of the Royal Mail and demand that hereafter my house be known as 157ButThat'sNotToSayIt'sInAnyWaySuperiorToAnyHouseThat'sGotAnAAtTheEndI'dJustLikeToMakeThatQuiteClear

  3. You could also point out to Mr Downstairs that the only time our door bell ever ever rings is when somebody tries to deliver one of their takeaways to us. How hard is it stipulate that the greasy food should be delivered to the side door for god's sake.

  4. How true. At least we have the good grace to get off our fat sweaty arses to go outside and get our deep-fried pizzas in curry sauce.

    [NB This statement is not meant to infer that my neighbours arses are either fat or sweaty. But they do eat a lot of takeaways. I'm just saying, like.]

    On the plus side, they do have a cat that is scared of me. This gives me a feeling of power, a ha ha ha. Although I think it's more likely psychologically damaged by events as a kitten. Probably to do with a ball of string. Or its relationship with its father.