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Hair, There, And Somewhere

January 17, 2019 9:12pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 13 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday On A Thursday!

Because…

Yesterday I was in the hair salon for five hours.

FIVE. HOURS.

I could be halfway to America in that time.  

I know I’ve got a fair amount of hair but that’s just ridiculous. 

There was a point where I seemed to be laying at the basin for hours. I don’t remember how many times they washed my hair but it seemed somewhat excessive and they had to put the massage chair on 4 times because it ran through its cycle.  Now, this might sound nice but not when laying down with all the pressure on your neck. It cuts off the blood supply.  There were times when I nearly passed out. I don’t know, maybe I did and that’s why it took so bloody long. 

“Have you booked a summer holiday?”  This is hairdresser speak for I’ve got sod all else to chat about.

“No. But maybe I should because by the time I get out of here I’ll have missed the boat.!”

“I know. You’ve been here for ages!”

“You noticed! Those 5 inches of my tresses that have been cut off might have grown back by the time we’re done here and it’ll all have to be done again!”

“Ha ha ha!”

By the time I stood up I nearly had a seizure.

“I’ve forgotten how to walk.”

“It’s OK, I’m just going to take you over to this chair here…”

Please. NO. JUST. LET. ME. GO. 

“I’ve just got to put this treatment on. It’s in two stages.”

Kill me.

“Can I please sit up.”

“No. It might sting your eyes.”

“So this fandabidozi treatment you’re putting on will make my hair like a curtain of golden glory but can also make me blind?”

“It’s very potent.  It stays in your hair for up to 13 shampoos.”

“Good.  Because I won’t be washing it again until June.  Wait…It IS June…”

Extra- Tressestrial

I began to wonder if I was in a different part of space-time and had been captured by aliens. Maybe I thought I was at a hair salon, but in fact, had been taken away in one of the Chariots of the Gods.  They say that when you think of something it happens, and lately I’ve spent far too much time listening to Erich Von Dëniken and waiting for aliens to return in a swanky spaceship to take me to Planet Party.  

But this is no party.

And time does not speed here. 

AT. ALL

Game of Thrones

Sat on one long enough so I should be the ruler of something.

Maybe I’m still caught in that programme I took part in on Netflix.

Bandersnatch. Where you choose your own adventure.

  See, some bright spark thought I’d like this so off I went to see.  It’s a short film where you can pick what happens next.  This is so utterly stressful because I need to know what happens in every possible scenario. Ergo, the short film lasts for hours and hours if you’re me.  Especially if, like me,  you try and trick it by picking the same answers in case something different happens. 

Perhaps I missed this part where the kid ends up in an alien salon fighting for his life to get out of the chair and out of the door to freedom.

Shave head – OR – stay in the salon

Shave it!  PLEASE!  I don’t care anymore. 

And then…

“I’ve just got to leave that on for ten minutes…” Which is hairdresser speak for we’re not ready for you yet because you missed your blow-dry time slot.  It was 3 hours ago.  Now you have to wait until the other client is done. 

“You know that sitting down kills you?”  I said.

Purgatory?

Am I dead? Is this Hell’s Hairdressers?  

It’s funny because just the other day someone told me it takes 20-30 seconds for your brain to cut off after you’ve died. So, that means you can still hear people for that long once you’ve been pronounced a gonner. 

What a horrible thing to tell me. Which, I made quite clear to the teller. 

Imagine that, though. There you are, dead, and all you can hear is crying (if you’re lucky) and wailing or, other things:

“Never liked her anyway…”

“Never mind, she’s gone now.  Shall we have a pizza?”

I was very upset about this information. I have since informed many people that if they are at my side when I slip off the dish they must converse with me in a normal manner for at least 40 seconds so I ease out gently and don’t panic. 

Otherwise, I’m coming back in my spaceship with guns.

All that said, I managed to escape the salon before midnight with very lovely hair despite terrible whiplash caused by basin brutality.  

Kakorrhaphiophobia

January 9, 2019 1:15pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 19 Comments

An American Street Sign

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

I’m in that New Year’s grip of fear of failure.  I’ve only just ventured up the mountain but the summit is a long way off.  It would be easier to turn around and sack it off but I’ve been good for a whole 8 days. Laughable to some, miraculous for me. I’m a creature of habit; bad ones. They’re way more fun. The meagre baby steps I’ve taken up the steep and waring peak of perfection are a great measure of success to me and fuelling the Jules Drive onward. 

Talking of Steps…

steps made from wine bottlesles

These wine steps are my favourite and once I’ve mastered my SAS life challenge, I might install some in my abode.  I met them at a wine tasting experience bought for me before Christmas when days were fun and I became a wine snob. However, I found out yesterday morning that I’m a long way off sommelier status.

I arrived promptly at the coffee house at 8 am. Getting out and into the big wide world on a crisp and chilly morning does wonders for the spirit. And way nicer when it’s not a gym day and you can sit pleasantly amongst the early risers without having to cycle around a digital version of Lake Tahoe trying desperately to keep your cucumber water down.  

The warm, inviting aroma of extortionately priced coffee wafted through the air and the grinding from the coffee machines gave a sense that all was well; ready to fuel an industrious people before they set about their painstaking paper-pushing. I ordered a non-pretentious latte because healthy people are stupid and drink chai keep it simple and I sat down and noticed a spare newspaper available.  What better than to exercise my brain with an early morning crossword before getting to the task of writing. I managed to complete the puzzle bar one four letter word for wine sediment where I couldn’t make dregs fit.  Annoyingly, I had to look this up and found that it is known as “lees”.

Obviously, I never knew this because my wine snobbery is in its infancy and I don’t drink straight from the aged oak barrel. 

On the drive back I tuned into BBC Radio 4 where they were discussing tomatoes.  Apparently, one should not keep these juicy little reds in the fridge as I do because it stops the enzyme that gives them their delicious, off-the-vine taste.

I looked at the time on my car dash and realised that in the space of 49 minutes I’d learnt two highly important things and I still had another 14 hours to go before it was bedtime and I could sleep off the monotony. 

Happiness and joy de vivre. When it’s gone, it’s gone.

Filled with all this astounding knowledge it might have been the perfect night to attend a pub quiz but I don’t think my resolve is yet strong enough to avoid in-your-face temptation. I’m easily led astray.  They say it takes 21 days to get into new habits even though I feel as though I’ve already done a lifetime of poverty and obedience. 

But Let’s Face Facts…

There are many other ways to spend time whilst waiting for your next bowl of homemade, life-giving, Jewish chicken soup. 

Face masks. They come in many varieties: scrub, peel, boiling hot and mud. They are also highly effective at stopping you from opening your mouth to put something in it because you have to keep still. Also, opening the door to people like this scares the crap out of them, leaving me in peace, of an evening, to binge on Netflix, read my books and find interesting things to do with fruit.

Arse Into Gear And Hands Full

January 2, 2019 6:41pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 14 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

Happy New Year to all my fabulous readers!  

National Park And Pride

In the true spirit of change and resolution, I took myself off to the gym this morning and figured it must have been a while since I went because everything had changed: new-fangled machinery, high tech TV’s, everything in a different place, and so on. I halted on the spot like a deer in the headlights looking like one of those new people who roll up with their posh water bottle, shiny lycra clothes, and blinding-white trainers, even though I’ve been a member of this gym for years. 

I finally figured out where the cross trainer was and hopped onto it pretending to figure out the playlist on my phone whilst surreptitiously looking at the new equipment and wondering how the sodding hell it worked. 

“Touchscreen”, it said.  Easy. Like an iPhone. I got this.  

However, it wasn’t like an iPhone AT. All. And it kept asking me to enter my “Wellbeing” status for motivational help and tracking. I kept pressing buttons in the vain hope it would do something and I ended up cross-training my way around Yosemite Park. Yes. Indeed.  

The arty-farty new equipment allows you to be visually stimulated as though you’re running through a beautiful area and there are many to choose from. Since I’ve always fancied a gander at this National Park I went for free this morning for 30 minutes which saved me £800 in flights. Tomorrow I’m going to India. 

And then, shame upon shame. “Follow TV guidance” kept popping up on the screen. I looked around to see what was going on and when I realised, the whole of the packed to the rafters gym watched my heart rate spike to heart attack level. There, on the big TV on the wall, in front of all the psycho cardiopaths, were my details:  speed – heart rate- challenges, goals and DESPERATE FAILINGS.  I’m surprised it didn’t have warning lights and buzzers because it may as well have done, “This is what happens when you stay away from the gym and eat shit and drink gin.” Needless to say, I just lost 700 calories via humiliation and embarrassment. 

A Bird On The Hand Is Worth A Few Gone To Mush

I received lots of lovely gifts for Christmas but there are two that made the whole event much more fun. 

The family tradition is to sit around and open up presents one-by-one and “Ooh” and “Aghhh” at each other’s prizes.  In my pile lay a present from my mother and on the label it said, “This is to be opened last.” 

The time came. Everybody had finished and all that was left was for me to unwrap the mystery gift. 

 “Everybody pay attention and wait until you see this,” my mother said.

“Is it going to blow up?”  I asked.

“No. Not yet.”

“Do I have to be careful?” I queried, as I tore into the box. 

“No.”

Somebody else muttered something sarcastic to me, I don’t remember what exactly as I’m used to smart arses in my family.

“You’re going to regret saying that!” my mother warned.

And then, before I’d even seen what my gift was another family member uttered (in a low and fearful voice ) “OH. MY. GOD.  If this is what I think it is then we’ve gotta ….RUN!!!!”

People upped and sped out of the living room like their lives depended on it, screaming advice to each other as they scarpered.

“QUICK! GET OUTSIDE BEFORE SHE COMES!”

“I CAN”T FIND MY SHOES!  SAVE YOURSELF!”

You don’t expect to hear these fear-fuelled words leave people’s mouths as you open up your presents on Christmas Day.  Unless, of course,  you belong to my tribe and have been tormented by me for years. 

As soon as I unwrapped the present I shrieked with delight and ran out of the room after my traumatised victims. One was behind a chair crying and begging me not to hurt them and the other had locked themselves outside in the cold and taken the key with them so I couldn’t get out. 

Meet Bobble.

Now to everyone else, this is just a harmless hand puppet.  To those who know me well, this is a terrible monster that had now, in their eyes, just come to life.

  “Bobble” is a bird-type character that I invented with just my hand as the tool to bring laughter and fear into many peoples lives for a long time.  And then he appeared in full body via a Christmas gift ready to scare the crap out of everyone. And Oh, how well that went!

I can’t tell you of my excitement. The power of the puppet master reigns. 

Talking Of Hand Held Happiness…

My other gift is a gadget I spied on an American TV advert recently and wanted immediately. They have only just come out and I am the first person in my city to have one. Even the staff at Jessops camera shop didn’t have their stock item yet and so I let them play with mine. This made me the queen of nerd heaven.  

The Osmo Pocket. 

I LOVE IT.

And now, with both hands occupied all I can do is run my mouth. Again. So, I’ll leave you with this piece of wisdom:  2019 is the year of the pig. I don’t know what that means exactly but I think it means you can eat as much bacon as you want.

This year is looking good already. 

Making An Impact

December 19, 2018 3:04pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 24 Comments

Photo by Dave Allen – “Creative”

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

I got up this morning, had a shower and dressed in attire that I considered casually smart with an air of distinct quality.  Hair brushed neatly into a side ponytail and just a light spray of perfume to suggest understated class. No make-up bar a whisper of lash-lengthening mascara for a natural bird-next-door look.  Clean, smart and together: sophisticated without being pretentious. How you are perceived in the first 8 seconds can have a drastic effect on how you are treated and since I was going for my first deep-tissue sports massage I wanted to be given top quality service. 

I hopped in my car and tuned into BBC Radio 4 because that’s what smart people listen to and I didn’t want to go in humming Wizzard’s Christmas hit from Smooth Radio or I would’ve blown my kudos altogether.  I needed to arrive with an air of brilliance and be studiously pauciloquent. 

Creatively Compromised

The monotonous tones of the presenter and his cheery broadcast put me in a right depression. Apparently, if you haven’t made your mark on the world before the age of 30 then you may as well cash your chips in now.  It is a known fact that the genius’ of our time have always made an impact before this tender age. Those proficient in science, arts, music or film have done so before brains shrink, creativity declines, and it goes rolling down that steep and rocky hill followed closely by self-esteem.  

Awesome. Let’s roll in the Christmassy spirit with a nice dose of negativity. Put down your pens writers because there’s no point! Have you written your autobiography yet?  Don’t bother – Justin Bieber is a tit did it when he was straight off the tit. That should tell you all you need to know.

As the wheels of my degenerating brain creaked and searched for possible escape routes to this new found knowledge, a recent experience came to mind.  

Clearly, the people on Radio 4 have not yet met Whistling Sheila. 

What A Pucker!

As luck would have it I got invited to the Christmas Carol sing-a-long at the Rutland Arms, village pub.  It all started as usual with a bit of “Sticky 13’s” where I became Spartacus and won twenty glorious pounds.  This was followed by the “Great British Pull Off” involving all punters linked in a circle pulling each other’s crackers at the same time. Fate had me winning a giant plastic paperclip in order to gather all my innovative musings and file them away under ‘Creatively Compromised You Old Bastard’  Karma is such a passive-aggressive bitch. 

And then it was sing-a-long time and out came the turn: Our Whistling Sheila.  

You couldn’t make it up. 

This woman is a world whistling champion. Really. 

If you can imagine (what sounds like) a giant canary whistling carols whilst pissed up punters sing along then you’re probably halfway there. Think Phoenix Nights with a sadistic twist and a lot more fun. I urge everybody I know to visit this pub at least once in their lifetime and tell Al I sent you. It won’t get you a discount or anything but it will build your character and teach you new mind scarring things like how to be creative past 30 and find your inner schizo.

 As our Sheila said, “It changed my life in a lot of ways.”

Sheila. You changed mine too…

Back To Basics

I arrived at the sports massage clinic and mentally justified my reason for being as I waited in reception. This was aided by the receptionist donning cat ears and giant bauble earrings.  By the time my therapist (a strapping bloke called Ben) came out to fetch me I had already composed myself back into the game. This is called “Top Lobster” status as written by ‘Jordan Peterson’ who is also the reason for my being at a sports clinic because he states that one should look after themselves as much as they do their lizard. And, since Kevin is in brumation and not being very helpful at the moment, I decided to sort my insanely knotty shoulders out once and for all.  

Ben visibly shrank in my presence and I knew I was going to get the best treatment ever lest I berate him for failing. He pleasantly explained to me how he would map out the areas of my back to locate muscle lock and use his elbows to release tension. I readied myself on his treatment bed and stuck my face through the hole. 

Dear God.

Never in all my days have I felt such pain. Ben was a vicious little git and I went through such agony I didn’t know if I was going to faint, shit myself, vomit or all three at the same time. After an hour of this torturous ordeal, I told Ben how much I hated him and drove home in a state of severe dizziness which did not abate for an hour.  

I am now sat bolt upright in a leather chair wondering if I have broken ribs because breathing hurts. Violently. 

Ben said that typing at a computer elongates the shoulder muscles making them weak and this could be a re-occurring problem. Shut up, Ben.

 So, in a nutshell, I’m physically screwed, too old to make a mark anyway, and, despite following the wisdom of Mr. Peterson, I have been upstaged by a whistling diva when it comes to creative genius.  Suck that up.

Merry Christmas.

Walking in a Whiskey Wonderland

December 12, 2018 8:02am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 24 Comments

 

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

And this week I have been challenged by my friend, Anniesu of Runswick, to get all of the obsolete words pictured above into my next few blog posts.  I have decided to go one better and put them all into one post in my Christmas story below. How Obsoletely Fabulous!  Enjoy!

Walking in a Whiskey Wonderland

 

Some festive advice for the revellers that be,
Take care of imbibing when the hours are wee,
For what tends to happen when you get merry pissed,
Is to find you’re an insufferable aeolist.


Yestreen as I sat near the fire and the tree,
A Christmassy fever came right over me,
Perhaps ‘twas the whiskey being rather first rate,
That put me in such a potvaliant state.


Oh, what a marvellous idea came a knocking,
That I thought t’would be fun to go out late night shopping,
Whilst the Great British public lay far and asleep,
I’d get me some pressies and food nice to eat.


Awhile and a bit I arrived at the store,
And ungraciously slid ‘tween automatic doors,
And all and at once was aware of my folly,
I’d forgotten to bring a pound for the trolley.


I looked round about for some friendly assistance,
To find not a human soul in existence,
Instead pranced some elves and toys on the floor,
And unicorns trotting down aisle 24


Before I could turn and make my escape,
A proper set- to began to take shape,
I found myself witness to hollers and cries,
And a food fight involving some flying mince pies!


I ran down the shoppe past the dairy and spuds,
And tried to take cover near great suet puds,
When all of a sudden I had quite a fright,
For a bounder appeared in smugglers so tight! 


Oh! What a bawcock! So dandy and slick,
Who went by the name of Sir Spotted Dick,
But before I could give him a right Yuletide snog,
The witch stacking shelves turned him into a frog!


The amphibian through the air did spanghew,
And he ended up squished on a Tiramisu,
I looked at the witchety-witch quite askance,
And cried, “Why did you kill my hero in pants?!”


“That blatteroon and despicable cad?
He’s the worst flipping boyfriend that I’ve ever had!,
You should be thankful I’ve done you a favour,
And saved you from a terrible known poodlefaker!”


“Everyone knows when you go late night shopping,
You only end up with tat in your stocking,
So my gift to you is to send you back home”,
And with a lift of her wand cracked it right on my dome.


The next I remember I woke rather late,
And to my surprise when I checked the date,
It was overmorrow and I’d missed a day,
I leapt from my bed to downstairs right away.


And then in my head and most uncontrolled,
Visions of a story began to unfold,
A shopping experience quite mad and surreal,
Was it all just a dream or something quite real?


But once in the kitchen I spied my old mate,
Sat proud on the counter in full apricate,
As the low winter sun shone through on his form, 
I regarded my menacing playmate with scorn.


My Achilles heel and anagapesis,
Who plays on my lips with sweet golden kisses,
You satanic fiend, I won’t be your whore!
Jack Daniels I do not love you anymore!


So please let this tale be a serious reminder,
Think twice before going on a one- to-one blinder,
Or you could be stuck somewhere ‘tween true fact and fiction,
Which brings this here ode to full satisdiction.


~Jules~ 2018




Off My Trolley!

December 6, 2018 4:39pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 20 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

A little later than usual…

I don’t know what’s going on but I think karma is toying with me.

I’m experiencing a bout of normality.  It happened right after being forced to buy an old biddy trolley.

I made a trip to the NEC in Birmingham with my friend to visit the BBC Good Food Show. This is an exhibition of gargantuan proportions and it very nearly killed me.  

Tartan Trolley in a hallway

My friend insisted that I purchase one of those trolleys that old women take shopping with them because that’s what hardened, show going professionals do. You need somewhere to stuff your swag. 

I have to admit I was slightly alarmed by this but eventually went to Argos (undercover) and bought a tartan (because it has to be tartan) biddy buggy. 

I aged drastically in one afternoon. 

A Liquid Lunch Be -GINS

It took two train rides to get there.  All carriages were packed with the great unwashed public raring to get their hands on some of the finest drinks and food that Blighty and its European enemies had to offer. It took miles to walk from the train to the exhibition hall; longer than it took me to climb the highest mountain in Vail, Colorado. I was knackered before I even got there.  

Fortuitously, we descended upon the many gin bars that were giving out samples of the latest GINious flavours: mince pie, moonshine, and pomegranate popper, all of which I found rather pretentious but took for medicinal purposes.  

This was followed by sample after sample of food being handed out by the many fodder stations.  There seemed to be rather a lot of cheese going on. Cheese and gin.  Or maybe it was cheese flavoured gin? I don’t remember.

The tight-fisted exhibitors managed to cut their samples into the smallest of pieces.  I even saw a man slice a single sausage into 16 bits before laying it out with a bunch of cocktail sticks.  

“Steady on there, mate. I’m on a diet “ 

I’m very particular about who I share my snacks with and am somewhat fearful of buffet style food and the greedy public that attends such a place dive right on in before it’s all gone. Cocktail sticks totally ignored because time is of the essence as they snatch at the goodies with their grubby little mitts. 

“Do you want a piece?” my friend asked.

“No, I bloody do not. That chatty little swine just put his filthy fingers all over it. Did you see the state of his nails? Gross.”

It comes to something when you have to say that the most generous sample givers were the Scots at the whisky bar.  Who’d have thought?  I had to stop them from giving me any more single malts because I was in danger of running people over with my swag carrying vehicle. 

I arrived back home at 9 pm beaten by public exhaustion to within an inch of my life. 

Possessed by Jinn and Tonic

I woke up the next day mysteriously semi-crippled like an old codger.  I glanced at my tartan trolley suspiciously.  Hmmm….

Christmas tree in a sitting room

No time for sitting down with a nice cup of tea because it was Christmas tree day.  Two of them in my house – east wing and west.  This took all day long and I was so tired that I started to hallucinate a little as I could hear angels singing in the distance. I then realised I’d left the ‘Choir of Kings College, Cambridge’ on a repetitive loop. 

Feeling staggeringly exhausted and aging by the minute, I checked in the mirror for grey hairs and missing teeth in case I’d been possessed by something nasty. My eyes were too tired to see anything which was probably a blessing in disguise.  I took myself off to bed and had a horrible dream about being stuck in a sanitarium with gin flavoured cheese.

The Dawning of A New Chapter

Has happened. Since buying a tartan biddy trolley I have accomplished so many things that one might suggest I have been blessed with the wisdom of the elders. My usual chaos management has been replaced with organised madness.  Trees are up.  All Christmas gifts are bought and wrapped including the creation of organic homemade side gifts.  International parcels have been parcelled and posted. I’ve even made my Christmas dinner butters, fed a homeless man and attended social festive events with the charm and grace of a royal princess. I feel so mature and normal I nearly considered a tweed skirt,  Barbour jacket, and sensible haircut. 

Curiously, since arriving into adulthood, I have been rewarded with external gratitude. This is a very new experience for me.

The first being a text from my phone provider offering to pay off the final 3 months of my mobile contract so I could have a pre-Christmas upgrade.  Visions of an iPhone XS danced in the remaining part of my childlike head. 

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Just rewarding you for your loyalty.”

Well, bloody hell! 

Nice.  Not gonna argue.  The very next day my beautiful gadget arrived.

iPhone XS on table

The most fun thing about this phone, which is not really a phone but a state of the art masterpiece, is that I can turn myself into a talking emoji.  I’ve already had so much fun responding to texts to friends with my digital talking head that I’m becoming a horrible nuisance. 

Oh how rapidly one reverts to type!

And then, another nice message arrived on my new gadget from the bank.  Yes, you read that right, 

“A Nice Message From The Bank” 

It said:

“Please go and collect your free bottle of Prosecco Rivamonte NV DOC from the wine merchants for being such an adorable customer.” 

To be honest, at this point, I thought I’d been hacked.  I took to my trusty car with my ready to fight attitude and grown-upness and sped off to the winery.  True to word my FREE bottle of fizz was waiting.  Oh, and a tenner off any further £30 spend – yeah,  that’s where they got me.  Weakness located. 

I arrived home with an assortment of lovely, top class fine wines (one free) at a marvelous discounted price and that’s when I went right off my tartan trolley, lost my sensibility and put my bewwwts back on!  

Phew…that was a close call.

 

 

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