curate's egg
They were doing 'breast screenings' in the car park at work. I expected to see the drivers sat there with tubs of popcorn, having got the wrong idea.
Within the office, tensions have mounted over the most serious subject yet - the Christmas meal! At one point two rival meals seemed to be emerging, and - as twist after twist transpired in a saga worthy of Downton Abbey - it began to feel like we would all be eating our turkey in separate restaurants. However, tradition does now seem to be reasserting itself, although Secret Santa is still judged too risky. Nobody wants to unwrap a turd.
I'm beginning to wonder how long the department will survive, since who needs to promote organ donation when you can grow organs in a laboratory, as scientists are beginning to do now? Luckily (because you should never think that NHS departments work together) we have an operative in the field who goes round sabotaging such experiments. Or at least we have a member of staff we never see, and nobody knows what he does, but that is how I like to imagine him - sneaking into laboratories, smashing up equipment, possibly being ambushed by livers...
My brother rang me to say that he proposed to his partner, Bobs, on Halloween. She accepted (he probably wouldn't have bothered to call otherwise) and now I am going to be a 'best man', one of those opportunities in life which I had hoped - I mean thought - had passed me by. The best idea for a stag do thus far has involved donning spray tan to imitate the cast of The Only Way Is Essex down the Sugar Hut. We can describe ourselves as 'model slash footballers'.
TOWIE, by the way, is surely the new Twin Peaks. It really gets under your skin. I can't wake up in the morning now without telling my alarm clock to 'Shut up' in a camp voice.
Ross and Christine have got engaged too, so Dave and I were round there the other night. Sadly I was out of the room when the night's most hilarious anecdote was told. I returned to find everybody helpless with laughter and babbling about jet planes being attacked by frozen chickens. 'Terrorism?', I asked, but this only seemed to fuel the hysteria. I still haven't got to the bottom of it.
My room in the new house is now as duck egg as it can possibly be without actually being a duck's egg.
Within the office, tensions have mounted over the most serious subject yet - the Christmas meal! At one point two rival meals seemed to be emerging, and - as twist after twist transpired in a saga worthy of Downton Abbey - it began to feel like we would all be eating our turkey in separate restaurants. However, tradition does now seem to be reasserting itself, although Secret Santa is still judged too risky. Nobody wants to unwrap a turd.
I'm beginning to wonder how long the department will survive, since who needs to promote organ donation when you can grow organs in a laboratory, as scientists are beginning to do now? Luckily (because you should never think that NHS departments work together) we have an operative in the field who goes round sabotaging such experiments. Or at least we have a member of staff we never see, and nobody knows what he does, but that is how I like to imagine him - sneaking into laboratories, smashing up equipment, possibly being ambushed by livers...
My brother rang me to say that he proposed to his partner, Bobs, on Halloween. She accepted (he probably wouldn't have bothered to call otherwise) and now I am going to be a 'best man', one of those opportunities in life which I had hoped - I mean thought - had passed me by. The best idea for a stag do thus far has involved donning spray tan to imitate the cast of The Only Way Is Essex down the Sugar Hut. We can describe ourselves as 'model slash footballers'.
TOWIE, by the way, is surely the new Twin Peaks. It really gets under your skin. I can't wake up in the morning now without telling my alarm clock to 'Shut up' in a camp voice.
Ross and Christine have got engaged too, so Dave and I were round there the other night. Sadly I was out of the room when the night's most hilarious anecdote was told. I returned to find everybody helpless with laughter and babbling about jet planes being attacked by frozen chickens. 'Terrorism?', I asked, but this only seemed to fuel the hysteria. I still haven't got to the bottom of it.
My room in the new house is now as duck egg as it can possibly be without actually being a duck's egg.
posted by martin at 10:40 AM
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