Thursday, February 10, 2005
In Ink Please.
“Please complete this form in BLOCK CAPITALS using BLACK ink”
Hassle! Hassle!
I can’t remember if I am in a possession of any ink pens. Have not written in ink for years, I am not sure if I could still use one without canting batik all over an A4.
The last time was probably during A-level time, when my biology teacher, Mrs Howard insisted that our handwriting will all transform into something close to state of art if we all write in ink instead of biro.
It confused me because only a little while before that she was giving this and that and a blahblahblah about how mine was like spaghetti bolognese and my blonde busty biology lab mate’s like somebody with Parkinson’s. It would not make any difference, regardless of what we do. She was a walking contradiction, Mrs Howard.
At that point I thought Parkinson was her husband. It’s just the way she said Parkinson, like he’s always getting the telling off for leaving the toilet seat up or leaving the crumbs on the sofa.
My lab mate didn’t talk all that much, but one thing I remember was the story about her near kidnap experience. Her dad was apparently a big big guy in steel trading and construction industry in England. Her skirts were from Laura Ashley and her shoes were Kickers. Something a girl like me could only stare at.
When she did talk, she’d always fluster and her fingers would always play with her collar which extended to quite low possibly due to her acquired selective inability to do up the buttons right up. At other times it’d be her pendant, which would be the object of the fiddle.
It was an initial ‘K’, and it was an 18K gold. I don’t know about the boys sitting opposite us, but I sometimes felt the room temperature was a little bit too hot for my liking.
If I need to pass my exam, I need to apply to take the exam. To do this I need to fill in this form, and to do this I need an ink pen. To get an ink pen, since Maggie doesn’t have one either, I have to make another trip to ASDA. To get to ASDA I need to drive and leave my parking space downstairs.
If I do that, when I come back, the space will be gone. Then I have to park on the curb. If I park on the curb, come tomorrow, I will get another ticket. If I get another ticket, it will be the one that comes after the last warning and I will have to pay, and I really don’t want to see them better off with my £25.
I could sneak into the ICU stationary cupboard, but I doubt they’d have ink pens.
Amongst many many thoughts today, this one gets blogged. Just goes to show, it’s the little little things occupying your thoughts that are the culprits half of the time.
They break your train of thoughts and while you’re thinking about whether it’s worth driving all the way and risking the parking space and the fines, you were physically in the middle of putting the key down somewhere and if it wasn’t in the African bowl you got from Rose when she got married, where keys live, you really dare not imagine where else it’d be (and the subsequent raiding of the study).
If I start and let myself entertain thoughts about Rose and her wedding in Monkey Island, this is going to be so long I’d be a little less keen to spell check.
Stop here I shall and let my logic figure out my temporary miseries, an ink pen and the key.
Hassle! Hassle!
I can’t remember if I am in a possession of any ink pens. Have not written in ink for years, I am not sure if I could still use one without canting batik all over an A4.
The last time was probably during A-level time, when my biology teacher, Mrs Howard insisted that our handwriting will all transform into something close to state of art if we all write in ink instead of biro.
It confused me because only a little while before that she was giving this and that and a blahblahblah about how mine was like spaghetti bolognese and my blonde busty biology lab mate’s like somebody with Parkinson’s. It would not make any difference, regardless of what we do. She was a walking contradiction, Mrs Howard.
At that point I thought Parkinson was her husband. It’s just the way she said Parkinson, like he’s always getting the telling off for leaving the toilet seat up or leaving the crumbs on the sofa.
My lab mate didn’t talk all that much, but one thing I remember was the story about her near kidnap experience. Her dad was apparently a big big guy in steel trading and construction industry in England. Her skirts were from Laura Ashley and her shoes were Kickers. Something a girl like me could only stare at.
When she did talk, she’d always fluster and her fingers would always play with her collar which extended to quite low possibly due to her acquired selective inability to do up the buttons right up. At other times it’d be her pendant, which would be the object of the fiddle.
It was an initial ‘K’, and it was an 18K gold. I don’t know about the boys sitting opposite us, but I sometimes felt the room temperature was a little bit too hot for my liking.
If I need to pass my exam, I need to apply to take the exam. To do this I need to fill in this form, and to do this I need an ink pen. To get an ink pen, since Maggie doesn’t have one either, I have to make another trip to ASDA. To get to ASDA I need to drive and leave my parking space downstairs.
If I do that, when I come back, the space will be gone. Then I have to park on the curb. If I park on the curb, come tomorrow, I will get another ticket. If I get another ticket, it will be the one that comes after the last warning and I will have to pay, and I really don’t want to see them better off with my £25.
I could sneak into the ICU stationary cupboard, but I doubt they’d have ink pens.
Amongst many many thoughts today, this one gets blogged. Just goes to show, it’s the little little things occupying your thoughts that are the culprits half of the time.
They break your train of thoughts and while you’re thinking about whether it’s worth driving all the way and risking the parking space and the fines, you were physically in the middle of putting the key down somewhere and if it wasn’t in the African bowl you got from Rose when she got married, where keys live, you really dare not imagine where else it’d be (and the subsequent raiding of the study).
If I start and let myself entertain thoughts about Rose and her wedding in Monkey Island, this is going to be so long I’d be a little less keen to spell check.
Stop here I shall and let my logic figure out my temporary miseries, an ink pen and the key.
