Fool Britannia!

A while back, I had the opportunity to shift focus and start work in a new area.  This meant I got to keep all my old material and fling it at a somewhat interested new audience.

I now sit across from and in front of a couple of cheeky and charming British women both of whom have accents I could and do listen to all day.

Not long after I pulled up stakes and joined this group, another of my team members remarked to the British contingent while I was away:

"Isn't it a coincidence that all the Brits ended up sitting near each other?" to which the question was raised "Who do you mean?"  "Well, you two and Dale.  You all ended up sitting together!"  "Dale's not British."  "Oh? I thought he was because of his accent."

My voice, if you've heard it, does not sound like I was raised in the United Kingdom.  This is largely because, I wasn't.  My voice has a simple east coast Canadian trying not to sound too much like the trash I came from tone to it.

I'm not sure what we can learn from my co-worker's aural error other than to put some stock in the fact that perhaps regular ear cleaning can help you understand the world around you.

In the meantime, I remain pleased to sit near good folk who have an excellent and intriguing command of the language, who still laugh at my tired old jokes and who are as charming as fuck.

You Fill Up My Senses

Neighbour 'lady' Honeypot continues to delight, this time by trading in her inflatable pool for an 18 foot above ground model, part of her evolving ode to good livin'. It's positioned safely away from her fire pit in the back corner and therefore quite near the fence that keeps me from wandering over and declaring my love.

Each time she harrumphs her way up the pool ladder to negotiate a comfortable spot on the filthy floating air mattress, it's a triumph. If you can get in to a pool while balancing a drink and a smoke, all that weight and barking orders at your sons the whole time, there are no two ways about it, you're at least a triple threat.

Occasionally, the air mattress is given a rest and two inflatable chairs are pressed into service. The chairs are fairly small of seat unlike most of the denizens of Glitter Gulch and so on several occasions, Honeypot and pals have ended up in the water with a great squeal and a splash.

I now take comfort in the knowledge that should I suddenly become blind (spontaneously or voluntarily), the beautiful flowers on my side of the fence will continue to flourish, well watered by the wicked wake created several times daily.

The Bad Lieutenant

On Saturday night, I went to see The Lieutenant Of Inishmore at the Lyceum Theatre.

First of all, the Lyceum is an amazing venue, stunning and intimate. And tell me who doesn't like a little stunning intimacy now and then?

Of the plays Martin McDonagh has written, I've seen The Beauty Queen of Leenane, The Lonesome West and The Pillowman, all wonderful for different reasons.

I expected a home run right off the bat with Lieutenant but found the first act a bit wanting. Too slapsticky and repetitious I thought.

Intermission.

Act Two.

Hilarious, shocking, and wonderful by turn.

Way to go Martin.

There was one bit that I felt he'd stolen directly from my life but then again, no. Perhaps I'm more common than I expect I am.

This might explain why when the stewardess came to collect my empty coffee cup today, I sensed a bit of derision in her voice as she looked down at me, held out an open bag and said Trash.