– I never insult people to their faces. To their faces, I hope you note. I politely and cheerfully point out their shortcomings without actually calling them rat-bastards, as could certainly be argued in court. Instead, I roll my eyes with my co-worker (a delightfully cynical sort) for a good five minutes after they have slunk away. (Slinked? Slunken? My parsing skills have deserted me. Parsed me by. You may kill me now.)
– I am completely overusing the phrase, “delightfully stable”. I can’t get ENOUGH of that one. Anything, everything is delightfully stable.
“What did you think of Love Actually?”
“Oh. Um, it was delightfully stable.”
“Yeah, I really liked … what?”
– Think I can outlast Mr. T in the Battle of the Socks on the Floor. He will leave socks (or substitute any/all of the following: jacket, book, mail, ATM receipts, dog leads, hammer, camping chair, electrical cables, you name it) on the floor. Sometimes in the middle of the room. I step over it. And over it. And so does he, and so do the dogs, and the cat takes a mighty jump and clears the Giant Pile of Detritus which has built up over the course of, say, an hour or so. I think, “Mr. T will pick it up. He left it there, after all.” Note to self: Mr. T WILL NEVER PICK IT UP. EVER. Not even if it remains on the floor so long as to evolve a mouth and lungs and a tiny trachea and begs him, in a tremulous piping treble, to remove it from the Floor of Filth to which it is now permanently stuck. The only reason we do not have a house full of these talking piles of crap (hey, sounds like work!) is that I pick them up. Or, alternatively, point them out to Mr. T: “Look. Socks. From when we went skiing three weeks ago.” He stares at the offending item as if he has not stepped over it four times a day for three weeks. Then he gazes at me pityingly and ostentatiously picks up the socks. (Tiny cheers can be heard.) Must NOT let this bother me. (Alternative plan: hit Mr. T over the head with the camping chair and stuff him in the dog kennel.)
– Ignore the Black Dog when he licks the bottom of the empty water bowl. Then looks at me. Then licks the bowl again. Note that there is a 12 litre bowl of fresh, delicious water not ONE METRE away from the smaller waterbowl. One is inside, one is outside. The Black Dog is fussy for Inside Water. The Black Dog is walking a dangerous, dehydratable line.