The Awkward Handshake

Image by Hatice EROL from Pixabay

I wrote recently about the awkwardness of shaking hands with myself — when introduced to my alter ego. It got me thinking about awkward handshakes.

My most difficult was a doctor introducing me to a new colleague, a nervy young man who rushed politely to proffer his hand from behind me.

I was lying face down preparatory to a minor surgical procedure on my back.

If there’s a position other than lying face down, from which it’s harder to shake the hand of someone standing behind you, I don’t know what it would be.

I was reminded of the way dentists will fill your mouth with hardware and then ask a question that needs a detailed answer. I’m sure that young man was destined for dentistry.

***

Originally published in The Daily Cuppa.

Arachnophobia — A Gender Thing?

I was in the bath, towelling my hair prior to getting out, when a thing dropped from the towel into the water.

I leapt out — Aaaagh! — and flung away the towel. I know spiders don’t come in packs, but who thinks rationally when sharing a bath with an eight-legged monster from hell?

My shriek brought my knight-in-shining-armor to my rescue. He pushed past, carefully scooped up the spider, and carried it off.

Hey, what about my towel?

When I emerged, I found him drying the recovering arachnid with a hair-dryer. He said, “It’ll be OK,” like that was what I wanted to hear.

I thought dark thoughts but said nothing.

It’s a gender thing.

***

Originally published in The Daily Cuppa.

Time Itself Went Walkabout This Week

 

This hasn’t been a conventional week — none of this 7 days 7 nights nonsense, just a maelstrom of activity catapulting us from one high-octane activity to the next. I feel as though any photos taken have been by chance, but can identify only one that I didn’t mean to take.

In busy but fast-moving traffic when we were already running late for a hospital appointment, we met a “ROAD CLOSED” sign. Some closed roads are barely an inconvenience, and some denote a many-miles detour. Guess which sort this one was.

For the rest of the story, CLICK HERE.

A Trip To The Wilds Of Southern England

A week or so ago, I took a week-long trip to see family. It was a multi-stage trip collecting one family member en route, and another one on the way back; a round trip of just over 360 miles.

As an aside, I’m aware that the British see distances differently from Americans. For me, 360 miles is a long drive, but I expect my friends across the pond would think nothing of driving that far for a pizza.

British people think 100 miles is a long way; Americans think 100 years is a long time.

Before I set out, I checked the state of the homestead.

For the rest of the story, CLICK HERE.

The Slimiest Creature On Earth

Image: SusanAlisonArt

Question from 5-year-old granddaughter:

“Do you know the slimiest creature on earth?”

Thinks: Sleazebag Guy where I worked in the 1970s — antediluvian 1970s attitudes. But don’t cross swords with women who work in a 1970s lab — scant safety regs, access to electric shock devices, indelible ink, and nasty chemicals. Sleazebag Guy came to regret knowing us.

“I might have met him.”

“Are you thinking of the Atlantic hagfish?”

“Er… no”

“A hagfish can make a bucketful of slime in one minute. That’s slimy.”

Thinks: sounds nicer than Sleazebag Guy.

“I’m thinking of a slimier one.”

“Mine’s got an amnesty day.”

“OK, you win.”

Thinks: who’d want amnesty for mine?

Fish Amnesty Day — even for hagfish — 4th Saturday in September.

***

Originally published in The Daily Cuppa.

A Week In A Spin

 

The week began with a spin on the bike, and was to end — not that I knew it at the time — with something more centrifugally challenging.

Although warm, it was not reliably dry at the start of the week, and taking off on my bike was a risk, as evidenced by the pools left from recent downpours.

For the rest of the story, CLICK HERE.

Catching A Thief

 

I arrive home.

A dapper, rotund chap, in a brown suit, is rummaging inside our porch.

Seeing me, he gives a start of surprise and dives behind the umbrella stand. It’s nowhere near big enough to hide him, so he sidles out whistling, with a look of studied unconcern, edging towards the open doorway, then dives out and legs it. I see a clean pair of heels and a blur disappearing into the bushes.

“Should’ve been armed,” says a neighbour.

Nah, bad idea. We’d have ended up with a 50,000-piece umbrella stand and he’d have shown me that clean pair of heels just the same.

He’d been helping himself to a newly delivered sack of corn and was the sleekest, shiniest rat I’ve ever met. I admired his aplomb, but won’t be welcoming him back.

***

Originally published in The Daily Cuppa.