I am taking myself out on a date tonight. I was sitting at work, feeling my brain shrivel up and die bit of grey matter by bit of grey matter, and I thought "I need to do something tonight that is not sitting in front of coronation street eating chocolate."
So I asked me if I would like to go out, and I said yes! I was excited because I thought I might've turned me down, but I seemed quite keen so it was all good. So I'm getting dressed up, and taking me out to a nice bar, and I'm going to buy me a nice glass of red...and, you never know, maybe I'll get lucky and go home with me! Hmm.
Today at work I hit myself in the face with a stick.
I also, now that you've stopped laughing, made friends with Daniel, the enfant terrible of the winery. Example: when he doesn't want to work, he locks himself in the store room and refuses to come out. However, he has become friends with me now. I consider this useful.
Turns out Dad's girlfriend thinks I am 'sweet.' She is obviously deluded- being madly in love with father actually a good indicator of this, now that I think about it- as I am many things, but 'sweet' not one of them.
Oh! Keith wanted to be mentioned in this blog, as apparently he considers himself important enough. (Hey, if Vic features...) Keith and I are like the English Monarchy in that we have a long, confusing and somewhat sordid history and no-one knows exactly what's going to happen to it next (although every man and his dog have a prediction to make).
Keith is also like the English Monarchy in that he is somewhat inbred. Would anyone else like to be featured in my blog?
And now, for the Joke of the Day, today inspired by Andrea (do thank her; the joke was going to be 'Your Mother'):
A woman was caught in a terrorist attack, while she was carrying triplets. Despite the fact that none of the bullets could be recovered, all of the fetuses survived and were born healthy babies- two girls and a boy. One day fourteen years later, one of the two girls came to her mother in tears. "Mum," she said, "I've got a problem." "What's wrong, darling?" the mother asked. "Well, I was going to the toilet...and a bullet came out!" The mother reassured the frightened girl, telling her the story of the terrorist attack. Some weeks later, the second girl came to her mother, again in tears, saying, "Mum...I have a problem." "Honey, what's wrong?" asked the mother. As before, the girl replied, "I was going to the toilet...and a bullet fell out!" Again, the mother told her daughter the story about the terrorist attack and told her not to worry. A week after that, the son came up to the mother, looking very uncomfortable. "Ah, Mum," he said, "I kind of have a problem." "Oh no, don't tell me," she said, "you were going to the toilet and a bullet came out?"
"No..I was jacking off, and I shot the cat."
Showing posts with label vineyard. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vineyard. Show all posts
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Today At Work I
...went to the bathroom three times. Must remember to only have coffee at smoko, not lunch, otherwise is embarrassing when go to the bathroom more than anyone else. Coffee is instant and horrible, so this shouldn't be hard.
...discovered through an unintentional process of trial and error that one of the worst songs to have stuck in your head, ever, is that one that goes "So there I was, diggin' this 'ole, 'ole in the ground, quite deep and sorta round" and that's really about all I know. It's such a jaunty tempo, though, and such a catchy tune that it just goes round and round and round. Like the 'ole. After that I promptly thought "Well, at least it's not Crazy Frog." And then I spent about 20 minutes wanting to DIE.
...had an idea for a makeover reality TV show where teams of experts pick up crack whores and try and pass them off as society types. They are, of course, in competition for a million dollars (although I haven't figured out how to get 'stranded on a desert island' into it yet.) It shall be Pygmalion for this generation! I will call it "Pimp My Ho'." You have no idea how long that amused me for between lunch and afternoon smoko today. Is that name ironic? postmodern? stupid? genius? I DON'T KNOW ANYMORE.
...found an earwig. Hooray!
And now I am home again...was about to sit in front of the fire with a book but Dad has just txt and said "Me and Barb (the ladyfriend) home for dinner in half hour. Can you do prep please." So now I am going to go and cook pastas and chop sprouts and defrost chicken. Bugger, bugger, bugger. I don't even LIKE sprouts. I think they are an ABOMINATION of the VEGETABLE WORLD.
...discovered through an unintentional process of trial and error that one of the worst songs to have stuck in your head, ever, is that one that goes "So there I was, diggin' this 'ole, 'ole in the ground, quite deep and sorta round" and that's really about all I know. It's such a jaunty tempo, though, and such a catchy tune that it just goes round and round and round. Like the 'ole. After that I promptly thought "Well, at least it's not Crazy Frog." And then I spent about 20 minutes wanting to DIE.
...had an idea for a makeover reality TV show where teams of experts pick up crack whores and try and pass them off as society types. They are, of course, in competition for a million dollars (although I haven't figured out how to get 'stranded on a desert island' into it yet.) It shall be Pygmalion for this generation! I will call it "Pimp My Ho'." You have no idea how long that amused me for between lunch and afternoon smoko today. Is that name ironic? postmodern? stupid? genius? I DON'T KNOW ANYMORE.
...found an earwig. Hooray!
And now I am home again...was about to sit in front of the fire with a book but Dad has just txt and said "Me and Barb (the ladyfriend) home for dinner in half hour. Can you do prep please." So now I am going to go and cook pastas and chop sprouts and defrost chicken. Bugger, bugger, bugger. I don't even LIKE sprouts. I think they are an ABOMINATION of the VEGETABLE WORLD.
Monday, August 13, 2007
I've been working in the vineyard
All the live long day! Today, I was on the bottling line. Like global warming and bird flu, it's not as interesting as it sounds. The bottles (empty, unlabelled, grubby) get put on a sterilising thing with many nozzles (reminds me of a sort of reverse milking machine, without the cow) by Doug. Today Doug told me that working on the bottling line reminds him or what working on a submarine would be like, had he ever worked on one. What he was trying to convey, besides the fact that he needs to get out more, was that, like a submarine, the bottling line is a small space full of temperamental people and equally temperamental machinery. Also on both a submarine and a bottling line, your fuckup under pressure becomes everyone else's fuckup under pressure. Pressure, pressure, pressure! I miss my cutting up sticks. Then you could go slowly, and go to the bathroom when you needed to (can't leave the bottling line as machinery will do something.)
What, I hear you ask, what exactly do you DO on the bottling line? I was getting to that. When the bottles come out of the milking sterilising machine where they have been put by Doug who is not a submariner, they get passed along a conveyor belt to Lois, who puts them on a machine that picks them up and fills them with wine. Mostly. Sometimes it drops them and sometimes it fills the air next to them with wine. At the moment, the wine we're bottling is ice wine, which is made out of frozen grapes or something equally silly and gets put into dinky little dessert wine bottles. Which are too small to make the journey down the Great Conveyor Belt (between Doug and Lois) on their own. They fall over. Backwards. Unless someone is there pushing them along and making sure that they do not fall backwards.
Guess what I've been doing all day?
While I was standing there in the cold, guiding the bottles gently with my hand and pleading with them not to fall backwards, the scar on the back of my hand started itching, and I knew instantly that the Dark Lord was active again...no. I knew it was going to rain (it did, later.) And that started me thinking about old men and their gammy yet meteorologically accurate knees, and I formulated a theory only slightly less ridiculous than Friday's theory about God. You see, way back when, in primitive village society, the gammy old man would sit outside his hut and say "Eee, it's going to RAIN." And then it did. (He could tell because his knee was acting up.) And the rest of the village looked at one another in amazement and said, "How did he KNOW? He must have a direct line to the Weather Gods." And so naturally the old man with the gammy knee became the village wise man, shaman or whatever. And so began the worshipping of the wise man in villages worldwide, and so also began the ancient art of meteorology. Which is why everyone sits, hypnotised, in front of their telly, avidly hanging on every word Toni the TV3 weather lady says. Obviously, she is all-knowing.
Dad has cleaned his desk. He did not clean up anything belonging to me because, as he said, it was all strewn about but maybe it was in order, as one man's order is another man's strew.
Also, I was thinking of starting a company called An Itch in the Damp. I do not know what it would sell or what service it would privde, but the point is that I could start a whole, similarly named range, after A Stab in the Dark. A Poke in the Nose. A Bandaid in the Rubbish Bin. A Pee in the Shower. I was thinking this, in case anyone was wondering, because I had one today. The Itch in the Damp. I believe I have mentioned it already. I also had a Poke in the Nose and a Bandaid in the Rubbish Tin, but I did not have a Pee in the Shower. I did have one, but it was somewhere else. I am rambling, so before my brains fall out my nose I am going to go and drink my coffee upstairs. And watch the weather.
What, I hear you ask, what exactly do you DO on the bottling line? I was getting to that. When the bottles come out of the milking sterilising machine where they have been put by Doug who is not a submariner, they get passed along a conveyor belt to Lois, who puts them on a machine that picks them up and fills them with wine. Mostly. Sometimes it drops them and sometimes it fills the air next to them with wine. At the moment, the wine we're bottling is ice wine, which is made out of frozen grapes or something equally silly and gets put into dinky little dessert wine bottles. Which are too small to make the journey down the Great Conveyor Belt (between Doug and Lois) on their own. They fall over. Backwards. Unless someone is there pushing them along and making sure that they do not fall backwards.
Guess what I've been doing all day?
While I was standing there in the cold, guiding the bottles gently with my hand and pleading with them not to fall backwards, the scar on the back of my hand started itching, and I knew instantly that the Dark Lord was active again...no. I knew it was going to rain (it did, later.) And that started me thinking about old men and their gammy yet meteorologically accurate knees, and I formulated a theory only slightly less ridiculous than Friday's theory about God. You see, way back when, in primitive village society, the gammy old man would sit outside his hut and say "Eee, it's going to RAIN." And then it did. (He could tell because his knee was acting up.) And the rest of the village looked at one another in amazement and said, "How did he KNOW? He must have a direct line to the Weather Gods." And so naturally the old man with the gammy knee became the village wise man, shaman or whatever. And so began the worshipping of the wise man in villages worldwide, and so also began the ancient art of meteorology. Which is why everyone sits, hypnotised, in front of their telly, avidly hanging on every word Toni the TV3 weather lady says. Obviously, she is all-knowing.
Dad has cleaned his desk. He did not clean up anything belonging to me because, as he said, it was all strewn about but maybe it was in order, as one man's order is another man's strew.
Also, I was thinking of starting a company called An Itch in the Damp. I do not know what it would sell or what service it would privde, but the point is that I could start a whole, similarly named range, after A Stab in the Dark. A Poke in the Nose. A Bandaid in the Rubbish Bin. A Pee in the Shower. I was thinking this, in case anyone was wondering, because I had one today. The Itch in the Damp. I believe I have mentioned it already. I also had a Poke in the Nose and a Bandaid in the Rubbish Tin, but I did not have a Pee in the Shower. I did have one, but it was somewhere else. I am rambling, so before my brains fall out my nose I am going to go and drink my coffee upstairs. And watch the weather.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Toes Go In First
or, Thank God It's Friday. Look at me with my plebeian dayjob mind! I am sick of cutting up sticks now. Sure, it's fine for the first five hours, but the last three are sheer hell.
In other news, the novel editing is going well. By this I mean the editing of my Seminal Work, not the brand new editing or whatever that would've implied if it didn't imply the editing of my Seminal Work. My brain has atrophied. I have a headache and every time I close my eyes I see your face...no, I see vines. Got carried away there but I see vines, tangled vines, and sometimes my secateurs. snip snip snip swear internally. although today one of the guys lost his temper, shouted 'motherFUCKER' and kicked the vines, then his bucket. Was going to work a 'kicked the bucket' pun in there, but decided against it as I am WISE.
Also I Beboed. Every time I go on Bebo I die a little inside. To Bebo or not to Bebo? That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler to suffer the awful grammar and chatspeak of the detritus of humanity, or to fight against the sea of people who are adding you to their Bebo thing and sending you mindless messages, and by opposing piss them off?
and now I'm BORED but I can't be bothered doing any work, and it's still TWO HOURS until Footballers' Wives comes on. Gosh life is HARD.
I was thinking today about how if God did, in fact, make Man in his own image it was kind of a narcissistic thing to do- even if they were talking metaphorically. If not, surely I have a point? I mean, you make all these animals in all these weird shapes and sizes, cats and rats and elephants and so on, and then you stop and look at them and go "Shit yeah." And then you get up the next day, and you think 'Today I am going to make a creature that will DOMINATE all of this other stuff I've made. And this thing right up at the top of the food chain is going to look like ME. And there will be MILLIONS of them, and they are All Going To Look Like Me.'
It's more or less the divine equivalent of standing in front of the mirror going, "Hey! Everybody! Come and see how good I look!" I mean, I'd totally do it that way, were I God, but God isn't supposed to do the sort of things I'd do were I Him.
On that note, my father (actual, not celestial) wants to use the computer. This is fair as it is in fact his computer. I am going to put my electric blanket and my pyjamas on, then go upstairs and watch bad TV in front of the fire. It is going to be AWESOME.
In other news, the novel editing is going well. By this I mean the editing of my Seminal Work, not the brand new editing or whatever that would've implied if it didn't imply the editing of my Seminal Work. My brain has atrophied. I have a headache and every time I close my eyes I see your face...no, I see vines. Got carried away there but I see vines, tangled vines, and sometimes my secateurs. snip snip snip swear internally. although today one of the guys lost his temper, shouted 'motherFUCKER' and kicked the vines, then his bucket. Was going to work a 'kicked the bucket' pun in there, but decided against it as I am WISE.
Also I Beboed. Every time I go on Bebo I die a little inside. To Bebo or not to Bebo? That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler to suffer the awful grammar and chatspeak of the detritus of humanity, or to fight against the sea of people who are adding you to their Bebo thing and sending you mindless messages, and by opposing piss them off?
and now I'm BORED but I can't be bothered doing any work, and it's still TWO HOURS until Footballers' Wives comes on. Gosh life is HARD.
I was thinking today about how if God did, in fact, make Man in his own image it was kind of a narcissistic thing to do- even if they were talking metaphorically. If not, surely I have a point? I mean, you make all these animals in all these weird shapes and sizes, cats and rats and elephants and so on, and then you stop and look at them and go "Shit yeah." And then you get up the next day, and you think 'Today I am going to make a creature that will DOMINATE all of this other stuff I've made. And this thing right up at the top of the food chain is going to look like ME. And there will be MILLIONS of them, and they are All Going To Look Like Me.'
It's more or less the divine equivalent of standing in front of the mirror going, "Hey! Everybody! Come and see how good I look!" I mean, I'd totally do it that way, were I God, but God isn't supposed to do the sort of things I'd do were I Him.
On that note, my father (actual, not celestial) wants to use the computer. This is fair as it is in fact his computer. I am going to put my electric blanket and my pyjamas on, then go upstairs and watch bad TV in front of the fire. It is going to be AWESOME.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Destiny! Force of.
It's a piece of music by Verdi. La Forza del Destino! I am not gambling with the occult or anything along those lines...I realise this was unclear in my last post. I am, in fact, sitting in my father's house tootling away the theme to the Stella ad. I brought no other music with me because I am an idiot.
Work today was the same as work yesterday, except it was warmer. Just got excited about dinner (sausages, egg, chips, bacon...it's not just for breakfast anymore!) and clapped my little paws together, forgetting that my right paw is HIDEOUSLY BRUISED from two days of hardcore secateuring. I said "Ffffffff." and then stopped. Probably could've finished the word, in hindsight, as yesterday when Dad and I were watching tv upstairs the phone rang downstairs, and he roared "FUCK" and almost fell down the stairs trying to get it. Then he remembered that I was there.
Also, his girlfriend came round last night (she is 61 and a very nice lady if a little ditzy from time to time) and she said at one point, "oh I think I'll take off my slippers." "Well," said my father, "that's a start, at least" and then he chuckled roguishly and she hit him on the arm. I laughed and they both looked at me and went "Whoops!"
No other news. Except I bought biscuits and am now going to EAT ONE.
(Have played force of destiny again; ryan still cranky.)
LATER UPDATE: Have eaten whole packet of biscuits.
Work today was the same as work yesterday, except it was warmer. Just got excited about dinner (sausages, egg, chips, bacon...it's not just for breakfast anymore!) and clapped my little paws together, forgetting that my right paw is HIDEOUSLY BRUISED from two days of hardcore secateuring. I said "Ffffffff." and then stopped. Probably could've finished the word, in hindsight, as yesterday when Dad and I were watching tv upstairs the phone rang downstairs, and he roared "FUCK" and almost fell down the stairs trying to get it. Then he remembered that I was there.
Also, his girlfriend came round last night (she is 61 and a very nice lady if a little ditzy from time to time) and she said at one point, "oh I think I'll take off my slippers." "Well," said my father, "that's a start, at least" and then he chuckled roguishly and she hit him on the arm. I laughed and they both looked at me and went "Whoops!"
No other news. Except I bought biscuits and am now going to EAT ONE.
(Have played force of destiny again; ryan still cranky.)
LATER UPDATE: Have eaten whole packet of biscuits.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Grape Work
It actually wasn't that bad. I mean, it is 8 hours of sitting on a bucket cutting vines up into appropriately sized pieces, (with two smoko breaks- morning and afternoon- and a lunch break- at lunchtime), but the nice thing is that just when you start getting bored you cut yourself with the secateurs! Which makes everything all exciting again.
The woman who sits next to me has been working in the vineyard for 28 years (!!!) and is called Lois. Every time I talk to her I feel like I'm making a Family Guy reference. It is a struggle not to ask things like "Lois, where are the secateurs?" in a Stewie-esque voice. I quite like Lois. Several times today I cut a particularly perfect piece of rootstock (ideal length, neat little buds (sounds like a bad porno, doesn't it? sorry)), and I thought to myself "Ooh! This is exciting!" So I said to Lois, "Ooh, Lois, look at this one!" And Lois agreed that it was indeed as close as one could realistically expect to get to rootstock trimming perfection.
Then Suzanne sat down. "Are you bored," she asked, "we used to play Who Am I." "Yes," I replied, "it's a good game for the grapes." "Wait 'til you get to the grafting shed," she replied, "sometimes in there we play I'm Thinking of a Famous Building!"
Then the weather got cold. "Gosh, it's getting nasty," said Steve. Ten minutes later the wind set in. "Ooh," said Lois, "that's a south-wester." "A bit of a chill on it," countered Steve. Five minutes later it started to spit. "Well," said Steve in a resigned tone, "it's really packed it in now."
Tomorrow I am going back to do another 8 hours! The nice thing is, though, that after 8 hours of feeling your brain slowly atrophy you have to go home and do productive, creative things...just to remind yourself that you are a grown-up with enormous life potential, and that it is only the circumstances that you find yourself in that mean you get excited over bits of greenery in your vine. (Did I mention that I got a bit of greenery in my vine? It was the highlight of the day. I am not kidding. I showed everyone. The closest anyone had to it was when Jeb, the American, sat down too fast and fell off his bucket. This, while also amusing, wasn't the same as my bit of greenery.)
Nothing exciting has happened today. I played the Force of Destiny again; Ryan is cranky; Riadan is unresponsive; I have no money; I am tired. Same as yesterday.
The woman who sits next to me has been working in the vineyard for 28 years (!!!) and is called Lois. Every time I talk to her I feel like I'm making a Family Guy reference. It is a struggle not to ask things like "Lois, where are the secateurs?" in a Stewie-esque voice. I quite like Lois. Several times today I cut a particularly perfect piece of rootstock (ideal length, neat little buds (sounds like a bad porno, doesn't it? sorry)), and I thought to myself "Ooh! This is exciting!" So I said to Lois, "Ooh, Lois, look at this one!" And Lois agreed that it was indeed as close as one could realistically expect to get to rootstock trimming perfection.
Then Suzanne sat down. "Are you bored," she asked, "we used to play Who Am I." "Yes," I replied, "it's a good game for the grapes." "Wait 'til you get to the grafting shed," she replied, "sometimes in there we play I'm Thinking of a Famous Building!"
Then the weather got cold. "Gosh, it's getting nasty," said Steve. Ten minutes later the wind set in. "Ooh," said Lois, "that's a south-wester." "A bit of a chill on it," countered Steve. Five minutes later it started to spit. "Well," said Steve in a resigned tone, "it's really packed it in now."
Tomorrow I am going back to do another 8 hours! The nice thing is, though, that after 8 hours of feeling your brain slowly atrophy you have to go home and do productive, creative things...just to remind yourself that you are a grown-up with enormous life potential, and that it is only the circumstances that you find yourself in that mean you get excited over bits of greenery in your vine. (Did I mention that I got a bit of greenery in my vine? It was the highlight of the day. I am not kidding. I showed everyone. The closest anyone had to it was when Jeb, the American, sat down too fast and fell off his bucket. This, while also amusing, wasn't the same as my bit of greenery.)
Nothing exciting has happened today. I played the Force of Destiny again; Ryan is cranky; Riadan is unresponsive; I have no money; I am tired. Same as yesterday.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Trumpet Superstar
I am not one, but I wish I was. Although not in a hugoesque way. Have been playing The Force of Destiny repeatedly (wish I'd not been an idiot and brought some more music. in a grammatically structured way.)
Why are harrowgate toffees called that?
Today I got a job. Working in a vineyard. Cutting root stock. Expect post about how bored I was and hore sore my hand is and how I kept cutting my fingers. But, you know, it's money and money allows me to a) have something to fall back on when I return to Wellington, rather than have to survive on bread and constantly panic about money, and b) go to Wellington this weekend on an overnight trip for a variety of reasons ranging from the mundane (pick up music, hairwax) and the bizarre (take underage percussionist from Napier out drinking). I am SICK of vineyard work and I haven't even started yet.
It starts at eight in the morning. This is a ridiculous hour to be doing anything except sleeping. I might start getting up early and writing before work, otherwise my star chart will remain unstarred FOREVER (this is not the ideal outcome.)
Speaking of which, I should go and do some writing now, allowing me to watch Kung Fu Hustle when it comes on at half eight.
Is this what a harrowgate tastes like?
Why are harrowgate toffees called that?
Today I got a job. Working in a vineyard. Cutting root stock. Expect post about how bored I was and hore sore my hand is and how I kept cutting my fingers. But, you know, it's money and money allows me to a) have something to fall back on when I return to Wellington, rather than have to survive on bread and constantly panic about money, and b) go to Wellington this weekend on an overnight trip for a variety of reasons ranging from the mundane (pick up music, hairwax) and the bizarre (take underage percussionist from Napier out drinking). I am SICK of vineyard work and I haven't even started yet.
It starts at eight in the morning. This is a ridiculous hour to be doing anything except sleeping. I might start getting up early and writing before work, otherwise my star chart will remain unstarred FOREVER (this is not the ideal outcome.)
Speaking of which, I should go and do some writing now, allowing me to watch Kung Fu Hustle when it comes on at half eight.
Is this what a harrowgate tastes like?
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