iPee

I love my cycle in to the office, head phones pumping, my iPhone Kumquat tuning my favourite mango-grooves. Once at work, I generally take headphones out, but forget Kumquat in my back pocket, until I have a reason to use it. Sometimes she stays there all day, until I need to plug in again for my cycle home.

So imagine my shock and horror today, when after making a wee li'l wee, I pulled up my jean-pant and heard a very heavy, very solid, SPLOSH. I whipped around, trying to figure out what the hell could've made that noise. 

What was that solid, dark object in the..? 

O sacred mother of all things porcelain, say it isn't...

It was. A string of swear words escaped my lips that would've turned the water foul, even if it hadn't just come out of a used toilet bowl. My lovely blue-covered Kumquat had become a forlorn, water-logged iTurd*. 

With immense displeasure, I reclaimed my iPhone, followed by frantic researching to figure out the best means of emergency rescue. It was interesting to note that a frenzied Google search for "iPhone water submersion" turned up "How to save your iPhone or iPod from a fall into a toilet [tutorial]" as the second result. I may not be the only one, but it doesn't make me any less of an iDiot.

And so it came to be that Kumquat found her way into a bag full of dry rice, in a desperate attempt to draw excess toilet water from her nooks and crannies. Shortly after, GBM came flying in on his bike (I like to think he wore a blue and red flashing light on this head, and shouted "wee-waaah, weee-waaah" as he sprinted in), tiny screwdrivers in hand, to perform exploratory surgery on my poor Kumquat's internal organs. 

The prognosis is not good. Even if the water hadn't voided the warranty, the damage is not going to be covered by insurance seeing as we've now ripped off explicit "DO NOT REMOVE" tags in her gut and unscrewed every fitting. She has been violated in every way possible. 

I'm praying to the iGods, but don't hold out much hope.

* iTurd : actual hashtag tweeted by fellow toilet-dropping iTwits.


  

Back from hiatus

I went away with the in-laws last week. Beautiful holiday, with lovely company. Including GBM's two nieces, 2-year-old and a 3-month-old. I love them dearly, they are both sweet, good-natured and will soon be independent happy little girls. Just in case anyone is wondering, spending a week with them did not grow me a maternal bone. Rather, it had the opposite effect. 

But it did give me a renewed appreciation for just how hard it is to be a parent. 

I can barely get myself out of the house in under an hour. In fact, it's usually closer to two hours, from wake up to closing the front door. There's feeding and burping and at least two potty-breaks. Then there's the usual fight to put on clothes, with the obligatory 10 to 20 minutes of running around in underwear and having a temper tantrum about hair. And that's just me on a normal week day morning. It's three times worse with two kids. There is no ways I would cope on a daily basis. No, thank you ma'am. 

And all this palava, after nights of most-likely very disrupted sleep, because the little one needs a feed and the other one has been up because of bad dreams, or insecurity or just generally screaming, "noooooooooooooo!" which is apparently the only word in her vocab at 3am. 

Nooooooo... thank you.

Again, it's not because of these two girls specifically. I would drop anything for them. 

Speaking of dropping...

Well, I didn't actually drop her. It was more a topple. Out of her rocking chair. Which thank god, was already on the floor when I tipped her out. And she was strapped into it, so she didn't have far to go. But, the fact remains, that I was the supposed-adult responsible for looking after the 3-month-old. And I knocked her chair on its side, sending the little one sprawling. And that's all it took to give the kid a black eye. 

They call me Aunty Bruiser. 

At least, I think that's what they would call me. If they were talking to me.

Thank god, it was the second child. As it was, I was not left unsupervised for the rest of the week. Which is fair enough. Thank god, both mom and dad have been parents for long enough to know that these things happen. If it had been the first child, or if - god forbid - I had been the very first adult to drop either of their kids, I doubt I would've been let back into the house. 

The poor baby had a slightly swollen cheek below her eye, which was visible for less than a day. But I still felt sick to the stomach every time I saw it. I honestly wanted to cry, and was nauseous with guilt. Is this what it would feel like every time your child gets hurt? Or just when you feel responsible for letting it happen, or worse, are the accidental cause of the injury? Or do you get over it, does it become easier to see a scraped knee or hear your child screaming from fright and pain? 

No thank you, ma'am. I'll not be signing up for that emotional trauma, exhaustion and under-appreciation. 

Gimme a puppy any day. 

My first day at 30

Last night, I was literally blown into my thirties as I cycled home - at least, that's what it felt like the wind was trying to do. But, what'd you know... it wasn't so bad. I've survived my first day as a working thirty-something. 

To celebrate my big day, I put in an extra effort this morning - I decided to let my hair curl (with the wind and rain, there was no point in doing otherwise), I put on snazzy patterned stockings, a snappy purple collared shirt tucked into my grey skirt. A little business, a little fun. I combined it with a trendy neckerchief-scarf and my outfit was complete. I arrived at work, in heels, in style.

I totally ROCKED my first day as a 30 year old. You know what was the best part of my day? 

When I realised that I had my shirt on inside out. 

Fortunately the tucked-in shirt hid the side label and the lucky little neckerchief did a good job of covering the tags at the neckline. And you know, these days, modern fashion dictates that the seams should look tatty and a bit rough cut. People pay a lot of money for that look. Sometimes. 

Yup, same old. I might be wiser and maybe slightly more wrinkled (although GBM assured me this was not the case), but I'm still me. What a relief.

Wind Goddess

I've recently become a bit addicted to yoga. I can't say I buy into the whole philosophy though. My yoga instructor is a full-on vegan/fasting for a week at a time on nothing but liquids/choosing to ignore a bladder infection, and attempting self-healing until she got herself admitted to ER with full-blown kidney infection/kinda yogini. I don't buy into that wholesome lifestyle, no matter how hard she tries to sell it.

But I do love her calming classes, and the quiet meditation at the end - which usually results in the best sleep I have all week. 

I'm not very good at the twisty positions, but counter-intuitive to my completely clumsy nature, I am particularly adept at the balancing and inverted positions. Nothing clears your head like having to concentrate on standing on one foot, while grasping your other foot pulled in front of your hip by the opposite arm, which is in turn wrapped around your back. 

And the inversions... I feel like I was born to be upside down. I particularly love the converted stand or shoulder stand. We always end our classes with it, and it entails lying flat on your back and then heaving your legs up above your head and just holding them there, finding balance without straining your shoulders or back. Then we slowly drop our toes down to touch the floor behind our heads and gently roll our spines out again, bringing knees past our faces and then back down to the floor. 

The only problem with this position (for me anyway) is it kinda opens passages which don't usually get to see that much air time. And as a long-term IBS sufferer, my gut doesn't need much of a push - so to speak - to get the gasses moving. So the one day as we were rolling out, I was unfortunate to let out a not-at-all-discreet "ppphhhwaaaarp". It came as much of a surprise to me as it did to the rest of the class.

The class remained silent in an attempt to stay in the peaceful moment (which I'd already ruined), but I could see the companion closest to me going puce in the face from withholding her response. "Oh for gods' sake," I sighed "just laugh."

And she did. The rest didn't take much encouragement to follow her example. But the instructor was kind to point out, through her giggles, that "these things happen" and that there is even an exercise/pose which is apparently called "The god of the wind". 

Clearly I won't be needing much practice at that one. Can't wait. 

For monkeys, big and small

On Saturday, GBM and I took ourselves around a little forest adventure. I'd seen the course before, but it didn't look like much - more like team-building activities or kids' parties. But, ever the sucker(s) for a good online deal, we thought we'd have a bash when we saw a three-hour session advertised at 40% discount. It's not like we had anything better to do on a Saturday morning anyway. 

So off we went, signed the indemnity form, listened to the standard do's and dont's and got our special helmuts with the tag on it, indicating that we were English. And as much as I'm interested in learning new words in Dutch, I really want to understand the safety intricacies that will entail me securely attaching myself to a platform several metres up in a tree. We took the special helmuts without shame.


A few short minutes later, I had fully earned my 'special' status. GBM had stepped into his safety harness and was securing the buckles, while I was still trying to figure out which legs went where and why it was all so uncomfortable. I couldn't reach any of the buckles, I couldn't get them tight enough, it was just a silly design. Fortunately GBM saved me from public humiliation by quietly pointing out each leg strap was actually labelled "left" and "right" (clear as mud, in English). Not only that, but the lettering was upside down. So I had it on the wrong way round, AND upside down. Superb. 


Once we had that sorted out, we were ready for our private (English-Only) instruction course. They ran us through the safety procedures of ensuring that at least one of your two safety lines were connected at all times, proper placement of carabines on the safety cables and where and when it was safe to follow behind the person in front of you. Standard stuff. We passed the demonstration quickly enough and then (this is what I love about the lackadaisical H&S attitude in the Netherlands)... we were free to run loose in the trees.


There are 8 adventure courses with various degrees of difficulty. We started on course 3... thought we wouldn't get too cocky straight away. It was fun, just a few metres above ground, wonkly platforms and a bit of balance required.


Course 5 followed shortly, which entailed a bit more muscle-control and core balance. But by now, we had the hang of the safety harness technique and could get a bit more playful. I had a particularly good laugh watching GBM trying to negotiate across an uneven level of individually-strung stepping stones. He started on his left foot and as soon as he lifted his right to step forward, his entire body shot to the left, which meant that had to take an eeeeextra big step (as if moon-walking) to reach the next foot hold on the right. Now it was all he could do to stop from doing the splits (well, technically, the harness at his waist was doing the most to stop that - but at the same time, giving him a superb wedgie effect, all the more entertaining to watch from the back). Left foot up... body weight all on right... beeeeg moon-step to reach the next one on the left. 


Watching his progress in slow-motion brought to mind the stomp-precarious-totter style that toddlers often have as they learn to walk by not falling over. Of course, I then had to follow suit, which was not helped by the fact that I now had the giggles. 

Course 6 was the best - lots of nice long ziplines. Which was awesome, once I figured out how to launch myself without twisting my body in the process. Roaring uncontrollably up to a tree, arse-first, is not as much fun as some might like to think. 

The final course required extra instruction and is for "experienced climbers only". GBM and I were high on the success from our previous courses and decided to give it a shot. One of the obstacles was a tarzan-like swing, from one platform to the next. Being no fool myself, I made GBM go first. He secured his safety harness and launched himself forward, swung and landed on the platform. But, before he could get his balance enough to step forward, the weight of his body and the momentum of the rope pulled him backwards. Frantically he grabbed for anything on the tree to hold himself there, and failed. 

I supported his efforts by doubling over with laughter. When I realised that he was now officially stuck, I did try (genuinely) to help him back to the platform I was on, but it was quite a steep incline and I frankly did not have the strength to pull him back up. Assistance was hailed, much to GBM's embarrassment (and my amusement) as he clung to the rope like an uncertain newborn monkey. 

Once he was rescued, we could move on and complete the course, but after almost three hours of core and upper body strength we were absolutely shattered. We took a very slow cycle home and collapsed on the couch for the rest of the day. I cannot recommend it enough - childish fun in the treetops. 

Tennis Pros

GBM and I are trying to play tennis more regularly these days. Unfortunately he's lost his tennis-playing glasses. He has his day-to-day pair, which are super-stylish, but they fall off very easily. Not so handy when trying to serve. He used to have prescription contacts, but he hasn't bothered to renew those and would need a new appointment. So we have been hunting the house upside and down to find the missing pair that actually stay on his nose during sporting activity.

GBM is adamant that I have hidden them to ensure ongoing amusement on the court. I'm not admitting any form of guilt, but I can understand why he might think this.

You see, he's short-sighted. So when he plays tennis without his glasses, he spends a lot of time guessing where the ball is going to land and then playing based on that judgement and last-ditch reflexes. More often than not, he gets it right and he can play a decent game. But when he gets it wrong, it's hysterical. Well, for me anyway. Literally, incapacitating. I can't play for tears of laughter.

Take today for example. He was playing at net, opposite me. My partner lobbed him - GBM knew the ball was going over his head, he'd estimated the distance of where it would land on the court, but he couldn't tell exactly on which side of his racket. He scrambled and, at the last second, realised that the ball was on his left rather than where he was expecting it on his right... plus he had over shot it. This meant he had to do almost a full-360, like a dog chasing its tail, and played a forehand from under his left elbow. I'll be damned if he didn't actually get the flipping shot over the net and back to me. And it was a winner too, because I had already collapsed with giggles.

The last time we played, he similarly misjudged a trajectory - expecting a serve to land on his forehand, when it snuck casually past him behind his back. He still gave a good hearty swing on his forehand. God loves a tryer. Apparently.

I'm not saying I don't misjudge shots too. Cos I do. Lots. But I'm not nearly as entertaining. I'll fresh air a shot because it came too fast, or too wide. But at least I know what side it's coming on before it gets within a metre of my body.

What I wasn't expecting the one that hit me directly on my lumbar spine when GBM and I were on the same side. Square on the back, full speed, first serve. Was not expecting that, at all. It didn't stop me laughing at him when he did another hop-skip-swing-and-a-miss later. So I can understand why he would think that I've hidden his glasses... the entertainment value alone would be worth it.

Poor Priscilla

Oh poor Priscilla. After my glowing account of our adventures together, I climbed on my beloved bike and immediately noticed a steering problem. Just a small one... the front frame had completely snapped down one side of the wheel. I'm not sure how it happened and I noticed it fast enough to be sure that I certainly hadn't cycled on her like that earlier the same day. 

My initial thought was "someone has sabotaged my bike!" because apparently I live in a world of espionage and subterfuge, where unseen enemies want me dead. Suspicions immediately jumped to volatile Mentopausal, as she has been particularly nice to me recently... obviously lulling me into a false sense of security. But then I took the paranoia down a notch and realised that the Prissy's frame had quite simply snapped like an osteoporosis-weakened scapula. One too many rough jolts, of which she's had a few. Poor thing. 

There was only one thing to do. I climbed back on and cycled her home, feeling completely guilty, like I was forcing a lame donkey to limp home with me on its back, despite suffering from a broken bone. Her tendons, I mean, cables are still fully connected, so the brakes still work just fine, but the the steering is completely shot. It was a bit like trying to direct two separate wheels home, one under my bum, one under my hands. Health and safety conclusion? Stupid. 

We have three bikes between GBM and myself. Well, technically four, but it's the landlady's and we don't have the key to the fourth, it just gets in the way in our basement storage. So I figured, I'd just use one of the other two and we'll sort out poor Priscilla's health situation on the weekend. 

Then, this morning... making breakfast, I managed to throw a full container of blackberries across the kitchen and dining table. The lid came off as I was removing them from the fridge, and instead of just letting it happen (this is sometimes a better option in my experience), I tried to catch them from underneath... which resulted in me changing their trajectory and hitting them back up in the air. Instead of leaving them all to fall on the kitchen counter, possibly onto the floor by my feet, I effectively splayed them in 270 degrees, across multiple dimensions. Some went down, some went up and forwards, others went left and right. It also turns out a few went behind me, which I learnt as I stepped back to assess the situation. It's amazing how many things look like a blackberry when you're at eye level with the floor. Dead flies, previous cooking remains (I think), possible rodent droppings...

Anywho, so once that was cleaned up, I went downstairs to assess the bike situation. GBM had removed himself from the vegetative carnage I had created in the kitchen and pottered off to gym, unfortunately taking both sets of keys to the remaining two spare bikes. I was left with two options a) tram b) cycle on my two-wheeled unicycle. 

I chose option B, but not before creating some semblance of a splint for poor Priscilla's shoulder blade. Insulation tape is a girl's best DIY friend. I hope it holds for the cycle home. And I hope it doesn't rain. 

Another baking blog

On Sunday, with the low cloud setting in for the week, Mills and I decided to stay in and bake cupcakes. It's not something we do often, but having recently moved into a flat which hosts both a microwave AND an oven (oh the indulgence) we decided to make use of the facilities.

We had all the essentials as we had previously attempted cupcakes in the microwave in our old flat, and not with bad results either. It can be done - they're not the airiest of cupcakes, but they do the job. Anyway, so I did a brief perusal of the recipe books, found one that looked like it required minimal effort and we got to work.

First things first, deciding which bloody attachment to use on the hand beater. I usually go with the egg whisk looking-thingies first. But that didn't seem to be doing anything for softening the marg, so I switched them out for the swirley-looking attachments. That didn't do much either, but it did a splendid job of gathering all the marg in one lump around the swirly attachments. Back to the egg whisk thingies... and then I decided I was bored of that process, so we started adding the sugar and egg anyway. Then the flour. Now we're getting somewhere... once the cloud of floating powder had cleared enough to see the bowl, we realised our mixture was starting to look like dough.

Mills was in charge of the measurements of all ingredients. This is because I treat recipes and measurements as a hazy guideline, at best. For the most part, I use recipes as a bit of prereading inspiration and then I do what the hell I want - so I don't know if it even falls under "following the recipe". I substitute when I don't have a particular item (and am too lazy to go to the shops) and I use guesswork for amounts - which usually works out okay in cooking, but baking does not allow for the same flippant disregard. So Mills, being anal to the point of micrometres, is in charge of measurements when it comes to baking.

Right... Milk. I'm in charge of mixing (I always like to stir, no matter what the substance) and Mills is pouring...

And pouring...

And pouring.

And our mixture was rapidly becoming less like dough and more like porridge.

"This seems like a lot of milk," I shouted over the noise of the whirring hand beater. "Ja, it does..." he agreed as he tipped the last of a full cup measure into the bowl, adding "...and we've still got another two of these cups to go!"

I decided this needed some fact-checking. "How much does the recipe actually call for?"

"Seventy five mills," he casually replied, measuring out another 250ml.

I screeched to a halt. "SEVENTY FIVE? Or seven hundred and fifty?"

His eyes widened as his brain clicked from automatic to "oh shit".

I looked at our bowl of dough-flavoured porridge and decided a time out was required. After a regroup of our senses, we chucked it all out and decided to start again. This time, using just leeetle bit of milk.

We both commented on the fact that the mixture seemed very solid for cupcakes, but we were sure of the measurements this time so plodded on anyway. We portioned the blobs into the baking tray, put them in the oven... as recommended, for the time recommended. And then we waited - patiently. No opening of oven doors or any amateur mistakes like that.

When it came to taking them out, we noticed that the tops were definitely more crusted than we anticipated, but we plowed on with making our butter icing. Mmmm... icing sugar... good.

Finally it was time to ice our much anticipated cupcakes. A few sprinkles on top and... voila! C'est magnifique!
It was only on taking the first mouthful that I realised our "fairy cakes" were in fact a recipe for scones. And scones, it turns out, go much better with whipped cream than with butter icing.

Just something to keep in mind in future... scones are not the same as cupcakes.
Note to self.

I actually wrote this yesterday but didn't have time to post it:

So, I've been AWOL. Again.

I'm not really sorry about that, because this time I've had a real excuse, well several excuses. You see, we've been hopping up and down the continents again - flitting to South Africa and back. Yes, the second time in three months. And guess what - we're going back again in June. Sometimes you do stupid things.

Another stupid thing is that we're moving house in amongst the chaos. We are relocating most of our worldly possessions this Saturday. Well, we're supposed to be anyway. But we've yet to pack, or book a van, or get keys to the new flat*. Hopefully this will all be remedied within the next few hours or so, but still. Stupid timing. Especially as we've just gotten back from SA (again - did I already mention that?).

And although we made it through North Africa without anything too frightful happening, I am adamant that I got a bout of food poisoning during the last flight. Serves me right for eating in-flight chicken, I guess. I've never been a queasy flier, but for the first time in my life I can fully appreciate the precarious mental state of nervous passengers. The flight from Cairo to Amsterdam was interminably long... and it seemed like every bump of turbulence was actively forcing bile further and further up my throat. Fortunately nothing happened on the plane (I'm pretty sure other passengers cannot say the same), but we had the foresight to remove some of those all-too-incriminating air sickness bags for the rest of our journey home. Because I needed it on the train.

Oh, that poor train conductor. She looked about 22. Possibly her first week on the job. She asked for my ticket and I responded by informing her that I was going to be sick. NOW. I grabbed the air sickness bag and vommed in the general direction of her shoes. She did not stick around. I didn't blame her. And that set the general gastro-trend for the next few hours as my internal organs marched to the beat of "heave, retch, hiccup, burp".

Through it all, I have to say, Mills was my hero. He shepherded me home after the flight, with much patience, as I had a quiet word with several dustbins, corner walls and garden beds along the way. He carried both my luggage and his, without complaint. He cleaned me up when all I wanted to do was sleep (while I had missed the conductor's shoes, I had not missed my hair). He patiently tipped water down my throat, by the tablespoon, in an attempt to stop me from dehydrating too much. What a winner.

48 hours later and I am no longer walking like a geriatric impersonation of my dearly departed Nana. I can stand up straight. Cramps no longer dominate my breathing pattern. So now I can finally get round to packing up the house for the move. Which has to happen this weekend because next weekend we're going to Paris to watch the French Open. Again. (For those who are wondering how we can afford all this... here's the secret... we haven't spent any money on a house, a wedding or children. Investment-shmestment. Roll that up and save it in your pocket for a thoughtful smoke later.)

Shortly after Paris, I'm jetting off to Monte Carlo for work. Then Mills is in Boston and New York. Then we're back in CT for the World Cup. "Oh-so-glam, dahling..."

Oh yes, and we just have to move and do all the relocation paperwork in between. We may be living like the rich and unfamous, but unfortunately we don't have the people to do the legwork. Which makes our lives all the more interesting. It's going to be hectic in the next few days and weeks. So I can't promise regular blogging. In fact, I can promise that there will NOT be regular blogging. But this is me checking in to say that I am still alive and kicking. Despite Egypt Air's best efforts.

And just to prove that some things will never change, this is what I did first thing on arrival back at my desk:


Ah, it's good to be back in the daily routine.

*I'm happy to report that we have since gotten keys to the new flat and booked a removal van. We still need to pack though.

Just an average day at my desk

Slow afternoon. Oooh, I have yoghurt still to be eaten!
Yay, that'll get me through the rest of the day.

Go to kitchen, collect spoon. Come back to desk. Sit down. Look at spoon, ponder what that's about. Oh yes, yoghurt... Yay!

Go back to kitchen, collect yoghurt, which will complement the already-collected spoon nicely.

Open yoghurt. Mmmmm... mmmmman-gooooo. I like.

Lick spoon, stare at computer screen, put spoon down into little single serving yoghurt. Start typing.. it's what I do.

Aw, shit.

Massive spoon has tipped out of teeny-weeny container, splaying massive spoonful of yoghurt in trajectory. Mess. Grab handy wet wipes for this very purpose (never one to be called a slow learner).

Clean up operation complete. Or so I thought...

See, this is where it gets a little blurry. Some how, in the midst of all of this, I must've absent-mindedly scratched my ear. Because I now have yoghurt in my hair, and in my ear. Which appears to have been a lot easier to do than it has been to undo.

I've heard yoghurt is good for the skin.

I have a very healthy right ear now.

TGIF

Delayed trains, missed connections, get to work to discover mini-yoghurt has exploded in handbag. Stomp feet, have a brat attack, begin clean up. Lip balm and wallet are not going to pick themselves out of that goo. Clean and dry bag, try to rescue borrowed book from yoghurt stain. Nasty purple colourant not helping.

Coffee. Now. Three attempts to make one cup. Forget to put a coffee pad in the machine, berate self, chuck out hot murky water/milk mix. Start again, remember coffee pad but tip over mug as removing from machine. Deep breath, control urge to headbutt machine - or anything nearby. No more milk. Mop up mess. Start again. Resort to creamer. Carry successful mug back to desk with the double-handed coordination of a three year old.

That's my day so far. Now, let's flashback to yesterday when my shoe attached itself to my pedal.

I was wearing my comfy soviets (yes mother, the same ones stolen directly from your cupboard). What I didn't realise was that left shoelace was coming undone. What I also didn't realise was that the slightly undone shoelace had hooked in my left pedal and with each rotation was slowly winding itself around the pedal. As I cycled, the lace came more and more undone... and more and more wound around the pedal.

I had inadvertently created a shoestring spindle and an effective one at that. I didn't know my foot was merrily engaged in this process, until it came to me stopping at a traffic light which - unless you are part of a traveling circus - usually entails dismounting from the bike. As a habit, I generally put my left foot down first. This did not end well, considering that my left foot was by this stage tightly strapped to the pedal. If you've ever tried to dismount from a racing bike without first clicking your feet out of the casing, you'll probably understand my panicked confusion as my bike started to topple with me on it.

Fortunately I am a quick-thinker (on a good day) so I was able to correct this fast enough and successfully averted a full body/ground collision. But... being attached to a bike and hopping on one foot is a dance that is not often seen unless you are part of, or visiting, the previously mentioned circus. I was finally able to remove foot from shoe, and hence myself from my bike, but not before drawing a few stares. You'd swear they'd never seen a bike wearing a shoe before. Weird.

Bits and bytes

When I was finishing my studies, I did a brief stint with that stalwart show of my childhood... 50/50. As producer/researcher of a small segment, I was required to conduct an interview at one stage in a horse paddock. I don't like horses. Horses don't like me. Well, it's not that they don't like me - I don't think they actually care enough to like or dislike. There is only one mammal in control of any relationship I have with horses; and it is invariably not me. Horses are evil. Have you looked into the eye of a horse? I mean, really, looked into the eye of a horse? Pitch black and pure evil. I swear.

Anyway, so horses and I get along just fine when there's a fence or at least several hundred metres between us. On that day - despite my best attempts ("maybe you and the camera can be in the paddock, and I'll just shout the questions to you..?") - I found myself in a paddock surrounded by camera equipment, a horse breeder and several frolicking horses. The breeder, never mind the actual horses, could smell my anxiety but he assured me that the horses would pay no attention to me because he and his assistant had loaded their pockets with sugar cubes.

Okay then. Roll camera. I relaxed as I watched the horses butting and harrassing my interview subject, clearly loving the extra sugar and attention they were getting. So I failed to notice when a young filly left the group, sauntered up behind us and for some god forsaken reason... bit.. my.. ass. And I'm not talking 'Eyore' kind of ass, I'm talking right buttock cheek... ass.

Jaaaa-sus, it was sore. With a yelp I jumped forward, rubbing my tush and doing circles to keep away from the frisky filly. Of course, everyone found this highly amusing and the breeder even asked if I had anything in my pockets.

Oh sure, I carry those extra sugar cubes around with me for when I accidentally bump into playful equidae. No, I bloody don't have anything in my bloody pockets!

I don't know if that ever made it onto a bloopers reel (I don't think there's anyone at 50/50 who has enough humour to put something like that together). But I did have a U-shaped (horse-shoe-shaped?) bruise on my butt for a while afterwards. And a great anecdote... "did I tell you about the time when I got bitten on the butt by a horse, on camera?"

But it's not nearly as good as being bitten on the butt, by a pelican, and screaming like a 5-year-old girl to the delight of a live TV audience.



Aaaaah... watching a grown (Aussie) man whimper, wail and giggle nervously is always entertaining. Makes me laugh, every time.