Those who know me, know that I make greetings cards. Though I'm pretty pushed for time these days and don't get to make as many as I'd like, I had a sudden flash of inspiration and had to make this. I made the Hallowe'en card for a friend using a template from Ryan 'Goatee Style' Wickstrand's fantastic Zombie Pumpkins collection. To get the full effect you have to see the card 'in action' (file:5.8MB) as it has 'Happy Halloween' confetti in it.
More card creations coming soon.
Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at an Elingsh uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is
taht frist and lsat ltteer is at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a
toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae we do not raed ervey lteter by itslef but the wrod as a wlohe.
The other day I was driving to work and I had an epiphany. Okay, epiphany is perhaps too strong a word but it was kinda close. I was thinking back to all those teeny magazines I used to buy and how thinking back to it, they used to have some great fun articles. Real inventive like.
One magazine in particular, I forget which one now, had this whole pop lottery thing. It involved popstars, a jazzed up bingo machine and probing questions. Genius.
When it came to revealing things about celebrities, move over paparazzi these teen music magazines had the right idea. My favourite was this 'What's in your bag?' thang they used to do. Martine McCutcheon or some other D-list celeb who was hot at the time would go through the contents of their handbag and explain why they couldn't possibly live without that particular item.
Cue mini epiphany.
Why don't I do something similar on my website?!?! It'd be great, especially since I've been so quiet recently and readers are always complaining I don't reveal enough about myself. It'd be a fun little entry I thought. Perhaps others would join in.
Then I casually surfed Flickr.
Okay, so not so revolutionary or fresh fodder after all. Here's what's in my handbag anyway.
For the times I am quiet.
Bus politics are the pits. Even worse than office ones.
To get you warmed up for the hot bed of awkwardness that lies ahead of you, bus companies ensure they have employed a rude git for a driver. Not just any other service industry rude git, like you'd encounter in Foot Locker or Superdrug say, but one whose job description actually mentions the words ignorant and obnoxious. He looks upon you with a mix of pity and disgust as you try to remember which stop it is you'd like to go to, on the off chance that you actually survive this bus ride. They must receive training or something to be this boorish. Rudeness 101, first lesson: moan about the amount of change the customer is trying to give you. Lesson two: sigh with contempt when they can't find their return ticket because you're making them so uncomfortable they're starting to panic. Lesson three: if a prospective passenger asks if you go to certain stops, deny all knowledge of the route that you drive around twenty times a day, five days a week. Lesson thirty three: be a total arsehole.
Once you've passed the first hurdle and actually got yourself a ticket, where do you sit? This part's a gamble. Rookies always make the obvious mistake. "Why are all these people standing? Silly people. I see the spare seat next to the quiet old man. I am not as silly as you!" They plonk their naive little behind next to that innocent looking, sweet ol' pensioner. Little do they know that grandpa is committing olfactory offences all over the joint. As soon as that combo of piss and alcohol wafts up to their nostrils they realise what they have done. They have been initiated. You are now wise to the way of the bus. Welcome to my nightmare.
As long as you have avoided decoy number one, the rest of the passengers you will have to sit next to, if you don't want to stand and be flung about for the rest of the journey, are all on equal par. One granny is the same as the next. Okay, so one wants to tell you her life story and the other despises you for being brown, but it's all the same on this hell on wheels.
The brave amongst us will try to confront those three (not two, not four, there's always three) teenage kids who are trying to open the fire exit at the back of the bus. Shot down in flames by fourteen year olds ain't ever pretty so this approach will take it's rightful place next to 'sitting with pissy man' as something you're never going to do again.
People are filing on, struggling with pushchairs, kids are crying, grown men are wailing, that old bag who has the biggest chip on her shoulder is giving you dirty looks for having the audacity to breathe and the teenagers are trying to hang out of the window. While I'm sitting there feeling guilty about how rejected that smelly man must be feeling, it gets me thinking. Will hell have a bus stop? Will the murderers and adulterers amongst us be made to board and alight an Arriva bus for all of eternity?
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Taking this site or me seriously will ultimately lead to social disorder and the disintergration of reality as we know it. Also, llamas may begin to rule the world. I like llamas. (Though I suggest you take the copyright notice seriously.)
I cannot be held responsible for the pure drivel on this site. It is usually written under the influence of chocolate and my love for llamas.