I don't Like Sarcastic People

"It's food," said the guy (a friend of a friend), seeing me dither at the snacks table. I had already eaten before getting to the party, not knowing that there would be food, so I didn't really need anything- I just wanted to be a gracious guest and accept the host's generosity.

"Awesome, I like food," I said a little foolishly, not knowing what to say in reply to that, but feeling like I should say something under his mildly inquisitive gaze. I put a small handful of chips onto my paper plate and moved away to make room for other party-goers.

"Well that looks filling," said the guy, quirking an eyebrow at my meagre portion.

"Haha," I said weakly, and joined the others.

I love sarcasm. Used at the right times it's hilarious, clever and makes people bond.

However, I do not like sarcastic people. Not people that use sarcasm (or I'd be in trouble with myself)- just people that seem to live in a natural state of constant sarcasm. It's like they live to make try to make others feel uncomfortable or stupid.

One of the things that makes me not get on with sarcastic people is that I'm a very literal person. Puns are often wasted on me- and even though as a writer I can make (apparently good) ones up, I don't really find them laugh-out-loud funny. My friends love teasing me because I apparently become indignant really easily, even though I know they're only teasing. It's not as if I have a thin skin; it's just that it takes me one or two beats longer to pick up on social cues than other people.

"Don't worry," my friend said, "he's always really sarcastic." This was after first being introduced to him as her friend from dance- he asked me very seriously what time I was on, and I looked at my watch (I told you I'm really literal).

It made me think of how I have (had?) this old friend who had a razor-sharp tongue. I used to admire her for how forthright she was and how acidic her humour was- but after a few too many years of her using me as a whetstone every now and again, I decided that she wasn't just naturally talented in the art of sarcasm- she was just a bit of an arsehole.

So with this new revelation, perhaps I'll become more sensitive to the way people might interpret the things I'm saying. I believe that when I'm being sarcastic, I'm being so obvious about it that there is no question that I'm joking about something- but maybe there are times I'm not obvious enough and end up hurting someone's feelings. Perhaps we should all use sarcasm a bit less, especially as a way to cover up our own insecurities. Perhaps we should all be more open with each other, so the world will become a better place.

As if.

A Rare Positive Train Journey Experience

I was sitting next to the cutest family on the train home from a Birmingham visit this weekend. It was quite late at night for the two little girls, and they were a little giggly and quietly hysterical, with the mother warily trying to calm them down. At one point the two girls started making puns out of everything, while I tried to hold it together in my seat.

"We can all enjoy a nice lie-in tomorrow," said the mum.

"I'm a lie-on, raaaaawr!" the youngest girl chipped in without missing a beat. Her older sister burst into laughter, holding her sides.

"Mummy I think I'm having a heart attack," she gasped between giggles. The mother sighed.

What an awesome family.

In other news, I have a shiny new phone! It's bigger than my old one, so I'll be able to blog on the go (so I'll never have an idle waking moment. Ever. Again. Yay?)

Red Lipstick

"Hey, you're beautiful! Gorgeous!"

I didn't realise the rickshaw driver was hollering at me until he cycled past, his hand reaching out to stroke my hair: I had become the unwitting victim of a cycle-by petting. What surprised me more than the unsolicited contact, however, was my instant, knee-jerk reaction as I recoiled away from his touch.

"Eww..!" I said, laughing and scrunching my nose up like I was in primary school and the rickshaw driver was a little boy with cooties. I didn't notice his reaction as I was too busy laughing at the ridiculousness of the driver's grabbiness and the childishness of my reaction.

I hadn't noticed that the driver had been catcalling me because I wasn't expecting it. I usually dress smartly enough when out and about, but I happened to be going to a 1940's style event with a few friends- so my long hair, usually tied back in a braid, was curled in Hollywood-style waves, and I wore a striking red lipstick. The rest of me was pretty much the same- a smart black dress I often wear to work and ankle boots with sensible-ish heels. I don't tend to get catcalled or chatted up, and I didn't think that a bit of red lippy would be enough to turn me from Everyday Tash to someone to be grabbed at like a can of beans at the supermarket.

What makes guys think they can act like that, though? What happened to just saying hello, or chatting? I'm lucky that I haven't had to experience this too often, but I have other friends that get this kind of treatment all the time. And even I have, although not too often- the last time anyone showed any interest in me in that way ended in almost two years of persistent harassment and borderline stalking which has only just recently stopped (I hope). I think if it weren't for my male friends and family I'd have long ago lost faith in men. Thankfully all I have to do is think of them and I realise that there are just quite a few weirdos, creeps and socially awkward people out there- but of course, not everyone is. Saying that all guys are creeps is like saying all women are crazy. This is wrong, of course: everyone is crazy. I suppose life is all about finding the people that are your special brand of crazy to get along with.

All the same, guys- if you're ever riding a rickshaw and pass a pretty girl you don't know, reaching out to stroke their hair as you cycle by is very unlikely to get a positive response.

Enjoy Every Second Your Way

My friend Sarah and I were trying to find the end of an immense queue for char kway teow noodles at the Malaysia Night festival. There were queues everywhere, full of all kinds of people waiting for all kinds of food, an organised chaos of interweaving lines like the London Underground. My British little heart looked at all the queues and found them beautiful.

Most people were happy to give other hungry and friendly strangers tips on where they had found the interesting food they were holding, or which end of which queue belonged to which food stall.

Of course, some were still a little bit too much on the British side.

"Hi! Hello! Um... excuse me, is this the queue for that stall over there?"

I smiled hopefully at the lady in the queue. The lady gave a mildly terrified look, as if I had just asked her to choose between her money or her life. Her eyes then unfocused, and stared right through me, a watery polite but insubstantial smile hovering on her lips. She turned away, having apparently decided I was some sort of ghostly apparition. Sarah giggled as I threw my hands up in exasperation.

It was my birthday earlier this week. I'm older, and none the wiser, and still asking strangers in the city questions while trying not to freak them out with my forthrightness. I also haven't been posting for the last couple of weeks- in fact, for two more weeks than I realised: this gives you some sort of idea of how badly I'm keeping track of passing time at the moment. My weekday evenings are packed with Mandarin, ukulele, Dungeons and Dragons and dance, my weekends are packed with cool friends, my kitchen is full of the cakes I've baked, my absolutely free time is non-existent. And I'm having a shedload of fun learning new things, catching up with old friends and meeting new ones.

Let's do another year!

Annihilated Knees- Part 2

It's a really twisted part of human nature to instantly want to do something that you're told you absolutely must not do. Sometimes it's not even a conscious choice.

I went for an MRI scan on my knees this morning, not really knowing what to expect apart from making sure not to wear metal before being pushed into the middle of a giant high-powered magnet. I also knew before they told me that I'd have to hold myself completely still for an extended amount of time.

No big deal- I can sit still for  long periods of time engrossed in a book or watching a film. It's the same thing, right?

Wrong.

We're always shifting, twitching, moving every so slightly. No-one's really like a statue.

Each knee took 20 minutes to be scanned, and because I wasn't used to the terrible din of the machine and the weird feeling of pressure during some of the cycles, the muscles in my legs involuntarily tensed up. Try as I might, I just couldn't get into a zen mode. Halfway through one of my legs very suddenly twitched, and the radiographer switched intercom system on. I heard him sigh a little.

"Okay, we're going to have to do that one again, you moved a little."

"Okay, sorry!"

The poor radiographer had to buzz in a few more times to remind me to keep still. It was all very well telling my brain this, but my leg muscles had other plans.

I was also given a panic button to press if I went into shock in the machine (I can see how this would happen to some people- you're very enclosed and the noises and sensations are enough to freak anyone out). Of course I knew I mustn't press it for no reason, and I certainly didn't need to- but the entire time my hands got a twitching feeling, as if to tell me "Go on, the button's right there, you know you want to!"

Steampunk Shenanigans

This weekend I attended another costumed event with a few friends, this time at Lincoln's Weekend at the Asylum Steampunk Festival, the annual largest-gathering-of-steampunks-in-Europe.

The funny thing about it was it was my first time a) attending a steampunk gathering and b) dressing up in steampunk attire at all, so I thought my Steam Powered Giraffe-inspired clockwork robot would either be too weird or too lame. I got a shock when half of my day turned into posing for photographers from various backgrounds (only one or two were a little on the creepy side- one was quite a bit more than a little creepy but I made a swift disappearing act).

I was also pretty proud that I managed to put my face on in only 15 minutes as we arrived late thanks to a sudden taxi drought. During my test-runs, my makeup usually took no less than 45 minutes. However I did have to forgo some of the shading and depth effects and stick to simple. Next time... at least whenever I smiled I looked terrifying. Job well done?

Lincoln was beautiful, made even more dream-like and surreal the amount of people dressed in period-fantasy fusion. I also love the fact that Lincoln has a street on a really long and steep hill called Steep Hill. It definitely earned its name.

Can you imagine cycling up that? Or even down it, now that would be terrifying.

Until next time, Lincoln.

Dodging Death

I was just about to switch everything off thie evening when Mum came downstairs, exclaiming how something had blown the bathroom light out upstairs. I shrugged it off- it happens. What did make me get up to investigate was ten minutes later, after Mum had gone back upstairs, when she called down saying that she could smell burning.
I went upstairs, and sure enough there was a faint smell of something burning. But not a smokey smell (which would have been bad enough)- this smelled like burning plastic.

We hunted around to the source of the smell, until I noticed that it was actually coming from Mum's room itself. Mum discovered that it was, in fact, her TV pouring out evil, invisible and silent fumes- all the while still working otherwise as normal.

We quickly switched it off, although in the short space of time we discovered the source of the smell, the fumes had gotten so bad that I had to cover my nose and mouth with a towel to get close enough to fully unplug it. We threw the windows in the room open and closed the door.

Here's the kicker- normally Mum goes to bed much earlier than this, and sometimes falls asleep in front of the TV while it's still on (despite me lecturing her about doing this on many an occasion). Mum could have been gassed to death in her sleep without a sound. I would have been downstairs, completely unaware until I went upstairs, or possibly in my adjacent room, also being silently poisoned. Or, the TV would set alight. Either way, if Mum hadn't been up later than usual (ironically watching TV instead of falling asleep to it), Dad may have come home from his night shift to bodies, burning or both.

Sobering thought.

I've moved Mum downstairs to sleep on the sofa for the night while the fumes dissipate from her room. In the meantime I've been periodically checking the TV to make sure it stops fuming, which thankfully, it has now.

This is right up there with the time the ceiling collapsed in a patch right next to my bed with me in it, in terms of brushes with the grim reaper.