Purple Shirt

My Dear Fellows & Dear Princess,

Last night Er Indoors unwisely informed me that she was going to book herself in for a treatment called a "Pumpkin Peel". Then she took a big sip of water from her bottle.

It was unwise, because I am very witty as you know. Quick as a flash, I informed her that I didn't like the sound of a "pumpkin peel".

"It sounds like someone is going to whip the hair off your Tutley," I added.

She nearly sprayed her sip right up the wall. 

That has nothing to do with today's theme. It's just that I just love it when I get to be extra-RUDE and I thought that one was worth preserving*.

Today's theme is: Intolerance. I am full of it. I'm a horrible person. My story starts in 2003 when I worked with a lovely woman named Ann. Really, she was lovely. Friendly, happy, full of good cheer.

(And, Mad Dog & Fat Pete, if I tell you that she always referred to her husband as her "Oppo" you will know exactly the Ann I mean.)

But she had a habit.

She could not let a thought cross her mind without saying it out loud. 

For example, I used to have a purple shirt. It was part of my work-shirt rotation and it came around every fortnight or so. Whenever I wore it, Ann HAD to mention it.

"Ooh. The purple shirt," she'd say.

Yes, yes, I'd agree. It is indeed a purple shirt.

You'd think the conversation ended there.

But no. Two weeks later. "Ooh. It's the purple shirt again." 

Or.

"Here he is. In his purple shirt."

Or simply 

"Purple shirt."

It got to the stage where I had to throw the damn thing out. I mean, what sort of a conversational gambit is THAT? It got to be like nails on a blackboard with me. How am I even suppose to RESPOND to that??

"Look everyone! There it is. The purple shirt!"

Well yes I KNOW I'm wearing the purple shirt! Because it's my shirt and it's purple and I'M the effing effer wearing the effing thing!

I never said this out loud. But the horrid little gnome in my head was leaping up and down and screaming it. 

So you see. I'm a horrible person. And I'm ashamed of myself for having such feelings.

I mention this because Smock is similar. Again, a lovely woman, and a pleasure to work with. 

"Ooh. He's off to do his shopping."

Smock finds it endlessly fascinating that I go to Countdown in my lunch hour to pick up food. To be fair, most other people do not do this. But it starts and stops being interesting with that last sentence.

And it's not like I have to go shopping to prompt her insightful observations. If I don't go shopping it is still hot news.

"No shopping today. You usually go shopping."

And then the next day, she is happy again.

"Here he is. With his shopping."

So I really am a terrible human being for wanting to say. "I know! I EFFING KNOW I've been shopping. Because I'm ME and I was THERE in Countdown with myself! Doing my effing shopping!!"

The thing is I genuinely feel bad for feeling this way. I am a liberal! A progressive! Theoretically I love people! Just SHUT THE EFF UP  about my shopping and my shirt and I can go back to being Bono.

Fortunately, Er Indoors understands because she is equally twisted and hates people as much as I do. Today she had lunch with a hippy. The lunch venue came highly recommended by said hippy. Er Indoors looked at their website last night.

ER INDOORS: (Reading) "Our cafe is not just a restaurant... it's an experience... a way of life..."

There was a long pause.

ER INDOORS: Oh for eff's effing sake. Effing hippies.

I got home tonight to find out that she had been feeling "insecure in the downtown area" after having eaten curried vegetables at this place. 

"It was a Code Brown situation," she informed me. "I only just made it back here in time. I mean. Curried cauliflower is an accident just waiting to happen. Mothereffing hippies."

I'm glad I live with someone like this. Someone who can be mean and sweary about lovely people like hippies and purple-shirt obsessives. 

We are not good people, and I acknowledge that, but at least we are good together.

I have reason to believe Gandhi was just lovely too. Here he is on his way to the train station. Either that, or a pumpkin peel.

S.

* It's nothing to do with Tutleys by the way. It's - er - something to do with blah blah - skin treatment blah blah replenishing oils blah blah. I think that's it word for word.