I was listening to the radio this morning.
That's the 'wireless' for those of you over fifty, the 'crystal set' for those over seventy and the "what the hell is that box making a noise in the corner?" for those of you over one hundred and four. Anyway, I digress.
There was a fellow on the radio, about to give the sports report. He was doing the 'two-way' with the main presenter about some breezy, chit-chatty thing they were talking about, and - as part of his reply - he indicated that a particularly smart-arsey listener knew more about SAINTS than he.
"There's a word for that; knowing about saints", he opined, "But I can't remember what it is".
"I dunno", says main presenter chap.
"You have four minutes to find out, while I talk about sport", grinned Sport boy.
Now, you need to know that at that point I was shouting "HAGIOGRAPHY!!! HAGIOGRAPHY!!! IT'S BLOODY HAGIOGRAPHY!!!!!" at the crystal set. I, clad in a towel - having recently emerged from the shower - reached for the mobile phone and desperately typed in the message, "He's looking for the word Hagiography!", so I could send it to the presenter.
The text message would not send.
WOULD NOT SEND!
This was stressful to the point of almost causing the regurgitation of my scrambled eggs and muffins. It wouldn't fucking send!
Four minutes later, Sport boy asks if presenter boy has got it.
"Nope", says dopey, "the internet just brings up Southampton Football Club..."
Oh. Ho, ho ho.
By this point I was too exhausted with stress to even shout again, and had collapsed on the bed grinding my teeth with unhappiness.
"I've remembered!", exclaims Sport bloke, "It's"..."Hagiography", we said together.
Dammit! I wanted to be right. Me. I did.
And the bloody text would not send.
That was a terrible start to the day.
I don't know why that happens, by the way. Well, either of those things. I don't know why I have an overwhelming urge to be first and right about everything. And I don't know why I know that the word is HAGIOGRAPHY. I just do.
There may be something intrinsically wrong with that.
The rest of my day was like a supermarket. Bright; loud; filled with people who don't want to have to interact with me; likely going to cost too much money, and not somewhere anybody would choose to spend the whole day.
I do not mean I spent the whole day pushing a trolley around; choosing between brands of tinned goods; squashing fresh bread and trying to work out which aisle had the most attractive check-out operative.
It was like a supermarket for the first list of reasons. Okay?!
I may have over-extended an already flimsy metaphor there... That may have been what caused that faint snapping noise some time around the words "likely going to cost too much money".
And now, to put the fecking tin lid on it, I realise we were both wrong. Intrinsically. Wrong.
Me and Sport boy - both utterly, devastatingly, depressingly and intrinsically wrong.
It should have been hagiology.
That's the 'wireless' for those of you over fifty, the 'crystal set' for those over seventy and the "what the hell is that box making a noise in the corner?" for those of you over one hundred and four. Anyway, I digress.
There was a fellow on the radio, about to give the sports report. He was doing the 'two-way' with the main presenter about some breezy, chit-chatty thing they were talking about, and - as part of his reply - he indicated that a particularly smart-arsey listener knew more about SAINTS than he.
"There's a word for that; knowing about saints", he opined, "But I can't remember what it is".
"I dunno", says main presenter chap.
"You have four minutes to find out, while I talk about sport", grinned Sport boy.
Now, you need to know that at that point I was shouting "HAGIOGRAPHY!!! HAGIOGRAPHY!!! IT'S BLOODY HAGIOGRAPHY!!!!!" at the crystal set. I, clad in a towel - having recently emerged from the shower - reached for the mobile phone and desperately typed in the message, "He's looking for the word Hagiography!", so I could send it to the presenter.
The text message would not send.
WOULD NOT SEND!
This was stressful to the point of almost causing the regurgitation of my scrambled eggs and muffins. It wouldn't fucking send!
Four minutes later, Sport boy asks if presenter boy has got it.
"Nope", says dopey, "the internet just brings up Southampton Football Club..."
Oh. Ho, ho ho.
By this point I was too exhausted with stress to even shout again, and had collapsed on the bed grinding my teeth with unhappiness.
"I've remembered!", exclaims Sport bloke, "It's"..."Hagiography", we said together.
Dammit! I wanted to be right. Me. I did.
And the bloody text would not send.
That was a terrible start to the day.
I don't know why that happens, by the way. Well, either of those things. I don't know why I have an overwhelming urge to be first and right about everything. And I don't know why I know that the word is HAGIOGRAPHY. I just do.
There may be something intrinsically wrong with that.
The rest of my day was like a supermarket. Bright; loud; filled with people who don't want to have to interact with me; likely going to cost too much money, and not somewhere anybody would choose to spend the whole day.
I do not mean I spent the whole day pushing a trolley around; choosing between brands of tinned goods; squashing fresh bread and trying to work out which aisle had the most attractive check-out operative.
It was like a supermarket for the first list of reasons. Okay?!
I may have over-extended an already flimsy metaphor there... That may have been what caused that faint snapping noise some time around the words "likely going to cost too much money".
And now, to put the fecking tin lid on it, I realise we were both wrong. Intrinsically. Wrong.
Me and Sport boy - both utterly, devastatingly, depressingly and intrinsically wrong.
It should have been hagiology.
No comments:
Post a Comment