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Posts tagged ‘pervert’

Technically in Cork

Recent events have prompted me to muse with delicate frown and pursed lips on my history with transportation. The origins of this tempestuous, codependent relationship can be traced back to:-

  • 1984: Twelve years old, and for reasons that will remain forever obscured by the mists of time, I was required to catch a bus from Dublin to be reunited with the bosom of my family in Limerick. After a long journey, the bus shuddered to a stop. I sat there long after the remaining passengers disembarked, kicking my legs and reading a ‘Bunty’ magazine by streetlight.Half an hour later I was getting cold, so alighted and, keeping an eye on the coach in case it took off unexpectedly, I backed up to the only human life-form present and enquired when the bus would be leaving for Limerick. Which is when I found out the bus was not going to Limerick.

    Also, I was technically in Cork.

    I must be able to blame this on some family friend or relative – I mean WHO’S RESPONSIBLE FOR A TWELVE YEAR OLD CATCHING A BUS?

    I was gasping for a wee, so I decided my first priority was locating the bathroom. Then disaster struck: I had no money, and access to the toilet cubicles required a 2p piece. (If you think I sound pathetic, really it was WAY worse.)

    Luckily, there was a 20cm gap between the foot of the door and the floor. I stuffed my bag in, thereby committing myself, then wriggled under the door after the bag. It was a tense widdle; I was terrified someone with 2p might creep in and burst into my cubicle and accuse me of weeing for free.

    Afterwards I went outside, sat on my bag in the deserted carpark, and considered my predicament. Luckily, my parents had equipped me to deal with adversity. Back then, what that meant was that I knew how to make reverse charge phone calls, rather than identify perverts. Indeed I wouldn’t have recognized a pervert had he asked me to sit on his knee and waved a flesh-coloured stick at me, but man could I place a reverse charges phone call.

    I rang my mum, who was good enough to accept the call.

    “I’m in CORK!” I sobbed, suddenly struck by the tragedy of being abandoned in a strange land.

    The next bus to Limerick was the following morning, so my parents arranged for me to stay with some people they chose at random from the telephone directory.

  • Circa 1993: On my first business trip, I missed not one but two flights AND lost my passport and ticket along the way. I finally arrived in Switzerland 24 hours late. Thought I’d blogged about the incident, but it seems not, so can’t provide a link. If anyone wants the grisly details I’ll see what I can do.
  • 2000: Job interview in Bahrain. The Interviewer arranged a ticket for collection at Dubai Airport. Even though I arrived a full half hour before the flight, the Emirates representative claimed the check-in was closed and refused to hand over my ticket.“All right,” said Husband during an emergency debrief. “Call The Interviewer, and tell him there was a problem with your passport. No- your residency visa. An issue with your residency visa, and you’re sorting it out, and will get the next flight in two hours.”

    “Ok. Problem with residency visa. Next flight. Check.”

    I dialed The Interviewer: “I MISSED THE FLIGHT!”

    He hired me.

    Can’t explain it.

  • 2000: Fast-forward three weeks to a business trip to Bahrain to meet The Company’s biggest client. My phone rang at 06:00. It was The Floridian, formerly The Interviewer.“I’m at the check-in counter. Where are you?”

    “I’M IN BED.”

    However, not only did I catch the 07:00 flight – triumphantly arriving at the airport 10 minutes later – I even had time to demolish the buffet breakfast in the Emirates lounge.

  • Probably 2005: Róisín underestimated timing from Paddington to Heathrow (so entirely her fault; I have a signed confession). Emirates Airlines – at this stage totally accustomed to me – rescheduled me on a later flight. At the baggage check, I realized I had left my mobile phone in Róisín’s handbag (don’t ask. Just . . . don’t). Located a pay phone and called Róis, who returned to Heathrow to give up the phone.
  • Possibly 2008: Husband and I arrive at Dubai Airport, totally overexcited about our first ever skiing holiday: two weeks in Austria. We had booked a hire car, arranged accommodation; we were sharing the chalet with friends who were en-route.Passports: CHECK! Tickets: CHECK! Luggage: TRIPLE CHECK!

    Bags sorted, we proceeded to passport control. I went to the e-gate, already planning where I should wait for Andrew, who was at the manual passport control. When I scanned my fingerprint, a buzzer sounded and a big, red X blinked on the gate.

    The man on the passport desk beckoned me over.

    “My finger’s not working,” I giggled, wiggling the digit at him.

    I forgot how ineffective charm is on airport security.

    “Your rrresidency visa,” said the administrator. “It is expire.”

    “Oh. Well. No problem. I’ll renew it when I get back. I’m going skiing!”

    Never have I been more mistaken.

    Never has Husband come closer to divorcing me.

    In a vain attempt to conquer the moral high ground I told Andrew to go without me, but he opted to stay. For a while it looked like he wouldn’t be allowed to leave the airport, since he was fully checked onto the flight. He sulked for roughly a year. He still wins arguments on the strength of that ONE LITTLE INCIDENT.

  • Near miss: Once, I got to the boarding gate for an Emirates flight before realizing I had left my passport and ticket in a tray at the baggage check.

Filthy, disturbing images

[NB If you are a PERVERT, will you ever put that thing away RIGHT NOW, and go and play some hockey or take up smoking or something. The post will REFER to filthy, disturbing images ONLY. No filthy, disturbing images will be reproduced on this site.]

When I am home, I often supervise my parents’ adventures into the wild, untamed electronic savannah. They think of me as a kind of safety valve. An internal fuse, if you will. My presence gives them a measure of (frequently false) confidence that they won’t accidentally delete the Minutes of the Autumn Girl Guides & Brownies Meeting 1984, or disappear into a quickfile, or get savaged by a tribe of head-shrinking phishers.

My father’s computer literacy has progressed to the extent that he is now able to change the view panes in Windows Explorer – when he can locate it – and compress images for email. One afternoon, Dad and I embarked on a daring mission to discover how to compress/email multiple images.

I was of limited use, because when I modify photos for my blog, I tend to crop/reduce specific images individually. It was Dad who hunted down the option in Windows Explorer.

I was proud of my protégé.

“Well done, you!” I said, and left him clicking happily away.

Five minutes later, I was in the sitting room, when Dad called. I knew something was up by the way he broke my name into two distinct syllables; with an equal, urgent stress on both.

“Can you come here a moment, please?” he said, and I could hear him admirably striving for nonchalance.

“Yes?” I said, going into his office.

“Right. Well. Now, you know that option to compress multiple images and email them?”

“Yes.”

“Ok. So, I went to the folder – like you told me to!” he said, defensively. “And I clicked on the images. And I went to the pane – here – and clicked on ‘Compress and email’. Right?”

“Ok . . .”

“And the email popped up, and I sent it. So now I go to my Sent Folder, right? And here is the email I sent to Gillian.”

“Yes.”

“Now, I open the file attachment.”

My father double clicked on the JPG.

A rather lovely picture of my parents opened in Microsoft Picture Editor, standing next to the Houses of Parliament in London.

“That’s nice,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Yes!”

“But see here, on the bottom of the screen.”

“What?”

“This little arrow.”

“Ok . . .”

“When I click it . . .”

I can’t tell you how much I regret that he did. The image that loaded was framed in livid pink, entitled ‘JUICYGIRLS’. Two girls with pigtails pulled up their skimpy t-shirts to reveal their choice of underwear (none). The one on the left merely displayed her ample charms, but the one on the right demonstrated a wide variety of skills: she nibbled a dildo balanced between her norks, whilst massaging her nips.

“Dad, I’ve got to tell you how disturbed I am to be looking at this with you,” I said when I finished laughing hysterically.

“Now, where did that come from?” he said, worrying his beard.

“I don’t know.”

“I never took that photo.”

“I believe you.”

“Juicygirls,” he said conversationally.

“Yep.”

“That girl on the right – is she-”

“LALALALALALALA!”

“Do you- do you think,” he coughed delicately. “Do you think I might have sent this?”

While Dad agonized whether he should call Gillian to alert her to the potential presence of largely naked women, or not tell her and hope she didn’t notice, I checked out the email. When opening an image from the mail client with Microsoft Picture Editor, it appears to offer a library of all recently sent/received images including pornspam. In other words, it appears to be a feature of my parents’ software and how it accesses temporary internet files.

I’m not sure this appeased Dad, who still wonders whether Gillian received a picture of him and Mum outside the Houses of Parliament, and Juicygirls, and is judging him

Perverts can’t swim

This morning I struggled down to the beach at 08:00hrs. Carole bravely accompanied me, although she was a bit concerned about perverts. There has been a lot of publicity recently about men loitering on the beach for a leer. I haven’t been, er, exposed much to that sort of stuff apart from one morning when Róisín was over. We’d chosen a spot next to the outdoor shower. There was a bloke having a wash and upon seeing us, he plunged his hands down the front of his shorts and administered a really very thorough cleansing.

 

“Róisín!” I whispered. “That man! He has his hands down his shorts!”

 

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m a nurse.”

 

I felt she wasn’t so much missing the point as totally losing her grip on the space-time continuum.

 

“Róisííííín!” I hissed urgently. “He’s got his mickey out! He’s floppin’ it around!”

 

“Ah sure, all power to him.”

 

If I’d been on my own, I would have had no qualms about saying: “Put that thing away immediately,” but Róisín seemed unperturbed so I left her to it. Once I’m in the water I’m not that fussed; controlled studies have shown that perverts can’t swim very well.

 

Since there were no perverts in evidence this morning, I left Carole power-walking up the beach. I think I might still have been drunk, because I was in blistering form. I was pounding towards the shore 2000m later when I swam into a stingray. There are plenty of them about, usually buried in the sand where all you can see of them is their outline and a pair of beady black eyes.

 

This time I was in about five feet of water and he gave me quite a shock when he rippled beneath me. I don’t think I’ve ever been that close to a ray before and I’m not keen on repeating the experience.

 

That said, according to Wikipedia: ‘stingrays don’t usually attack aggressively’ (which prompted me to wonder whether there is any other way to attack? Can you attack kindly? Peacefully? I suppose friendly fire is a sort of sociable assault, is it?)

 

Viv is organizing a swim around the Jumeirah Palm Island in February and I suspect I might have accidentally signed up for it. It’s a distance of 20 kilometres and I’m a bit dubious – I mean, that’s nearly as far as the English Channel – well, only 14 km less. But Channel swimmers train from the age of three. Also, Nakheel is still dredging; in this part of the world there’s a distinct possibility of being sucked up and having your skull become a feature in Posh and Beck’s garden

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