PinkyB

Good thread, BBW! I've been pretty lucky with my jobs, mainly because I tend to stay in the good ones for ever and ever, but in my younger days I did do some very shit temp jobs. Top Three: 1. Sock-turning at a factory in Leicester. This involved putting inside out socks on a special machine with a tube attachment that would then suck them the right way again. You were supposed to do several thousand of these an hour. My abiding memory of that job, though, was of the poor woman who sat in the front row of the many rows of sock-turning machines, so was practically on display to everyone who walked in, and who had an unfortunate and stomach-churning enormous growth on her forehead. Even now I feel unwell at the thought of it. 2. Moving boxes of shoes from one set of shelves to a different set of shelves and then counting them. I lasted one shift, mainly due to the supervisor who checked my work, took me aside, and said in a very low, patronising voice, "Have you always had trouble with your maths, dear?" The shame! 3. The Saturday job in a shit clothes shop I had aged 15 where the lecherous boss used to get a kick from making the girls tell him all about their sex lives in great detail, even encouraging you to make it up for his vicarious pleasure when, like me, you were too young to have anything to tell him. When I left I carefully deposited a nicely-sucked orange Tic-Tac in the pocket of every single garment on the shop floor.

Is that a euphemisim, Louisiana?

Revenge sewing, that IS impressive...

Having to have a freezing cold shower because your flatmates have used up all the hot water again. The torrent of swearing and incoherent whimpering that came from my mouth was unbelievable, not to mention unprintable. I should not be shivering when it's 25 degrees outside. I feel like I've got an ice-cream headache too. On the plus side, I am now very much wide awake. Traumatised, but awake. p.s: Red Devil, I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.

I third Domali, and you can walk it off with a stroll past the dinosaurs in Crystal Palace park afterwards!

That's brilliant news! I bet the sun feels warmer, the sky bluer, and the champagne more delicious to you this weekend. Touch wood have never had to use King's College Hospital, but it's good to know it's there and doing a great job for people who need it. Enjoy the rest of your life!

Oh, and I once stalked Tony Hart (in a bright red VW Beetle) after we saw him in a Post Office somewhere in the West Country. I don't know why we felt the urge to follow him in the car, but after about twenty miles it suddenly occurred to us that maybe he was going on holiday in Cornwall, and that this was starting to become slightly potentially illegal. The man was a childhood hero to us, and we didn't want to unnerve the poor fellow. Any more than we already had, I should say. Early on in our chase, my friend made a banner reading "You're Tony Hart!" on the back of some cardboard from a box of cider and held it up to the windscreen. This has just reminded me of the time I saw John Hegley busking at the side of the street during an anti-war demo in about 1991, and, incredibly star-struck, went up to him and exclaimed, "You're John Hegley!" (he was not very famous at the time) Hegley's response: a withering, "I know I am." I slunk away, ashamed.

I once "stole" a bin bag that until seconds earlier had been warmed by the arse of Fruitbat from Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine. (he was sitting on it outside one of the beer tents at Glastonbury Festival) I was a huuuge fan of theirs for about a year and a half and then literally one morning I just woke up and suddenly realised, "This is actually not very good", can 't explain why, and have never listened to them again. Oh, and I also played a game of hurling (basically aerial hockey, with similar bats) with the Frank And Walters. Not all of my star stories concern incredibly minor indie bands from the early 90s, but quite a lot of them do.

deixe-nos fazer outra vez isto - quando voc? gosta! Traga seus barra e ukelele do le?o.

Meu tio gostado de competir portador-pombos.

Don't put your daughter on the stgage, Mrs Worthington. Oh, dear, am I rambling?

A boa noite, e agradece-lhe mantendo me companhia, mim apreciou cada minuto sujidade-enchido!

Theatre can be a cruel mistress.

Damn, my little bluff failed! You will almost definitely win, then, 'cos I'm usually tucked up in bed asleep by midnight. Soon I will start rambling, then lapse into my native Portuguese, and finally fall face-forward into my laptop in a pool of dribble.

Do you work backstage?

That sounds like a challenge! Well, I have no plans for tomorrow... I don't need to be up early, or indeed, at all... (to self) Yes, that's definitely the thing to do, wait until he's completely exhausted and can't fight back... HA HA HA!

I'm a sceptical sort of gal, so I just looked him up on IMDB and you're right, Jase is a strapping six footer! Of course, now I'm worried how you knew that. Did you measure him up personally?

I think you must be mistaken. I'm looking at it right now and it's definitely gone all melty and sticky and soft. How long do you reckon we can keep this up?

I admit it, I look like a six foot tall transvestite. My secret is out. Still, it does mean I get in half price at Singalonga Rocky Horror Picture Show, so it's not all bad. Ever dressed up in suspenders and heels for a bit of Rocky?

Oh no, I wish you'd told me earlier, I've been sitting on it and it's gone all soft.

"I'm leaning on a lamp, maybe you think, I look a tramp, Or you may think I'm hanging 'round to steal a motor-car." So you're basically suggesting I'm a tramp and a thief? Why not call me a gypsy as well and be done with it!

Aythangyew!

Excellent, I'll bring my accordion!

I always feel better after a good toss.

Do you want to make the obvious joke or shall I?