Yellow-y goodness.

To counteract the last couple of pieces of customer-service induced bile, I think it is time for a positive post. In praise of bananas!

Have been eating a lot of banana's lately, as a colleague in work keeps bringing them in (I think most of the office would prefer doughnuts). Having gotten sick of eating them as plain old fruit, I have started a culinary quest to turn them into delicious treats. This week I have had :
Banana bread, frozen banana's (transforms them into a different being altogether), banana & chocolate brownies, banana & peanut butter sandwiches, banana ice-cream.
I also plan to make : Banoffee (best. desert. ever!) and banana pancakes.
Hopefully I shall not suffer the same fate as Elvis (banana devotee), and die on the toilet sometime next week.

Manchester Taxi Drivers - a rant.

This is turning into a blog where I 'have a go' at those in the service professions. Given that I work in a front-facing role myself (and no doubt get other people incensed every now & again), this is perhaps a bit rich. I have no moral quandary about this duplicity though, and this subject has been brewing in my brain for awhile, and needs a rant.

To put it simply : Manchester Taxi Drivers are mostly rather rubbish. And no, not in the murderous DeNiro way.
There are mainly 2 ways that they accomplish this :
1. They don't know where anything is. Many private taxi workers seem to have only just arrived in Manchester, and are unable to drive anywhere without a specific postcode and detailed directions.
Given that you tend not to know the postcode of your chosen pub/cinema/shopping precinct (nor the intricacies of Manchester city centres numerous 1 way systems, especially after a drink or two) - this can be tricky.
Once a driver even told me he had only arrived in the Uk the day before, and did not seem to understand basic English phrases such as 'STOP!!', 'WE'RE HERE', and 'FOR &**^SAKE WOULD YOU STOP DRIVING!', as he kept overshooting my destination.

2. They know where to go but are intent on taking the least direct and slowest route.
This is a tactic beloved of many Hackney cab drivers. Unlike taxi drivers in good old N.I (who like to show off with 'secret' shortcuts & their break-neck speed ability to cruise through red lights), they relish that light turning orange. They claim that certain roads are closed, even though you know they were open as the bus went through them earlier. They then have NO change, even when a fair is £7.80, and you're paying with a £10 note.

Other methods of rubbishness that I have been subjected to include :
- listening to sexual lyrics supposedly written by a horny 14 year old while being driven to the train station at 6.30am (it went something like : I wanna f&ck you on the table, f&ck you on the chair, f&ck you on the floor, f&ck you everywhere)
- being subjected to Islamic prayers at top volume ( bit of a party killer on a Friday night)
- drivers who insist on asking if you have a boyfriend, why you aren't married to them, why you haven't had children...

Anyway, I think I have vented. The moral of the story is perhaps I should use my own two legs every now & again.

A tirade against hairdressers...

If I was to spend nearly £60 on a hat, and dislike it immediately afterwards - I could at least take it back, and not be forced to adorn my bonce with it. Unfortunately, with hair, it isn't that simple.

I hate my natural boring mousy brown hue, and the unmanageable frizziness of my curls. I therefore have it dyed copper, and spend most mornings 'de-frizzing' the waves with twists of my straighteners. After years of attempting to dye it at home, I find the professionals usually do a better job of my roots than I do, seeing as I have yet to evolve a set of eyes on the back of my head. When it comes to the actual styling however -things generally go awry.

They usually leave the styling to some 17 year old hungover trainee, who has knowledge of 2 styles. She will either blow-dry and straighten the fuck out of your hair with ghds (resulting in the sort of limp, lifeless hair that 'our cheryl' of the bouncing mane campaigns against), or she goes bloody mental with the biggest diffuser she can find - leaving you looking like a victim of electro-shock therapy gone wrong.

Then they have the cheek to ask 'So are you going out tonight?', as if it would be a colossal waste to visit them and not somehow have a big event planned that evening. I lie. My mouth says 'Yeah, probably out for a few drinks with the the other half'. My brain screams 'are you f*&king kidding me?! I literally have to stay in & WASH MY GODDAMN HAIR after you are through with it!'
I have no idea why I play along with this charade to protect their feelings.

So yes, I have been to the hairdressers today. I am still feeling slightly bitter. Please excuse me while I go shampoo my hair...

Lazy Sunday Afternoon

Ah, sleep.
I will never again overlook the glorious feeling of refreshment that follows a night in your tender embrace! A night without waking up in a cold sweat at 4am, a night without raucous crows calling at first light, a night without the pounding-pounding techno music beloved by the wankers in the flat below...
After seemingly endless nights of poor quality slumber (not helped by several evenings out on the trot indulging in cocktails & rich food), to remain unconscious through the whole of last night was marvellous. I have felt like a reanimated corpse most of the week - despite taking up 'berococca' supplements (the 'fun' way to take vitamins apparently).

Today has been spent taking in some fresh air - well, as fresh as Manchester air can be - baking cake, doing some art, and generally giving my body some r&r after a knackering, crazy ol' week. I needed a few hours locked away without human company in order to recharge my ailing batteries.

On that note... am off to make the most of the last hour or so before the OH returns from work.