And a massive whinging sesh.
Well aren't you lucky, I've decided to post again after only a couple of days. First spare minute I've had in ages actually, and I'm spending it talking to you, so...you can be grateful or not, I don't mind. X
So I've realised I have actually started and failed to finish a few stories along my way; this is because I generally don't plan what I am going to write, I just sit down and say whatever comes into my disorganised little mind. So, here goes, I am going to finish telling you the story of the bees...
Actually, there's not a whole lot more to tell, it's not really a fun story anyway, as you'll probably have gathered. My parent's friend Janet had unfortunately run in completely the opposite direction from all of us, and through her bad luck had been chased by pretty much all of the bees. She let out an unholy scream as she ran; a less Janet-like sound there has never been, and even now it gives me shivers to think about it. They chased her until she tripped and fell, rolling down the hill into small valley that the stream had made as it trickled down the hill. She hit her head and was stung to hell but luckily wasn't hurt too badly. Needless to say it ruined her holiday and, perhaps worst of all, she missed the chimps the next day, but we're lucky it wasn't worse. It makes you realise how incredibly brave (or crazy) Jane Goodall must have been to live out there almost alone and to trek by herself through those forests.
Second, I remember I promised to tell you all about the BBC and the fun fun times that we had at the St Andrews Open; I'm not sure I've actually got enough bile at the moment but I'll have a go...
I LOVE the BBC. I honestly think they are brilliant and until the Open I would have forgiven them anything, but not now. They were all staying at the inn where I worked as a waitress over the summer. Let me just say at the beginning of that week I was an absolutely rubbish waitress but by the end of it had morphed into a new breed of superhero...Wonder Waitress!
All our hopes (of getting fed this evening) are pinned on you!
She can clear a table of ten
And she never forgets her pen
I have absolutely no interest in golf whatsoever. It is a sad, but true, fact that all golfers are dicks. They make unwise trouser choices, they brag noisily over breakfast, they drag their poor wives to dead towns like St Andrews so they won't have to pay for caddies and they then cheat on those wives with ten to fifteen different women. OK, so that's not all[i] golfers. But they are all dicks. Unfortunately the BBC crew reporting on the golf happened to be dicks as well. The restaurant was packed non stop from 6 till midnight every night, which as you can imagine was already quite tiring. However the BBC would [i]without fail turn up every night at about 10.30 having insisted throughout the day that they wouldn't be eating with us and not to worry. Try telling a chef who has finished for the night that, on the contrary, he has to stay on and fix three courses for 20 odd loud, ungrateful, hungry bastards who have been out in the rain all day pretending to care about golf. I think anyone who has ever worked in a restaurant knows that chefs are not the gentlest of people. Stressed chefs are bloody terrifying. They were always always always the last ones to leave the restaurant and yeah, staying till 1.30 is great for the overtime but not for the feet when you've already been on them for seven hours!
One of the most annoying things about the BBC lot (before you ask there wasn't anyone particularly interesting, only ones I recognised were loud, red-faced Clare Balding and Chris Evans, off of he used to be married to Billie Piper) was that they would always ask for a table for two or three people and then would gradually add more and more people to it throughout the evening causing the maximum amount of disruption to the restaurant. People trying to eat around them would be made to move about and listen to tables being dragged across the room while the waiting staff would then have an interesting little quest to find the person whose food they were trying to serve and who had since changed positions. On one occasion the most annoying member of the group (when I find out who he is I will kill him, for now we'll call him Craig because it has been my experience that people with that name generally have the same sort of personality as this guy) had ordered a burger in the bar and had since changed his order from burger to lobster thermadour (who does that for a start??).
Babe? Facepalm. 'Yes?'
'What was that I saw you going past with just now?'
'That was lobster thermadour.'
'Oh, great, I'll have that.'
'Not the burger?'
'Nope. Thanks, Jeannie.'
'You're welcome, Craig.'
'Um, my name's not Craig.'
'My name's not Jeannie. I'll get that order changed for you.'
The thermador plate was big, heavy and very hot so I picked it up and hurried to the bar, only to find that Craig had gone walkabout. I eventually found him standing in the restaurant putting tables together (pissed of course) and asked him if I should take his lobster back to the kitchen to keep warm. 'No, no' he said, 'just wait there'. So I did. I waited until my fingers had blistered from the heat of the plate and Craig still hadn't found anywhere to sit since he kept changing positions hoping to be nearer to Clare Balding. 'Oooh, can I be nearer to you Clare. Oh that's so interesting Clare. Wow, Clare they let you in front of the camera that must be because you're a wonderful telly person and I'm just a little arse-licking worm!' Wow look at that I did have enough bile. Obviously, though they largely seemed to be engaged in a contest over who could speak the loudest in a small crowded restaurant, they all hung on Clare Balding's every word. Because she is on the telly and therefore better than them. Eventually I put the lobster on the table near to Clare, figuring this would be a safe bet, and went back to the still room to shove my hand into my glass of iced water.
Wow I could go on and on, about the time Craig picked up a singer and took her back to his room having spoken to her for about 45 minutes, about the annoyance of constantly being mistaken for my sister (we don't look that alike!) and being called Jeannie, about Clare Balding saying I looked like a child (I'm 22), about the back ache that I didn't shake off for months and blame entirely on those fuckers...but I just don't have the energy. Also I have a feeling this post is becoming slightly mean spirited and I do NOT want any of you ending up on the side of the big, loud, hundred-quid-wine-buying, pissed, spoilt, rude, patronising, golf-loving nobs that are the BBC.
Love you all