Thanks Richard...

In line with the regimented world of the office, I dutifully took my turn to make tea. The kettle was still being a little odd, but my new 'system' avoided any unnecessary leg drenching. As I dished out the drinks, everything went as usual. My deputy editor made the noise which I assume means 'thank you', the subscriptions manager carried on with her work, saying 'thanks' a minute after I'd left, and I nearly spilled the editorial assistant's drink again because of the mug with the funny handle.

Then I took my editor his tea. I put it down on his desk as usual and started to walk away. But something different happened. "Thanks Richard," he said. I paused at his door as I heard it and turned around. My name isn't Richard. He looked at me quizzically, and then, realising his mistake, laughed. "I don't know why I just called you Richard. I don't even know anyone called Richard."

Why did he call me Richard? At first I ignored it as a slip of the tongue, but then I thought about the possibilities. Did I remind him of someone called Richard? Was this Richard person part of some secret which I wasn't supposed to know about? Did he want me to be more like a Richard?!

I told my deputy editor about it and another twist emerged. "Oh, that's odd. Now that I think about it, we used to have a guy called Richard that worked here. He looked like you actually," he informed me.

Now I was intrigued. "What was he like?" I asked, nervous to discover what I had reminded him of. "Well, he had dark hair." That's not much of a link I thought. "And he was a fundamental Christian. He used to wear a massive wooden cross and bring in copies of The Watchtower. Then he fell for the Jehovah's Witness that worked here and left. Oh, and he used to cry all the time."

"What?!" I protested. "Why does that remind him of me?!". "Dunno," he said, "probably just the hair." I hope he's right.

Ian 'not Richard' Ravenscroft

Of All The People In The World

Would have liked to have gone into more detail about this recent art exhibition but 'Oh well'. I'll add to this post soon.

In the vein of being oafish and nonchalant, I managed to kick over one of the piles of rice that make up this wonderful and thought provoking installation. At first I was mortifyingly embarrassed. Especially so, as it was infront of all of the curators who were carefully scouring for more wonderful, thought provoking statistics to alert the world to the pitfalls in humanity like myself. Then I looked down to see that I'd taken out decent amount of Birmingham City Council. I think I regained some dignity and tried to make my peace.

Sorry Stan's Cafe, I really do like the exhibition and I promise to not scrounge a concessionary ticket next time.

Warning! Hot!

Maybe it's just me being stupid, but hot things are really getting to me at the moment. It started last week when I kept opening the oven to retrieve my din-dins, only to be blasted in the face by a gust of hot, hot, burning steam. And it happened SEVERAL times. I thought I had it sussed by opening the door, facing away and waiting for a moment before reaching in, but no, blasted again. It's as if it had waited for me.

Then it was the kettle at work. Instead of pouring like a normal kettle it decided to start dripping hot, hot boiling water down its sides and onto my legs and shoes. I'm pretty sure it's the kettle and not me. Hot things have a conspiracy against me.

This week alone I have burnt my mouth on tea, coffee, spaghetti bolognaise and a chicken and broccoli pie.

Have you suffered unprovoked or undeserved burnings? Do you bear irrational grudges against kitchen appliances? Are you inpatient when you eat? Tell me about it and maybe we can heal together.

Ian the Burnt