Tuesday, 31 July 2007

My dilemma is your dilemma

But is certainly not one for Premier Iemma who I happened upon at the Commonwealth flexiteller the other afternoon. There was a bodyguard stood in the gutter on Castlereagh Street observing the Premier extract some moolah from the hole in the wall. I wonder if the flexicard belongs to the security guard.

Do you know, nsrs, I am probably the first person you knew who had a handycard. Yes, that's right handycard. I was with the Bank of Wales, it could have become Westpac in 1984 though, and their automatic teller machines were then known as handybanks. I loved this term. It reminded me of one of my paternal aunts, who, apart from giving my sisters and me sponge bags every year for xmas, loved the adjective handy. Fishpaste was handy, ratsak was handy, even cocking Dolly magazine was handy - it kept her daughter from nagging her for 15 minutes or looking for food and then dipping her finger in the trail of ratsak that Nan had scattered on the shelves. But that is another story. My pin number for the handycard was 8613. It's ok i have new one now it's... Oh, you can't trick me like that.

So yeah my dilemma. Oh it is nothing as bad as picking at something to eat and discovering that it's poisonous or a flicked boo, no it's more of an olfactory dilemma.

I bought some tissues. A lovely big box that claims its contents are not only soft but large. Don't like them piddly little tissewes, inadequate for my schnoz, inflammed sinuses and watery eyes. The box also has lovely illustrations of yella flowers and the words chamomile and aloe vera are written in modern cursive (a style i could never quite master).

Very soothing, a veritable mater's hand stroking a hot and swollen forehead. Maamah.

Upon return to work i busily and importantly retrieved the box from my shopping bag and firmly placed the tissues on my desk. The box's bottom even has a tissewe "elevator" to facilitate the last few tissues' exit from the box. Classy and handy. So i pushed in the arrows to activate this elevator (for some reason all i can now picture is Jim Keays), opened the box, sighing with great satisfaction as i plucked a tissue and proceeded to do the bugle call. What a horrible scent i snuffed. It was overpowering like the old scent of Sunsilk poured over cat's piss. God awful. Worse the scent wafts from the box to my seat and over the partition to colleagues.

The mistress does have highly developed olfactory sensitivity but is not averse to perfume; signature scent is Chanel's Coco Mademoiselle eau de parfum and she does love Harpic's lavender in the latrine but this tissue fragrance is the ZaSu Pitts.

What is a bel to do, 193 tissues remain. I cannot throw them out, that would be too wasteful. If only I'd bought that big butch black and red box of Kleenex mansize tissues.


David said...

Why did the man throw his money into the sea?

Mistress Bel said...

To see if it would float?

David said...

I don't get it

Mistress Bel said...

Well that is what i thought when i read your comment cock. Just presumed you were on the 'shrooms. At least i try to make sense of things before bleating.