As cross as a frog in a sock

According to Auntie, Aussies are unhappy with the new Home Office requirements that all would-be British citizens take a proficiency test in English.

Ironically, I know a whole raft of natives who probably wouldn't pass the test.

There's nowt quite like language and its usage to bring the culture fascists out of the woodwork.

As cross as a frog in a sock

According to Auntie, Aussies are unhappy with the new Home Office requirements that all would-be British citizens take a proficiency test in English.

Ironically, I know a whole raft of natives who probably wouldn't pass the test.

There's nowt quite like language and its usage to bring the culture fascists out of the woodwork.

..and when I find my trousers, I'll find my feet

Sometimes you should just stay in bed: "Sorry world, I'm taking the day off. Move along. Go about your business; nothing to see here."

In the space of but half an hour after getting up, I had spilled half my meddies across the kitchen floor, meaning that I had to root around in dark places^TM to retrieve suddenly self-camouflaged tablets.

I then made coffee and wandered back into the bedroom clutching coffee and a blackcurrant yoghurt. I half choked on a pip that insisted on exploring my bronchial passage rather than sliding into throaty oblivion. A good eye watering, floating spot inducing, embolism tempting cough later it was time to get dressed.

Entropy has clearly taken a grip on my world.

I managed to put my foot through not one, but two pairs of trousers. Both are irreparable, and I now know one thing I shall be doing at the weekend.

The last thing before leaving to come to work was the usual donning of rings and other accoutrements (actually, just the rings - the silver chain and gold crucifix and the wrist torques stay on). I habitually wear two rings: a claddagh and a more generic one with the wrong birthstone in it. This latter being an eighteenth birthday present from Mum and Dad, so the fact they cocked up the birthstone is immaterial.

Anyway, I digress.

The birthstone ring broke. It sheared across and then sprung back and clamped a solid chunk of finger flesh in a better than vice-like grip. It didn't half smart, I'll tell you. And it took about 5 minutes of dancing the watusi and making random Chinese noises to get it off my finger again. So now I have to nip out at lunchtime and find a jeweller who will mend it (and insert a bit more gold, since my fingers are now clearly fatter than they were).

Should have stayed in bed.

..and when I find my trousers, I'll find my feet

Sometimes you should just stay in bed: "Sorry world, I'm taking the day off. Move along. Go about your business; nothing to see here."

In the space of but half an hour after getting up, I had spilled half my meddies across the kitchen floor, meaning that I had to root around in dark places^TM to retrieve suddenly self-camouflaged tablets.

I then made coffee and wandered back into the bedroom clutching coffee and a blackcurrant yoghurt. I half choked on a pip that insisted on exploring my bronchial passage rather than sliding into throaty oblivion. A good eye watering, floating spot inducing, embolism tempting cough later it was time to get dressed.

Entropy has clearly taken a grip on my world.

I managed to put my foot through not one, but two pairs of trousers. Both are irreparable, and I now know one thing I shall be doing at the weekend.

The last thing before leaving to come to work was the usual donning of rings and other accoutrements (actually, just the rings - the silver chain and gold crucifix and the wrist torques stay on). I habitually wear two rings: a claddagh and a more generic one with the wrong birthstone in it. This latter being an eighteenth birthday present from Mum and Dad, so the fact they cocked up the birthstone is immaterial.

Anyway, I digress.

The birthstone ring broke. It sheared across and then sprung back and clamped a solid chunk of finger flesh in a better than vice-like grip. It didn't half smart, I'll tell you. And it took about 5 minutes of dancing the watusi and making random Chinese noises to get it off my finger again. So now I have to nip out at lunchtime and find a jeweller who will mend it (and insert a bit more gold, since my fingers are now clearly fatter than they were).

Should have stayed in bed.