Good Morning

It matters to me that I make a good first impression. When meeting someone for the first time I replace the foul language I learned in Glasgow (read: high school) for phrases like "gosh" or "crikey.*" I only put them down if they set themselves up for it. I try to remember their name, though I stop if they forget mine, and this only lasts as long as the encounter. For the time being at least, I want them to think that I consider them important.

The fact that when I first met my flatmate Gav, I was stealing glasses from a bar is by the by. I impressed him with my brilliant wit instead. The fact that I was doing the same thing when I first met my flatmate Archie is also by the by. He was way more drunk than me, and neither of us knew we'd be sharing a flat one day.

So I may be slightly immoral. Perhaps I got out and get wasted occasionally. Sometimes I fall on my face because I'm wearing ridiculous (incredibly cute) shoes in Glasgow when it's snowing. But, I'm a basically good person, and, at least before they get the opportunity to know me better, I want a new acquaintance to believe that. I care about first impressions, I'm just not very good at them.

I'm also not very good at breakfast. Or rather, I'm not very good at organising it. I eat cereal with yoghurt, or toast with butter. If I have neither, it's going to be a bad day for someone out there who has already passed the "good first impression" stage, and who's opinion I no longer care about. Unless it's the weekend. In which case I can spend time making a delicious and more interesting breakfast.

Such a thing happened today. I decided to make a French omelet. Not complex, but very tasty, light and fluffy, designed specifically to melt in your mouth and make you want to spend the rest of the day lounging around and drinking good wine. They don't seem to have any negative effects on me. I began, and had got to the stage where I should fold the omelet, when the buzzer rang.

Postman? I have a lifelong grudge with postmen everywhere, but we won't go into that. I casually and perfectly flipped the omelet into the folded shape I wanted, moved it off the heat and let whoever it was in. Switched on the lights in the hall, and opened the door.

The guy came up the stairs. "Hi... Is uh... Jamie about?"
The need to make a good impression kicked straight in.
"I'm sorry, Jamie? He doesn't live here, think you've got the wrong flat."

He apologised and left, I couldn't help but notice he was stifling a giggle as he did so. Weird. Went back to my perfect omelet. Sat down to eat. There's a mirror on the wall by the table, so it was then that I noticed the huge, white, eggy stain on my top.

"Omelet splash" is literally the worst euphemism I have ever thought of. Somehow I think the opportunity to make a good impression on Jamie's mate has been lost forever. On the other hand, I do have a hilarious new euphemism, so maybe it's not been a truly dreadful morning.

Perhaps though, I should stop claiming that I'm basically a good person.

*Actually, I'm just generally loving any opportunity to say "crikey" at the moment. Also "gosh," "goodness," "cripes," "blimey" etc. Haven't quite managed to pull off "golly" just yet, but I'm working on it.

Good Morning

Lately I have been waking up earlier than usual*. I think it must be because I'm having extra exciting dreams (not like that! pervert!) So I need to return to normality early before I tire myself out.

Like last night I dreamed I was in a knife fight (told you it wasn't like that) and the winner got to keep the knives. I won. This is not the first time I've won knives, though it is the first time I've dreamed about it.

A few of years ago I entered a competition in a magazine. The first prize was a TV and DVD player, they looked cute and I thought they'd go well with Sam (my elderly CD player). It was a cross-word, I knew the answers. I cut it out of the magazine and found an envelope. Then I noticed the website address that you were supposed to send the answer to. I logged on, entered the competition and immediately forgot about it all.

Two months later there was a knock at the door. It was a parcel for me. I love getting post, even if it's just a bill. Parcels are amazing fun to receive, even if I ordered them myself. This one was a mystery. I signed for it and then googled "How to tell if a parcel is a bomb."

Once satisfied, I opened it. It was a set of kitchen knives. Apparently that was second prize. It at least explains why my postman looked so surprised that a kid signed for them, and may go some way to explaining my life-long difficulties with postmen ever since.

I have to say, it's much more fun to win them this way than to win them in a knife fight. This way they were a surprise, and I didn't need to clean them up when the competition was over.

*I look angelic in the morning, really I do. Brings a smile to my face. The angles my hair can stand at before 9am occasionally defy Euclidean geometry.

Refuse Collection Individual

Firstly, I've had a complaint. Apparently Fi is not a robot. To this I'd like to say "oh yes she is." Sorry Fi, but it does seem likely.

This morning I awoke early. I've been trying it out every couple of days, I'm not sure if I like it or not yet, but it does help my concentration in lectures if I've already been awake for two hours. Normally I get up forty minutes before my first lecture and stumble about the flat getting ready, but not waking up until I leave the building. This has produced odd situations in the past.

If I'm going to wake up early I have to give myself an incentive. Things like; "You can get some work done before you even get to uni!" don't seem work. It has to be more along the lines of, "just think how many times you can get changed before you finally settle on an outfit, you might not even be bored of it by lunch!"

Today, my incentive was that I'd ordered something cute from asos.com a couple of days ago, so it should be about time it arrived. I don't trust my postman, and I reckon he might knock extra quietly, so I don't hear him and he can leave a "Sorry you were out" form instead of having to carry a parcel upstairs. I planned to catch him if he tried it.

A quiet tap at the door came at around 10am. I dashed to the door to open it before postie could get away, and readied my accusing look. I yanked the door open angrily. Standing there, wearing an expression of surprise and fatigue was what I am now calling a "refuse collection individual," simply because I'm certain that "Bin man" is not PC, and I don't know what is. Also, I feel bad for giving him my accusing glance, it's not his fault my parcel isn't here.

He told me our buzzer isn't working (which I knew, and I've been trying to get our landlord to fix it for some time, but he always fobs me off saying he needs to speak to all the other landlords that own flats in our building). He explained that this was why our bins haven't been collected for some time, and asked for my landlord's number.

This is all very well and good. I'm pleased that the refuse collection individual will call my landlord for me, and that the buzzer will be fixed, and that the rubbish will be taken away. Now I won't have to persuade someone else to take the rubbish downstairs so that I don't get eaten by a giant rat. On the other hand, I was going to use the rats to dispose of the postman's body, and I still don't have my parcel.

Postman... postman... Post delivery personnel? Physical communications manager? Git?