Mein Hair

                                  

                                                                                                           

In the world of high finance around which my life revolves, I am constantly hearing the term “Haircut”. Seemingly this means to write off a portion of a debt owed to you. Unfortunate banks are likely to have to accept major haircuts on loans made to Greece. Luckily, the banks will be “re-capitalised” by governments if it looks like they will fail as a result. So boys and girls – who do you think will end up with the bald eagle hair-do in the end? Um – that’s a tough one. All these affairs of state got me thinking about the hair styles of European leaders and I do believe I have spotted a pattern. Exhaustive research has shown that a tidy haircut leads to financial ruin. Just compare the coiffure quotient bias (known as the cqb amongst insiders) between Angela Merkel of Germany (Solvent) and Silvio Berlusconi of Italy (Indebted and struggling). When you see evidence this profound you will realise that the market rule is “If you don’t want to take a haircut, avoid leaders who obviously know a few hairdressers”. The most startling proof comes when you look at George Papandreou of Greece. Now that’s what I call a haircut. The poor guy has given his all. Dear old Great Britain who kinda stumbles around trying to find the key to the last of the kids money boxes remains afloat while the markets accept the bluff. A quick glance at the Cameron Coiff should steady the exchanges for now while we look for that damn key. By the way girls – can you see how the term “haircut” is dripping with macho don’t give a billion kind of swagger. I’m gonna tell my own creditors that they have won a free re-style.


I’m getting a bit peeved with product pricing. A pack of prawns last week at ASDA was the same price that it had been in March. Hoorah and jolly hockey sticks! The only difference was that the weight had reduced by 100 grammes. This is an enormous increase. I had earlier noted that chicken breast fillets had been similarly reduced in pack weight. So, what is going on? Do they think we don’t notice. Having been out of the UK for a while the jump is obvious. I guess if you just plop the same stuff in your trolley week in week out you may not spot the difference. So come on guys -d’ya fink we’re like stoopid or summink?

Emma thinx: Tosstesterone – the ultimate field event steroid.

Absentee Tee Hee



The best possible thing about being back at work in a real job every day is that I get a FRIDAY feeling. It has also toned my mathematical ability because I can tell you at any time of the day or week how long it is until Friday night. Now, in researching this little matter I clicked on You Tube just to see how many “Friday Night” entries there were. My maths weren’t up to making a full count. Yes- this sense of week-end release from toil has always been a background in my life ever since I can recall. This is one of the reasons why French life has a very different feel to it. Here in the UK I really notice the whole 24 hour culture. It always amused me to see folk buying groceries at the all night gas stations. For security reasons they do not allow shoppers inside but the goods have to be poked out through the little gap left for you to pay. A plastic milk bottle will just bend through but a pack of Cornflakes is a major challenge. I reckon there is a fortune waiting out there for the guy who invents Gas Station retail ergonomics – you know like a hot water bottle of milk, bread rope and a sausage of washing powder.  If any of you lot steal this idea I’m gonna be straight down the Gas Station to hire an inflatable lawyer.


Rain and thunder slowed traffic to a crawl this morning so I was 10 minutes late getting to intercom mom. I thought I’d launch a pre-emptive strike.
“I ‘spect ee’s already dun ‘is teef,” I quipped.
“Nah dear – ee’s not too good an’ ee won’t be in. Can you tell ’em.”
I crawled on to the next client – a lad of about 16. Normally he stands at the bus stop smoking a cigarette. Torrential rain fell and there was no sign of him. I knew his house and went to the door. No answer. I returned to the bus soaked and getting cold. On Friday I can take anything.


At the college I saw my favourite official.(She’s the one who reprimanded me for speaking to a parent about their child’s behaviour when I was not a professional educator). Yesterday she reported me to the bus company for being two minutes early even though she was standing  there. She has to know who comes in. This morning I watched my lot troop past her while she wasn’t paying attention. With anyone else I would have braved the rain and told her she was two short. Important officious people probably think they win the game. I bet her little heart swelled with pride inside her reflective importance jacket as she grassed me up. So – she’s had her tremble of official joy….. 


Emma thinx: Know what the game is before you try to win.