Ffion 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿

It’s been an 80s night at work tonight. It seems to have gone down well, with one chap commenting that:

“It’s like Butlin’s but good!”

It’s nuts to think that it’s been 12 years since and, to this day, it’s still the gig I’m most happy to have been able to see live.

Watching it, and other Python media, back doesn’t half make me realise how it’s influenced my sense of humour.

Watching Monty Python: One Down, Five To Go for the thousandth time and it’s got me feeling sad about Jonesy. This is also the fist time I’ve noticed the dedication to Robin Williams at the end of the credits so it has been a proper gut punch.

What is a parmo, you may ask? Teesside’s gift to the world, ready to clog arteries wherever they are made or sold.

It’s no exaggeration to say it’s one of the main things I miss about living in the north east.

The younger lad took the mick out of the older bloke for pronouncing a parmo as ‘parma’.

An unexpected reminder of home on the train to work today. There were a couple of loud blokes chatting further down the carriage; one has a son who lives in the town I went to college in and the other lives in the next town over from my mum. Understandably parmos have been a large part of the convo.

RIGHT?!?! Who says that??

Also what does that even mean? That, as a working-class northerner I was born to serve posh southerners with titles like Lord, Lady, or Esquire?

She probably meant horse racing but still. What a strange thing to say to someone.

Is it the dead inside look? Is it the mild dread of dealing with the public? Especially southerners.

Got flashbacks to working Royal Ascot in 2021, serving poshos in a private box and one lady said, “this is in your blood, isn’t it? I can tell”.

“Do you work here?”

“No.You know, you’re not the first person to ask me that.”

“Oh, you get it all the time?”

“No no, I mean TODAY.”

“You do have that vibe. How does that make you feel?”

Lady, what kind of question is that? Makes me feel like I’m at work on what’s supposed to be a rare day off!

The next woman asked me if this was the door for Row C, I pointed to the sign above the door that had the rows it was for and said yes. She then asked if she could go in. I said I didn’t know.

They asked if I was staff and were genuinely surprised when I said no.

“You look like staff.”

Ok? What do you want me to do with this information?

All I was doing was standing by the stall entrance that was closest to my row as we hadn’t been let in yet. The first couple asked if they could go in, I replied that I didn’t know but didn’t think so as the curtains were drawn and through a gap I could see staff unbolting a couple chairs.

Wasn’t dressed as a total scumbag because it’s the theatre in the capital and the gig was for charity, so you’ve got to put some kind of effort in.

It’s been a few days since my trip to Bloomsbury Theatre in London and I still can’t help thinking about the three people who thought I was staff. I did not have a lanyard, a radio, or an earpiece. What I did have was a folded coat, two books, and two cans of water. Nothing to suggest staff. Nada.

There should be a rule against eating hot food on the train. Why would you bring smelly stuff into an enclosed space with other people???

Tapping the sign.

Going out drinking after work as you get older stops being about whether you’re a lightweight or not and more about whether you actually had chance to take a dinner break on your shift

Stumbled across a subreddit for CPTSD memes and, oh boy, did it open up a can of worms when I looked up what it meant. Just staring at the floor with dawning realisation while my brain goes brrrrrrrrr

#proofofcat