So. What I actually wanted to photograph was the little plastic thingy at the front. It holds the bread bag shut and I was really pleased, as I haven't seen one of these for years. All the bread in England (that I bought) has gone over to the sticky labels thing that never really re-seals, so I was a bit (overly) pleased to see a blast from the past like this. Made me smile, so it did.
However, being as I am most likely the only person to find this as entertaining as it was for me, I thought I had better pander to the tastes of my viewing public. I am fully aware that more than one of you is eager for a glimpse of my mighty salami. Even if it does have cheese all over the end of it.
Ok. Been back since Thursday night from the three and a half week massive work trip. Brain still melted. Unable to think or string words together properly. And, for some reason that I haven't quite fathomed, I managed to batter a bottle of wine and a fair bit of whiskey to death last night while watching Casino Royale.
So I have a fuggy head, too. Which pissed me off. I wanted to be non-fuggy today. Not for any particular reason other than it seemed sensible. I also need to go shopping - no food whatsoever in the house - and have a few photo's to sort and post.
But the brain no worky. I know I can't be arsed, but I know I will be hungry if I don't go.
Oh, got to go. Someone grabbed me as they went past in the hall... ;)
Who, and I mean who, goes to Florida, stands in 30 degree heat for two days, and gets a cold?
I mean. Seriously. What the fuck is that all about? How is that even possible? Does sweating make you catch colds?
In other bizarre news, I did, for the first time in my motor racing career, have the most unusual experience of running a racing car at a test, while being watched from several light poles by vultures. Big fucking vultures. By which I mean with about a six foot wingspan. Huge.
Bizarre, like I say. Tick one more oddity off the list, I reckon.
I have to go. I have sniffling and sneezing to do. Dagnabbit.
From the guy I work with, as we are sitting in our hotel room. He and the team manager had just burst into the room with towels and belts on their heads to pelt me (lots, and whilst they screamed "Ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-") with a couple of daft BB gun things from Walmart. This was, apparently, in revenge for me dragging him off the front seat of the minivan on the way back to the hotel into the rear so I could punch him repeatedly for being cheeky.
It's been a mature evening.
So after I had tried, in vein, to hide behind my computer from the pellets (yeah, right) and cried "Ah, fuck!' and "bastards!" a lot, they then resorted to firing at each other for ages. And I mean ages. The floor is covered in pellets. The TM has red marks all up his back and sides as he is never the one to give up, yet an utterly shit shot.
As calm reigns, T is mumbling and shuffling about getting his stuff organised:
"Damn. I need a crap".
Me: "thanks for that. Especially after closing the door".
"You know the worst thing about taking a shit?"
Me: "Errr......." (really not sure I want to hear the answer)
"you can't drink whisky while you do it. It's just not right".
Er. Ok. Bizarre.
Welcome to the world I live in when I am away for work. Grown up, isn't it?