Stalky Against the Machines: the Machines Fight Back

I was up at the crack of dawn the other day to catch a bus to catch a train to be at my destination at the agreed time of 7am.  A seemingly simple task that was thwarted on my arrival at the station.

At 6am I hop on a bus, try to control the inevitable sneezing fit I get when faced with a bus full of perfumed commuters, and ponder what time I’ll be able to snaffle my first cup of tea.  When the bus reaches the station, I get off the bus.  So far, so good, and all thoroughly exciting.

I head down the wooden escalator, which by the way, I still think is very weird and head round the corner to where I know the ticket machines are.  Three ticket machines.  No queue.  But the one I normally use has a big sign saying that today it’s not accepting cards.  Cash only.  I inspect the other two machines and discover that they too are both cash only.  Big sigh.  I’m not very good at carrying cash.  I remain traumatised after dropping £5 at a car boot sale.

So, three machines and not one of them will accept card.  I check my purse just to double check there are no notes floating around.  There are not.  I check my shrapnel and am excited to discover two gold coins and number of silvers.  I have exactly $3.60.  How much is my ticket?  Exactly $3.80.  Woe is Little Stalky.

Then I notice an ATM and feel relieved that I will be able to overcome this evil ticket machine hurdle.  I go to the ATM machine and am presented with options of $40, $60 and so on.  I don’t really want $40 but I guess it will have to do.  So I choose that option, at which point the machine promptly tells me that I can only select an amount in multiples of 50.  Multiples of 50!  Stupid machine.  Don’t tempt me with offers of $40 and $60 if you’re just going to change your mind and throw 50 in my face.  I grumble at this, hope I don’t look too bonkers, and grudgingly draw out $50 after grudgingly accepting the $2.50 charge the machine wants to charge me for the pleasure.

Back to the machines.  The machines that are now all happily announcing the fact that they have a maximum of $19.90 in change.  No more will be given.  And I have a feeling they mean it.  So here I am – 20c off the amount in change, $46.20 over the amount in cash and 3 machines that won’t accept card.  Not a recipe for a smooth morning.

If only I knew the station better.  If only I’d ventured further into the depths of its endless tunnels.  If only I’d gone around the corner….to where a very nice man was selling tickets from a booth.  Old school style. 

I did eventually turn the corner and find the nice man selling tickets from a booth but not before I’d gotten myself very cross.  Machines 1, Little Stalky 0.

The Peppermill

It could be said that sometimes I don't go about doing certain things the "normal" way.  You want ice with your margarita?  OK, but the ice cubes haven't frozen yet so here, I'll just add some icy water to your drink. It's the same thing.  And apparently pulling the stone out of an avocado is easier than cutting the fruit (or vegetable) away from it.  And if you smell burning then you're probably not imagining it and the tortillas really are turning black in the oven.  We may have had Mexican the other night and margaritas may have been consumed before dinner....

Anyway.  On a non-Mexican themed note, I had an incident with the peppermill the other day.  Or should I say an almost incident.

Some of the shelves in our kitchen are quite high and when Mystical Roos are not in the area, Little Stalkys have to think of other ways to get things from the top shelf.  More often than not I give up and wait for Mystical Roo to come home.  But in the middle of cooking dinner for the aforementioned Mystical Roo, I needed pepper.  And where was the pepper? On the top shelf of course.

So I stared at it for a while.  Stared at it and wondered if I could make it move with my mind.  Impossible.  I don't have those kinds of powers yet.  Then I decided to grab for it.  Sneak a stretch and somehow trick my body into thinking it was taller.  I was on my highest tiptoes, my arm stretched, my fingers reaching, reaching. And the peppermill was almost within reach.  I could just graze it with my fingertips.  It was infuriatingly close.

I decide that the next sensible course of action is to incorporate a spatula into my plan.  So I find a spatula and use it as an extension of my too short arm.  I hook the spatula around the back of the peppermill and start shuffling it towards the edge of the shelf.  I figure if I can just inch it a little closer to the edge then I'll be able to reach it.  But I can't.  It's still an infuriating inch out of my reach.

My next idea is pure genius.  If I can't get to the peppermill then I'll get the peppermill to come to me. What if I just push that peppermill right off the edge.  What if I use the spatula to shove that peppermill into my outstretched arms.  I'm a good catch.  I've got good reflexes.  What could possibly go wrong?  Yes, the peppermill is made of glass.  Yes, there are several pots bubbling on the hob below.  Yes, that is chili (maybe this was a Mexican themed note) bubbling away.  What's that you say?  Is that a white top you're wearing.  Why yes it is.  Recipe for disaster?  More like recipe for massively impressive Little Stalky act of awesomeness.

Definitely a recipe for disaster.  But what's impressive about this is I actually recognised the imminent disaster.  I stopped with the peppermill on the brink and I actually decided that my plan was silly.  Look how mature I am!  I also imagined being both laughed at and scolded by Mystical Roo.

So I used that spatula to push the peppermill away from the brink.  I put on an apron.  Then I grabbed the footstool and used it to give myself the extra height needed to grab the peppermill.  Easy.  I just don't know why it took me so long to think of it.  Normal just doesn't seem to be the Little Stalky way.

Possums Like to Party

So we've been in our new home for a couple of months now and one of the most exciting discoveries so far is that we have possums.  I think this must be very English of us to be excited about possums because I'm pretty sure that the Australians see them as pests.  And if what my boss tells me is true, the Kiwis shoot them and collect a dollar per pelt.....

Anyway, I'm English and I think possums are cute.

They made their presence known quite early on but it took me a while to realise what they were.  Or rather that it was possums making all the noise on top of our conservatory. I thought it was branches clattering, Will the pigeon, maybe even a rogue land dwelling shark.  But it turned out to be possums.

The sun goes down and the possums come out to play.  They scuttle across the conservatory roof and then leap from tree to tree.  I'm not sure if I'll ever stop being fascinated by their antics.  And I think they secretly love the attention.  Shy, nocturnal creatures?  Hell no.  Possums are party animals.  Stalky fans may remember that Mystical Roo found one asleep in a bin after a heavy night of partying.  And a notorious little karaoke bar down the road from us is called the Pickled Possum.  Coincidence?  I think not.  Possums like to party.  And as it goes they like to party on our roof.