On wearing nice socks

I wear odd socks. Odd, as in not matching, rather than intrinsically odd.

Sometimes they’re brightly coloured, sometimes dark, sometimes stripy, sometimes spotty, sometimes plain, sometimes patterned, sometimes with pictures. Sometimes they’re thick, sometimes thin, sometimes long sometimes short, sometimes in-between. Sometimes they’re boring socks, sometimes they’re just socks, not in need of a description.

Sometimes someone mentions them, mostly they don’t. If they do, they mostly only notice that they don’t match.

I notice other people’s socks occasionally, mostly if they aren’t wearing shoes. Sometimes I comment on them.

“Hey! [Those are] cool socks!” Smile. End of conversation.

What I have never done, is ask if I can wear them.

No one’s ever asked if they could wear mine either. If they had, I would have thought they were very very strange.

I have to admit that I’ve also never offered..

If someone told me I have nice socks, I would say thanks and probably move on to something more exciting. If I thought they were really interested I might say something like: “Yeah, I thought they were pretty cool too, I found them in a market in….blahblahblah..”

“Those are nice socks!”
“Thanks! Want to try them on?”

is not a conversation I’ve ever thought about having. Not in a million years.


Yesterday, while waiting at the airport, I flicked through a magazine.

Apparently, according to the magazine, 

“Hey! You’re wearing nice socks, can I try them on?”

made it onto the list of top 3 chat up lines for the next season.


Apparently that’s a thing.

I don’t claim to be an expert on chat up lines, I didn’t even know there was a list, but even assuming one exists, asking to wear someone else’s socks would never have occurred to me as a candidate, never mind one of the winners.

I have no idea how they choose what lands on it. Have they been compiled, thought up, tested? Do people write in with what worked for them?? Are there contests?

Several hours later I still can’t imagine a situation where that would be a good thing to say.

It’s entirely possible I’m missing the innuendo or a reference to something else because I miss a lot of references.

But I’m curious:

Is it me, or is the whole idea really really weird?

Do people really want to wear other people’s socks? Especially when the other person’s been wearing them..

Have I been missing out? 

On sheep dogs

Do sheep dogs care about the sheep who stay where they’re told? Do they even notice them?


Today my thoughts kept circling back to sheepdogs.

I don’t think I’ve spent more than a handful of hours in my whole life watching sheepdogs working, but every time I get the chance, I am impressed.

Where the sheepdog-thoughts came from I have no idea. Here they are though.

And if anyone is actually knowledgeable about sheepdogs, please share your wisdom. πŸ™‚


They presumably know the sheep who step outside the flock better than the rest; certainly spend more time attending to them.
Would they prefer to run with the flock themselves? Or do they like being outside it, playing an integral part, and still not really belonging? Not getting involved, yet still being involved.

Does all that running about energise them or wear them out? When all the sheep get to where they’re going, are they proud of their results or frustrated by the knowledge that it won’t last, that the next day is sure to present many of the same situations?

Are they going through the motions, doing what’s expected of them, or do they choose what to do, enjoying themselves and relishing in the challenges, stretching themselves with more and more ways to solve the same issues.

On getting unangry

Getting angry is easy.

Getting unangry isn’t. At least, I don’t think it is. 

Yesterday was an angry day. (And I also didn’t post, so this is a catch up).

I asked three people what they do to get rid of their own anger and all three of them said they listen to loud music. One added that if it doesn’t work, they listen to more music (and/or more loudly). Additionally, one suggested screaming and one admitted to driving very fast.

I tend to want to hit things. I don’t actually hit them – I need my hands uninjured – but the wanting is still there. I also tend to cry. The sort that is uncontrolled and hot and loud and results in puffy eyes and an entire binload of used tissues.

Yesterday I went for music instead. It’s not the first time I’ve listened to music when angry, but it was probably the first time I have done so purposefully, with getting rid of my anger the only motivation.

It helped. I probably need a couple more doses πŸ˜‰ but I am, a day/night and several hours of loud music later, down to a level of anger that isn’t, probably, going to involve injury to myself, anyone or anything else.

Who knows. Maybe I’ll find something creative to do with all this imbalanced energy soon.

In the meantime I will prescribe myself another dose of the Dixie Chicks’ “not ready to make nice (https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=IHH8bfPhusM) at full computer-speaker-volume in the workshop.

Luckily my colleague is on holiday πŸ™‚ πŸ™‚ πŸ™‚

On red lights

There is a solitary red street light on the road next to the river through the residential area.

Does that make it a red light district?

On unequal injustices

I wrote this while on holiday in January. (I will aim to make the links work soon).


(Trigger Warning – contains information about sex-trafficking. May also contain too-much-information about periods…)


I was going to write a whinging, whining, self-pitying post about how stupid and mean and unfair and generally ‘meh’ it is, to not only be someone who inflates like a balloon* for the week preceding her period, but to do so while on holiday. Not only that, but to also start said period in an apartment where toilet paper has to be collected in a bucket instead of flushed down the loo. How gross is that? Also, it’s all very well peeing behind rocks when out discovering the island, ‘perioding’ is a different story, and the island im general isn’t particularly toilet friendly – the few-and-far-between public loos here close at about half past 6.

Yeah, then I watched a documentary about European sex-trafficking and underage prostitution and girls having to choose (at around 12 years old) between,
A) staying at home, where ‘home’ means in a hovel** with an outside loo or no loos at all, probably no electricity or running water, and a high chance of unemployed, abusive, alcoholic parents, with no real perspective of improvement or a decent education or a job of their own in the future
B) going out into the ‘big wide world’, where ‘big wide world’ means leaving everything you know, trusting a stranger, or a cousin, (or sometimes, in the most harrowing cases, a former close friend who’s come back to fetch you), to bring you across the border to freedom, with the promise of a good job or an education thrown in, but actually turns out to be having your trust broken, having your passport taken from you at the border and being made to ‘work’ in a bordell in the backstreets of an unnamed European town (or directly on the streets) where you are likely to be drugged up and forced to do unthinkable things with uncountable, mostly rich, men who have too much at stake to report the underage, underfed, underslept ‘staff’ in their bordell of choice. One of the bordells they’d just arrested in the documentary, looks, at least from the outside, like a typical house in an upper class housing estate. Inside, behind closed doors (and closed windows), lived a group of ’24-hour prostitutes’. 24-hour-prostitutes have to be available all day every day. No respite. Instead of informing the police, the ‘clients’ complained to the bordell, the same way they would complain about a hire car: ‘this one doesn’t meet the requirements’.
This upper class housing estate is less than 20km from where I live. It unfortunately isn’t the only one of it’s kind in the world.


The worst part of it, really, is that I can’t do anything about it.
I am a glassblower, not a social worker, not a politician, not a judge.
I can’t make laws, and I can’t even vote for them if someone else makes them (unless they’re made in England) because I’m English living in Germany.
I speak English and German (with a tiny bit of French and Spanish for good measure), not Romanian or any of the other East European languages most of the girls speak. Even if we shared a common language, I have no idea what I could say that would help, I don’t have any experience of living in hovels or bordells or any of the other things they’ve been subjected to in their short lives.
I can’t help them escape, can’t offer them an alternative, can’t brighten their futures.
I can’t even pay someone else to help them because I’m close to broke – I will have to talk to the bank when I get home as my account seems to have a leak, or more likely, a holiday-sized hole, in it. And then I need new glasses. And to eat. And to pay the electricity bill. And the water bill. And the phone bill. And all manner of things which I pretty much take for granted as necessary for life, but which are probably unimaginable to a Romanian 12 year old…


If anyone has clever, or workable, ideas or suggestions for things I could actually do (apart from pray, wish and hope) please let me know.


In the meantime, faced with all this information, which to misquote Stefan in this article about ‘reading rape’, “I don’t even want to have in my head”, I think I’ll stick with my holiday in an apartment with the strange loo-roll laws. Maybe I’ll still complain about them, but quietly, and in the knowledge that it could be so unbelievably much worse. And I’ll enjoy the rest.
* I have friends who were less round at 7 or 8 months pregnant..

** a real hovel, not a wantable hovel like Kate lived in.

On 1337 likes and 13-to-30 request


I’m not sure why 1337 is considered a cool number, but WordPress has just congratulated me, so I’m guessing it must be.

I am a bit of a lot bewildered that so many of you luffly people read what I write, and a lot of a lot more amazed that you like it enough to say so (with all your comments as well as “like-stars”).

Thank you.


If I ever finish this stupid essay (and corresponding presentation) I will post something post-y to celebrate you all, in the meantime, it’s almost 13 weeks til my birthday. Approximately 20 weeks ago, I realised it was 30+ weeks to go, but I wanted to wait until it was exactly 30-weeks-to-go, and missed it, and now I’ve pretty much missed 13-weeks-to-go, but that’s probably the way I roll bestest and I suppose I’d miss me if I was less like me…My excuse is that I’m still reeling from the realisation that I really and truely turn 30 this year.

Considering it doesn’t really feel that long ago that I went to an older friend’s 16th birthday party and thought 16 was Very Old, I don’t know how that happened.


I turn 30 this year.


So. I’m looking for 13 (smallish) things to do which will push my boundaries and help me make the most of the last few weeks of being 29 and/or make me a better adult when I get to 30 (since I still don’t feel like one).

Send your ideas this way (baring in mind I work full time and go to school 5 or 6 times a fortnight)

I will consider all suggestions, but I most definitely reserve every right to veto your ideas πŸ™‚

On musical confusion

Dear musicians, band managers and English-lyric writers,

Please (PLEASE) help me.
I have colleagues who listen to the radio. Even though there are several German bands, most of the music on the radio is currently sung in English. As the only “native-English-speaker” in the place, it’s my job to tell them what’s being sung.
I wouldn’t mind, really, if they accepted what I said, and went on with their work. Instead I find myself involved with in depth analysis and advanced linguistics.
Yesterday, for example, I was asked to explain and or translate half a dozen songsΒ (including ‘I am the walrus’, ‘stay with me in the yellow’, and the band name ‘down2five’)
I could provide neither satisfying translations nor explanations. I don’t have a clue what the walrus is about, I don’t know how (or why) one stays in the yellow (or even what it is or what happens when one does), and I don’t know whether they used to maybe be 6 or if its actually supposed to be 25.

In future, it would be good if you could stick to band names, song titles and lyrics which make immediate sense, especially to non native English speakers. It would also be good if you only sang real words (God forbid the producers ever decide to recite The Jaberwocky.)

It can’t be all that hard, when you next write a song or name a band, you just need to think like a German. If you eradicate the need for the following questions you’re on the right track: What’s it about? What does it mean? What else could it mean? (Try using words which don’t rely on the context (words should only have one meaning each)) Why did they write such ridiculous songs? How does that work? Couldn’t they have said XYZ instead? How do you pronounce that? Why bother singing if no one can hear the words? (sing clearly, dammit!)…..

Thank you!