Time to share my world again…
Do you push the elevator button more than once? Do you really believe it makes the elevator faster?
I rarely use an elevator, or lift, as we call them here in the UK. I have a deep down fear that I will get trapped in there and have to start eating parts of myself to survive, even if I’ve had a massive bowl of porridge for breakfast. I prefer to climb the stairs, unless it’s a silly amount of flights. If I do have to go to the top of a tall building I spend the entire journey wishing the lift good health and mentally planning how I will jump in the air at the precise moment it hits the ground at a million miles an hour after plummeting violently towards the centre of the earth. I don’t really bother with the buttons once I’ve instructed the lift not to kill me and just drop me at the salient floor, thanks.
Do you plan out things usually or do you do them more spontaneous (for example if you are visiting a big city you don’t know?)
‘Plan’ is a four-letter word. A regular bone of contention with my ostensibly more organised partner, I PLAN NOTHING. Because when I do, it all goes pear-shaped, tits up and a-glay (you know, like the best laid ones of mice and men…) Especially if I TELL anyone my plans. I can hear the words coming out of my mouth sometimes and I’ll be thinking ‘That won’t happen then.’
‘Got anything nice planned for the weekend?’ my friend will ask.
‘Oh, we might go to the beach and perhaps see a film at the cinema…’ And in my head I see that flying out the window and waving goodbye. Cue the weekend and I’m sitting in a nuclear bunker trying to bite a tin of beans open whilst my partner glowers at me over a stub of candle and two dogs and a cat draw straws for which one is getting first dibs on my liver.
So, even if I did plan anything I wouldn’t be telling YOU.
Describe yourself in at least four uplifting words.
Alive, Awake, Maniacal and Helium.
If you had a choice which would be your preference salt water beaches, fresh water lakes, ocean cruise, hot tub, ski resort or desert?
A salt water beach, please. Beach-combing is my natural state. I can pick up a whole ton of crap on a beach and pretend it’s art until the cows come home. In fact I once made a set of windchimes from the ribcage of some sort of farm animal I found on a beach. Stop screaming.