You know when a Big Fromage appears unexpectedly in work and all foreheads hatch a new crease from over-concentration as they solemnly bow over keyboards? Me neither.
You know when you vow to keep your mouth shut in a pointless work meeting and manage to pull it off without exposing yourself as a deranged hyena? Me neither.
You know when you spot the excessively polite exchanges between school parents on the Facebook group and avoid wading in with a ridiculous wisecrack that isn’t even funny to upset the stepfordium? Me neither.
You know when you finally get a job where there’s not one po-faced commander flights of stairs up the chain who’s always present when you make a monumental dick of yourself? Me neither.
You know that moment when you’re finally persuaded by the self-satisfying break-through logic of that person you’re ‘engaging’ with on Twitter? Me neither.
You know that smug moment when you realise you’re above all social media pettiness and permanently restrain yourself from having the last word? Me neither.
You know how folk should be united in their opposition to despots and unsustainable laws and campaigns through some notion of static ‘communities’ that collectively appoint spokespeople with whom others must never disagree or they’ll be sent to the gulag for tone-policing? Me neither.
You know that feeling of recognition you get when other parents freely talk about ‘mammy guilt’? Me neither.
You know my career, right? Me neither.
You know when you’re ordering popcorn in the cinema? Me neither.
You know when everyone around you is exceedingly polite and it rubs off on you and you don’t break out in an anaphylactic bout of swearing and disclose the most socially embarrassing stories about your family? Me neither.
You know my savings account, right? Me neither.
You know the way your husband is your best friend? Me neither.
You know that embarrassing incident involving a minor indiscretion from 1995 you’ve finally been able to let go of? Me neither.
You know that job application that’s due in this week? Me neither.
Shit. The family fromages are circling.
*hatches new forehead crease*
department of speculation 
You know that feeling when you know it’s the weekend but you don’t need wine..me neither.
You know that feeling when you see a list post and think, “thank you for sharing”…me neither.
Just as well you and I don’t share a FB group as I find it a little hard not to weigh in with what I think of as humour, which may or may not always be appreciated.
*sharp intake of breath* Close call there, tric. One more item and it would’ve been a list.
I wish you were in an earnest mammy/daddy Facebook group that I had access to, Dept: I’d check in every day to check for any rogue, tumbleweed-attracting wisecracks from you. They’d be the best thing on there. I’m forever deleting my own “humorous” ejaculations in a cold sweat on that strange cesspit FB. Gah, those things “careers” – that there is my personal sore point at the moment. I don’t seem to genuinely want to have a proper one, otherwise I’d surely have one (no excuses on that score), but I’m permanently anxious that I haven’t got one – what does it mean?
Great writing, comrade.
Ejaculations… haha. That’s it. Did writing ever feature in your career aspirations? I even find it hard typing ‘aspirations’ with a straight face, so doing it twice was a real challenge. Why are all my favourite bloggers the best hidden writers? I found the job angst cranked up a gear when turning 40. The usual cliched irrepressible tap on the shoulder from ‘direction’. But it’s all direction of some sort. Well, so a friend tries to convince me. The 40-somethings around me are all engaged in some serious chin-stroking over reconciling dormant dreams with practicalities, and that with something fifth best, a distant cousin of the original high-minded fantasy job. Top 5 fantasy jobs – give us your own there like a good woman. I promise I won’t laugh. Out loud.
When I was a kid I wanted to be a dolls house museum curator. Then a time-traveller appointed to take photos of all the bits of London that were lost to slum clearances (still an amazing job). A puppy trainer for stupid rich people. Manager of the country’s quietest (but surprisingly lucrative) bookshop cafe.One of those perfume ‘noses’. Writing was always floating around in the background too but with no firm ideas on how I’d use it. Now my fantasy is just to manage to stay part- time as long as possible. I think it’s the secret to happiness. Yours, Dept?
Fabulous choices. Can I be jealous of them even if they’re your fantasy ones? Part-time is the compound word, compound word..it’s got groove, it’s got meaning.
Writing was a default setting as a nipper and into my teens and beyond. Followed by psychologist, town planner, ‘something’ in the arts, film censor for Ireland, and Bono haler cleaner. Now, I’d just settle for being a curator for the museum of my wasted potential. Not unlike a small toilet.
I can be one of the guest exhibitions at your museum of wasted potential; I wouldn’t take up much space
It appears I know nothing. When were you going to tell me?
Oh, did you not get the memo?
Me neither
Acht Missus, I’ve been away too long. Can’t think of a suitable banterous quip. *stares at middle distance wondering how big a middle sized cow might be*
You are missed, birdie. As are your occasional posts. I reckon a middle-sized cow would be roughly the size of an extra large Shetland pony. If you squint at it while closing your left eye.
Ah, that’s where I went wrong – I was closing my right eye and not squinting. Aye, I must pop back to the blog to open the windows and hoover up the mouse droppings.