Skip to main content

Awkward turtle

Awkward turtle ... not know what I mean? Oooh, lucky you.

Picture this - hold your hands out in front of you, palms facing the floor; place one hand on top of the other and curl fingers over; thumbs should remain parallel to the floor and at 90 degrees to the hands; then start to roll thumbs in a forward-turning, circular, pedalling motion: this is the 'awkward turtle'. Ask any teenager and they will demonstrate an array of other awkward animals - from 'awkward giraffe' to 'awkward frog' - in fact, be prepared to face a menagerie of awkward beasts that will sneak rudely into conversations, or encroach on your peripheral vision when things get ... well? - just a bit uncomfortable in the social, conversational department.




Frequent awkward turtles include


  • chatting happily to a friend - one who you see on an almost daily basis outside school, who you have met for coffee, played tennis with, and (let's make this as bad as possible) have not only enjoyed dinners with, but have also shared the cost of a holiday cottage with. A new acquaintance approaches, the mum of the new girl in your daughter's class, and (if you know me, you've probably guessed already what happens next) introductions are required. Do you remember the name of the new girl's mum - miraculously, yes! - of your 'best' friend - of course not. Roll on the awkward turtle, generously proffered by child in corner. Your child. Whose name you sometimes remember.
  • children are the principle fans of this one - wind from above or below, that can't be blamed on the dog
  • that email that somehow says something entirely different from what you had intended - oops! picture awkward turtle inside head, or lurking somewhere above the head of the person you sent it to
  • anything misheard, mispronounced or generally misunderstood
  • and finally - for now anyway - the worst, most embarrassing, dig-me-a-hole-now-and-I'll-jump-into-it-sooner-than-immediately awkward turtle; the one where faced with a curmudgeonly relative who is bent on spoiling the party/dinner/picnic you decide that it's time to tell a joke. Bear in mind that you are not known for your joke-telling skills. Bear in mind too that said curmudgeonly relative has already spoilt the party/dinner/picnic and not even the best joke in the world is going to shift the heavy depression that has now descended on the party/dinner/picnic. And your joke is not the best joke in the world. You start telling it with confidence. And the room goes silent. Your confidence starts to wane. When curmudgeonly relative looks at you with get-on-with-it-then,-if-you-have-to eyes, it wanes further. Your voice starts to falter. You realise you had no idea your confidence could wane so low. You have two choices - stop now ... or soldier on. You soldier on. Curmudgeonly relative roars "Speak up!" Your hands are shaking. Beads of sweat prick your brow. What's the ending? What is it? Start to panic. Everyone's watching. You hiss out the punch-line ... There is no silence as complete as a silent room filled with silent people who silently go "Aaah - not very funny" inside their heads. You can almost hear the turtles furiously cycling your children's hands at the party/dinner/picnic.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Colour, Delacroix, flochetage and why don't we all have a go at inventing words

Yes - it is a real word. Flochetage. Well, a real-ish word. One invented by the painter Delacroix, when he found the dictionary cupboard bare and required a word to describe his technique of layering different coloured paints, using lightly pulled brush strokes to create texture and pattern and thereby enhance his base-layer colours (... lost? - stick around, read on and all will become clear. Or perhaps muddier ...). Flochetage implies both stringiness and threadiness. Apparently. And it sounds good - in a filling-the-mouth-with-sound sort of a way. Try it ... flochetaaaage. Not that I speak French. So I am probably mis-pronouncing it. Nor am I an artist. So what do I know about painting techniques - except that I think this one works. What I do like is the concept - you invent a new technique in whatever it is you do, hunt around for the vocabulary to describe it, find the dictionary is lacking, so make up a word of your own and announce to the world what it means. Delacroix isn&#

My beloved boy, how lucky I have been

It's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die ... and I say someone here even though the one in question was a dog - but to us he had character and a place forever in our hearts and was more of a familiar someone than some of the people in our lives. So, I'll start again - it's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die, our senses go into overdrive. We notice things that normally would be part of the background of our every day. We breathe more - or rather, we don't but what we do is notice our breathing more, as we watch his. We pause. We think. We listen to ourselves and our inner voices speak. Memories flood our dreams ... though sleep is fitful.  Why am I telling you this? ... ... we lost this beautiful boy today And in the hours before he went, I saw perfect spheres of dew on blades of grass - little orbs holding micro-images of our world; a bumble bee drunk on nectar, yellow-dusted with pollen, resting in a crocus; ten - yes, ten!

Tut, Tut, soggy feet again

"Tut, Tut, looks like rain." Tut, Tut probably isn't the first thing that springs to mind when viewing this picture. And faced with bleak weather and a sad-looking symbol of national pride it is unlikely that many would consider a small bear  a personage of sufficient gravitas to quote. However, Walking the Dog was in Scotland ( was rather than is, because was there last week without internet). And Walking the Dog likes Pooh. That sort of Pooh - the sort with an 'h' at the end. A. A. Milne had a lot to say about the weather. He gave Eeyore my favourite weather-related observation , "The nicest thing about the rain is that it always stops. Eventually." And last Thursday, it did stop. Long enough for Littlest and I to walk to our pooh-sticks bridge. Long enough for us to get half way there, along the grassy path. Long enough for us to chat to the cows (we had to shout as they stubbornly stayed at the distant end of the fie