It’s a disease.
Not the bovine one.
A wholly human one.
A socially inappropriate one.
I am not psychic in the sense I can tell your future. That might be useful. No. I am the kind of psychic who can pick up on the wrong thing to say and say it loudly. Then I can’t stop. I’m like a babbling runaway train heading towards disaster but completely unable to stop.
I’m doing it again aren’t I?
I think it is genetic. I blame my mother.
She called me earlier to relay her latest verbal misadventure.
Today she thought she’d pop in and see if any progress had been made.
It was like that scene in James Bond where there’s a crystal meth factory or something one day and the next time he goes back it is an office.
The travel agent was staffed by entirely new people.
This did not faze my mother. She approached another young lady and asked if she might talk to Friday’s travel agent.
New Agent: “I am afraid she is not in today. There has been a passing.”
A passing. This is such a confusing term, a passing of what? A passing of wind? Of the parcel?
Mother: “Oh! Who died?”
New Agent: “I’m afraid I can’t say ma’am, but I am sure someone will get back to you.”
Mother: “Well, I hope it wasn’t the lady I talked to who died, because then she bloody well won’t will she?”
About now, my mother digging in her purse dislodged the business card of Friday’s Agent.
New Agent bent to retrieve it: “Oh dear. This is the lady who died.”
My mother left the store. She stopped. I wouldn’t have. I would have assumed New Agent was taking the piss and acted accordingly.
While retelling this to Husband, he reminded me off the infamous IQ Incident.
My colleague had found an online IQ test and had spent the morning happily plugging away at it completely unaware of the time based nature of said test and frequently stopping for a chat or coffee.
Joining myself and a few others for a quick break outside she jumped and joy in glee.
Colleague: “I got 80% on my IQ test.”
There was silence as we digested this and turning to the others I realised someone had to say something. And that someone was me.
Me: “Um, they don’t measure intelligence as a percentage.”
Colleague: “Oh. So what does that make me then?”
Once more my friends were silent and stared fixedly at the sky or their feet, shuffling nervously.
I espied a new member joining us and immediately said to him: “Hey, what do call someone who scored 80 on an IQ test?”
He answered immediately, “A moron.”
There’s no coming back from that.