Endings

I’ve avoided writing about my job over the last year or so, mainly because it deals with a large distributed client base and I didn’t (and still don’t) really want to inadvertantly cause problems for either myself or my employer by saying the wrong thing.  So excuse me if I name no names. ( Dean has made a habit of giving his workplaces fanciful and (perhaps) significant names – like “Tombstone”.  I’ll refrain from this as well, lest I let something slip).

In early February, though, I handed in my notice.  Today’s my last day. 

Ribs, ribs, ribs, etc…

Fat Sally’s at Oamaru, NZ is a rather popular pub and restaurant, recommended by the Lonely Planet Guide.  Ms Canada and I took their suggestion and indulged in a beer, a wine and after perusing the menu, I decided to doubly indulge in their Ribs, Ribs, Ribs!  (No Half Serves)

Now your correspondent (mostly) knows his limits, and since Ribs, Ribs, Ribs! comes with potato chips,  I requested a small salad substitution.

The picture tells the story.  If they’d had Ribs, Ribs! or maybe just Ribs! I would have been quite happy.  As it was, I was both happy and bloated, not to mention feeling somewhat guilty at overindulging.

Here’s the thing.  The folks on the table next to us also both got Ribs, Ribs, Ribs!, but with chips.  Imagine my plate, with a 50cm layer of chips then the ribs.  And they ate it all, I presume.  Better men than I, and one of them was a girl, and not a big one.

Bog Standard, not.

I’m weighing in to the over or under argument.

Over, not under.

Right, got it?

In case you haven’t, coming soon to a loo near you – and you know who you are – is my probably soon not to be patented – toilet roll holder accessory that simply makes it impossible to hang your toilet paper by the wall and be able to get any paper when you need it.  It enforces the God-endorsed (in a personal revelation – prove me wrong!) configuration of toilet paper hanging over the top of the roll toward you, rather than the heretical and abhorrent alternative.

Plumb(ing) crazy

There are small things that conspire to annoy the less worldly traveller. The colour of street signs, how close to the safe speed limit the suggested road curve speeds are, whether there are public toilets in towns or whether you have to buy a coffee to use some restaurant’s dunny (self defeating  at best, since it just sets you up for the next one), or the baffling array of confusing shower taps.

And it’s the latter of which I write.

What happened to the simple two taps each for the bath and the shower?  Every motel we visit seems to have bought their bathroom fittings from “obscure taps-r-s”.  Whether it be a special button hidden behind the shower curtain that you press to switch taps from bath to shower, a small paddle on the shower rose that controls temperature and is guaranteed to drench you with cold water before you can figure out where the hot setting is, or a completely unmarked joystick which provides a one-armed-bandit option for choosing whether you get scolded or frozen, motel owners conspire to compete as to how many half dressed, damp guests arrive back at the reception desk sheepishly asking for directions as to how to get a decent shower.