Dicking Around 

Well Autumn is definitely here. This weekend was a lot cooler and it seems we have turned the corner away from the long, hot and over humid summer.

I managed to get two swims in on the weekend and the pool was not busy, possibly because people associate swimming with hot weather, which is odd, because the pool is indoors, but I was not complaining. When I got home, a frog was chirping in the backyard – the very same frog, who, on the infamous ‘frog dog blog’ night last week, had tried to take out Archie, admittedly in self-defense. I did not see him this time, but heard him and a few minutes later had the bugger identified through his call as a Western Banjo Frog, who indeed does have poisonous glands on his back legs, which explained Archie’s reaction the other night.

Autumn means things start to feel more comfortable and you would think that the pace would pick up a little. After weather so hot all you want to do is lie under a fan, you would think cooler weather would mean slightly faster movement, but here Perthites buck the trend. As naturally summer-loving people, they go a tad reclusive as the temperature cools, threatening to hibernate for a while before they adjust, strap into their onesies and get on with the footy.

So the office felt strangely quiet this morning and the noisiest thing was the conversation at my team’s desks. One of my colleagues had spent the weekend at a friend’s house whose husband had bought her a turntable so she could play her old records and they had spent a number of hours singing their way down memory lane.

I cannot think of any modern equivalent to the thrill of buying a single when we were teenagers. A single record disc had two tracks, an A side and a B on the flip side, and was played at the faster speed of 45 rpm (revolutions per minute) on the turntable. Albums plodded along at 33 1/3 rpm.  Everyone of my generation remembers the first record they bought. Mine, I am ashamed to admit, was Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep, a pop song which has not really lasted the distance. My younger brother, who has always had a better feel for the longer lasting trend, chose Tragedy by the Bee Gees as his. Singles were 45p to buy, the same price as their rpm and they made Saturdays a day to really look forward to.

I guess I also had a bit of nostalgia trip this weekend. The other week, before Ronnie Corbett died, my husband had spotted some DVDs of The Two Ronnies BBC comedy series and we had bought a few. Sunday night, I watched one of them and sat, slack-jawed at the sight of men in denim suits, with fantastically flared trouser bottoms, tan boots and afro perms . The comedy sketches were pretty tame, with a good sprinkling of sexual innuendo. It seemed like such innocent stuff, from a tamer time than now, when we are so media savvy.

Yet, maybe not quite so jaded as I suspected, Late in the afternoon, I got a phone call from another colleague after I sent her a flyer that had been put together for an event we are running to launch a website. For it, I came up with the highly unoriginal strap line: click and connect. It seemed simple enough, except that when the document was converted to a PDF, it squished up the letters  just enough to make the word ‘click’ look like ‘dick’.

I know dick and connect makes no real sense, but we all had a laugh. It was just like being back in the 70s again.

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