Overheard. On the Plane. And I’m still a little disturbed.

Okay, so I was on the plane. Boeing 737 800 for you plane geeks. Little entertainment centres on the backs of the chairs.

There was this woman in front of me who was taking advantage of the fabulous world of entertainment which Qantas offers to its customers. She was listening to the collected works of ABBA.

And singing.

Loudly.

I certainly didn’t mind, in fact my mother and I were singing along, as we have a little soft spot for ABBA. We were happily having a wee sing-song to ‘Knowing Me, Knowing You’ and discussing the merits of plane karaoke (it would be LEGENDARY) when weird singing lady turns around and says.

“I’m a singer in New Zealand.”

I nodded and smiled, with the possum-in-the-headlights look of someone who has encountered a crazy person in a confined space, with nowhere to run. She turned back around and I thought I was safe. My mum and I burst into silent laughter.

About ten minutes later, after the initial shock had worn off and we had returned to normality (well, as much normality as can be expected), she turned around again and handed me a CD.

She just happened to have one on her is what gets me. She carries around copies of her CDs for exactly this situation. Smart, I guess, we might have been on the board of directors for Tower Records.

It was a well made CD cover-insert-slip-thingy… considering it was probably made on Word 2003.

First track was ‘God of Nation.’ Second track was ‘Downtown’ by Petula Clark.

Think about it: “God de-fend New Ze-ea-laaaaand…” … “When you’re alone and life is making you lonely you can always go. DOWNTOWN.”

Weird.

Also she wasn’t a good singer at all.

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Well, hello there.

Hey y’all!!

‘Hem. Sorry, I briefly turned into a seventeen-year-old cheerleading vice captain from New Mexico. It’s been known to happen from time to time.

So yet again I have let my blog slip. It’s like knitting. Every once in a while I think ‘hey! Isn’t knitting fun? Why don’t I do that anymore?’ Then I find the three rows of baby pink purl/plain (who the hell cares anyway) stitches which I gave up on some time ago. I nobly unstitch them all, wanting to start from scratch, remember I can’t for the life of me cast on and give up, turning instead to solving the half-solved rubik’s cube which has lain dormant for three or four years.

Actually, there have been a few crazy customers since I last posted.

There was the woman who went ape-shit at me for scanning a barcode because “IT GIVES YOU CANCER.” Apparently she’s been in previously as well. The mind boggles.

Then there was the woman who had no idea who Glenn Beck was. She was interested in buying his book. I informed her that the shop was really not likely to keep books on the shelf by hateful, bigoted, insane, xenophobic MANIAC. Okay so maybe I wasn’t that forthright, but you know my job has to keep me in pringles and vitamin water.

Finally (and my favourite) there was the woman who handed over her loyalty card and a book and said “can you tell me if  I’ve bought this book already?”

Um, yes, ’cause we live in a magical place called Oceania. In this place, Big Brother, AKA a major NZ bookstore chain, monitors your purchases for your convenience. We also log your bathroom visits.