Last Wednesday I discovered why I am enjoying work so much.
Everyone in our team was on a half-day Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI) course. I had confirmed, that which I already knew. I am an ENFP. A big one. It means I have lots of ideas that I become quite passionate about, but I don't really like data or details or deadlines. Apparently my preference for "not planning nor organising nor being pinned down" is off the scale. The head of the department looked at this and said: "that's interesting, considering the job you're doing. You must be very good at pretending to be something else." Too true.
Even better, my boss is an ENFP too. And, in our wider team, there are so many other ENFPs that our team type is also ENFP. It's like I've been welcomed home.
A common feature of people given those four letters is their hatred of routine. I hate routine. Although I have to admit I feel so much more in control when I adopt one. I find it difficult to choose my lunch every day. Even when I mix it up a bit and try the deli instead of the cafeteria or Tesco, I'm still paralysed at the point of having to choose something. It all feels so boring and same-y. On Tuesday, we went to the cafeteria and I said to Alice: "Sometimes I feel like my whole life is a baked potato. Maybe if I had more drama in my lunch I wouldn't have to inject so much ...
...into the rest of my life." "Maybe Lisa. Maybe."
Last weekend I spent practically the whole of Sunday on the computer researching my ancestry. This was after I'd roamed around Restalrig trying to find my car. I'd never been to Restalrig before so that was ... interesting. The other side of the stadium is like a whole different world.
Sunday had started when I got up and made breakfast for 'Dave' and I. Whilst we were arguing about long-life shopping bags, my blackberry buzzed and he called me a 'corporate whore'. It's all so romantic I'm fighting to contain my flowery prose. Anyway, he was heading home and I was going to buy something nice for my lunch to reward myself for all the family history research I was going to be doing.
When we got outside, I noticed that there were no cars in the street and realised there must be a football match on. My car wasn't there either. 'Dave' headed on home and I went to ask the policeman where my car was. "What's your registration?" "Er ... no." I replied shaking my head. I honestly don't know what my car registration is. Pathetic. But as I said at the start of this entry, I'm not so hot on the details.
"Can you phone your partner to get it?"
"It's OK, I've got a note of it in the flat. I'll just pop up and get it."
"Just give your partner a call, it'll be quicker."
"Er ... I don't have a 'partner'."
"Oh, right, was that not your partner? I thought ..."
"He's not my 'partner'."
"Oh. OK. He looked like he might be your partner."
"Well he's not. It's not that .... Anyway, it's my flat and it's my car and he doesn't know any more about it than I do. OK?"
"OK."
"I'll just go get that reg number for you."
"Well if you tell me what kind of car it is that'll do."
Honestly! He told me the car had been removed to Marionville Road and that would take about 15 minutes to walk to.
"I'll give you a lift if you like."
"No thanks. I'm fine with walking."
"But it's raining. I'll give you a wee lift round."
"No. It's fine. I could do with the exercise."
After picking up my car and my lunch, I set about the family history research. My paternal grandfather's mum's side of the family had been causing me problems. I'd located her death certificate and got her parents' names from that, but I couldn't find their marriage certificate. They've recently opened up a whole new set of records so I was able to get my great-grandparents' wedding certificate for 1932. This gave the same names for my great-great grandparents, but didn't give their wedding date ... because they never got married. (Oooh! How unconventional. I love it. However, that said, marriage certificates do make family history research much easier. So I now have a second pro for marriage. The first being that a well-crafted gift and guest list can furnish your entire flat. Still, that's 2 pros against 304 cons.) Apparently, my great-great grandad later committed suicide by sticking his head in a gas oven, but I've yet to find anything to support this. Maybe he did get married after all.
My mum's dad's side of the family is a headache too. They are all called James and Christina Thomson. All of them. So you get a guy called James Thomson marrying a woman called Christina Thomson (yes, same surname) and his parents are listed on his wedding certificate as James Thomson and Christina Thomson (nee Thomson), and her parents are listed as James and Christina Thomson (nee Thomson). Arrrggghhh! I phoned my mum to tell her that I've finally found an explanation for her squint pinky fingers. Disturbing. My great-great-great-great grandad on this side died of 'softening of the brain caused by sunstroke'. In Buckhaven?
Anyway, that's enough for now. I'll tell you about my embarrassing toe cleavage problems (no doubt due to the horrific levels of inbreeding amongst my ancestors) next time.
Showing posts with label psychological experiments. Show all posts
Showing posts with label psychological experiments. Show all posts
Friday, July 11, 2008
Monday, August 14, 2006
Sofa so good
Festival excellence. Jen made the trip up from Liverpool and we both made the most of the weekend.
My shin pads, gum shield, hockey stick and pink hockey glitter ball all arrived in time for Thursday's game, and I noticed a marked difference in my willingness to get 'stuck in'. My blue gum shield makes me look particularly attractive and, according to its instructions, I can 'breathe, talk and spit!". Oh how people will flock to me.
After the game, I had a rather embarrassing encounter with a friend of a friend. As we said our goodbyes, I saw he intended to kiss me on the lips. Uncomfortable with this, I lowered my head to silently plead with the ground to open up and swallow me. Unfortunately, Mr Trying-His-Luck had decided to part his lips, which meant I ended up with my nose in his mouth. Hello, awkward!
Kelly, Tim, Kate, Steven and I headed out for drinks at Baroque after work on Friday. I'd only intended to stay for one but ended up just walking straight from the pub to the station to meet Jen. We dropped Jen's stuff off at the flat then headed out to Shapla for an Indian takeaway. We started the weekend as we meant to go on by ordering the 'special' lentils as a side dish.
It was so good to catch-up and even better over some great food and wine. We chatted non-stop about all manner of things until about 2:45am. Jen slept on the new sofa and informed me that it is most comfortable.
On Saturday, we bought almond croissants from the Manna House and fought our way along Princes Street. As we were heading out to Careth's new house for her house-warming party, we stopped in at M&S to buy a gift. We opted for a gorgeous fuschia orchid, which Jen christened Olivier, and a bottle of pink cava. After eating our sandwiches and croissants, and indulging in the sun in the gardens, we stopped at the bus stop to catch the no. 22. I had the honour of carrying Olivier through the thronging masses and noted that he was attracting a fair bit of attention. "Absolutely beautiful" exclaimed one woman, to which Jen remarked: "Olivier! You cad!"
We then decided to carry out a little psychological experiment to see how many smiles we could induce by casually placing Olivier in front of people's faces. It was remarkable. I noted he drew almost as many smiles from men as he did women, though it was only old ladies who actually commented on his beauty. Jen would identify prime candidates for a comment and I would try to keep Olivier in their faces for as long as possible. We thoroughly amused ourselves in this way for about 20 minutes. At which point we realised that there were no buses on Princes Street. We walked to Lothian Road, by way of a massive (and unintentional) diversion, where we waited another 20 minutes before the no 22 picked us up and took us to Careth's new place.
We presented Careth with her gifts (voici Olivier!) and had the privilege of meeting her boyfriend, Mark, for the first time. He is a lovely guy and both Jen and I confided that we were pleased Careth had someone as wonderful as she deserves. Happiness!
A delicious meal at The Apartment, followed by a stroll across the Meadows brought us to Bristo Square. We went to see a comedienne called Carrie Quinlan who was very likeable and quite funny, but who Jen and I agreed, could have got a lot more out of the material. The highlight of our weekend came at 22:40pm when we went to see Simon Amstell. He opened up with the line: "Matel brought out wheelchair Barbie a few years ago", and it was a great show. As we walked home, Jen and I both admitted we kinda fancied him which adds yet another gay guy to my list.
On Sunday, we took a leisurely stroll along by the Water of Leith and stopped in at the King's Wark for some breakfast. Jen made her train by the skin of her teeth and I looked forward to another Monday morning spent at work - yeah right!
Next week: The film festival, Snow Patrol & Keane.
My shin pads, gum shield, hockey stick and pink hockey glitter ball all arrived in time for Thursday's game, and I noticed a marked difference in my willingness to get 'stuck in'. My blue gum shield makes me look particularly attractive and, according to its instructions, I can 'breathe, talk and spit!". Oh how people will flock to me.
After the game, I had a rather embarrassing encounter with a friend of a friend. As we said our goodbyes, I saw he intended to kiss me on the lips. Uncomfortable with this, I lowered my head to silently plead with the ground to open up and swallow me. Unfortunately, Mr Trying-His-Luck had decided to part his lips, which meant I ended up with my nose in his mouth. Hello, awkward!
Kelly, Tim, Kate, Steven and I headed out for drinks at Baroque after work on Friday. I'd only intended to stay for one but ended up just walking straight from the pub to the station to meet Jen. We dropped Jen's stuff off at the flat then headed out to Shapla for an Indian takeaway. We started the weekend as we meant to go on by ordering the 'special' lentils as a side dish.
It was so good to catch-up and even better over some great food and wine. We chatted non-stop about all manner of things until about 2:45am. Jen slept on the new sofa and informed me that it is most comfortable.
On Saturday, we bought almond croissants from the Manna House and fought our way along Princes Street. As we were heading out to Careth's new house for her house-warming party, we stopped in at M&S to buy a gift. We opted for a gorgeous fuschia orchid, which Jen christened Olivier, and a bottle of pink cava. After eating our sandwiches and croissants, and indulging in the sun in the gardens, we stopped at the bus stop to catch the no. 22. I had the honour of carrying Olivier through the thronging masses and noted that he was attracting a fair bit of attention. "Absolutely beautiful" exclaimed one woman, to which Jen remarked: "Olivier! You cad!"
We then decided to carry out a little psychological experiment to see how many smiles we could induce by casually placing Olivier in front of people's faces. It was remarkable. I noted he drew almost as many smiles from men as he did women, though it was only old ladies who actually commented on his beauty. Jen would identify prime candidates for a comment and I would try to keep Olivier in their faces for as long as possible. We thoroughly amused ourselves in this way for about 20 minutes. At which point we realised that there were no buses on Princes Street. We walked to Lothian Road, by way of a massive (and unintentional) diversion, where we waited another 20 minutes before the no 22 picked us up and took us to Careth's new place.
We presented Careth with her gifts (voici Olivier!) and had the privilege of meeting her boyfriend, Mark, for the first time. He is a lovely guy and both Jen and I confided that we were pleased Careth had someone as wonderful as she deserves. Happiness!
A delicious meal at The Apartment, followed by a stroll across the Meadows brought us to Bristo Square. We went to see a comedienne called Carrie Quinlan who was very likeable and quite funny, but who Jen and I agreed, could have got a lot more out of the material. The highlight of our weekend came at 22:40pm when we went to see Simon Amstell. He opened up with the line: "Matel brought out wheelchair Barbie a few years ago", and it was a great show. As we walked home, Jen and I both admitted we kinda fancied him which adds yet another gay guy to my list.
On Sunday, we took a leisurely stroll along by the Water of Leith and stopped in at the King's Wark for some breakfast. Jen made her train by the skin of her teeth and I looked forward to another Monday morning spent at work - yeah right!
Next week: The film festival, Snow Patrol & Keane.
Monday, April 03, 2006
The vodka monster returneth
Why am I such a weirdo when I'm drunk? Why, why, why, why, why?
Ok, so what I didn't say, when I was blogging for the love of tea on Saturday, was that I was quietly dying and (less quietly) wretching my sorry little soul out. Whilst it is indeed true that the arrival of the teapot was my favourite part of Friday night, I neglected to mention that I later welcomed the arrival of Queen Mother (God rest her soul) quantities of gin and even more vodka.
What I learned today, when I finally turned up at work, was that I am no ordinary drunk. Oh no baby! Not for me the crying nor the fighting nor even the sexual deviance of normal inebriated beings. Oh no, when I get pished I ... wait for it ... interview people; random strangers - about all manner of things.
How bizarre is that?
Apparently, I spent large parts of Friday evening dancing my way over to complete strangers whereupon, I'm told, I whipped out a pad and pen and began asking them - like some kind of demented Joseph Rowntree - about their jobs, their relationships, their health, and their feelings on the sorry state of Italy.
On Sunday evening, I had been puzzled to discover that my notebook was full of complete and utter pish I couldn't explain, so at least my colleagues' playful jests helped clear that one up. The notebook also contains around 20 email addresses next to which I've written: "Email with voucher for free meal." "Oh, that's right", said one of my colleagues, "you told everyone you interviewed that they'd get a free meal courtesy of Le Monde."
I am, of course, disturbed by this behaviour because it is truly class A, nutjob stuff, but I find it even more worrying that a significant number of people actually entertained what must have been the incoherent ramblings of a total steamer.
Never again, I promise, promise, promise.
Ok, so what I didn't say, when I was blogging for the love of tea on Saturday, was that I was quietly dying and (less quietly) wretching my sorry little soul out. Whilst it is indeed true that the arrival of the teapot was my favourite part of Friday night, I neglected to mention that I later welcomed the arrival of Queen Mother (God rest her soul) quantities of gin and even more vodka.
What I learned today, when I finally turned up at work, was that I am no ordinary drunk. Oh no baby! Not for me the crying nor the fighting nor even the sexual deviance of normal inebriated beings. Oh no, when I get pished I ... wait for it ... interview people; random strangers - about all manner of things.
How bizarre is that?
Apparently, I spent large parts of Friday evening dancing my way over to complete strangers whereupon, I'm told, I whipped out a pad and pen and began asking them - like some kind of demented Joseph Rowntree - about their jobs, their relationships, their health, and their feelings on the sorry state of Italy.
On Sunday evening, I had been puzzled to discover that my notebook was full of complete and utter pish I couldn't explain, so at least my colleagues' playful jests helped clear that one up. The notebook also contains around 20 email addresses next to which I've written: "Email with voucher for free meal." "Oh, that's right", said one of my colleagues, "you told everyone you interviewed that they'd get a free meal courtesy of Le Monde."
I am, of course, disturbed by this behaviour because it is truly class A, nutjob stuff, but I find it even more worrying that a significant number of people actually entertained what must have been the incoherent ramblings of a total steamer.
Never again, I promise, promise, promise.
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