The Onus Of Bonus

Admit It, You're Impressed
 - because how many blogs feature a word like "Onus"?
     It is hopefully apparent, after over three years of publishing this stuff, that your humble scribe has a certain facility with language.  Written language.  When in conversation, Conrad's repellent mumbling is nothing to write home about*.  

Conrad:  possibly mumbling, it's a bit difficult to tell with that moustache in the way

     "A wordsmith" is how Sophie flatteringly described me, which recognition is welcome and yet brings a certain level of responsibility with it - that "Onus" I mentioned.  Because this week we have two people departing, which is that "Bonus" bit I mentioned:  Charlotte, whose existential crisis over how long it takes a party of women to put on their make up has been recounted at length; and Sylwia, our resident Pole.
     Thus - two poems pomes to compose, and one in less than 24 hours as Sylwia leaves tomorrow!
     Come on, Muse, strike me twice.
     Plus, your humble scribe is also trying to compose a non-sporting Olympic quiz that one cannot simply Google to answer, which is harder than it sounds.  This is for the event that the lovely Anna - don't forget, as nice on the inside as the outside and with an inexplicable modicum of affection for your loathsome literati - is arranging, themed around the Olympics (don't tell her they've already finished!).

Rio 2016.  Empty.  Poignant, but mostly empty.

     Still waiting, Muse.  Right here.  Right now.
     Also, the quiz shouldn't be too hard, so if it's multiple-choice they have a 25% chance of guessing correctly.  Should I charge extra for giving hints about the picture clues?  Because whom amongst my fellow workers is going to recognise a N - a nuclear-tipped Surface to Air Missile from the Sixties?

Proof that stunt weasels do exist
(See article below)

     Anthony, perhaps - he leapt into the conversational fray earlier in the afternoon when I mentioned "Dixon of Dock Green" after Carol spelled the surname the other way.  "Played by Jack Warner," he stated, "In "The Blue Lamp" where SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER he gets killed at the end.  And then comes back in "Dixon of Dock Green"."
     Absolutely correct, Anthony.  Oh, and - the quiz?
     You're banned.

     Oh, Muse?  Still waiting. Still here.

The Great British Bake Off
This has returned, and at an awkward time, too, ta very much Beeb.  Since Thursday evening is usually given over to Pub Quiz, your modest artisan has to do his bake for the Hunger Hobbits** on Wednesday evening, which is bifurcated by GBBO.
     Which very much deserves the "British" of the title.  Not in the sense of it being a reflection of British culture, PC and all that, but rather that this is a prime-time international hit series about - baking.  Twelve people in a tent, baking stuff.  No glitz or glamour, or any reason to be successful and - yet it is.  No cyborg death-ninjas or explosions or killer stunt weasels or gamma-ray lasers, just twelve people in a tent, baking stuff.

And probably drinking lashings of ginger ale.

     Still waiting, Muse.
     When it comes to what they were actually baking this first time round, Conrad sneered in scorn at bothering to bake Jaffa cakes.  It's far, far easier to buy a packet of them rather than faff around for a couple of hours baking them, all the more so since they are one of Conrad's guilty pleasures and he can easily inhale a pack in 5 minutes.  As for Genoa cake, I have tried baking such only once.  As soon as the tin was lifted from it, the cake - sorry, "cake" - split apart and the uncooked batter, of which there was plenty, spilt out.  Never again since then.
     Yoohoo, over here, Muse -

No, Art!  Bad Art!  No biscuit for you!

When I Take Over The World -
 - as forewarned, a lot of vapid celebritutes are going to rapidly find out how the dodo feels.  Or felt.  My frothing nitric ire will not be restricted to plastic prettyboy popsters, though, and if any executives from First Bus are reading this, a sound will or an escape plan are advised.

Conrad, nursing his frothing ire.  Nitric, you see - causes indigestion

     "Why, what could possibly have gotten the eternally-sunny and positive Conrad*** annoyed to the point of, not only murder, but mass murder?" I hear you call.
     Well, allow me to tick off the boxes.  Double decker bus?  Yes.  On time?  No.  Late, and late enough to have your talented typist's knees trembling in anxiety.  How it can be so late this close to the point of departure in Rochdale is a mystery for the ages.Copies of The Metro?  bah!  Don't be ridiculous, FB staff don't think passengers can read

Finally -
As Dixon of Dock Green used to say at the end of every episode -

"Evening all"

     This was back in the day when Pete, ex-copper friend of mine, said they ended formal reports with the phrase "I have the honour to remain, your very obedient servant".


*  Do you see what - O you do.
**  My hilarious name for the ganterpies at work.
***  All lies <the painful truth courtesy Mister Hand>