Make Mine A Happy Meal

I got into the taxi and sighed with relief. I had been almost in pain trying to keep my face from scowling over the past few hours and there was also the fact that I was absolutely starving – I had just been at ‘The Meal from Hell’. Pretentious overpriced food, combined with snooty yet inefficient wait staff AND that I was out with work colleagues I didn’t want to spend a second more than necessary with, this had all the hallmarks of uncomfortable dining before we picked out the wine.

I was in a very well known restaurant on Stephen’s Green. My boss was there to pay and the marketing witch was there to try and beat us into enjoying ourselves. It had been her idea, one that was met with rolled eyes and lots of grumbling, asking why did we have to go to dinner with people we barely put up with in work and who we most definitely didn’t want to go to dinner with. Everyone felt the same way, no one wanted to go as it was an unwritten thing that none of us liked each other and just accepted we had to work together. After one person dropped out with a pathetic excuse, the rest of us were told that no matter what we were going and that we were going to enjoy it no matter what. You can imagine how much I was looking forward to this then. Groan.

Sitting in reception, waiting for everyone to arrive set the scene for the uncomfortable silences that were to come. When at our table it started off with the horrible little annoying man, grabbing the wine list and arguing with the boss over which were the best wines and being told that he wasn’t allowed pick any bottle over £60 [this was a number of years ago]. And then the resident alcoholic slimy sales guy announced that he wasn’t hungry and didn’t want anything. The waiter that arrived merely added to the tension with his appalling attitude. Maybe our money wasn’t the same as everyone else’s eating there that night.

The Naked Truth

I saw this piece recently, just the headline, a few words and I was a bit taken aback. It’s actually been bugging me whether it was true or just a prank or some kind of publicity stunt, so I’ve gone and read the article.

Much to my bewilderment, a company in Newcastle, England, did actually have a ‘Naked Friday’ day in their office and everyone spent the day at work naked. In the nip! No clothes on. At work. For the day. It was an idea from the MD that prompted this in order to boost team spirit and morale – Lord knows I hope it was the only thing ‘boosted’ during the day in the mixed office, ahem…

I just don’t get it. Why on earth would you want to spend a day in work, naked? And neither do I get that even though I’m sure it was greeted with perhaps more than a little hesitancy from co-workers, somehow they were persuaded it’d be a good thing to do - makes you think that getting away with a 10% reduction in salary in order to keep your job mightn’t be the worse that could happen, huh? It was done to boost morale, in these difficult times and I’m sure the company has been hit hard as it’s in the Design & Marketing industry, but what about seeing fat Freddie or stick thin Tracy in the bare naked flesh as they type or make phone calls at the desk beside yours could possibly be appealing? I think it’s great if you’re very comfortable with your body, but very few people are and then the flip side of that is if you’re comfortable showing it off, there’ll always be people that don’t really want to see your bits and pieces. In the run up to ‘the day’, people were encouraged to photocopy their eh, bits and pieces to get more comfortable about what would be on show and the company brought in a nude model so that employees could do a bit of sketching and ask questions.

I’m still not convinced. I would not like to see a parade of willies in front of me as I try to talk a client into spending some money with my company. Nor would I like to be hit in the eye by some wayward boobs if someone leaned over my desk to borrow a stapler. Oh God! I’m getting all kinds of visions now! Toilet paper stuck between someone’s arse cheeks, skidmarks on the chair in the kitchen. Huge skin moley type things, all uneven in colour and shape or a bit of sagging skin akin to a turkey don’t seem anyway as bad in retrospective – but I’m still not rushing to see what my colleagues have underneath their clothes yet!

And just in case you’re wondering, it has all been filmed as a documentary to be shown on the Virgin satellite channel.

Boo Hoo for Jordan.. Not!

I’ve reserved writing about this piece of trash for some time now. In my aim to present both sides of the argument, on one side, I will say unashamedly say that Katie ‘Jordan’ Price appears to be a very clever and astute businesswoman. Well, she’s worth something around the £30m mark and she’s only in her early 30’s, is a self made, one woman operation that has diversified and multiplied the brand name that is Katie Price to become one of the most well known ‘celebrity’ figures around right now.

On the other hand, she’s a slapper. She started off making money from glamour shots of her taken from every angle and for a hefty sum, these pix made it into every type of rag magazine that feature such ‘glamourous’ pix. She did the Playboy centrefold. Morally, you judge where this lies against say, the girl that sat beside her in school that’s now a policewoman or an accountant. The humongous and plastic and attention seeking Jordan wanted more, so she forced her double F’s or whatever into people’s faces and nothing was beneath her as she embarked on a quest for fame and money that sent the most hardened paparazzi into a spin. No nightclub was too trashy for her to fall out of at 3am, no male not worthy of being groped, no brand name was giving her too little money to plug, no one was going to get in her way. And just when we thought we’d seen it all, Brand Jordan went into overdrive. 

It’s literally staggering how much stuff you can buy with this slag’s far-too-made-up face, false hair extensions, false eyelashes and false fingernails emblazoned all over. I did say she’s clever, she knows how to and when to make the money [Well? What on earth will she look like in 15 years time when she's literally the oldest slag on the heap]. And then there’s always the several installments long of her ‘Autobiography’ so far….

I actually don’t feel like I can type about yer man Plastic Pecs the soon to be ex Mr Jordan. We’ve seen them together. They met. They made us cringe. Then they made us vomit when they got married. And now they’re getting divorced. And SHE’S the one doing all the wrong things. I don’t begrudge her a ‘holiday’ but this happened to coincide with her writhing all over an Ibiza beach shooting for her new calendar. And sure the light wouldn’t be great after dark, so she ‘went on for a few drinks’ in between wearing the various wee bits of string she posed in for the calendar and took off some clothes to relax in.

Or as we’d say in this part of the country – she went on the complete batter, fell out of every pub and club, made no bones about the fact that she’d a grope along the way and no doubt she also threw up into her designer handbag [that the luckiest  nearest fella in the previous 5 minutes got to carry for her] at some point along the way. A fine example of a Mom of 3 in hr early 30’s, no?

The blabbing or blubbing to Piers Morgan last weekend in a finely crafted interview did her no favours. No favours what so ever. I don’t feel sorry for her that she was dumped [dumped by Peter Andre, oh the shame!]. She pissed me off by forlornly looking over her false eyelashes claiming how it was breaking her heart, but it took her all of 5 minutes to claim that ‘Pricey was back on the market! Look out boys!’ And I certainly don’t feel sorry for her that she miscarried a few weeks before the separation was announced – she admitted there were a lot of problems in the marriage, they’d had counseling etc, eh, not exactly the right time for another kid, love. Hopefully that little soul will go to a stable family. She’s hates the paparazzi! Newsflash! She wishes they’d leave her alone! Oh. My. God. How pathetic, like that’s going to happen when you court them to such excess that even the late Princess Di would’ve been embarrassed. And rumour has it that she was paid £100,000 for this latest tell all interview.

Oh! Those poor kids! Being touted out for more pix every time they’re passed from Malicious Mommy to ‘Destraught’ Dad before each parent can resume their normal jobs of seeking attention while the nannies take over. We can only hope that when Princess Tiamii [Jesus! That poor, poor child] and Junior grow up that they use their trust funds wisely to stay as far away from Mommy and Daddy as possible. I presume Harvey, Jordan’s eldest and profoundly disabled child will no longer be ‘cute enough’ to parade for the cameras and he’ll be in a 24/7 care home.

Have you guessed which side of the Love Katie / Hate Jordan debate I stand? And finally, just how easily did ‘Katie’ slip back into being ‘Jordan’, with most Press referring to her as such now? For a while she was ‘Katie’, she nearly had us fooled but a string bikinied, pneumatic boobed slapper won’t ever change it’s spots.

Pic via Perez Hilton

Take That Shameless Girl Home!

Iosa Chriost people! Just watch this video [if you can turn on the sound, the comments are hilarious!], taken from someone’s apartment window in Glasgow, right beside where the recent Take That concert was taking place.

This wan is clearly plastered – oh watch her struggleto get those jeans back up *cringe* – and she doesn’t seem to have a care in the world! She clearly isn’t at all phased by the fact that she’s peeing up against a lampost with absolutely nothing to hide her considerable arse, there’s no cover, no semblance of anything to hide behind, she’s just peeing in full view of anyone walking past. Watch this for the sheer laugh out loud moment when she falls over and can barely get up! Oh. My. God.

This Isn’t What I Wanted!

On a scale of 1 – 10, this girl must rate about a 134 in terms of how stupid she is. Belgian Kimberley Vlaeminck claims that she only asked tattooist Rousian Toumaniantz to ink 3 stars onto her face, not the 56 she ended up with. She also claims that because she fell asleep during the process, coupled with a breakdown in communication, she now cannot show her face in public and has become nothing more than a circus freak. Toumaniantz claims that she was awake during the process, looked into the mirror several times and actually asked for 56 stars to be tatooted onto her face in the first place!

Things all started to go pear shaped when Vlaeminck arrived home and instead of her Dad and boyfriend waiting eagerly for her to change into the new dress or shoes she bought on her trip into town, they were faced, pardon the pun, with yer wan still in her jeans and t shirt but with a mass of potentially permanent, ugly, black marks over half her face that she choose to put there!Well, you can imagine the Father and boyfriend’s reaction! They hit the roof! And then all kind of allegations that Kimberley must’ve been drugged or hypnotised by the tattooist so that he could act out some kind of revenge rose to the surface – as allegations do.

The upshot of this silly, silly, girls actions is that she’s now got a face like an extra on a Tim Burton movie and is the laughing stock of everyone in the world with an internet connection or the ability to read a newspaper. Who do you believe? The girl who decided to get stars tattooed onto her face and then who let a guy she couldn’t communicate properly with carry out her ‘instructions’ [the conversation with Tourmaniantz was carried out in a mixture of French, her native language and English, of which he also had some words], or the tattooist that thought it reasonable for an 18 year old girl to want 56 black stars tattooed onto her face?

Should Vlaeminck opt for laser tattoo removal, the painful process will cost €10,000, she’s suing Tourmaniantz for that amount and she’ll still be left with permanent deep white scars on her face. Tourmaniantz has now offered to cover half of the cost of the laser treatment and has admitted that he’s got lots of publicity out of this farce. 

I say they’re perfect for one another and that this could be the start of a, eh, erm, beautiful thing – well, have you seen the state of him?

Update:

Vlaeminck has now admitted that she did in fact ask for 56 stars to be tattooed onto her face! She also admits that she lied after her father went beserk and tried to cover up how feckin downright stupid she’d been by partly blaming the tattooist involved. Apparently Tourmaniantz has withdrawn his offer to pay for half the laser removal and has decided to get written consent from all clients in the future.

Why is it only now he’s asking clients to sign something before he destroys their face? There’s a pair fo them in it, I say – she’s obviously very stupid and immature, that goes without saying and a freaky looking thing like him must also be some kind of stupid to not see how unconventional it is to tattoo onto an 18 year old’s face!

 

Round ‘em Up

Part of my commute to work now includes walking from one end of O’Connell Street to the other. Thankfully and I mean thankfully, it’s only something I have do maybe 3 or so times a week, depending where I’m coming from and where I’m going to [I'm still 'between' 3 different places but let's not go there again!]. Anyway, I mean thankfully, as O’Connell Street is one of the last places I ever like to be and move along it as swiftly as possible. To put it in not uncertain terms, it’s a kip with scangers and junkies, weirdos and the plainly violent at every turn and I’m not going to apologise for hating the very sight of what’s considered the main street of our Nation’s capital.

I don’t open my bag while walking down O’Connell Street. I don’t use my phone. I step away from people when waiting to cross over the side streets. I hate being at the traffic lights right at the Bridge, there’s often people there acting weird, looking out of it, dressed weirdly, talking away to themselves trying to catch someone else’s eye to annoy them or distract them or pressurise them into handing over money to get away. And don’t get me started on the ‘boardwalk’ where you get groups of people of indeterminable age and sex shouting, scoring drugs and adding to the seediness of the area.

The way a lot of the width of the street is now paved over and tree lined only means that there’s more places for them to appear out from. To lean against while smirking and sleazily following girls as they walk by. I see it in the eyes of many others as they walk towards me, they too are hurrying to the other end of this disgusting street just as much as I am, eyes front and centre, reactions razor sharp though in case you accidentally bump into anyone that would put you in hospital rather than accept your apology. No amount of street cleaning will ever make this part of town anything but dirty and grimy, unsafe and dangerous.

Oh, every city has it’s dodgy areas, that I know and I’ve been in many, many cities. I just hate that O’Connell Street has become a cesspit for the dregs of Dublin life. What must the tourists think? Really! I see so many of them with their maps, trying to find someone that looks approachable to ask for directions, the look on their faces when another pajama zombie runs the wheels of the baby’s buggy over their toes while the tracksuited scumbag she’s with throws a bag of chips at their feet.

One example of a typical bolt down O’Connell Street for me happened last week. I became aware of ‘a gathering’ of some type, just at the corner of Talbot Street, where the Kylemore is. I moved to walk against the shop side of the path, just keeping my head down. People had stopped. I could see that people were trying to figure out what was going on while not engaging any of the ‘people’ involved. It was a whole group of them, maybe 6 or 7, males and females of various ages, a few buggies, low flying hoop earrings and ponytails and the girls had their jewellery on too. They were standing, shouting at one another, taking up most of the pavement, pointing at each other, walking away and then turning back to shout louder. God, they were one ugly bunch of scumbags now that I think of it. I definitely heard words I understand, so they were ’speaking’ some kind of English, but I was only able to get words here and there and it took a few minutes to get past the developing melee. I was just disgusted at the state of them. Acting like animals and looking like ones that hadn’t washed in days at that.

Say what you want, call me a snob. But quite simply, it’s not a crime to want to be able to walk down a main street in a capital city without feeling that you’ve just been through a complete haze of eau de scumbag. The irony being me actually glad to get on a Dublin Bus at the other end isn’t something I’ve forgotten either. I’d happily avoid both but unfortunately it isn’t possible. Excuse me while I go for a shower, the mere thoughts of being on that street in the not too distant future has me coming out in a sweat.

Losing It

I have been dragging myself around lately! Absolutely draaagggging myself around. Waking up tired, standing in the shower thinking of how nice it will be in 15 hours time when I can go back to bed, getting to work and having that ‘only 8 hours to go’ thought, losing interest in any TV as I wonder what time I should go to bed at without arousing suspicion. I’m always ‘reading a good book’ and am known for reading into the wee hours no matter what, so that excuse has long been worn out.

That’s it, maybe I’m worn out. Tired? Exhausted more like. I do a heck of a lot of commuting now, I knew it would take it’s toll somehow, sometime. The 10 journeys a week I take to work each week average out at about an hour and a half each? Maybe a little less. But you see, I’m never in the same place for long either and I’m permanently running for a bus. Either to parents in one direction from work or back to the Big Schmoke in the other direction, depending what day of the week it is. And every journey has either a 20min walk + a 45min bus + a 10min walk or a 10min walk + a 30min bus + a 10 min walk. Oh and I probably expend lots of energy while pacing, cursing various buses for their tardiness as well.

But that’s not totally to blame for my lack of energy. I sometimes snooze on the bus but hate doing it and it’s not like I have to concentrate and drive the bloody thing! I know that not bothering my considerable arse to do any exercise for the last months on end is deffo not helping. It is so true about having more energy if you exercise regularly. But going to the gym, or signing up for a class or walking or pounding the streets just to end up where you started is so bloody boring!! God! And don’t give me any of that crap about gyms being nothing but wall to wall TV’s and music channels etc – any time I’ve ever gone to the gym it has been one long countdown to freedom as soon as I step inside.

I’ve put on a few pounds lately. I know it. I can see it. I have to get rid of them again and I know what I need to do to see any pay off – it’s to start exercising again. And cutting out the junk I’ve been shovelling into myself into for the last ages. I know that this is contributing to my slothful exterior and my sluggish mind.

Yesterday was Day 1 – well, only complete loons combine going-back-to-work Monday and starting a diet! I actually managed not to have crisps at lunchtime yesterday. Really, that’s a huge deal for me! I’m a total crisp fiend! And I went swimming last night. I love swimming and swam competitively when I was in school but shamefully, I hadn’t been in oh God! ages! I did just 1KM [1000m] and I’ll go again tonight and within a few weeks I hope to build back up to 1500m in 35mins [I guess that'll be me cutting back on the fags as well *groan*]. I think I’ll have to start gyming it too *double groan*. Treadmills are great for losing the old ‘muffin top’, one of which I most definitely possess.

I’ve also decided that the devil himself may have distilled Pear Bulmers cider as it truly is very, very tempting, but at *ball park guess* one million calories per pint, I’m going to have to resist. And the vino. No more lazing around at the weekend supping cider or wine just cos it’s sunny out. Darn and blast it! Back to spirits and diet mixer [Hey! Not so bad!] 

Don’t believe me about the vino and pints? Take this test, if you can remember what you had any night last weekend and I guarantee you’ll be surprised. Last Sunday, the Pear Bulmers I nonchalantly sipped while watching the tennis and then a couple of DVDs came to the equivalent of 2 jaffa cakes [wait for it], an onion bahji, a burger and a slice of pizza… and on top of that I actually ate about 3 slices of pizza, some garlic chips and some chicken wings! Lord! Does every pleasure have to have some pain just around the corner?

I’m trying to distract myself and keep my willpower on the straight and narrow by envisaging a fantastic looking, fantastic feeling me, that is toned and healthy.. and thinner than your average gym bunny bitch!

Crunch Time

Now, this pic to the left consists of a person that I really and truly will never envy. She is what she is because she decided what she wanted out of life and set about getting it, which is fair enough you might say. But by getting it any which way she could and feck what might be some semblance of normality,  is what I say. Rigid fake smile which became a grimace as she *gasp* got older aside, Skeletor has become a parody of the female form and her *signature* wardrobe has become as androgynous as her womanly hips. Oh don’t worry, silly people, this isn’t going to be an all out rant about Skeletor [ no one could read for that long without a break], it’s just a few observations about her appearance from the knees down.

Scroll all the way down. What the fuck? Her feet are practically arched overher toes! That’s like stubbing your toe, crashing onto the ground and then springing back up to do it all over again! And look at her heels. Shoes a bit too big for ye love? Couldn’t find any heel grips? Or is it that you have to buy your Louboutins a couple of sizes bigger to accommodate your wide feet the fact that they are just always made in very narrow fittings? Either way, you look stupid, the shoes look stupid on you, ffs, you’ll never convince me that out of the approx 1,000 other pairs of heels [Skeletor doesn't own flats] that you have, that seriously, not a single other one of them would’ve looked better? Perhaps it would’ve been a starting point for an appropriate outfit to take your boys to Universal Studios in, yes, the same Universal Studios where even you might normal people spend hours walking around, seeing the sights, going on the rides etc, you know, enjoying themselves.

I’ve another word. ‘Pathetic’. Pathetic that you donned this outfit for what other people would describe as maybe an exciting, only happens once in a blue moon type day [let's not go into the fact that Skeletor can go wherever she wants, whenever etc]. How sad that you can’t take a day off from being the ‘you’ that is what us, the public see. I’m not even getting into the fact that gossip mags etc lap up any kind of picture, any chance to discuss your every move and then the flipside is that we, the Josephine Soaps, are, ahem, lucky enough to pour all over the published result in some kind of wishful thinking mode. No. It’s more like, how do I say this. You bore me. You bore me rigid. And by all accounts, you seem to bore yourself. This ‘outer image’ that you’ve so craftily built for yourself, what’s next? What’s underneath? A fashion designer – ha! don’t make me laugh, it’s well known that you put your name to stuff and don’t do a tap of designing.

So, if you’re not officially a pop star anymore either.. are you just a Mom? Do you want to ‘just’ be a Mom? Why not? Do it, but live a little. Try some uggs and a hoodie. Maybe you’d look like a Mom and not a clothes hanger. Try taking the kids to Nando’s for some Piri Piri chicken, the one with the skin on and actually eating it. There’s another thing. Oh yeah! A smile! Paparazzi have been following you for years, are you not so, so tired of even seeing yourself with that same rigid, grimace on your face? Are your kids not sick of seeing it? Wishing perhaps at the same time you’d go on a ride with them at the funfair? Be able to run to the next ride, kick a flamin’ football with them. Heck, standing on grass, even on the sideline to watch them kick a football without complaining that your heels have sunk into the ground, while smiling is probably top of their wish list. If that’s true, be ashamed, Skeletor, continue to be non smiling, wear your skyscraper heels to inappropriate places and carry your bag on your elbow so it enhances your pose. Just don’t try to convince anyone that you really, really have to keep up this image for their sake. It’s just all about you, eh, Skeletor?

The Princess and the TOADY

I happened upon this as a small box announcement of 10 lines in a paper last weekend and promptly thought I’d highlight it here, seeing as it’s my blog and I can post whatever I want. Now I’m sure that no one would be surprised to learn that there’s an official ’Toy of the Year’, which tends to be a sales based award whereby toy manufacturers slap each other on the back in some big hotel conference room and laugh how much they can get parents to pay for a bit of plastic in a box – but do you know what a TOADY is?

There a quite vocal group in the States that have set themselves up as the Campaign for a Commercial Free Childhood [CCFC] and each year they award a supreme TOADY – Toys Oppressive and Destructive to Young Children [I know, bit of a mouthful] and this year’s winner is Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader Barbie. Out of 6,000 votes, this nasty piece of sexist stereotype gained the top spot with 40% of the votes.

Look at the pic on the left. Look at it! Yes it’s what you might describe as a ‘typical Barbie’, but those shorts are going right up her arse they’re so short! And she’s wearing little more than a bra over her ridiculous, watermelon sized boobs. So, we’ve got the usual Barbie figure – one that’s been estimated at a mind boggling out of proportion 36′[chest]-18′[waist]-33′[hips] – and the little bits of material covering her modesty that constitute a cheerleaders outfit. The combination of flesh, non existent outfit and links to that most holy of grails [as far as Americans are concerned], the family all loves it, American Football just doesn’t sit easy with the CFCCers. And it doesn’t sit easy with me either. I’m thinking that the kind of Mom who’ll buy this for her kid [she's $79.99 by the way!] is the type that will be then driving her daughter to a beauty pageant once they stop off for more industrial strength hairspray and teeth whitener along the way.

Now, I’ll never be the type to say that I’m fond of little girls – but do they not deserve better than this? How the feck are they supposed to be able to tick ‘eating disorders’ off the list of issues they’ll never have if they think that 1] they should have a body like Barbie or 2] that being a cheerleader is the way to go, no matter what it takes to get there. Mind you, as Barbie is nearly 50 [IRL, obviously, in Barbie's World she'll always be that shinning, sparkling Prom Queen], Mattel have been pushing this one for quite a while and must’ve corrupted many a young mind by now – in 1992, Teen Barbie gave us such pearls of wisdom as ‘I love shopping’ and ‘Will I ever have enough clothes?’, not to mention the inspirational ‘Maths is tough!’

I hate Barbie. I will admit that I was a Sindy fan when I was really young, but in fairness, Sindy is in a different class. Good for the CCFCers for making Barbie into a TOADy. 

Dem Bones, Dem Bones

So, have you been to this ‘Bodies Dublin’ exhibition then? Are you planning on going? It’s the expo of human cadavers that have been preserved in a very specific way and displayed to show various internal organs, muscles, blood system etc. Way too gory for you? Appalled by the immoral nature of it all?

When I read about this I thought, ‘Cool.. that might be worth a little lookey’. I’m a scientist by trade and I’ve always been a bit of a geek when it comes to biology and how things work, why things are one way and not another and how everything fits into it’s own little place in the grand scheme of things. But I’m wondering now if I have any issues with this exhibition, that I’d have have to pay in to see it and just how it was put together, what it represents and all that stuff;

The bodies in this expo are claimed to have been sourced by the Dalian Medical University Plastination Laboratories, which is in China, and the spokesperson and Chief Medical Director for the expo is Professor Emeritus Roy Glover of Michigan University. It is claimed that all the bodies in the expo died of natural causes. In fact they highlight that in some cases, it’s clear to see what the person died from due to the state of various internal organs on display. But there has been issues raised that the bodies may come from Chinese prisons. China, China, China – why don’t I like the sound of that? Maybe something to do with the country’s appalling record on Human Rights. In fact last year the expo was investigated by New York’s Chief Legal Officer and because the organisers couldn’t disprove that the people died from natural causes or that they didn’t come from Chinese prisons, all ticket holders were eligible for a refund. And then there’s the whole ethical issue of whether its right to pay in to see an exhibition whereby human cadavers are used as a form of entertainment – even if the organisers state that it is aimed primarily at medical students to aid the study of anatomy and as a teching aid in general to highlight the dangers of smoking, cholesterol etc and to show how a healthly lifestyle is reflected in our bodies.

There’s a part of me that is naturally curious and wants to go to this. If you’ve ever been near a dead person, you’ll know about that thought that you can’t get rid of, the thought that maybe just hours beforehand the lifeless, decomposing, ashen faced body was just as alive as you, maybe laughing and joking or crying or shouting, that there was once a hearty character beaming out from behind those now closed forever eyes. It’s always been something that’s made me wonder about how delicate life can be to see someone transformed in this way because of death. So, I know that if I went to this expo, I’d be wondering who the person was, what did they do in life, what kind of person were they. When I look at a painting in a gallery, I wonder how the artist chose his subject, was he sad or was it one of his favourite things? When I go to a museum and stand in front of an ancient sword or a piece of jewellery belonging to royalty, I wonder what tales they could tell from hundreds of years ago. So, maybe what I should be wondering is whether the people that once owned these bodies should be allowed the privacy and respect of a burial plot and a headstone.