Quizzes that make me feel like I’m special. Mmm mmm! I love ‘em. Here are the results of my latest visit to blogthings to do the smashing quiz “How rare is your personality.”

As you can see, my personality is as freakishly oddball as my blood group. Hmm… I suspect you wouldn’t have needed a quiz to tell me that, though, would you? Right?

Your Personality is Very Rare (ESTP)

Your personality type is dominant, driven, poised, and self-aware.Only about 5% of all people have your personality, including 3% of all women and 6% of all menYou are Extroverted, Sensing, Thinking, and Perceiving.

How Rare Is Your Personality?

Oh.  I’ve just done something vile, I blew my nose a couple of minutes ago and I’ve just blown it again but mistakenly, on the other side of the hanky. Mmm… nasty.

Feeling a bit… well… credible, after the way some of you reacted when you heard I handle spiders (phnark) I thought I’d share a true and bizarre story with you about how I gained some street cred under false pretences. Mainly because the real ones were so unbelievable… This is story is just one of the many examples which have led to my being known to my husband as Babychaos, the woman THINGS happen to. Still, at least it means he now understands why I never usually bother to plan.

A long time ago in a capital city far, far away -well 75 miles to be honest - and it was only 15 years ago because it was when I lived there, my brother, who lived “out of town”, came down for a day or two and we agreed to meet at a pub on High Holborn.

So, the pub is a huge old place and as it’s just after work, it’s heaving with big yuppies who play rugby in the top league at the weekend (before they all turned professional they had day jobs). On the whole, the few yuppies who don’t play rugby are just big. We get drinks, I don’t recall what but mine is something with ice in it and of course, before long we start arsing about with the ice, trying to eat it in the fastest possible time, throwing it at one an other etc.

I pick a great lump out of my glass and hold it between my first finger and thumb, probably to say something like “why the fuck have they put ice in this, I hate ice, it gives me a sodding headache!” Or something like that. I want to hold onto it while I’m gesticulating with it so I grip it quite hard. The inevitable happens, it pings out of my hand and flies high into the air. Oh dear.

I may have mentioned there are a lot of large gentlemen in the pub, none of whom, I reckon, would want an ice cube on the head. We watch it arc high across the room in fascination, which quickly turns to horror as it comes down into somebody’s pint with a splash. The results are impressive. As it lands, the impact of the ice throws a foamy finger of beer into the air. It fountains about 3 feet skywards from the glass and by dint of not coming down the way it goes up, most of it lands on the table and the man holding the glass. Oops

Brother and I take one look at each other and lose it completely, laughing so much we are crying like babies but at the same time, mortally afraid one of the party will come and knock our blocks off. Sure enough they turn and stare over in our direction.

“Shit.” I say.

“Baz!” Says my brother.

“Baz?” I say.

“Yes. Thank fuck!” Says my brother, a palpable aura of relief emanating from him.

The four youths are making their way towards us, even the one covered in beer.

“Hi Brother BC.” Says the beery one, actually he doesn’t he uses my brother’s name but to preserve the few shreds of anonymity left on this blog I demur from typing it in. Anyway where were we? Ah yes.

“Hi Big BC.” Says the beery youth. It turns out he is a mate of my brothers from university, as are the others so they join us and we settle down for a good old gossip. “Did you see what just happened?” Beery Youth asks and he begins to explain how some eagle eyed so and so had thrown an ice cube into his beer, how it arrived with almost paranormal out of the blueness and before it gets any worse I admit the truth.

We spend a very enjoyable evening in the pub with them during which I try repeatedly to convince them that the ice cube incident was an accident, a freak of nature and nothing to do with any freakishly excellent aiming skills I might posses. They don’t believe me.

I have gained kudos under false pretences. It’s still with me the next time I see them, without my brother this time. They still do not believe. They still think I am cool. Eventually, I let them.

Is there a moral to this story, something about life? What does it tell us? Nothing. Although it might explain why I took to stand up, with this kind of high “incident” quotient it was just a question of going on stage, chatting to the audience for a while, reading out a couple of poems until something like this happened and then hoovering up the credit by pretending it was deliberate.

Well… I had to go to work this morning and Mr BC had to go get his car serviced. We left together but when I start my car there’s a little orange light on, you know one of those ones, a little bit like this, only with a picture bolt of lightening going through the middle. It probably means my exhaust has a hole… but it could mean that moving my car will rip the engine apart from the inside.

Oh dear.

So I ring the dealer and get it booked in, it’s due for a service anyway… then I go inside and call my employers to say I can’t make it… I’m in the kitchen and I can hear a strange hissing… I search about for a while, wondering if there’s a water leak somewhere but instead, I discover that when I cooked my scrambled eggs at breakfast I left the gas on.

It’s not the first time, of course but it’s the first time it hasn’t been left on all day or, worse, for Mr BC to find when he comes home… he would take the piss out of me so badly.

So a bad thing happened, my luscious car is a bit sickly. On the upside, our gas bill will be a wee bit cheaper and our house will still be here later on today…

Swings and roundabouts I s’pose…

I have been tagged by my Mr Howdle (dying man’s daily journal)… I have to post the rules and then give you the gen… Right, here goes…

RULES

• Post the rules first.
• If you are tagged you have to tell your faithful blogging public 8 random facts about yourself in a post on your blog. It can be habits, an idea, facts or just um… stuff.
• At the end of your post, choose eight other bloggers you’d like to know something about and tag them.
• Leave a comment telling them you’ve tagged them and that they will need to read your post on your blog.

THE FACTS
Thing 1

When I was a wee nipper, my “party piece” was to wee in the basin. I don’t know why I found this amusing, maybe it was a case of “because I can” or perhaps it was the budding surrealist in me. One day, I did it and laughed so much I pooped. My audience were so horrified they showed my mother. I was roundly spanked and confined to my bedroom for the rest of the day.

Thing 2

I was once invited to join Mensa. My IQ was one point off Genius level. I think that says everything about me you need to know, I can do a lot of things pretty well but nothing well enough to really stand out. It used to bug me but then I changed my mind. I am very obsessive about the things I enjoy and if there was only one I’d be able to talk about that one thing and not much else.

Having seen people like this interviewed on TV I realised that God, in his mercy to others, gave me more than one interest to stop me boring the world into infinity and beyond. As a result of this, I’m not the brightest or most exciting spark in the box but I am probably am a lot more interesting than I might have been.

Thing 3

I used to be a stand-up comedienne. Brave? Nope, just desperate for attention! Well… desperate to become a writer actually. The material was poems, my own.

Everyone knows your chances of having your writing published are a lot better if you are already famous for something else first. Since the chances of seeing poetry in print, unless you self publish, are negligible I thought I stood more chance of having my work published if I became a famous stand-up comedienne beforehand. I’m not sure whether this shows realism about the publishing industry or naievity about the world of showbiz… probably a bit of both.

I did get kind of hooked though. If you do a stand-up set and it goes well, few things touch the high. It’s difficult to have more fun than that with your clothes on… or even, sometimes, with your clothes off.

Then again, if you have a day job and you’re so wired you can’t go to bed until 4 am each morning something has to give! I never earned more than meals and free drinks but it was so good when it went well that it was worth all the times I bombed. In the end I came to live here and not knowing the local psyche - or any jokes about crops, I decided it was time to sit down. You can only be funny if you know your audience. I learned a lot from stand-up… principally, when to duck.

Thing 4

There is NO Thing 4.

Thing 5

I don’t know what I’m for. No, really, I’ve no clue. I know what I enjoy but that’s not quite the same is it now, people?

It wasn’t always like this. When I was young I wanted to be an animator or make the props for Dr Who. Unfortunately when I came to study only a few places offered a course in animation. An entry requirement for all of them was to have maths o’level.

Eventually I realised I had a choice. I could carry on doing dead end jobs for the rest of my life while I tried to pass a maths exam or I could study for a different degree and start my career before I hit 40. I scratched “animator” off my list of dream jobs and did a degree in history of art. I got a 2:2 which was not enough to get into the BBC… which is where I had to scratch Dr Who props maker off the list, too. Even so, I still have bit of a thing about bubblewrap.

Thing 6

I am very susceptible to guilt. When I was about 9 I persuaded a small boy in the park to let me see his penknife. I stuck it in the ground and broke the blade for no reason other than that I could. I felt awful immediately - especially when my brother told me off for being a leetle sheet - which I was being. I am wracked with guilt to this day and I still wish I could go back in time and either stop myself from being such an arse or apologise to the little lad and give him another penknife. So if you’re reading this and you were scarred for life when some mean little girl in a stripy top broke your penknife down the Rec, I’m really sorry.

Thing 7

I have written 3 novels, one of which I’m prepared to own up to writing and two of which I wish somebody else had written… I am working on a 4th and 5th, kind of in tandem - one is a bit of a chicklit thing - not something I’ve tried before - the other, like the preceding three, is humorous fantasy fiction.

There is no commercial point in my writing, if you write the kind of stuff people like Terry Pratchett or Douglas Adams write, you have to be a genius… but often being a genius isn’t enough, you have to be a lucky, lucky bleeder, too. Even famous people admit it.

“I’m lucky. Hard work is the key, but luck plays a part.”

This from about the 4th highest grossing pop musician of all time. I think that’s kind of it, I have to be a genius AND lucky. Damn! I can’t even get my head round the hard work bit!

Yet even so, I still write. I write because - for all my cynicism - I hope, possibly even believe, that I might yet learn to turn a phrase like a genius but mainly, I write because I have to.

I use music. I stick a CD on, let my mind wander and then, when it comes back, I write down what its seen.

Thing 8

I have two jobs, a bit like two sheds, only not. Both of my jobs are things I love to do; painting and writing. I can’t do one alone, I have to do the other as well. However while the painting is for me, really, the writing tends to be corporate puff, for others. Actually, that’s one thing I do know I can do, I’m bloody good at corporate puff, especially if it’s replying to complaints or explaining how something works. I once had a statement read out on Watchdog. They went away.
Thing 9

I like cheese. Other women like chocolate or ice cream to the point of obsession… I like cheese. Especially those runny ones with rinds like orange corduroy which smell of pooh. Ok so I do like chocolate, a lot, when it’s over about 60% coco solids but on the whole I can take it or leave it, I don’t even eat sugar, I eat fruit sugar, instead. I’m still lardy though and that is because I love cheese… (gromit). So while other women know their lard is mostly chocolate and ice cream, I know mine is pure cheese… well, with a bit of wine thrown in.

Thing 10

If I had to go back and live over again there are few things I’d change.

Thing 11

I have dyscalcula. That’s why I can’t count to eight properly.

So… I have excluded people who are already tagged and some of the ones who I think won’t approve of this, it is a bit chain-lettery after all, isn’t it? I’ve left others on - despite the fact they are unlikely to approve - because I’m hoping you will go take a look at their blogs.

Right then. Without more ado, a bunch of people I would like to see complete this challenge are… Joe Drinker, Brian Hewitt, Lea Alissa, Chrisfiore, Mark Kenney, Mrs Metaphor, Pen and Ink….less

Enjoy…

Too girlie, clearly! I had to give this one a go. I’m horribly pragmatic and down to earth so I though I’d be mostly bloke but no! I’m a pukka girl! Mmm!

Your Brain is 67% Female, 33% Male

Your brain leans female You think with your heart, not your head Sweet and considerate, you are a giver But you’re tough enough not to let anyone take advantage of you!

What Gender Is Your Brain?