And the usual big bundle of thanks to Smashyfriend and Chad for updating for me while I was asleep incapacitated.
Astonishingly, I am quite looking forward to going to work tomorrow! Not in a �Omigosh I, like, Sooooo, love my job, its just brilliant� kind of way, cos that would just be�umm�a lie. More in a kind of �I am so glad that the triple pile of dogshit that is Christmas/Valentine�s/Mothers Day is finally over and I can actually get on with some proper work� which, in my case, is mostly raising one eyebrow, being scathing about other peoples written reports and gossiping with Slaveboy.
Every year I vow that I will leave that shitty job BEFORE the spectre of the triple comes around again and every fucking sentence starts with �Well. Lets just get ****** out of the way first and then we can think about it.� If I am still writing this kind of entry next year, feel free to club me to the ground with a bit of wood* and then walk away, whistling jauntily.
* y�know, I was going to say something else there, and then realised I didn�t know how to write it. The best piece of wood to smack someone around the head with � if there are no pool cues or table legs at your disposal � is a piece of wood of manageable length according to your own upper body strength, and of width/breadth of 4 inches by 2 inches. In other words a piece of �4 by 2�. In the popular vernacular, this would be a bit of �forbitoo� � a �toobiwun� might prove too flimsy, and a �sixbitoo� quite difficult to hold in the hand. I know too much about this, don�t I?!
For all that my job does suck major league goat gonads, the people there are kind of OK. One or two of them are actually really nice, and several of them are amusing.
Conversation in the midst of last weeks peak-period frenzy with Quiet IT Guy in which everytime you see the word ball you must say it so it sounds *almost* like you�re saying balls:
Me : Anyone got any elastic bands?
Co-worker: QITG has got (a) big ball!
Me: Ach! He�s never gonna let me touch his big ball. QITG (wheedling), please may I touch your ball?
QITG: Never! You�ll have to prize my ball out of my cold dead hand.
Me: Well, can I just look at your ball then?
QITG: *sigh* Oh, alright. But only a look. (opens desk drawer)
Me: *gasp* Ohmigosh! That�s magnificent.
QITG: I know. Look � here are some elastic bands that I have yet to wind round my ball. Would you like some of these?
Me: Im not sure I want them if they haven�t been round your ball
QITG: They have been next to my ball
Me: Good enough. (tries to squeeze behind chair to reach elastic bands)
QITG: Cant you get through? Shall I move a bit?
Me: Are you saying Im fat? *yelling* He wont let me touch his ball and now he�s saying Im fat
QITG: *sigh* Yes. Its almost as if we were married�..
Here�s Mothers Day at The Palace of Many Sins:
Pretend to be asleep when BF gets up. Hog the whole bed. Resolutely ignore the sound of the Latvian Studio Builders who work on Sunday cos its more interesting than sitting in their digs. BF brings cup of coffee and two slices of Marmite, spread with a little bit of toast. Yes, I did say that bit right � salteeeeeeeeee!!!! Snooze until coffee is stone cold. Bite middles out of bits of toast, as these are the only bits which have been spread with butter. The outsides are as dry as a nuns chuff. Shuffle grudgingly downstairs and put coffee in microwave. Open sitting room door and yell at kids to get dressed.
Treac asks if she can give me her present now. I say �No. I don�t want any presents from skanky dressing-gown wearers.� Ironically, I am wearing a skanky dressing gown as I say it.
Eventually open my presents. I have a scented candle (natch!) and a bracelet made from chips of carnelian. Its actually quite nice. Drive over to maters with my gift of a bowl of narcissus bulbs. She seems awfully pleased with this gift and trades me her recipe for Refrigerator Cake. Hoorah.
Come home, chat to builders. Hear a story of mistaken identity**. Re-pot some plants, do some laundry, order a Chinese takeaway. Tough at the top, aint it!
Ahem. Our studio builders are Latvian. They travel all around the world building studios. Sometimes for really dead-famous people like BF. And Phil Collins. They dine in restaurants in the four corners of the globe. So, when in ChavVille they saw what they assumed to be a restaurant serving authentic Dutch cuisine, they thought they�d try it. They�d been to Holland several times and didn�t recall ever having any kind of national dish. No matter. Off they trundled.
At this point, I would tell you that BF and I know that part of town VERY well and have already worked out where they went.
Merrily they skipped along the pavement and through the front door.
Once inside, their eyes became accustomed to the gloom and they realised what BF and I already know.
�Taste of Amsterdam� isn�t a restaurant. It�s a sex shop.