Today, yours truly, Captain of Industry was engaged in a most highly intelligent, complex and critical project, crucial to the wellbeing of the rest of the company (well about 70% of it anyways). Despite the fact that I was wearing a blazer and smart trousers and not looking as stupid as I usually do*, I spent an hour in the 1st floor ladies loo, fixing on two new toilet seats. The old toilet seats had been broken for some time, having had wayyyy too many enormous post menopausal arses plopped down on them over a period of a quintillion years.
I suspect that the enormous arses which broke the bog seas are the same enormous arses which make disgusting fog of poo-smells in there each morning.
Memo to Twat Inc Fat Ladies: If you must shit at work, then go downstairs and use the basement toilet. That way your rancid cabbage butts will only stink up the hallway and the staffroom and NOT MY FUCKING OFFICE WHERE I HAVE TO WORK.
Oh, and while we�re on the subject of work based ablutions, Gentlemen of the First Floor: when you are in the toilet and are �Playing Fonzie� in the mirror (and presumably going �Heyyyyyy� at your own lovely reflections), or squeezing your spots, or something which makes your shoulders go up and down a lot while you lean against the window (!), please bear in mind that anyone walking by in the car park CAN SEE YOU, YOU FUCKWITS. Yes, your outline may be blurred by the frosted glass but, lets face it, there�s not too many of you and you�re all pretty much recognisable. Have some sense. Or some decorum.
So. As we have no maintenance man on site, and getting one in can take between three and a kafrillion working days, I fixed the bogs. Yay me.
Thus far, no-one has thanked me, despite sending a detailed email around explaining that the seats were now fixed and there was no longer any need to do that thigh-bustin hover thing whilst taking a pee. I don�t know if anyone actually tried to poo whilst hovering. Lets hope not.
Anyway. Monday was the usual Pour Whisky Down My Neck experience I have come to know and love (Kids were at Shagnasty�s before you go all lemon-mouthed on me!). BF finished teaching quite early so we planned a few drinkies and then back home. By the time I left the workies I was pleasantly plastered.
Smoked some awfully strong weed when we got home. I think joints need some kind of measurement scale. In the old days they were measured by how many Rizla one had to stick together (eg a 3-skinner was a medium-sized, 5-skinner was a pretty big one). These days, of course, those extra kind people at Rizla make extra large papers � presumably intended for roley-makers to make king size cigs instead of those teeny little one which always make you look a bit like a tramp. Im sure they don�t intend for people to use them to make joints. That would just be�wrong!
So. These days you only need to use 1 skin (if there�s just the two of you and it�s a school night) and there�s no need for ingenuity with the sticky strips involving careful folding and licking along the fold to get the sticky bit off (that�s MUCH harder to explain than it is to do!), so you need a new measure of largeness-of-joint. I propose the same scale that tampon makers use � Light � Normal � Plus � Super Plus. Light could be for when you just want a little mellow buzz � like, for if you have to take your kids shopping for school shoes. Normal � for a regular Saturday Night. Plus � For if there happens to be three of you. Or you�ve had a meeting earlier in the day with, say, a stationery supplier or the man from the web marketing agency.
Monday night�s was a Super Plus Plus. A veritable haemorrhage-stopper. A J of such magnitude that it could�ve plugged the chuff of a Teenage Chigley Slapper it was that big.
Watched a little porn after as was feeling decidedly�ummm�.wrecked. Have a vague recollection of going into the sitting room with a bar of fruit and nut and putting the telly on, but, even tho its now Wednesday night, I couldn�t tell you what we watched if my life depended on it.
Once we�d come down enough to be of reasonably coherent thought and deed, started making out on the sofa like a pair of teenagers. Wrinkled, unfit, flabby teenagers, obviously, but teenagers nonetheless.
Lasted about half a minute before we had to scamper upstairs. Firstly turning off the lights and locking the doors and taking my tablets and getting a drink of water of course, we�re not totally fucking irresponsible!
O
M
G
Dear readers, the best, THEEEEE best. The BEST Ev ER in the history of the world ever. Ever.
Didn�t do anything new. Didn�t do anything freaky or weird. No costumes**. No backbreaking positions involving contorted limbs and postcoital trips to the chiropractor.
Just earthshatteringly awesome, 1812 Overture sex. For the FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE, I said �Omigod youre the best youre the best� and actually meant it.
I can categorically deny that it was the dope talking, as, by the time we got to the bit where we were clinging onto each other and looking shellshocked, the effects of the joint had long since worn off.
Flaked out in the bed afterwards and was asleep before my eyes were even closed.
Woke up at four, freezing cold, the covers all over his side. There was, inexplicably, a sweater in the bed (not one which either of us had been wearing, just a random sweater!). BF was snoring. I got out and went in the spare room.
In the morning we just looked at each other in a WTF way. �Awesome�, says BF �Fucking Awesome�. Glad it wasn�t just me.
Last night we managed to recreate some of the same, but, hey, we were tired. After half an hour or so, BF shoves my shoulder. �Down you go� he says. The old sweet-talker.
Down I went.
I take eye-rolling, headboard gouging and whispering �ohfuckohfuckohfuck�oh Stepfie�..ohfuckohfuckOHFUCK� to be signs that I give good head (although, he might�ve been having a seizure, I guess!). Actually, I know I give good head. I used to give good head to get treats � new dresses, trips to Ikea, large gin and tonic and a lift home from a party (right to the door, not just to the corner and walk the rest of the way, dude!). Lesser men than BF have gone ohfuckohfuckoh etc etc. Lesser men than BF have received my scornful stare afterwards � its not always the physically strongest who has all the power!
These days I give good head because BF deserves good head. He deserves very good head.
Tomorrow I have a meeting in Chigley at 12. This means I have to leave my office at 11.30, drive PAST MY FUCKING HOUSE, sit in the meeting til 2, then drive back PAST MY FUCKING HOUSE to the office. I�ll be in the office for 2.30 and I finish at 4.30.
Meh.
Later
S
x
*Call Centre Kelly has been cutting my hair, instead of the Crazy Chav Queen who usually cuts it. This has resulted in me looking A LOT less like Suggs these days, which can only be a good thing in a 40 year old woman. A flat top just isn�t a flattering haircut, people.
** Actually, I was wearing a very nice pair of black lace knickers. But my mother gave them to me so I don�t think they count as porn wear.
back - forth