As predicted, the boss is moping about the place like he’s just discovered the recipient of his glory-hole indiscretion was none other than his wife. There is a tyre sat in the corridor under a boarded up window, a large gap in the production department where Macs were once used and confused looking employees are wandering about aimlessly as if recently exposed to the T virus. A tall blonde policewoman has just appeared to investigate the ‘crime’, apparently one of a spree on burglaries on Saturday night, she looks like a twat.
In addition to my office woes I foolishly cycled in today, essentially, the chap I helped move yesterday wanted to use the fractured cycle path from his place to work and I agreed to be the Sherpa. This wasn’t a conscious decision, I agreed as I was leaving after dropping his gear off yesterday… it was one of those things one says to be polite as one is saying farewell, except my pleasantries had bones in it, and this morning I had to pick them out. The cycle in was fucking hideous. I’m still not recovered from the bastard cold and my throat feels like it’s been lined with wire wool prepared in brake fluid. My legs weren’t expecting to be called upon at such an early hour and they performed as efficiently as a woollen bicycle pump, if I may be allowed to continue the ‘cycle’ simile.
More pigs have appeared, there are now three of them in here and I’ve just put one on the phone through to the boss. A few Macs have been nicked, not being au fait with the workings of the Fuzz it strikes me as a little heavy handed? I don’t remember this much attention being paid to me when that cunt in the BMW knocked me off my motorbike and fucked off.
Last night was very pleasant, after completing my blog -it was finished at 7pm but it took me 2 hours to get the cunt posted much, as you may imagine if you’ve been following this blog, to my utter annoyance- I had a fucking ace bath, it was one of those ones that was just exactly right, the lighting, the ideal depth and temperature of the water, the little moment of delight when I lobbed my creamed beef into the flannel. I’d already prepared dinner (chicken breast, sausage, baked potato) so it was a question of getting out of the bathroom, steaming the veg and collecting the food/wine from the kitchen and flopping in front of the TV with a film, Le Boucher, what was all in foreign and that. I would like to point out that I seldom watch TV in the lounge and eat simultaneously as I think it’s fucking common, but it was Sunday and yours truly was exhausted.
The film was excellent despite some gaping continuity errors (please note the cherries in brandy) and a dreadful special effect involving a cadaver’s hand. The lead actress was spellbinding (Stephan Audran) though I was never convinced that such a beautiful creature could ever be a headmistress. Both leads perpetually smoked, the male lead’s (Jean Yanne) script was a little indelicate with regard to the fact he’d been a soldier but all in all, it was a satisfying affair. I won’t go into any more detail as this sort of talk is better suited to Watch With Mothers, link located to the right of this very page.
I’m barely recovered from the bike ride in, my usual 10 o’ clock cigarette has been postponed as my lungs are really very upset. Also, the pigs are hanging about by the door and I don’t want to go anywhere hear them in case one of them tries to engage me in conversation. I have a naturally guilty persona, so aware of this am I that I am inclined to compensate for it and in doing so make matters very much worse for myself…
For once I’ll keep that tale to myself.
