gibbon-arsed ramblings of a hopeless underachiever
Wednesday, December 31, 2003
Application forms, eh? Urgh. "What benefits would a place in this graduate training scheme bring you and us (100 words max)?" 100 words?! Hmm, let me see: "Me: dosh. You: me". No, that won't really do, will it? I'll just write this, and then I'll go back to it. Priorities, y'see...
I remember getting my first job at the local burger place when I was 13. Until that point, my parents had given me the princely sum of 50p pocket money a week. I was not born in the 1950's, unbelievably, so this seemed a pretty tiny amount compared to what my friends got, but at the same time, it was fair enough - we were poor and that was that.
It was kind of a game for my sisters and I, actually. We would all go up the shops on a Saturday to spend our money as soon as we got it (well, duh! What kids don't?), and the first part of the game was who could get the most for their 50p. Oh, the newsagents I've pissed off, dithering over how many half-pence sweets I should get in my 10 or 20p mixes. Not when I was 13, like...I aint that old. Anyway, it wasn't good enough just to have lots and lots of one kind of really cheap sweet, oh no - the sport was in having a good selection and plenty of it. perhaps sweets and a comic, if you were really clever. The second part of the 'game' was making said purchases last as long as possible. It was all just part of the rich tapestry that is known as "going out of your way to piss your siblings off". The rules of the game were never spoken - none of us would actually be crass enough to come out and say "Whoever gets the most for their money and makes it last the longest is SKILL and the others HAVE FLEAS" but we all knew. "I've still got a packet of parma violets and a dip-dab left AND a copy of Look-In to read" my youngest sister would say on a Wednesday night, before we pummelled her smug ass unconscious.
But I digress. My first job. 13. Burger place. My dad saw the sign in the window, and escorted me to the premises to tell the boss man that it was ok by them that I worked at the joint. Of course, it was not ok by law, but who cares about small trifles like that?
The Boss man was a Turkish Cypriot who immediately liked me because of my name, which he insisted on spelling the Turkish way on my wage packet every week, telling me that, quite simply, my way of spelling it was wrong. Anyway (bizarrely), my name and the barrow-boy smooth talk of my dad got me the job - no interview really, just "how many hours can you work" after a two-minute chat with Dad. I worked a couple of evenings a week, plus all day on Saturday and Sunday, 8 or 9 hours with a 15-minute break during which I crammed as much ice cream float and burger/chips down my neck as I could manage. For the princely sum of £1 an hour, plus a share of the tips, I fetched drinks and burgers in my lovely red overall, checked pinny and a gormless red hat like them thar old-fashioned air stewardesses wore.
I seem to remember that with my first wage packet I splurged on clothes from the local market (oh yes, class all the way). I bought a reversible jumper with one dalmatian on the front and the other 100 on the lining, and this god-awful trouser suit. It was [clears throat] knitted acrylic, in red and black vertical stripes - leggings, with a 3/4 length coat, complete with huge black buttons, and shoulderpads. It's rather telling of my dress sense back then that I was really taken aback when a grown woman burst out laughing when I walked into a shop in that suit. "What can be so amusing?" I thought, all earnest and adolescent "It cannot possibly be me, for in my splendid unique and ironic trouser suit I clearly am the shit. Word." I'm paraphrasing, of course, but you get the gist. Despite the fact that that thing obviously made me look like a Showaddywaddy reject (and the static....oh my, the static...) I don't think I got rid of it until I moved out of home, though it made far less frequent appearances in public after the laughing incident.
Boss Man was always delighted to see me and would regularly embarrass me by berating his No-Good Sons in front of me for not doing well in school "eefen doe I giff them everrythink! Nothing they want for. Why you can' do well in dee school like bendheg, eh? She werk hart END she do good in school. Aiieee". And so on.
I was a bit smitten with the Older No-Good Son for a while, as were most of the girls who worked there. He would corner me in the stockroom every now and again for a furtive snog and a bit of a fumble. It was all innocent and fun then, largely because my naiive child head thought he might Be My Boyfriend at some point and that it was all terribly special and meaningful. Years after I'd completely lost touch with them all, having knocked up two of the waitresses, avoided paying either of them any maintenance, getting heavily into drugs and dropping out of uni, the Older No-Good Son was speeding down a motorway, crashed his car and was killed instantly. In the time it took for that news to filter through to me and me to go and try to see them, Mr and Mrs Boss Man had gone back to Cyprus. The burger place is now a Pizza Express.
What I wouldn't give for my dad to spot a sign in a window somewhere and march me down there to talk them into taking me on immediately. But we're not in Kansas any more, Toto. So I need to go and find 100 words that say "For the love of God, give me a job. You can even spell my name funny, if it helps?"
posted by bandhag | 12/31/2003 02:10:00 AM
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Rather unnervingly, my teeth seem to have been clenched a lot of the time for the past week or so.
I once went through a period, of only about a fortnight or so, where I ground my teeth in my sleep (oh, flock to me, would-be shag partners, and hear my delightful night noises!) - so hard that I woke myself up a couple of times with the din I was making. In that short space of time I wore three of my canine teeth completely flat. God knows what'll be left of them if I keep on with this clenching business.
It keeps reminding me of Glastonbury and the loss of my 'macaroon' virginity, where I found myself with my jaws clamped together for most of the weekend and, at one memorable point in the proceedings when completely off my proverbials, explaining quite calmly to my companion that I needed to go and dance in front of the Radio 1 dance tent because I wanted "everyone to see me and think I'm the best dancer they've ever seen", through gritted teeth, sounding like a bad ventriloquist. Ahem. Incidentally this is, without doubt, the most arrogant thing I've ever said in my life and if PC screens were fancy police station-type mirrors, you'd have seen me cringing as I typed that confession.
Anyway, all I know is that at the time I was feeling the music in my 'special area' and was quite insistent that I needed to succumb to it, IMMEDIATELY. At that point, all music had been made for me to dance to, and all bass in said music had been created with the sole purpose of making me its bitch. Fortunately, my companion had more sense than me and patiently guided me to my sleeping bag instead - I had drunk a lot (a LOT) of pear cider, the macaroon had a litle something extra in it that I didn't know about until later, and I could barely stand up, let alone dance. In fact, I didn't stand up a lot of the time - this was the evening of the face-first-into-a-thorn-bush incident. Apparently, I went down "like a sack of shit".
Which is not what I usually get told. Arf, wink wink, boom boom.
So, yes, I'm not enjoying the teeth clenching thing. It's all of the impending-dental-bill-horror with none of the ecstatic...stuff. Perhaps I'll go and buy one of those attractive gum shields. My life as an eternal spinster is hereby assured. Again.
posted by bandhag | 12/30/2003 02:01:00 AM
Sunday, December 28, 2003
It is my sad duty to report that today, at around 1pm and after a long and valiant struggle, my stereo passed away. Despite the fact it had become forgetful and workshy in its later days, we had some great times together and it will be sorely missed. You'd probably not be that surprised at how quickly one can tire of listening to oneself humming. Particularly when for some inexplicable reason, the only tune getting heavy rotation on the internal jukebox is "Norwegian Wood". I can, of course, listen to CDs on the computer but the crappy speakers make it like listening to one of these underwater.
Is there some global conspiracy to make electric/electronic things only last until January sales time?
posted by bandhag | 12/28/2003 05:29:00 PM
Saturday, December 27, 2003
Highlights of this year's Christmas experience:
1. Being ordered to go to the cemetry to put flowers on Mum's grave on Christmas day with one sister while the other frantically prepared for the arrival of The Hallowed Cunts (a disliked-by-me-loved-by-them branch of our family). When The Hallowed Cunts are coming, all surfaces must be polished, floors hoovered, best clothes put on, etc etc.
2. The fun game of trying to restrain myself from punching the next person to roll their eyes heavenwards whenever I spoke. Ditto whenever I was silent for longer than two minutes (with added "What the fuck's wrong with her?" face pulling to others in the room). Mr Hallowed Cunt was a particularly adept adversary in this game, but I won. Just.
3. Being told my coat had been removed from the cupboard where the coats hang and put in the bathroom "So it might get a bit nicer smelling", in one of the most sweet and matter-of-fact voices you could imagine.
4. Being charged 20 quid for my Christmas lunch and "all the alcohol". To add further perspective - 8 bottles of lager, one bottle of sherry and one bottle of wine had been bought in for three of us plus The Hallowed Cunts, for 3 days. Only the sherry was opened.
5. Going out on the spur of the moment on Christmas Eve with an old school friend, only to bump into some blokes who were in the year below us at school, one of whom (after ten minutes of fairly banal pleasantry-type conversation) announced that they'd been talking "only the other week" about me (and I quote) "because you had really massive tits", and another of whom attempted (unsuccessfully, I hasten to add) to snog me. Delightful.
6. Same night - having to run away from one pub because of the man who kept stroking my hair and saying to my friend "I like. I like. I like a lot. Nice. I like" etc.
7. Being made to watch Only Fools and Horses instead of Amelie, because 20 seconds in it was roared that "We're not watching this fucking shit if it's gonna be all French with fucking subtitles!".
8. Listening to my youngest sister complaining about "all the blacks" who have "suddenly appeared" in our old hometown. All of whom, apparently, are jobless and spend their days sitting in the park drinking and shouting. Gosh. What a busy park it must be. Even if we weren't mixed race ourselves, this just makes me vomit and I really can't think about it any more - it depresses me too much.
9. Hearing people using the phrase "You and your sister" (singular) at various points when talking to/about one of the others.
10. Coming home to a mountain of work.
Aaaanyway. That's all over for another year. As Lovely Boy commented, real Christmas is a bit like Christmas films in reverse - you start off feeling quite hopeful and Christmassy - this year, you think, it will be really nice. And by the end of it you're miserable and cynical, old resentments bubble to the surface, blah blah blah. It all goes a bit Eastenders xmas special, basically (though my word - wasn't that tame this year?).
Now safely back at home, I'm tucking into the booze con gusto and spending quality time with the cat, who I left with The Soak for the festivities. She seems to have come through it fairly unscathed. Looking back at last year and comparing it with this one, I think it'll be another "me, the cat, pyjamas and a microwave meal" year next year. Can't be doing with other people at Christmas.
posted by bandhag | 12/27/2003 06:32:00 PM
Wednesday, December 24, 2003
Tardy posting again... Shouldn't even be here, I should be at my sister's, but ended up getting caught up with one thing and another and am making my way over on the bus today.
Monday night I caught up with my old friend again. Was kind of taken aback when he expressed disappointment and "I'll miss you" type sentiments about me leaving town - none of the other people I've told have said anything like that. Ha - gives you an idea how greatly I'll be missed! Anyway, as usual we had many drinks and great chats. He's a fookin' star, that one.
Then last night, I thought I should have a work's do. I've wondered about this quite a bit - how do you have an office Christmas "do" when you're self-employed and work from home? Well I'll tell you - you drink far too much in the front room (wouldn't it be rubbish to have a party in the office? Pffff) and start telling yourself that you're great, and that no matter what all the other people in the office think, you've always liked yourself. Then after a few more beers, you sneak off to scan your own arse and email it to yourself, fill your pockets with your own stationery and slur to yourself that you can stick your job where the sun doesn't shine. Finally, you get off with yourself. In the morning, you can't look yourself in the eye, you catch yourself whispering gossip about yourself, until you call yourself into the Big Chair in the bedroom. You tell yourself you are sacked - clear your desk and get your shameful hungover arse out of here.
That's what I did. Yes. Anyone who says I sat motionless on the sofa from Hollyoaks o'clock to Holby City o'clock and then geeked away into the small hours making Flash animations is a LIAR.
Actually, I'm of the opinion that all these shenanigans that are supposed to go on at Christmas parties are just urban myths. I've never been to one where any of the "Office Party No-Nos", which newspapers and magazines trot out at this time of year, have occurred. I'm sure journalists just make them up and rehash them or swap them with other journalists. Probably so they've got something to stick in their rag on the day they all leave the office to go to their Christmas party...
Anyway - I'm off. Have a good one (as much as it's ever "good").
posted by bandhag | 12/24/2003 12:05:00 PM
Monday, December 22, 2003
Going to the sister's on the 23rd, had to go to Ex Job today (I've agreed to help out Crazy Ex Boss, even though I had no obligation to do so), and was thinking "Ok, cool - work today, shopping tomorrow, wrap stuff tomorrow night, go on Wednesday"... you see where this is heading, yes? It was while walking to Ex Job that I realised that tomorrow is the fucking 23rd. Still, managed to do my shopping in just under an hour, so all's well that ends well, and I've just wasted a paragraph telling you about nothing. For a change.
Anyway. I had to check Crazy Ex Boss's email account to make sure a couple of emails had gone (don't worry - CEB had asked me to, I wasn't snooping). One of the "someones" in question - Crazy Ex Boss's Boss - had another email sent to them, on the same day that CEB had been sending me crawly emails about how grateful they were that I'd agreed to help them out, even though I was a temp and was well within my rights to quit without even telling them, never mind anything else. In said email, CEB tells Crazy Ex Boss's Boss that they are "disgusted" with my "attitude" and that CEBB "should see the state she's left things in here. Utterly unprofessional". The amusing thing is, on the same day, there was an email to...yes, you've guessed it, the other person she was asking me to check for, saying that CEB totally understood why I'd done it, and that it was all CEBB's fault because of some nasty office politicking I won't go into.
Normally, I would get quite upset/pissed off about that kind of thing - particularly since any "state" created in the office is due to her lobbing stuff in random places all over the place without telling me, and also since unprofessional is CEB's middle name. Normally, I'd at least think about doing a little random forwarding of emails (even though I'd never actually do it). But today, I just read it as proof of Crazy Ex Boss's craziness and laughed to myself. I'm in a happier place, work-wise, than I have been in years. And better off. So nurrr.
posted by bandhag | 12/22/2003 06:06:00 PM
Sunday, December 21, 2003
Tried to go Hellmas shopping yesterday. Bought two pairs of jeans, a top, a bracelet, some socks. And a few bits and pieces for my sister's stocking (we do one each). Boned. Will have to spend the next three days when not having a nervous breakdown over work, jostling with middle class women in 3-mile queues. This is everybody's fault but mine.
Meanwhile, someone has laid Turdzilla in the bathroom, and none of the valiant efforts by myself and The Soak have managed to shift it. I can't go with someone else's crap peering at me from the bottom of the pan. So I've announced I'm using The Soak's toilet until it dies.
The Soak, incidentally, is one of my co-dwellers. The Soak gets up very very early in the morning, and every weekend by the time I get up at 9, The Soak is drunk and beligerent. The Soak gets angry when my cat sits on my lap, and will always attempt to call her off it. The Soak also makes my cat beg for food, which I hate - humans don't have to beg for their food, so why should animals be made to? I will not particularly miss The Soak when I leave, even though sometimes we do have a good laugh. Mostly on the rare occasions when The Soak is sober.
Meanmeanwhile, Crazy Ex Boss emails me at 1 o'clock this morning (which, even allowing for the time difference, as CEB is currently overseas, means that the email was sent on Saturday Fucking Night), to complain that the work that I agreed to do, despite being under no obligation to do so, was not being done fast enough. Yes, and a very Happy Fuck Right Off to you, too, sunshine.
Tonight, I go to be stuffed full of roast dinner by ex, ex-housemate and ex's bird. Should be ace - too much food, and too much booze. Followed by an attempt to come home and do some work, no doubt.
Oops, talking of which...
posted by bandhag | 12/21/2003 05:24:00 PM
Saturday, December 20, 2003
I'm not going to look back and check how long it's taken me to get round to changing that dreadful baby shit green that was at the top of the page, but I hope you, the discerning viewer (and yes, I feel completely justified in using the singular) enjoy the slightly less offensive colour. I'm also test-driving the whole 'titles' thing. I've fancied them for a while. If I fail to come up with suitable ones, hell I'll just give 'em up. I've turned into a crazy quittin' machine, what with the fags and all (still clean. Gold star, please).
In other news, I have Done The Sums, and I really can afford to bugger off to London, even on my freelance wage. Which is very very cheering indeed. The idea of packing again, however, is not. It took weeks to get packed last time - I just never had any motivation/had too much work to do/had to catch up with Hollyoaks. Then it took me nearly four months to unpack, and I only did it because a lovely boy was here to help me. I think he prayed for a cattle prod sometimes.
So. It's all looking quite real, and fairly imminent. I have a potential housemate already, who's going to be looking to move around the end of January. Fuck, this will be some scary shit. I've only lived in two towns (well, alright, one and a city. Picky) my whole life, and the city is the nearest one to my home town, and where my Grannie used to live, so I came here all the time even when I didn't live here. I've never had to get used to a new place - the layout, the transport, where the shops are, where you're supposed to go and where you daren't. I've grown up in Cambridgeshire, and it's all I know. My parents are buried here, all my loves and losses have been here, my mistakes and my moments of pride. The only countryside I'm really accustomed to is flat, with almost black soil, or acres of oilseed rape - horizons that go on for miles and miles.
I'll probably get vertigo walking up Notting Hill, or whatever the hell it is Londoners do.
posted by bandhag | 12/20/2003 01:05:00 AM
Friday, December 19, 2003
If I hadn't already been thinking about moving to London, then tonight's visit by a policewoman to ask if we had seen or heard the latest fracas, two doors down, would have decided it for me. In the past 4 months, there have now been knife, bottle, kicking-down-stairs, and gun incidents. If I used to be worried that living in London wouldn't be as safe as the nice, sedate, bleeding-heart-liberal country that is Cambridge, I aint now.
posted by bandhag | 12/19/2003 09:24:00 PM
Thursday, December 18, 2003
20 steps to a lovely night's sleep and a timely reminder of how great you are:
1. During evening, put a 'throw' up over a transparent blind in order to try and get some privacy
2. Fail to feel tired until approximately ridiculous o'clock
3. At ridiculous o'clock, get ready for bed, turn off light, crawl into bed on futon approx. 2 feet from door
4. After approx 2 mins, realise that room pitch black, that your eyes are not going to get any more 'accustomed' to it than this, it is just pitch fucking black
5. Approximately now, your body will alert you to the fact that the dark is still very much your number one tip-top fear. As your throat starts closing up, the room starts closing in and your heart starts hammering in your chest, jump up on some handy furniture (don't worry about spilling everything else on it on the floor) and rip that throw down as fast as you can.
6. Fall backwards off furniture with force of pulling down the throw. Land on the futon, and not the sleeping cat, otherwise the whole thing will be ruined.
7. Crawl into bed
8. Lay there for about half an hour, unable to get warm.
9. Realise that this due to the fact that your buttocks are cold.
10. Find pyjama bottoms in cold and dark.
11. Crawl back into bed
12. Lay there for a while
13. Wonder why you feel like you're having a whitey
14. Become faintly aware of a flashing light somewhere
15. Realise that the source of the flashing light is the printer which somehow, you have managed to break at some point during the evening and is now flashing its reproach at you.
16. Contemplate getting up to unplug it
17. Decide to pull duvet over head and attempt to ignore it instead
18. Lie there for an hour, unable to get to sleep
19. Fall asleep
20. Dream about everyone you know recoiling in disgust when you walk into a room.
Bright eyed and bushy tailed, man. Bright eyed and bushy tailed...
posted by bandhag | 12/18/2003 12:37:00 PM
So I've been ploughing away at this book I've been editing, and finished it today - a day ahead of the deadline. Yay me. Because the company I do work for is a little scant on instructions, I've been sending my queries/comments to my line manager, rather than direct to the authors, as I figure there's things he can probably deal with rather than bother them. Only today he says "No, that's ok, just send it straight to them". So I do. And tonight I receive a series of fairly snotty emails back, one of which reads simply "Why are you sending me this?" (bits of a chapter that there aren't actually any questions about). "Umm, because I thought you would need complete copies of everything" I lamely return. Of course he doesn't need them clogging up his inbox any more than I needed them clogging up my outbox. Durr. I'm not convinced he's even read my queries properly, as I suspect he thinks I'm just a nit-picker. One was about something that simply made no sense - context, syntax, grammar, all wrong. A ballsed-up cut and paste, possibly. "Fine as is" he has written next to my query...
Meanwhile, the other employer emails to find out why I don't appear to have done any of their work yet this month. So I plan to be up all night doing it, and go and get some coke (brown liquid variety, not "up the nose, behave like a twat but think I'm great" variety), down it, start work, only for the fucking website to go down when I'm only an hour in.
This kind of shit makes me nervous - I am now depending on these people for a livelihood, and I don't want to piss them off. The evening has left me feeling stupid, thwarted and crap, frankly.
posted by bandhag | 12/18/2003 12:11:00 AM
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
I inherited a blind with my room. It's one of those cheapy bamboo jobs, that people can half see through when you've got the light on and that fall to pieces pretty quickly. I've never liked it that much because...well, people can half see through it when I've got my light on. And the other day, it fell to pieces. A perfect opportunity, I thought, to go and get the kind of blind I'd actually wanted (a venetian one).
So out I trot to the local DIY store and find a nice suitable plain one, not too pricey. Just the job.
Two hours it took me to put up. Very fiddly getting inside the brackets to fix the screws, and it's not easy wielding a blind nearly one and a half times as wide as you are tall on your own, let me tell you. But put it up I did, and was feeling mighty proud of myself.
Then I popped out to the shop, leaving my bedroom light on (it was dark by the time I'd finished. Pesky winter). I walked back through the communal garden and happened to glance up at my room. Only to see that my super-duper new blind, which looks so protective from the inside when it's all closed up, is actually completely fucking transparent when the light is on.
Imagine my joy, won't you?
posted by bandhag | 12/17/2003 05:06:00 PM
Monday, December 15, 2003
The posse of bovva kids walking arm in arm down my street earlier have a message for the world. It is obviously important, as they were repeating it over and over again, in their shrill "their balls haven't dropped yet and we're still in training bras but we've practised snogging TWICE and once we felt each other up a bit after we got a bit giggly on a couple of alcopops" voices. Their message, which I now bring to you, is this:
PRESIDENT BUSH AINT GOT A WILLY FOR YOU TO TOSS OFF AND HE AINT GOT A FANNY TO FINGER!
(repeat to fade)
So now you know.
posted by bandhag | 12/15/2003 11:55:00 PM
Gah. The Klink Family have ROBBED all my comments, innit?!
Who came here looking for "the-ring-the-original", eh? Dunno why you put all those hyphens in, but I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you were looking for "that film that made bandhag have to sleep with the light on" as opposed to anything related to Bilbo fucking Baggins.
And people are still looking to me for answers on how to get rid of a boner. Odd. Not that I wish to ridicule boys and their smashing appendages, but I have to confess - I never would have guessed that was so much of an issue...
Miiind you. I suppose it is when you're a teenager and you get those 'inappropriate' ones while you're dissecting a cow's liver in biology or whatever. Poor boys. Still - they have adulthood to look forward to, when sometimes the little bugger will 'inappropriately' refuse to spring to life no matter how hard you (and/or helpful assistant) try to persuade him.
Sometimes, I love my double-x chromsomes. Kiss kiss.
posted by bandhag | 12/15/2003 03:40:00 PM
Thursday, December 11, 2003
"Sorry we weren't able to deliver this item" said the card I received from Royal Mail yesterday morning, with little crosses indicating that this was because "The item is Recorded Delivery" and "A signature is required".
"Ooo," sez I "A Recorded Delivery item - must be something exciting and mysterious. Damn and fie on my laziness - why, if I'd only leapt out of bed when I heard the doorbell ring at 7 this morning, I could be enjoying the jewels/man/belgian chocolates/crate of LPs that someone has unexpectedly sent me". So I went to bed real early, set my alarm for 7 like a good girl, sprang out of bed when the doorbell went five minutes after I'd woken up and raced to the door to begin my new life with Something Cool That Had Been Sent by Recorded Delivery.
Imagine my delight to discover that said Recorded Delivery item was my Masters certificate. You know - the one I picked up at the fucking GRADUATION CEREMONY that happened two months ago. The letter enclosed told me, with some consternation, that there had been "an erroneous signature" on the last one. Oh no! Woe is me! I certainly couldn't have gone through life with an erroneous signature on what has to be the shittest degree certificate of all time: plain font on plain paper - not even a hint of all that fancy calligraphy gubbins anywhere - it looks more like a dole form than a degree certificate, which, given the University, it may as well be...
People should be banned from sending boring things by Recorded Delivery.
That is all.
posted by bandhag | 12/11/2003 11:02:00 AM
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Arg! I spelt it "breakfrast"! My youngest sister used to say breakfast as "breakfrast" and I had to sit down with her when she was 11 and train her to say it properly, so that she wouldn't get the shit kicked out of her at secondary school for speaking like an infant. Very Eliza Doolittle, it was. I spoke to her on the 'phone this morning, I wonder if that's why I did that...
Yeah, ok, I'm going to start working....nnnnnnn-NOW.
posted by bandhag | 12/10/2003 12:16:00 PM
The newsagent is selling Danish Butter Cookies at a pound for a massive bag. A pound! That dirty newsagenty bitch*. My vocation as a blimp, sitting motionless on the sofa watching my stories until they have to cut the side of the house off to get me out, is assured. Mmmm, over-long sentences. My English teachers must want to just about hump me senseless right now, ah yeah.
Working from home is going well, other than the fact I appear to have resumed my unemployed-person's body clock: bed at 3 am, waking up at noon. Yesterday, though, I made a special effort and went to bed early. Hence I'm up while it's still light. Which is nice. Tomorrow morning, I may try to make it while breakfrast TV is still on. It's good to have goals.
*actually not a bitch at all - he's a very lovely old man. But the point still stands - pimping his dirty bitch cookies at me as soon as I walk in the door, all "Hey, my friend, you look like you could use some hot hot cookie action to go with that pile of celebrity gossip magazines [wink wink]" and such. Ok, no, he doesn't actually say it out loud. He transmits it. With his pimp brain. What? He does. Shut up.
posted by bandhag | 12/10/2003 11:21:00 AM
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
In case you hadn't guessed, I don't use hairdryers. I don't like them. They only serve to make a (in my case) bad situation worse.
posted by bandhag | 12/03/2003 09:13:00 PM
Flicking through the Argos (as I do), I came across a new product: a hairdryer, that blows out fruit-scented air.
What the fuck was the angle on that one, then? "Never mind that your hair is horribly heat damaged and you have so many split ends you look like your head is covered in tiny witches' brooms - you will smell a little bit like 80's novelty rubbers, for about 30 seconds. Novelty rubbers!"
For our American friends: I'm talking about erasers. Although, come to think of it, that weird burning plastic smell you often get with hairdryers...plus the scent....yeah, maybe it works whichever way you read it.
posted by bandhag | 12/03/2003 09:10:00 PM
Monday, December 01, 2003
Wheeeee, I've given up my job!
Well, I've given up one of my jobs. The one I did during the day. The one that made me so miserable I sobbed for a total of 2 hours yesterday, at the thought of going to it. And no, it's not the time of the month. And no, it didn't have anything to do with cigarettes.
Fortunately, I've been given a shitload of Other Stuff to do. Otherwise, kitty bandhag and I would be out on the streets, pimping our respective asses in return for some H. Or some such.
I feel scared, and relieved, in equal doses, and it's times like these I wish I hid a stash of alcohol somewhere in the house.
posted by bandhag | 12/01/2003 11:55:00 PM