Wednesday, March 5, 2008


It's an affliction of getting older. You sit in the canteen at work and look around the table at your colleagues and realise that you are the only person there (bar one, who is a man) who is either not married and/or is without children. It's like being in the civil service edition of Bridget Jones' Diary.

And some of them are so fucking smug about it, rabbiting on about birthday parties (usually held in one of those kiddie play warehouse things that are the very embodiment of my idea of Dante's Inferno) , Term Time leave, Parental Leave, not to mention the amount of money they spent on getting the latest Nintendo Weee and fifteen games to go with it for their precious. And they smile knowingly at the singletons while they go into more detail.

I have to say I really love kids, but I wouldn't eat a whole one.

Plus, when I get paid tomorrow, the entire amount at the bottom of the payslip is for me, and me alone (once I've attended to some bills and the mortgage, that is). I can buy a Nintendo Poo (or whatever it's called), add a few games, books, DVDs, CDs, pints and a dinner or two without having to answer to any nappy-wearing tyrant or worrying about lunch money for junior. Or I could just convert it into cash and roll around naked in it. I can listen to Fatboy Slim, Tom Waits, the Rolling Stones or Editors as loud as I choose without having to make way on the stereo for the latest shit by some orange tinted lipsyncing slapper. And my entertainment doesn't have to be multiple viewings of mawkish Disney tripe; instead I can enjoy chainsaws, serial killers and zombies eating brains all night long if I so choose.

In addition, the only vomit I have to clean up is my own, and that's my fault for drinking Stella.

The world is my oyster, and there's an R in the month. Which means I won't get the squits.

Who's smug now?

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