Right, back to doom and gloom, rain and pain and other general fuckmuppetry for me for the foreseeable future.
Work fucking sucks. I come back from my break to find a WHOLE NEW FORM waiting for me. And not only do I have to fill it up, I have to fill one up for each CO as well. I have a lot of COs. That's a lot of writing. And a lot of pain for whoever has to look at them (if they do indeed look at them) because my handwriting is akin to that of a person with Parkinson's Disease attempting to write longhand while simultaneously bouncing up and down on a trampoline. Arse!
Another day of scowling and swearing behind me, I return home to find an invitation to a neighbour's Anne Summers party waiting for me. Yikes.
I'm just as much a fan of laughing at willie-shaped things as the next girl. I've been to Amsterdam and its various, ahem, museums and shops. I couldn't buy anything though because I was laughing too hard and anyway, I kept thinking about the airport security staff and their X-ray machines. In the end I plumped for a willie-shaped ice mould. Which the dog promptly ate when I brought it home. Git.
Anne Summers parties are different matters entirely. I don't fancy being in someone's house amidst girls tanked up on cheap chardonnay who are shrieking over frilly things and shoving great big plastic phalluses into each others faces. I think I would go mad. Besides, Amsterdam is anonymous, these things aren't. I might be subjected to "Whoa Govstooge, did you get a chance to wow himself with the lacy basque?" the next day when I walk to the newsagent for my paper.
Luckily, I have to be somewhere else on the night in question. I'm saving myself some considerable embarrasment.
Work fucking sucks. I come back from my break to find a WHOLE NEW FORM waiting for me. And not only do I have to fill it up, I have to fill one up for each CO as well. I have a lot of COs. That's a lot of writing. And a lot of pain for whoever has to look at them (if they do indeed look at them) because my handwriting is akin to that of a person with Parkinson's Disease attempting to write longhand while simultaneously bouncing up and down on a trampoline. Arse!
Another day of scowling and swearing behind me, I return home to find an invitation to a neighbour's Anne Summers party waiting for me. Yikes.
I'm just as much a fan of laughing at willie-shaped things as the next girl. I've been to Amsterdam and its various, ahem, museums and shops. I couldn't buy anything though because I was laughing too hard and anyway, I kept thinking about the airport security staff and their X-ray machines. In the end I plumped for a willie-shaped ice mould. Which the dog promptly ate when I brought it home. Git.
Anne Summers parties are different matters entirely. I don't fancy being in someone's house amidst girls tanked up on cheap chardonnay who are shrieking over frilly things and shoving great big plastic phalluses into each others faces. I think I would go mad. Besides, Amsterdam is anonymous, these things aren't. I might be subjected to "Whoa Govstooge, did you get a chance to wow himself with the lacy basque?" the next day when I walk to the newsagent for my paper.
Luckily, I have to be somewhere else on the night in question. I'm saving myself some considerable embarrasment.
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