The Whine, the Bitch and the Wierdrobe

I have run out of cynical things to say about the current glorious weather, and have decided that I must enjoy it from now on... while it lasts -D'oh! There I go again!

The temperatures in Ballyfuck/ Department mean it is no longer possible for me to wear my shirty-type blouses at work / driving to work without melting. And nobody wants to step in a puddle that was once an EO.

So I've had to rummage around in the back of the wardrobe for more suitable stuff.

The criteria are:
1. That it must fit. Given that I've not worn some of these things since we last had sun in 2006, the chances are slim (ha!) to none.
2. It must not be stained. Curry / beer stains undermine my authority as a supervisor and just show me off to be the beer swigging, vindaloo munching person that I really am.
3. It must not reveal my cleavage in any way (i.e. no "pulling" tops. Even though they are perfect in terms of aeration, I still don't want the leery guy from the neighbouring section trying to get a look at my bra while I'm at the printer).
4. It must not be part of my typical weekend going-down-the-pub-for-pints wear: i.e. Father Jack/ Che Guevara/Guinness/ Munster RFC/ GAA are out.

Anyway, I managed to find some stuff that met all these criteria. Yes, even the first one... I am actually more svelte than in 2006, apparently.

Gleefully pulling a respectable, fitted garment over my head this morning I took some time to assess the look in the mirror. My top, though it fitted me, looked far from flattering...

What the hell... WHY DO I LOOK LIKE I HAVE EXTRA NIPPLES? I look like a less well endowed cousin of the Triple Breasted Whore of Eroticon Six! (With apologies to Douglas Adams) Oh, wait, it's just the seam on my bra. Umm... that won't do. I don't want to draw Leery Guy's attention. Maybe if I get a top in a different fabric the seam won't show. Err... no, that won't work either. Maybe a different bra... (and so on. )

I finally leave the house satisfied that there are no lumps or bumps where they shouldn't be. Behind me I have left a trail of destruction. It looks like Bannockburn after the battle, except with clothes and differently seamed bras, not bodies and broken, bloody swords. To be tidied up when I get home. I'm late for work as it is.

I find my winter wardrobe far easier to cope with. You can hide everything under those layers.

By the way, this is the first time I've mentioned the word "Nipples" in a blog post. It's downhill from here, I'm afraid...

How do they do it?

Oh Jaysus.

I am so sick of fucking forms. I am short staffed at the moment (I think it's something to do with the weather - wish I'd fucking thought of that), and so I've had to pick up some of the slack.

I don't know how the clerical staff do it. Processing form after form day in day out. Fucking hell. I think I'll go easy on them at the upcoming interim review (Then I'll balance it out by going medieval on their asses for calling in "sick" at a moment's notice. Heh heh heh. ), because I know if I had to do it all day every day I'd go fucking mental.

I can just see myself, having strangled a senior manager with his tie and tied it around my own head as a headband, leaping the desks in the open-plan areas throwing ninja death forms at everyone in my path. The carpet would be soaked in copious amounts of blood from the papercuts I would inflict mercilessly on my co-workers. My ululating battle-cry would echo throughout the building and those left alive would not emerge from beneath their desks until it is time for my tea break.

Feck it, it's going to be lovely again tomorrow. I think I'll call in sick. It might just save their lives.

What the hell is this?

Those were my very words (barked, Father Jack-like at no-one in particular) as I wiped the goo from my eyes this morning and looked out the window before making the daily crawl to the Department.

Sun?
Sun...
SUN!

Fuck this, I said, and decided to call in the old flexi time. I've none left now, and have to go in tomorrow. Knowing my luck, it'll be even nicer tomorrow, and utterly shit at the weekend.