Oh yes. Thursday finally came after nearly a week of waiting, and with it the start of a run of seven straight days off work. I always say that the value of vegetative time is overlooked: a decent time to get in order the thoughts that keep you awake that extra hour; a chance to catch up with Fern Britton’s battle against health, Kate Humble/Ben Fogle’s battle against intelligence and Lorraine Kelly’s brave fight against feminine itching and the dogs of menopause; and the opportunity to shout “Nnnng…Bagra..Chumley…Fucking…PloppyJelly” within office hours. The added bonus is that at the end of it all I’m so bored that there is almost a positive side to getting back to mingling with the office benthos once again. Lunch is in 26.2 minutes: I fancy cheese on toast…….
I find that doing all of the above through a haze of canage, makes the time run at triple speed and you’ll be back cursing the grey walls and blue carpets of office cubicle land before you know it.
You bastards! cheese on toast and Fern Britton’s chunky, flatulent optimism…the stuff that dreams are made of. The French don’t recognise Good Friday as a holiday, since it does not pertain to their inherent greatness.