My office is turning into a Menopausal war zone. I am the only bloke. Today, the 4/5ths of female contingent of the office were enjoying their only shared past time – BITCHING about someone who is not there.
Office bint 1 : “Did you see the flocking dress that Karine on reception was wearing today?! She looks like a chess board!”
This got the chortling juices flowing nicely, and you could almost feel the discomfort fading from the office as common ground was briefly underfoot. I can’t keep my mouth shut at the moment though, and any opportunity for controversy seems to make me chirp up.
“Yeah but chess is a complex game, and I reckon Karine’s only capable of 3, 4 moves at a push….”
This met with uncomfortable laughter, which bizarrely gladdened me. I think, in terms of the group psychology of this beast, I am actually trying to become their scapegoat. It would be a charitable act for many innocent bystanders and perhaps goad me into the conflict I occasionally wish for….or maybe it’s a holiday I need? You know that. It’s coming, well a long weekend anyway. A mate arrives on Saturday for a long weekend of city skulking, pool playing and random excursions. Anyway, apologies for this dear diary style ranting. I’m offski.
It’s been a dark time in this corner of Boloville. I took my dark mood monkey shopping with me tonight – thought he could use a change of scene (secretly I was hoping he’d jump onto someone else’s shoulder, but don’t tell him that). Anyway, it was the usual shit, pushing the trolley, avoiding as best I could the slow walking plum baits, the elderly and the deranged Amsterdam Maximator drinkers (13%, tastes like bananas, melts your brain fibres). My head was moaning like an impatient child, chiding me for the mundane landscape I was forcing upon it, when this guy asks for my help. He had a one item list, it read “com potte cannette”. Literally this means “like a friend, can”, as the list was obviously written by someone with mental issues or a meths drinker, but clearly it should have read “compotte cannette” (apple puree in a can) because the dude was brandishing a massive pot of apple puree and asking me to confirm that he had made a successful find.
Suddenly I feel like a total arse for ever having sheltered this foul smelling monkey at all. I mean, even if the worst comes to the worst, I should currently be glad of my ability to read and write, which does have the added benefit of avoiding my shopping trips becoming like a trip to an ancient Egyptian town where everything is labeled in hieroglyphics.
Here’s to a minor victory in the daily battle to maintain perspective. I’m off to do something worthwhile, like teaching dogs to read or re-educating house-trained midgets.
I had a mate staying this weekend and hungover on Sunday we had an odd urge to go and check out some art. This worked out well, as I was sure that galeries and the likes were free on the first sunday of every month. Something they call “les dimanches de patrimoine”. Anyway, my mate had heard tell of some Matisse, Rembrandt and possibly Jean Michel Jarre on offer so we sauntered down to the local mairie which has a couple of galleries. The conversation waiting for me inside proved to be a very sobering affair. It went something like this (bearing in mind that French is normally a lot more formal and polite between strangers than English):
Me : “Hello, good day Madam.”
Museum “receptionist” : “Hello, is it to see the exhibition?”
“Yes, please. Am I right in thinking galeries are still free on the first Sunday of every month?”
“NO!!!!!! THAT’S FINISHED!!”
“I’m sorry, I thought that-”
“NO! FINISHED!”
“Yes, I understand. How long has-”
“FINISHED, that, FINISHED!”
“Since when?”
“IT’s FINISHED! NO MORE JOURNEES DU PATRIMOINE”
“I understand you perfectly well. How long has it been?”
“FINISHED. IT’S BEEN 3 YEARS!!!!!!”
It was all I could do to break eye contact and keep my feet on the floor. I’m a fairly reasonable person, but on occasion it seems that world is conspiring to make me do a Michael Douglas.
I went in with a relaxed, very manageable, slight hangover, but by the time this little rottweiler of a skank whore had finished her lyrical bludgeoning, I was primed for the kill. We did do one of the galeries, but I found myself half looking at depressing dutch landscapes and mainly the urge to go back and ask her why, if she hated mankind so very much, she insisted on inflicting her vile self on the world instead of just OD’ing on her own sense of superiority. It’s alright though. I have my revenge sussed.
1 phone call, every Sunday, at the same time every week, for the rest of her working life:
Spent a bit of time this week driving around the unfamiliar land of South London. Sometimes aided and frequently hampered by the presence of a TomTom shouting skewed directions about bearing left and advising illegal manoeuvres and the avoidance of invisible speed cameras.
Driving in London is a considerable challenge these days due to the need to skip in and out of lanes as you come round a corner and somehow find yourself in a bus lane, risking a massive fine or castration or both.
Ah well, we have the Mayor to thank for that and of course now is the time to pick the new one. This is no easy choice given on the one hand we have Red Ken, two terms in and half mad on government subsidies and low congestion policies in the one corner and on the other, wearing a blue handkerchief on his head, Boris the buffoon, capering about like a cat with rabies.
Paddick may still be hovering somewhere about the fringes. I can’t remember and although I have a soft spot for the chap due to his role in the ill-fated Lambeth experiment, somehow I don’t see myself voting for him. No, I feel a spoiled ballot coming on.
The chance to do this has come from the Conservatives. For reasons unknown to myself I seem to have managed to get removed from the electoral roll, but fortunately the beady eyed researchers at Tory HQ have observed this and sent me all of the required forms to remedy the problem. The only flaw in their plan is of course that I won’t be voting Conservative.
Anyway, all that was the last thing on my mind as I bopped about London in the Clio, a week past its MOT and making ominous noises as I drove around corners. Quick heel toe movements and remembering to push down hard on the brakes when the traffic moves again from 2nd to 1st gear. Staying safe and avoiding having to explain to some angry Camberwell resident that you crashed into the side of their vehicle because you were shouting about the Olympics and failing to realise that your wheels had fallen off.
Still, as a wise man once said, it is not the destination that is important it is the journey and indeed, this was important wisdom for me to consider on Saturday as I reached my destination, Eltham palace. It was important because Eltham Palace, previously unbeknownst to me was mysteriously closed on a Saturday and all I had to show for my trip was an empty Salmon sandwich box, cramp in my left foot, and of course, the inevitably journey back again.
…….the posse of angry young Thais searching for the elusive Coybag in order to thrash him to within an inch of his life for crimes against beachwear, and refusal to engage in paedophilia…found no further trace apart from a postcard, unsigned – nestling in a crack in the rocks, between a starfish and a used condom – that read, cryptically and tellingly: “Hi guys, loving Thailand; food, weather, beaches all great, loads of pics…wish u were here!”. Questioned about the authenticity of this clue, the locals were adamant that it was deposited by a man very closely fitting the description of the whitish, tallish, bluey-brown-eyed fugitive. It was also ruled out that the adjacent six-foot letters scraped into the sand that read “Opened bolo’s Asian office, promptly closed it due to inundation by shit flies and air conditioning condensation and started enjoying my holiday…when I get over the shits and the jet lag I my just write about the shits and the jet lag…”were of any interest to the investigation…..REUTERS
Spent a bit of time this week driving around the unfamiliar land of South London. Sometimes aided and frequently hampered by the presence of a TomTom shouting skewed directions about bearing left and advising illegal manoeuvres and the avoidance of invisible speed cameras.