The Job of my Dreams
I'm shattered. Hedgehead at work ended the day gossiping at me about weird single women who drink too much wine and have twenty cats in one ear, while Hippyboss decided to exercise her right to the odd Gestapo moment by upbraiding me in front of 200 colleagues in the other, because she thought I looked as if I might want to leave her sucky meeting early. What I was actually doing was craning my neck to see someone's data and work out who'd fucked up, me or them, on it.
So, for that, and for skipping the 8.15 Monday morning meeting for 52 weeks so far, and for other sins which I cannot remember, I have a detention tomorrow. A penalty meeting at the end of the day, with Hippyboss. Who will no doubt at best say something barbed that could be interpreted wrongly if you gave a fuck what she thinks she could do to you, and at worst decide to be nice, clasp you to her unrestrained heaving bosoms and stroke your face till you pretend you're grateful.
Ageing hippies are far more trustworthy when they're doing the decent thing and stabbing you in the back.
I must be a very very naughty co-worker. I felt thoroughly ashamed of my lack of team spirit and went home to sigh heavily at my twenty cats.
Far away from the guilt circus that is a job you have no interest in politicking over, in reality news, I have the opportunity to retrain as anything I want (bearing in mind I'm shit at maths, though). The sense of choice is overwhelming.
What would you do if you could have the job of your dreams?
Best Blo'te of the Day So Far: Looby
"The "pub" nearest to me (I say pub, but it's really a community centre and venue with a bar attached), is somewhere I never normally go, partly because it looks like the set for a pisstake TV sitcom about yoghurt knitters. It has a strange attraction for 50-year-old weirdy beardy men, and people who suffer from imaginary illnesses like ME, (a strangely class-specific virus which somehow affects university lecturers and psychotherapists more than it does catering assistants and people working in care homes). They also have a rule of not serving alcohol before 4pm, although you wouldn't want to be in there at that time anyway, unless you want to hear Proud Mum noisily cooing things like "Ooh, seven today! What a clever boy! Yes, Leo, we're going to go and paint our ant faces now.""