Hurrah, to compensate for my cacky back (now clicking in a succession of three) my fucking right knee has gone up the spout. I’m currently traversing round the office in black and white, like I’m walking wounded, bravely staggering around the grounds of a military hospital in the late 40’s, puffing on a Capstan, where is the pretty nurse with starched apron smoothing my brill creamed hair? She be dead now of course.
Yesterday lunchtime I began the task of gathering together the various ingredients for the folks 40th Wedding Anniversary. It was awful; I had to go into Woolworths where I was subject to Holly Valence and Gerry Halliwell breathing surround sound poison into my face as I gloomily trudged through glittering isles selling shit made in China. A big fat women was going to task on the pick n’ mix, every time she bent down to shovel a pile of candy into her brightly coloured paper sack she’d go bright red and the sun would go out. I located some fucking balloons and 50 little rubber finger monsters, I’d been made deranged by Victoria Beckham’s single, so I purchased the rubber monsters with the help of an utterly vacant human being at the counter and left the bobbing porker to fill her 3rd bag.
I wandered about Wimbledon forlornly trying to find somewhere that sold little fucking silver stars and ribbon and tissue paper and other tiny bits of anniversary related ephemera. As the tennis was on the place was packed full of cunts looking all confused and weird with another heap of tools perpetually trying to press leaflets, phone cards and free newspapers into my hand. It was a nightmare of truly harrowing proportions; I was in full swearing mode and prepared to fling whatever piece of shit had been imposed on me back into the face of the vendor, it happened 4 times. By the time I returned to the office, late, the only item that had increased my lot was a small spool of silver ribbon, but my blood pressure was sky high and I was sweating like a navvy. The afternoon was written off.
After work I dropped off my black bitch, she was looking mighty fine, and went directly to the tube to arrive at Clapham in time to visit a posh gift shop before meeting my bro. The initial disappointment of the contents of the shop had its head kicked off when I found it sold fucking silver stars and a host of other twinkle-twee anniversary stuff. Ace. I met my bro in the usual and we discussed the forthcoming weekend –you’ll be privy to this on Monday if you tune in- and the recent mud fest in Shepton Mallet. We’d not spoken since and it seems that he was about impressed with the festival as I, it also seems that in terms of getting out of the fucking thing to go home we were extraordinary lucky, not that I give a tinker’s cuss from where I sit now in the warm and dry…Office. Oh.
This evening Myfwt is over to finish off the anniversary shopping for tomorrow evening, I just hope we have enough time for a few glasses of wine before being forced to undertake a relatively early night, this is due to the massive flurry of activity culminating in a 50 guest knees up in deepest darkest Surrey.
Finally, it’s worth mentioning that my bro gave me some video footage shot 3 years ago of me throwing up into a sink as Jamie, who is on top form, is reminding me of my job as an auxillary Nurse. If I can edit it properly I’m considering posting it on YouTube for your entertainment. I saw it last night for the first time and it had me in stitches.
Have nice weekends; don’t forget how lucky you are to have quality spines…