This week, I have mainly been working like a bastard from half six in the morning to half ten at night, and mostly still suffering toothache and earache, but I was enjoying the Codeines far too much, so I’m not taking them any more. (When is medal being delivered?)
The weekend was nothing to write home about, and I am so knackered that this is actually going to make me refrain from writing about it, miracles are indeed happening. Short version: I fought the sums and lost, having become unstuck somewhere in function of function rules, me and the Bossman were both still lurgified, and the train is a sodding expensive way of getting some study time in.
However! Operation Act Like You Totally Want A Lodger But Really You Don’t In Case They Hate You is going great guns. The wallpaper has all gone out to the back bins, the spare room is now a pleasing shade of
pink lilac, dammit it is lilac, I put white in the purple and it is not pink, that’s just the artificial light. Crap. Who’s gonna rent a pink room?
I quite want to paint some sort of warrior woman on the one Definitely Purple wall. Mind you, I also quite want to finish the comedy zombie series of paintings and the series of gigantic nudes and the tribal dragon alphabet thing and I think I am coming to the realisation that I am never going to do any of these things and will die unfulfilled because there is always one more ‘one last push’ before the fun. Do The Dishes First, what a god-awful motto to come up with, and one that gets me stuck with the dishes, natch. And I could stop being like this at any time, but for some reason, I don’t. [You’re scared you’ll do it and discover you suck – Ed]. Yeah, thanks for that.
pink lilac room with warrior-woman on the wall. Yeah, the sort of people I hope to attract will love that, right? Only nutters would love that. As a fully paid-up nutter, I may as well move me own stuff in there now.
Due to a bewildering lack of shitty weather, it is also time to get on with Operation All Closet Survivalists Worth Their Salt Must Be Able To Grow
Wine Food (And Not Live In A Flat In An Urban Area). Dammit, I really hoped this wouldn’t overlap with the DIY, ho hum. So I have been down the Allittlement and dug in all the manure and planted out 7 kilos of early tatties. What with the surprise bonus tatties I failed to remove last year (whoops) I’m hoping for a good crop. Cos man do they make tasty wine!
This year: must achieve a crop that is something other than potatoes and chili peppers already.
On my stagger home through the gloaming after the third day of this, I was waylaid by a drunken or possibly drugged-up Ned in need of a light. When I gave him use of mine, he was incredibly happy and gave me a big cheer and a massive hug that unfortunately crushed my headphones into my one working ear, which has spent the rest of the week giving me gyp. I wouldn’t normally mind, but being covered in three days’ worth of mud and horseshit, I was really trying to avoid human contact just then. It was terribly embarrassing. Fortunately he didn’t notice and tried to get me to drink buckfast with him. (‘Classy!’ said everyone I told about it, until I explained I myself was carrying potato-based moonshine at the time, at which point they shut up and eyed me suspiciously). I hurried home to shower instead.
You know what? That was actually all my social encounters for the week. Hmm.
The Shake-up of Damocles continues to hang over the office; everyone has given up and is waiting to find out what will happen instead. Except me, for I am stupid! I worked like a bastard and lo, was right up to date when the Boss turned up for a meeting and put us all back behind again.
I do like the Boss, she seems to be on our side. I really hope she isn’t just faking it! But she depressed the hell out of me today with all her praise for our teamwork and team spirit and we’re a really good team! And we are. It’s just, in two months, we won’t be. Sniff. My colleagues were about the one thing that saved this job from being high-pressure hell, and here my Cellmate’s already being returned to the Rival Hospital. Which is near her home, so that’s what she wants, so it’s Good. And I can play the radio, which she doesn’t like. But it isn’t gonna be the same, dammit.
Also: No Sick Leave, sayeth the Boss in a whisper. For You Are On A Trigger Warning and if you take any before the shake-up, it will look bad. Great. Then I will get a rubbish placement for nobody will want me? None of us, including the Boss, knows how this reshuffle is all worked out (though I have a theory that goes, ‘Everybody from the east side, over to the west side, everybody from the north, over to the south, and if the added commute doesn’t make you all quit, well, we’ll think of something.’ It’s a budget-slashing exercise, after all!
So now it is Friday and I have nearly finished the spare room. I now have the joys of repeating all this with my room, hoorah. Not. But phase 1 of Operation More Of That Wine Please is complete, I have a van booked to move this greenhouse at the weekend, I have a sort-of clean flat, paid-up bills, a gig all planned for tonight, the Bossman coming over to be a hero and drive the van, a cottage pie in the oven and an inadvisably scanty outfit on (the weather has returned to the regularly-scheduled icy rain) and I can’t sodding be arsed and we are going to sit in doing Nothing.
I am both the worst hostess and the worst girlfriend ever. Thank god the Bossman was out on the lash last night, so he’s being nice about it.