how spiffing. reaching that “is there any paint lying around” stage of employment ennui. wotyareedin?

Currently on my second book of the day. First of which was ‘A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian’ by Marine Lewycka and now I’m leafing through ‘Cards of Grief’ by Jane Yolen. 

you appear to be seated behind a playskool toy counter.

I came in this morning and found that whoever was on shift last night had given it a really bad paint job because they were bored. We know the meaning of the word ‘Professionalism’ here, but we think it’s shit. 

I think his name is Pete. He’s stocky, bald, wears a lot of black. Did you guess correctly? No, he’s not an ugly vampire, he’s a bouncer. Possibly-Pete works at Aruba and some other place I can’t remember the name of. He works for Npower as well. He doesn’t talk to his family because they’re a pack of bastards. He moved out when he was 16, he’s now 36. He’s got an 18 year old son who is going to Teesside University this year. His family reckon he’s a cunt. He’s obviously NOT though ‘cause if he was a cunt ”A’d be sat in the pub right now with me mates, but am not, coz I dun’t even ‘ave any ‘cept a few close ones but a’ve bin bringin’ up me kid and working ‘nd savin’ ‘aven’t a?” He tried to talk to them a few years ago but they didn’t want to know because he was on bail at the time but it wasn’t his fault and that’s what they don’t seem to understand. The lads were asking for it. They were going to his gym and hanging around near his house and all the other places he goes. He also knows all the gypsies. ALL THE GYPSIES. All of them. That’s what he said. He’s a good boy really and he’s coming in for another chat with me tomorrow. 

Hey bitches. I’m at work but life is good anyway. I’ve finally got all those silly rampant emotions squared away in my head and it’s fine. The most valuable words I have in my vocabulary at the moment are ‘Fuck it’. Because fuck it. 

This is what I’ve got done today:

• Started to sort out where I’m crashing when I see Amanda Palmer in London in October.
• Priced up transport/accommodation for the Star Trek convention. 
• Found a hotel for my trip to Amsterdam.
• Painted.
• Stole/persuaded someone to grudgingly give me a laptop.
• Watched Sean Penn be sexy in This Must Be The Place. 
• Read a book. 
• Put on deodorant. 

That’s LOADS of stuff so basically I win. Except I’ve got a massive spot on my arse which is confusing and upsetting to my mental well being. Is this a sign that my bastard bad skin is making the slow journey from my face to my feet soon to dissipate through my toes into the earth? Or am I inexorably becoming an elephant man style freak of nature? They’ll call me spotty the spot lady. I’ll have dimples and pimples and pimples on my dimples and nothing will be simple. Seriously, there’s people who have had their homes destroyed by hurricanes that would look at this spot on my bottom and say ”Oh honey, I’m so sorry, that’s just terrible.”

On occasion people have been known to somehow mistake the shop in which I work for a psychiatrists office. I’m no Frasier Crane so if you have any advice to offer up to these poor unfortunate souls (those last three words sung in the tune of the eponymous Little Mermaid song) then let me know and I’ll let them know the next time they’re in. Todays case is a man who moved here a year ago from Windermere in order to be with his pregnant girlfriend. When the baby came he sunk all his money into his new little family and spent the first 12 months caring for the child 24/7. He has now been tossed out into the street by his girlfriend and is sleeping on his mates couch. He’s convinced that she had this planned from the beginning and has apparently seen the texts which prove it. At this point he stares off into the middle distance with genuine sadness in his eyes and said “It’s fucking crap here, isn’t it?” I’m inclined to agree. He describes the crack heads wandering around Stockton at 10am drinking lager, and the way that no one ever seems to smile,  just stare grimly with dead eyes from behind their personal clouds of cigarette smoke. It’s ok though, he’s going to York on a work night out soon. He’ll enjoy himself then.

Today I stumbled into work 45 minutes late wearing my pyjama top & leggings. I brought more appropriate work wear to change into but managed to leave it on the train. At least I won’t look to incongruous when I fall asleep at my desk. Right?