I didn't get that much sleep last night - spent the night what I call 'running hot'. It was hard to get comfortable. I tossed and turned until well after one, the hissing of the leaking loo compounding matters. Only after an hour of trying to settle myself did I reach for the lavender oil, dab some on my temples and the next thing I knew the alarm was sounding 6.15 a.m.and me wanting a few more hours of down time.
First job, check emails on the iPhone. Among the spam from potential Russian brides and the odd mail from the cheap deal people, sat a lonely mail from Lachlan. "
Dear Pandora, I can come out for April. Name the date and I will book. LOLL xx."
(Last bit means Lots of Love, Lachlan - he doesn't appear to be up on webspeak)
First thought that went through my mind was "Pig's Arse!"
Second thought was to quickly text back and say - "Any time after Easter fine. Avoid May as I have a heap on. By the way, you never call me Pandora. Panda" and then forget that the mail came.
Third thought was to forget mail ever came.
The deal with Lachlan. He has been threatening to come out to Australia from England for twelve years. I think he wrote that mail when drunk. File under waste of time. And forget about it.
After showering, dressing and throwing a cup of coffee down my throat, it was time to go over to Glen Waverley's place to let Betty out.
Glen Waverley and Merijn have gone back to the Netherlands for her brother's wedding for a few weeks, leaving me in charge of their very sweet, but rather noisy cat, Betty. Her real name is Beetje, but I can say that properly, so I call her Betty to piss her off. I go round in the morning and open her cat door, then go around in the evening and let her in again, making sure she has food and water. Nice cat sitter, eh? She's too noisy to stay at my place. Thankfully Glen Waverley lives five minutes away in the same suburb.
This morning I fronted up. Called her. Nothing. I normally get a meow from where ever she is. Called again. Nothing. Opened the cat flat. That normally gets her going. Nothing.
I went upstairs. Just had to make sure the critter was okay. I found her under the bed.
She growled at me. The look on her face was one of "You utter, utter bitch. You woke me up, you cow."
Bugger the ungrateful little sod. I told her just than, went downstairs, picked up the wet food bowl from last night (ah, wet food - give her wet food and she's your best friend) to which she came traipsing down the stairs, yelling at me. After raising her tail in disdain she hopped out the cat flap.
Pernickety little bitch.
I went round tonight and got her in for the evening. She yelled at me again. Ungrateful bitch.
And yes, I know it's only a bloody cat. And yes, I know I'm spoiling her - but she's on her own for three weeks with Glen Waverley's Porsche for company - the least I can do is go and watch telly with her for an hour every now and then (or have a bath and read my book while she stands at the bathroom door and yells at me).
Phah.
Next joy. Go home, enjoy the luxury of being able to have time to cook my own breakfast midweek and wait for the plumber. The woman on the phone said I was first cab off the ranks for the day with an 8 a.m. appointment. At 8.20 a.m, breakfast dishes clean, dried and put away - no plumber. I call the lady back. After five minutes of listening to fogey radio over the phone I'm told he's ten minutes away.
At 8.45 a.m., surly plumber arrives. "Sorry, mixed up first and second jobs." he tells me, not meeting my eye,.
Pig's arse.
Ten minutes later, the loo is allegedly not hissing any more. The plumber dude looks at my oven gas lighters, of which only one is operational.
I call the plumber dude back telling him that loo is still hissing ten minutes after flushing. Not really good enough, he replaces some other washer dohicky hoosamaflick. Toilet stops hissing, but plumber gets more surly.
Plumber stomps off ten minutes later saying that a colleague will come look at the stove at a later date. Something to do with the electrics. No shit, Sherlock. Didn't need a plumber to tell me that.
By now it's half nine. Work are aware I'm going to be a bit late in. I make my way to the tram stop and wait a few minutes. The tram appears, I alight and take a standing spot.
Three stops later, a little Japanese grandmother type complete with granny shopper cart gets in the tram. She's eighty if she's a day. Her prominent widows hump leave her height of not much more than four foot.
I wish there was a law that made grannies sit on trams. There is no such thing as common decency on trams any more. The school kids didn't bother moving. I offered her my bit of wall, but she said no.
Then the tram lurched, granny went flying and landed on me.
I tell you something. Four foot worth of Japanese granny is heavier than you think! We managed to get her to her feet and she clung to the pole for dear life for the rest of her trip.
Then into work. I've got six days left on this contract - and six days to finish off the work I've been given. I'm loving the team and the work - just a pity that the project is closing down. As there is a heap to do, I'm not taking lunch and it's all work.
Spent the rest of the morning battling with the publishing program (Adobe Captivate - or Captihate as it's known in our office) they're having us work on. Had to re do a simulation because my SME (read subject matter expert - or nerd who knows what he's doing) managed to stuff up the recording of the slide pack. There was a lot of banging of the desk and calling the computer a stupid piece of plastic crap.
Dave asked me what was wrong.
Dave, bless him, is the bestest pod mate.
Here is a picture of Dave.
I told him of my morning.
"Is that all?'
"Yep."
"Oh, are you sure. Your mood in enough to blacken the sun."
"There is a reason for it all, Dave."
"Really? Mercury in retrograde? Venus aligning with the wrong planet?'
I had to tell him. Dave is in his early sixties. I can just get away with being horrid.
"It's called being a girl, Dave."
He looked at me, smiled, nodded his head, then laughed. "Better not say the words,"yes, dear," then, should I."
"Wise move, Dave."
The boys at Tin Can, String and Whistle were great for this one. Drives you up the wall.
"You know, there is only one antidote." said Dave.
"Really. I've found that the only thing that gets rid of the pre-period rages is sex, and I haven't seen a naked man since God was a boy. And sorry Dave, lovely as you are, you're not my type and I'm sure your wife wouldn't like it."
Dave nodded and smiled.
"Laughter can help." he offered bravely.
"You reckon?"
"Pig's arse." thought I.
"It will get you out of your Gertie the Grumpy Gobshite mood."
"So, what's going to get me out of this mood?"
"I'll have a think." he said.
Early in the afternoon, he handed me a key drive. "Listen to the file marked, "Don'ts".
I did.
My shrieks of laughter reverberated around the 14th floor.
That, and a session with Pinochet seem to have made things a little better.
And now, I give you Dave Shrigley's, "Don'ts"
Strange how something so silly can make everything better.
1 comment:
'Don't slash my tyres while I'm driving.'
Love his deadpan voice, too!
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