The weekend with the kids went just fine: in fact, operation ‘Don’t Get Arrested For Criminal Negligence’ went off without a hitch. I even had fun. We (by which I mean, ‘not me’) went ice skating at Liverpool Street. On paper, that sounds a bit boring, but honestly, there is nothing funnier than a skating rink full of English people. (If you tell an English person that you like watching hockey, they invariably say, “Ice hockey?” No, mate, fucking field hockey.) I even got exclusive footage of the world’s worst ice skater. Beware the flailing menace! Scourge of those who cannot move faster than 0.5 miles an hour!
My job continues to be horrible. My boss doesn’t seem to grasp the concept that commanding one person to do the work of ten people does not miraculously give that one person the ability to actually do the work of ten people. I am not a magical document control fairy! I need to sleep sometimes!
SCENES FROM A COUCH
SiC and I rented our flat furnished. In the lounge there are two ugly, uncomfortable, fake leather sofas. One sofa sits flush against the wall, and the other one sits perpendicular to it in the middle of the room, next to the table. The correct position for this sofa is in the centre of the room, but when SiC is sitting at the table, he likes to stretch his inordinately long legs, so he shoves the sofa back until it butts up against the other sofa. This is wrong. WRONG WRONG WRONG! The sofas must be equidistant from each other, or all is not right with the world! SiC’s profound and inherent wrongness has resulted in an ongoing battle over the position of the Second Sofa (on the grassy knoll). Last night, after an energetic bout of back-and-forth shoving of the sofa, I finally lost my temper.
“Goddamn it!” I screamed. “You’re fucking up the fucking Feng Shui, you fuck!”
I think I made my point.