Today was the last Monday morning I will ever spend in my current place of work. Deep joy people, deep joy. My boss is on holiday this week so I'd anticipated a rather laissez-faire approach to the duties of the day. Alas, I was foiled by two clients requesting greased-lightning quick turnarounds, and 10 call-centre shackeled Indians who wanted to talk about my phone bill. I was sooooo not in the mood to discuss anything telephonic (although the Indians may well have made more English-sounding words and, therefore, more sense than my current phone provider). You see, I had to get serious with those bastards at Telewest last week after they unexpectedly disconnected my phone and internet service. I used the words "ridiculous", "ludicrous", "unbelievable", "unacceptable" and, finally, "OK, I'll pay you". Bastards!
Last Friday afternoon descended into a right Royal farce when I found I couldn't get the songs from Oliver! out of my head. I ended up rewriting most of the lyrics to (loosely) fit a musical based around the people in my office. My crowning glory saw 'Food, Glorious Food' become 'Food, Perilous Food' in a nod to my psycho colleague who doesn't eat anything. On Friday evening I painted my nails a beautiful colour known as 'Hi Lily Hi Lo'. Discussing this any further would be about as interesting as watching paint dry, so I'll spare you.
Saturday morning's reading revealed that I was onto something with the whole 'why have babies thing'. According to the Economist, research suggests that, after decades of low fertility, a quarter of young German men and a fifth of young women say they have no intention of having children and think that this is fine. When Eurobarometer repeated its poll about ideal family size in 2001, support for the two-child model had fallen everywhere. Parts of Europe, then, may be entering a new demographic trap. People restrict family size from choice. But social, economic and cultural factors then cause this natural fertility decline to overshoot. This changes expectations, to which people respond by having even fewer children." I feel distinctly less 'freak-like' (if a little more German) now.
I picked Sinead up from the station on Saturday night and drove to Tapas Ole for some delicious nosh. We got stuck in about the vino tinto and elected to leave the car at the bottom of the hill and (pub) crawl our way back up. Sinead told me about the new project she's about to start working on. Allegedly, travelling people (pronounced theev-in-gyp-pose) are complaining that local authorities do not provide enough services for them. Sinead said her initial investigations have revealed that travelling people do not pay any council tax, so she's not going to get her knickers in a twist over their complaints. They also refuse to deal with anyone wearing a suit or anyone who is a woman. Women wearing suits are a definite no-no. As little is known about the travelling culture, Sinead may well have to infiltrate a band of travellers to get the real story. How terribly covert and exciting.
The evening was full of trademark no-nonsense advice, hilarious stories from the Kingdom and further afield, business banter and fiery political chat. After drinks in Smithy's, Mezz and the Outhouse, we bumped into Alex and his mate Simon and headed for some drinks in The Street. Alex was in the mood for some dancing (and, quite possibly, a fine young filly for the evening) at Ego or Mood. Apparently, Mood had one of those 'traffic-light' nights going on and the consensus was that I, sporting a brilliant green top, should steer well clear, unless I wanted barrel-loads of unsavoury attention. So pretty much a typical night at a club then ladies.
On Sunday morning I woke up with a disturbing need for drawing pins and bluetack. I decided the best thing to do would be to drive out to WH Smith at Fort Kinnaird (sometimes I disturb myself and think it best to remove myself from acceptable society). Once there, I decided to treat myself to the Hollywood-edition of Vanity Fair; to read whilst enjoying a hot chocolate and a muffin at Costa. I was flicking through the Appointments section of the Scotland on Sunday when I noticed a former employer was advertising in the hope of securing "two stars for five-star organisation". The article ended with the words: "not so much stars then, as supernovae." Honestly, you could smell the cheese a mile-off. I laughed until I cried (in the way that people who crave drawing pins and bluetack are wont to do).
Having worked for this organisation for two years, the idea of two burnouts existing within a black hole seemed so very fitting.
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