Ultimate Poop

What a crab apple of a day I've had. I outdid myself statistics-wise, and therefore pleased my manager no end, but bored myself rigid in the process, and also got kind of turned down for a different job at the same company because I've only been there five months and they've put lots of time and money into my role-specific training and blah blah blah de blah bollocks. All of which interminable dullness means that I shall probably have to grin and bear the mundanity of my existing role, and the agony of the 6.15am wake-up call, for a further five or six months. I can cope with this, after all, I've stuck far worse jobs than this before. Nine months in a giftware warehouse in Southwell was pretty bad, as was my two years worth of Saturdays at Tesco in Felixstowe when I was sixteen. And a combined total of six months as a kitchen hand in two different restaurants in Australia pretty much sucked the fat one. At least there I could go sunbaking and drinking like a fish after work. Here I do not have that luxury. Here I must hibernate indoors due to the sub-arctic temperatures us English are subjected to throughout summer. And a beer is never quite as soul-quenchingly good unless you're as sweaty as a camels knackers, and have a tongue as dry and hairy as that Keith out of Eastenders' chin. Here's a piccy.

He looks like he actually managed a bath and a shave for that picture, and so it is not an accurate reflection of his character. I may have to complain to the BBC about misrepresentation. They can't go pretending that he's a nice clean cut cad-about-town when his character is a scruffy dogsbody who wouldn't recognise a bar of soap if it twatted him in the mush. The only other picture I could find that didn't have him looking vaguely respectable was about three pixels high, so I'm not going to bother. I'm also not about to start googling for a shot of a camels knackers either, sorry to disappoint you.

Okay, I did, but all I got was a picture of a couple of old men. Not what I was expecting.

Talking of which, some total freak Yahoo-searched his (or her) way to my site by typing in "Super Dinosaur Cock".

I'll let you mull this one over for a bit.

Mrs L has bought herself this quite lovely skirt. I'm jealous. Women get to choose from loads and loads and loads of brilliant clothes at a quite staggering number of different shops, whereas men get to choose from three t-shirts and a turtleneck argyle sweater from Burtons. This just isn't fair. I know that most men couldn't give two sloppy shits what clothes they wear, and wouldn't be bothered if their pants (briefs to you Americans) hadn't been washed for a month and were full of all sorts of crusty nastiness, but I do! I like to have lots of colourful, exciting and out-of-the-ordinary things to wear. I may have a somewhat timid nature, but I love to stand out with what I wear.

Right now I have on a baggy pair of engineered Levi things, and a bright yellow t-shirt with a sky blue design on it. And my hair is superhero blue-black. Nobody could accuse me of being conservative in my stylings. And if they do they'll have me and Mrs L to deal with.

The hair is a case in point; over the last few years I've gone from mousey brown to deep red, from deep red to white-blonde, from white-blonde to orange, from orange to auburn (ooh!), from auburn to blonde, back to mousey brown, again to red, over to light brown with a blonde stripe, back to brown, and now to blue-black. Some of these, admittedly, were serious glaring errors, but I now seem to have settled into a style and don't feel as if every haircut or hair colour is a horrifically frightening risk, or akin to wrestling alligators. Lord almighty. I may actually have grown up! Now all I have to do is get rid of those pesky spots and I'll be happy.

I'm such a bloody woman.

Here is a shot of the last t-shirt I bought. It's bluer in real life, and is nice and tight on the old chest, just how I like it. And once again, I have to moan a bit, because it is so hard to find any shops that sell clothes in my size. In fact, if you were an alien and all you had to go on when trying to figure out what human beings were like, you'd quite reasonably assume that all men were six foot tall and built like Big Daddy. Nowhere sells small sizes, and if they do they're almost always not small. Why say something is small when it isn't? And if that's not enough, nine times out of ten there just won't be any small sizes left at all. Maybe some evil genius small man snuck in first thing in the morning and bought all the small clothes before I got there. The bastard. Still, I suppose it makes it all the more rewarding when I do actually find something which I like, and which fits me. Life is so hard, it really is...

So back to jobs, I'm going to send my CV off to a stack of places and see what I get back. It won't hurt to try, and I'll never know unless I give it a go. Pleasingly, in a week or so I get to apply for some courses at the friendly neighbourhood college, and can start increasing my skill base and getting back into academia. I miss it so. But this is realistically the only way that I can get to be what I really want to be. At least I know this, and don't have to spend the rest of eternity flapping around aimlessly, casting my rod in whichever pond takes my fancy, hoping for a bite.

That would be rubbish.