Doing this, to be exact:
Every waking minute outside of work (and playing the Xbox), I’ve been tearing the house apart. All so that some day soon, we have one of these downstairs:
I had to put my hand into some poo to connect up a pipe the other day. I meant to take a photo of it, but Linzi wouldn’t let me hold the camera while I had shit on my hands.
Once the toilet’s done, I have to put in a new kitchen. The fun never stops. Ara sure, it’ll all be worth it once it’s done, everyone keeps saying. They never offer to help though, the bastards.
I fell asleep, you see. Standing up.
It was just after lunch. I don’t know about you, but I often get a near-overwhelming desire to have a post-lunch nap. Many’s the occasion I’ve nodded off at the PC and woken up with a jerk and a small yelp, with a filament of drool connecting my lower lip to the lapels of my suit, like what happens after thousands of years when those stalactites and stalagmites join up to form a…am…stalactube. I’ve perfected the “I meant to do that” face (also used by fuckin eejits who trip in public places), which I tend to use as I casually wipe the mess off my mouth and jacket.
I vaguely remember learning why eating makes you sleepy, something about all the oxygenated blood going to your stomach to digest your food with the result your brain gets deprived of it, but I kept nodding off during that lecture. Anyway, it doesn’t explain why so many cunts in here seem brain dead all day long.
In an effort to save money (ie it’s the middle of January, five weeks since I’ve been paid…roll on the 25th), I’ve taken to eating noodles these days. I had been eating soup, but that was costing me crazy money – 49p a tin. That’s almost one US dollar a day. Then I discovered that you can get eight packs of noodles for a pound. Eight packs! That’s eight lunches! For two dollars! I’m telling you, forget the children, noodles are the future.
After slobbering through the noodles and checking Bloglines, a wee after-lunch nap was in order. Settling back into my seat, I was just getting into it, letting the eyes get that comfortable, heavy way where you know you’re going to get a decent kip, when I see Consultant Lady coming towards me.
She’s been the bane of my life this week, this woman. To be fair to her, she’s lovely, but she keeps asking fucking questions and interrupting my naps. Composing myself as she approaches, I use Alt + Tab* to bring up some work on my PC, and gaze studiously at it while stroking my chin.
She wants to find a particular document online, but her internet’s been killed. Sure, she can hop on to my PC to have a look for it. I stand next to her, leaning against the wall watching her click onto Google, and praying she doesn’t look into my history. I don’t want work people knowing about my blog. Or yours, for that matter.
Fuck me, there’s nothing more boring than watching someone else surf the internet. Particularly when it isn’t porn they’re looking for. Ah porn, what good times we’ve had together. You know what, this wall’s fairly comfortable actually…
I jerk awake and I can already feel my face flushing. She’s looking at me guardedly, as if unsure whether or not she should bite the hand that feeds her, even though she knows she’s dealing with a complete fucking mental patient. What kind of a spa falls asleep up against a wall? If I had a feast of pints it’d be one thing…I clear my throat and note with relief that she’s smiling. Whatever Consultant Lady’s real thoughts about me are, she’s obviously decided, hell, it’s the second week of a three-month contract, I’d better keep my trap shut.
I make light of it and say something about being up all night with the kids, but the damage has been done.
I’m going to need to watch myself in here for the next while.
*Alt + Tab is a godsend in the office environment. If you don’t already use the left hand thumb/index finger combo to switch between blogging and work, you must be some sort of club-wielding Neanderthal.