It's Thursday, and despite having only spent four days at work (that's with leaving two hours early on Tuesday) and having had last week off in its entirety, I am truly exhausted. I cannot comprehend how people cope with this slog on a day to day basis from graduation to retirement. Four days and I feel ready to drop dead. This is probably not helped by the fact that I have been out every night so far this week (excluding tonight) and wasted several hours that I could have spent sleeping on the internet. I swear my computer is possessed by Satan:
The humble laptop, or as I prefer to call it, the Devil Incarnate.
Somehow, I manage to convince myself, after glancing at the clock and calculating in my exhaustion-addled mind that I have to get up again in seven hours, a few more minutes of playing Tetris and stalking people on Facebook won't hurt (I'm still crap at Tetris, and one day I'll get myself into serious trouble, most likely of the legal variety, with the stalking). When I next look at the clock, an hour has gone by, and I don't know where it's gone. How on earth can you lose an hour? It's just plain careless.
On the bright side, work is actually kind of fun. The hours are far too long (8:o0am - 5:00pm should not be legal) and the filing copious (my office is probably solely responsible for mass deforestation in the Amazon), but the banter is beyond what I could have possibly hoped for. When you have spent half an hour discussing the merits (or, more accurately, demerits) of Lycra, more specifically men in Lycra, and developed a six-pack (maybe in my dreams) from laughing hysterically at the mental image of Bill in a mankini and Rick's proclamation that he doesn't want VPL, you realise that you are working with people who probably ought to be doing stand-up rather than working in a dingy basement. I have also discovered that I am probably world-class when it comes to filing. Despite having only been working in this office for a week, I have managed to file more PPMs (I'm still not sure what they are, but they sure are fun to do) in three hours (150, to be precise) than the resident lazy-arse manages in a day. I do realise how smug and pompous I sound right now, but given that I'm basically Wonder Woman in a pencil skirt, I think I'm allowed to be:
If you put some clothes on her and surround her with stacks of files... that's me. If I lost about six stone
Quite apart from work, recently I have been spending more time than is strictly appropriate at the cinema. Last week on Tuesday I saw 'Get Him To The Greek' (quite funny but ultimately 'Forgetting Sarah Marshall' was the superior film), the following evening I attended a showing of 'Predators' (about as dire as the first one but minus the embarassing effects... the original was sonewhat reminiscent of 'Tron'). The reason I left early on Tuesday was, as far as my mother was concerned, to get back in time for the 4:30pm showing of 'Inception'. In actuality, it was to get home, cook dinner for myself and Paul (my best friend - I'd call him my 'brother from another mother', but given recent events, that may not be entirely appropriate - in fact, it would be legally questionable) before attending the 7:45pm showing, whilst simultaneously consuming indecent amounts of vodka, given that it was a Tuesday afternoon.
The secret to staying reasonably sober when one has consumed vast quantities of alcohol, I have discovered, is to avoid going to the toilet for as long as is humanly possible without your bladder exploding. In the dingy lighting and alcohol soaked atmosphere of the club/pub/bar/your own bedroom, it is possible to maintain composure. Nobody can really see you, and even if they can, they won't remember it in the morning. However, once the harshly lit, alcohol-free zone of the bathroom has been entered, it all goes chaotically wrong. What could previously have been described a graceful gait now becomes awkward and ungainly, with limbs flailing at angles that, were you sober, would be enough to make you scream in agony. You start to walk into things, crashing into precisely-stacked pyramids of toilet rolls, sending them rolling in all directions, and crying when you accidentally kick the Andrex puppy on the discarded packaging of said toilet rolls.
Every time you kick the Andrex puppy, God turns on the sprinklers in your eyes. Not only this, once you've broken the seal, so to speak, you will pee like a racehorse. The FFL (First Fatal Piss) must be avoided at all costs. It is the secret to drunken dignity (an oxymoron if there ever was one).
Readers, I'm sorry to say that I broke my own golden (no pun intended) rule. I tried to wait, honestly I did. I sat cross-legged, I limited my liquid intake, I even did a funny little jig in the middle of my conservatory which was indicative of my agony. Eventually, I could wait no longer. I have to make a visit to the bathroom, and with that, the floodgates open. Every five minutes I had to leave my bewildered guest on the sofa, shouting over my shoulder in a bid to explain my predicament, in order to rush up the stairs and sort out the plumbing. I really could have used a cork, but I doubt this is medically advisable.
Luckily I had recovered by the time I got to the cinema, but the ache in my gut was rapidly replaced with an ache in my head. Firstly, I realised whilst walking to the cinema that I had forgotten my glasses, which meant that I was squinting for nearly two and a half hours (not helped by the fact that I was dragged by Paul to the very back row - great). Then there was the plot. I only found out this afternoon what Leonardo DiCaprio's character's full name was. Then there was this one guy who was central to the plot. I never worked out why. Honestly, I got to the end of the film and sat shellshocked for a few moments, wondering why nothing had been explained. Then I turned slowly to Paul, looking him dead in the eyes. I said, "Paul. I know we have sat here for the better part of the evening now. And I did genuinely concentrate for that time. Mostly. So there's just one thing left to say... can you tell me what that whole film was about?"
If you enjoy headaches and feeling stupid, you should see this film.Another problem with being in the cinema for that length of time sat in front of a film you don't understand, is that you are inclined to fidget. This in turn generates heat. Incredible amounts of heat actually, verging on Equator temperatures. I was honestly melting in that cinema. My carefully styled hair was flatter that a witch's tit by the time I left. Fantastic.
Anyway, by sitting here typing this post, I am yet again wasting precious sleep time. Who wants to place bets on whether or not I will end up snoring at my desk tomorrow?
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