Thursday, 7 August 2008

Long Days

Wednesday - traditionally hump day - was a long day. Work, home, wine-bottling, chemist, work. And the heat still.

I was behind a car with the number plate 'Aaryan' (sic). That was seriously creepy, the more so because I compromised my driving by craning to see if it were being driven by a Nazi.

Thursday - traditionally almost the weekend day - was a long day. And the heat still.
I sat at my computer all freaking day-long, wrestling with an online chore that had to be completed in one single sitting. And yet it had bugs. Finally when I thought it was done and submitted it, at that point, at THAT POINT, it tells me that the long section I'd spent all day on was twice as long as the slot would allow. It took me all afternoon to précis it down to 4,000 characters (including spaces).
Another useful skill learnt at school.

In the toilet at work, I was re-reading an article in New Scientist about research being done into underwater decomposition of bodies off the coast of BC. Apparently on land or freshwater, the head decomposes first. Under seawater it is the last to go.

I wish the online newspapers would all stop torturing me with reviews of Hamlet at Stratford, with David Tennant and Patrick Stewart.

Last night, washing my hands in the downstairs loo, the right hand tap turned on on its own. I thought I must have imagined it, but when I touched it, I realised it was indeed on. How odd.

Bluenotes e-mailed me to tell me their jeans are on offer, buy one, buy another half price. Don't they know me? Don't they know I don't even wear jeans? But all is well, because Ikea e-mailed to tell me their new catalogue is ready. I really would think that some high up in the company would personally leave one on my doorstep, given my level of ... let us say...participation.
On the other hand, Porsche, with whom I have nor ever have had, any level of participation, keep delivering me some kind of brochure.
They're having a laugh, surely.


Sleepy said...

Considering your level of participation, Ingvar Kamprad should come and sing you a lullaby each night!

Schneewittchen said...

I feel it would be warranted, yes.