I don�t think I am going to enjoy the overlapping element of working somewhere all day and week and then the library evenings and weekends. In fact, I think that will truly SUCK SOME JUICY HORESEFLY SHIT.
Who doesn�t love bank holidays? I got to stay with the person I love the most. An extra day to fill with sunshine, ice cream and well, I�m timidly skirting around the issue of heap loads of sex, but come on now, how excellent. He drove back from the land of the Welsh last night and came to see me.
This, I think somewhat worryingly, is his best friend:
He turned up barefoot and in shorts.
There is a programme on telly called Supernanny. The premise is basically that a wonder-woman sorts out families with unruly kids. I�m guessing everyone has heard of this. Anyway, there was a seven year old boy who learnt his father�s Ebay passwords and ordered himself a train online. Seven years old! That�s not a wayward child that�s a prodigy! If only I had demonstrated that kind of wit and flair when I was seven. Or actually, any time now would help me.
On the subject of the youngen: Last week it intermittently rained, stormed and eh, sunshined. Evan and I spent the best part of an hour walking about a fifth of a mile. We stopped and jumped in every puddle going. That�s not strictly true, there was one on the curb that was best avoided because 1) it was river-esque and I don�t think I can justify completely soaking the child in shitty water 2) I would totally have to clean him up if I did 3) the whole jumping about in the middle of a road is erring a tad on the side of dangerous 4) I was wearing half decent shoes.
Evan is at an insanely cute age where he can speak in conversations but is still so little that the ideas and words that he comes up with seem a bit wondrous and that this organisation and structure of thought is coming from him seems ridiculous. I went to a caf� on the same day and a child sat with his mum and she read a newspaper the whole time. He was talking to himself behind her paper and it broke my heart a little bit.
I am reading a book called Hope by Glen Duncan. I got to page five and discovered some of the most cringe into my lung filled larder metaphors:
I curl in the hunched shoulder of my cab like a secret whispered into a dark ear
Oh, righto. That�s exactly how I feel journeying home too. Although possibly a notch or two more travel sick. And the �hunched into the shoulder� position would be more of a trying to manoeuvre away from the empty food cartons and stoners of public transport arrangement. It gets worse:
There�s no sound to cradle loneliness like a train in the night, it�s thunder softened by the distance
What?
Thankfully it gets better and readable.
Gio, also known as the only reason worth going into work, left. He had a leaving party which rocked about thirty marvellous monkeys. I felt a tear forming in the eye department. Many of the W.I (or Fucking Bitches From Hell as Gio referred to them) turned out on mass. Obsessive compulsive and freakishly small Eileen put in an appearance. I got to wedge myself closely with Ro, the F and my sidekick Jack. I think this may have been the first time I have been in the presence of Jack where he has not tried to throw objects at me. Something of an achievement I believe. Reading this through, I remembered that he put beer mats down my back. We had quite an informative, yet somewhat confusing conversation about collars, cuffs and eyebrows.
How I am going to miss everybody
Inkysoso going on a first aid course all day tomorrow
damn