Sometimes life is just too exciting. Today I’m waiting in for the postman in the vain hope that he might be able to deliver Sal’s passport, which is on its way back from the home office with a shiny new visa sellotaped to the inside. Will the trusty postie turn up before noon? Will he fail to ring the bell and just leave one of those cards that says “we couldn’t be arsed to deliver your post at a time when normal people are in, so please come to the depot in the middle of nowhere between 11:50 and 12 next wednesday”? Will we, ultimately, be able to go on holiday with said passport? Who knows… If my life was an episode of a shabby American reality TV series they’d be playing the same bits of interview footage repeatedly, with some building dramatic music in the background, and then they’d pop off to a shifty commerical break right about now…
In other news, for reasons known only to him, Dave would like it known that this chap is a charmless fuck. Happy to help, mate.
One reply on “Waiting For My Man”
Much obliged Matt, thanks. There was a time, somewhere in the twilight of the hours in between work (of which there are few) when I considered that Googlebombing someone might be an immature, petty, ill-considered and even sadly geeky course of action. I almost considered rescinding the bomb request. But no more. After today, the man truly is a hopeless cunt. And I’ll stand by that in a court of law. (Rob, help me out here – is this slander?)