Friday, September 30, 2005
Pah! Smelly fingers for nothing!The strategy seemed brilliant. At 2am in the middle of the week (statistically the quietest time according to Walkers), take 17 carefully collected codes off Walker's crisp packets. Open 17 identical browser windows, fill in the codes and my contact details 17 times, then press submit 17 times in less than 5 minutes.
Needless to say I haven't won an IPOD mini. I didn't actually want one, since all of my music is in WMA format, but I could do with the £120 it would fetch on the Amazon sellers site.
Oh well, back to selling my body to workmates' mothers.
Apparently Flight Attendents (trolly dollies for the less PC) have urged a boycott of Jodie Foster's new movie, since it portrays them as uncaring. More militant members have suggested standing outside cinemas and poking cinema-goers in the eye with their mascara pencils or bashing them over the head with their handbags. By not wearing 2 cms of greaseproof makeup, it is believed that no one will actually recognise them. Fenale flight attendents haven't yet decided if they will join their protesting male colleagues.
I thought the newspaper silly season was over? Apparently, the Danish Airforce have paid Father Christmas compensation because 2 of their low flying jets frightened one of his reindeers to death. I smell a rat and suspect that this is a hoax story - Danish Airforce?
Thursday, September 29, 2005
At the sports centre where I while away my evenings, there is a small coffee counter. This is manned by a great girl whom we shall call Claire. She's a hoot. Just this side of unhinged, we get on great and her singing to the TV, juggling with flapjacks and general arsing about helps the time pass quicker. On her days off though, she is replaced by her exact opposite who we shall call Laura. Laura is pleasant enough, but I have managed to get a total of about 12 words out of her (and most of those were in response to the direct question "Have you seen the till keys"). She has perfected the temping stare. That uncanny ability to sit, staring at the floor, unmoving for 4 hours until it is time to go home.
Anyways, Claire and Laura are friends and I'm told it is mostly a combination of shyness and not a lot of activity north of the neck that accounts for her creepy silence. This evening, Claire came in to work sniggering.
"Laura asked me on the bus if you have a girlfriend".
Oh, christ I thought. I'm sure she's lovely, but she is SO not my type. I envisaged even more uncomfortable evenings. But it got worse.
"Apparently, her mum is really lonely".
Oh for the love of God....
And in other newsAccording to a recent tabloid survey, more Britons (at least those who read tabloids) know what dogging is than blogging. I suspect that will change the moment a Premiership footballer is caght in the back of a car in a secluded beauty spot, late at night, trying to get a wireless connection...
Britains first commercial TV channel ITV has juts turned 50. Yeah we know, now shut the fuck up about it, stop patting yourself on the back, and start showing something worth watching instead of endless bloody clip shows cherry picking the handful of decent programmes it has show over the last half century.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
The Tuesday Twat(s)No. 35. Max Power.
Some sad Twat from the Max Power website.
For those that don't know of this august publication, it is basically automotive porn for 14 year olds. Have you ever wondered just where those twats with blue lights under their cars, earth-shaking stereo systems and twin exhausts get their dumb ideas? Step forward Max Power. Basically, if you are 17 years old and have just passed your driving test MaxPower will show you how to blingup your underinsured £500 ford fiesta, so that you can pull 16 year old girls and annoy the fuck out of your neighbours. Taste is not a consideration.
Is your Renault Clio missing something? How about a stonking great fin on the back, badly painted flames on the side and holes in your silencer to make it's 1.0 litre engine sound like a
I've never been able to take these losers seriously since I was in 6th form college. One of my fellow pupils had an 18 year old boyfriend. Part of the attraction was his Max Powered-inspired Ford Escort. He had taken a crap Escort, painted over the rust and added 3 times the car's original value in plastic stuff. Add in a stupidly loud stereo system and It really was the Twatmobile. One day he came into school to pick her up. As usual he was driving at 60 mph in a 20 zone. Too late, he noticed the rapidly approaching speed bump outside the school gates. He stomped on the brakes with predictable results. The screech of smoking tires gave way to the sound of ripping plastic as the front end of the car dipped and all of his modifications were torn off. Since he was travelling so fast he carried on for another 20 metres, driving over them sending pastic shards everywhere and puncturing his tyres. Along with about 50 other pupils and several teachers I laughed so hard I started to cry. Even better, he had neglected to inform the insurance company of his "upgrades", which they classed as unauthorised modifications, and so they refused to pay him (in retrospect, it's a good job he didn't hit anyone as they wouldn't have gotten much compensation).
Another prize prick of my aquaintance had a thing for Vauxhall Astras. Unfortunately for the rest of Britain's road users, he had access to a very well equipped mechanics setup in his Dad's garage. In addition to being the world's most stupid driver (he would pay chicken with Lorries in the opposite lane and drive at 100mph+ down country lanes) he also regarded himself as something of a mechanic. He would buy cheap 1.1 litre Astras and use the hoist in the garage to replace the engine with a 1.8 or other engine that he would get cheap from a wreckers yard. One day, he was showing off his latest "babe magnet" (I refused to get in a car with him after he did a handbrake turn in a pub car park and nearly put us all in a pond - I told him he was a fucking idiot who couldn't drive and caught the bus home - he never spoke to me again. Shame). As he raced down the road there was an almighty bang and horrific scraping noise. Sparks flew everywhere. The twat had forgotten to replace the huge fuck off bolt that actually holds the engine inside the car. It had simply fallen out, pulling the gearbox with it. Nobody was hurt fortunately, but the car was towed straight back to the wrecker's yard and he never showed his face again.
So to the publishers of Max Power who encourage this - I award you a Tuesday Twat award. Perhaps you could remove the flying lady from a Rolls Royce silver shadow and place it there instead. That would be your style.
Those in favour of awarding MaxPower a Tuesday Twat Award 9. Those against 2. Motion carried.
And come on, own up! Who are the two Chavs?
Labels: The Tuesday Twat(s)
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Hello, may I help you?Since installing Sitemeter, I have become somthing of a referal whore. Posts by MadDog and others have got me looking at my referal stats to see just how people are finding my site. It is truly amazing just how people stumble across my site. By far the most interesting are those from google and other search engines.
Of course, a lot of this comes from people typing a number of keywords into the engine, but not enclosing them in quotes, thus archive pages that contain all of the words, but scattered over several posts are thrown up.
A few of the more bizarre examples include (all cut and posted directly from the query, so don't blame me for the spelling):
is thief a tie in between internet usage and a teens grades
famous scientist wanted poster?
how many years do it take to be a scientist
more scientist of yawning
mastermind beeps mp3
video of harrier jumpjet
Wopping tits invocation
HP PSC2100 series how to take apart
kenzie blazing squad cancer photos
cesspit bastard chav (my favourite!)
the life and work of a woman scientist
crack and what it dies to a sane person
scientist hear screaming digging
freeview angry kid tourettes
Rather more worrying were the queries
"rebecca loos"video clip pig
I would rather not know what those visitors were actually looking for.
Bizarrely, simply searching for "Paracetemol" in Google throws up my humble page in the second page of results.
By far the most funny visit though is that from someone from MWG-Biotech, who twice visited their Tuesday Twat award. Please feel free to use it in customer training sessions, chaps.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Grrr. I give up!This wireless internet connection is up and down more than Jordan's knickers at a job interview. So the tuesday twat will resume next week when I have cleared enough space to put my desktop PC back on a desktop. At the moment I am sitting in an armchair, hunched forward trying to see the screen under the dining table. I can't see the top of the screen, so minimising or closing windows is a risky business at the moment as I am essentially guessing where the pointer is.
It's deeply frustrating as there is no apparent reason for it. I've taken on board the advice to buy a wireless router. The problem is two-fold. 1) I'm skint and don't really want to shell out for something that is essentially a luxury. 2) It doesn't fit into my long-term plans. It has been my intention for sometime, once I have secured a proper job, to build my own media PC from scratch. Part of hat plan was to set up a quite sophisticated wireless network, using a high speed network (possibly 8011n standard when it is finalised), to stream movies and music around the house, make VOIP calls and, like my friend, buy a plug in box for the telly to allow me to control the PC remotely. Thus, I am loathe to waste 30 quid on a cheap router that will probably not figure in this final design.
One last go this weekend, and then I have to make a decision I think.
In other news...
There are some really bad parents in the world. Two examples spring to mind.
1) The guy on the bus, with his 8 year old "daughter" on his knee. All the way into town he discussed the girl with his mate in front of her and the rest of the bus. Tactless in the extreme - but it got worse. His mate finally asked him "Do you wish she was yours?" to which the bloke replied. "Dunno really".
What the fuck was that poor little girl thinking? It made my blood boil, the poor little mite. I was amazed that his twat of a mate asked the question, yet for him to answer in anything less than a resounding "of course - I love her to bits", regardless of his private doubts, was cruelty personified. I'd have locked the cunt up.
Secondly, today I was in the sport centre, when one of the regular parents whom I was gossiping to whispered "look at him".
A young asian boy of about 10, waiting for his badminton class, was pouring multiple sachets of sugar into a polystyrene cup. Apparently he poured 4 in. At first, I thought he was just messing about. So I got up to see what he was playing at, to find he had a half cup of tea. He then stirred it in and started to slurp it off a spoon. Amazed, I felt I had to say something.
"How many sugars have you put into that cup?" I asked, just loud enough for his parents to hear. No response.
"You can't drink all that sugar, you'll be sick" I tried again a little louder. His parents looked at me like I had spouted a third head. He slurped the tea noislily. and scowled at me.
"Your teeth will fall out if you drink that much sugar" I tried one last time.
His parents scowled in my direction, before muttering something in their native language. The body language suggested it wasn't "isn't that man nice for caring about the well being of our child".
The results of course were predictable. He ran around like a blue arsed fly driving the coach nuts for the first 30 minutes, before flagging and going into a major sulk. The kid was already on the obese side of fat (his parents funnily enough looked fit and trim) - anyone want to wager on Type II diabetes before 20?
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Twat postponemetBecause my bastard wireless internet connection has died. It was working perfectly well sunday night - then suddenly stopped midsurf. Neither computer had died or fallen over. The physical internet connection is working fine (that's how I'm typing this, but this PC lives under a table and is inconvenient to use to say the least). I have rerbooted both, and both cards are working (they both pickup each other and another network in the building). I have tried reerunning the network wizrd and switching off my firewalls. The network will connect with ecellent signal strength - but I can't access the internet through my laptop or see the shared resources.
I am getting really pissed off.
Four and a half hours and (yet again), simply repeating the same action again and again caused the network to randomly start working again. It will probably last about 6 weeks, before dying again.
I may have to invest in a proper wireless access point I think in the future.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Sanescientist - IT consultant!Well, maybe a slight exageration. Nevertheless, it seems that my messing about with Excel at the sport centre has been noted. One of the duty managers has just taken over the tenancy of a bar, and is willing to pay me to put together a spreadsheet to help him manage and monitor his stock and sales. He already has a proper business plan and an accountant (and I've made it clear that this spreadsheet should never be seen by a professional!), but basically he wants a spreadsheet for his own purposes.
The plan is relatively straightforward. At the end of each day, he wants to be able to take his till receipts and enter the sales figures for each drink sold. He has 2 aims. First, he wants to monitor his wastage. Basically, if he has sold 230 shots of vodka, and each litre bottle holds 40 25ml shots, then he should have about a quarter of a litre left in his sixth bottle of the day. If there are 8 bottles in the store room less than there were the previous day, then either he has very clumsy barstaff or a bottle or 2 have exited the premises up someone's jumper.
Second, he wants to be able to monitor how he is doing against his pre-determined business plan and take measures to increase business sensibly. If he is down on plan, then he may need to consider a drinks promotion to part more punters from more money. However, if Bacardi Breezer is flying off the shelves, then he doesn't want to offer those on a 2 for 1 - perhaps he may try to shift a few more pints of Carling. He's the business man so that's his decision, however my spreadsheet will hopefully give him the necessary information to make that decision.
I proved my skills last night, when I helped him format a simple spreadsheet to calculate how much money he wants the bank to give him to spruce the place up (new sinks, a new speaker system and a lick of paint and varnish). So later this week, I shall be taking my laptop and a pen and notepad down to his bar to get a detailed plan of what he wants.
My source of advice (as in all things) is my old man. He has some experience in this, and so when I have the plan I will show Dad what is needed and between us we will come up with a fair estimate of the time and cost. I'm not trained in this, so I won't be able to charge the going-rate for a professional obviously, but it should net me a little pocket money. Dad has also offered to "try and break" the spreadsheet as quality control. And fingers crossed, it'll at least ensure me free entry into the bar on a friday night ahead of the queues (something I've always wanted to do heh!).
I'll keep you all posted.
Monday, September 12, 2005
The Tuesday Twat(s)No. 34. The Donner kebab.
Pinched from here!
To the dismay of students and lovers of beer all over, I am humbly nominating the donner kebab for a Tuesday Twat award.
What! I hear you cry.
I know - it pains me too. It has to be said that I indulge myself in one of these late-night delicacies on occasion myself, however as someone who typically eats small amounts of meat once a week on average, it must be noted that I usually regret it.
Leaving my gastric shortcomings aside, I have other reasons for nominating this innovative edible use for "dodgy looking" mutton. Namely the kebab and it's partner in crime, the soggy french fry, is directly responsible for the demise of that world-famous gastronomic delight - the chip supper. Once upon a time, every highstreet in the UK would have a Chip shop (the "Chippy" in the local vernacular), serving chunky chips - thick cut lumps of potato, fried to crispiness on the outside whilst still being fluffy on the inside. To accompany this most British of delicacies one would typically have a piece of battered fish, or perhaps a pie. Condiments vary from the simple (salt and vinegar) to the elaborate (mushy peas) to the uniquely Northern (gravy or curry sauce).
But, no more. Last week, the final chippy within 2 miles of my apartment closed down - to be replaced by a kebab house. The chips have been replaced by skinny, greasy fries that McDonalds would be ashamed to serve. Add vinegar and you end up with an acetic acid soaked mush. The glass fronted heating cabinets that used to house fried cod, battered savaloys and meat and potato pies, now house fried, dripping battered chicken. Sitting behind the till a large lump of brown... stuff... rotates slowly in front of a grill precisely tuned to keep the meat just hot enough to halve the growth rate of E. coli.
So, look over on the right sidebar and add your voice. Vote the Kebab as a Tuesday Twat. You know it makes sense.
Those in favour 15. Those against 8. Those just testing the poll works 5.
Motion carried - Kebabs get a Tuesday Twat award. Thanks everyone for voting.
Labels: The Tuesday Twat(s)
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Like pies round shit.What is it with Greggs Pasties? Are they trying to be the McDonalds of the pastry world? There has been an explosion of these little blue and orange havens of filo pastry. Now don't get me wrong - I am a big pasty fan. And of all the high street chains, Greggs do by far the best and cheapest (don't believe me? Go to Three Cooks or Hamptons, you could grease an engine with your fingers after eating one of their monstrosities). If it's a choice between some over-priced lump of dead cow and soggy fries, and one of Greggs' delicious cheese and onion or vegetable concotions, for 65 pence each I'm saving my money and going for the pies. My sole criticism is their decision to drop their cornish pasties (then pick them up, run them under the tap an sell them boom! boom!). I loved them (yes, yes I know that they are nothing compared to the real thing, but I'm about 300 miles north of Cornwall so they'll do).
Nevertheless, it seems that you can't walk more than 50 paces without being confronted by one. At the current rate of growth, I estimate that by the 2012 Olympics, we'll be such a nation of pie eaters that we'll have to petition the IOC to let in sumo wrestling for us to have any chance of winning any medals.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Could there be an easier way to earn money?Well, this week I'm temping. I am a receptionist in a sports centre. This basically involves me sitting on my arse, reading a book and occasionally answering the phone or taking money. For which I get paid £6.50 an hour. Dull - yes, but I am basically being paid for doing sod all, so I am just happy on principle. It's a bit like being on the dole I guess, except I have to wear a shirt and shave.
The good thing is that I am working the evening shift, 4:30 to 9:30, which frees up my days. I'm hoping to get some more work during the day. The way I see it, this job is hardly taxing, so even if I actually work hard during the day, I can still earn money in the evening for minimal effort. I have pretty much guaranteed myself a permanent job by making myself useful. Years of fiddling about with Microsoft Excel have finally come in handy. Tonight I opened my box of tricks and rearranged their customer database and showed them how to save time by using simple functions like Concatenate to join multiple bits of data together (rather than copying and pasting hundreds of individual columns of data). Hours of time saved for the sports centre, extra brownie points for me and an hour spent actually using my brain. Everyone's a winner!
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
The Tuesday Twat(s)Number 33. Jennifer Saunders
I toyed with the idea of dedicating this to French and Saunders, however Dawn French has redeemed herself somewhat with The Vicar of Dibley, and her fantastic turn in the black comedy series Murder most Horrid.
Jennifer Saunders is NOT funny. Sorry if you disagree, but she is weak and puerile. French and Saunders hasn't been funny for over a decade, yet still they get trotted out every christmas. The problem is, they take a sketch that is moderately amusing, wring all of the comic potential out of it within the first 60 seconds, the keep on flogging what is now a dead horse for several minutes by becoming increasingly absurd. Saunders typically takes the role of the slightly mad woman, and simply gets more shrill and outrageous (not in a funny way) over the course of the sketch. It is a formula that she has thrashed repeatedly in shows such as Absolutely Fabulous. Her character was amusing for the first few episodes but long became predictable. Perhaps the only saving grace of that show is Joanna Lumley, who gets all the best lines and acts as the witty foil to Saunders overblown stupidity.
The trigger for this Twat award is the reappearance of Saunders in a series of BarclayCard adverts. In it she plays (you guessed it) a deranged bipolar woman who lurches between calm and screaming as her card is stolen as she travels in oh so funny foreign countries. In the first advert she is upstaged by a monkey as the ignorant 3rd world natives carrying livestock on the bus stare on in bemusement (no doubt wondering who the fuck the rude, patronising white woman is). In the second, she, oh so amusingly becomes the victim of internet fraud in (where else?) a Japanese cyber cafe. Naturally, she is being watched by that tired cliche, kinkily dressed Japanese school girls, giggling with their hands over their mouths.
Saunders' "comic" trademark is that of someone who is perpetually bemused and over stressed and usually ends in her running around shouting. A typical French and Saunders sketch is reminiscent of a last minute secondary school comedy sketch. Constant mugging to the camera in the hope that someone will laugh, and when that fails just being plain stupid.
Give it up Jennifer. You had novelty value in the 80s when there were woefully few female comedians, but you will never have the wit and cleverness of Victoria Wood or the delightfull crudeness of Jenny Eclair or Jo Brand. And please, BBC, don't commission yet another of those toe-curlingly embarrasing Christmas specials, where F&S spoof this year's Hollywod blockbuster. Titanic was bad. Lord of the Rings worse, and Harry Potter unwatchable.
Labels: The Tuesday Twat(s)
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Guess who's back? Back again...Alternate titles for this post include:
Coming full circle
£250 wasted but I don't give a fuck.
Home sweet Home
God Bless Mum and Dad.
Two hours ago, Dad and I finally emptied the last box into my... original flat.
Yup. I have moved back in to my original flat.
Picking up from the last post, the last few days have gone something like this.
Wednesday morning. After 3 hours sleep I finally sort out somewhere to move. Can finally give 100% to my packing and cleaning.
Thursday morning. Have enjoyed a luxurious 90 minutes sleep, and I am awaiting the removals man. He turns up late, his first question is "How much is there, I still have a 3 piece suite in the back". His second question is "Do you have a trolley, I've left mine at home". Funnily enough, no I fucking don't. One box at a time it is then. It is at this point that I realise that I have more stuff than I thought. A lot more. Somewhere between me moving out of my single student room and me spending 3 years in a self-contained flat, I have accumulated lots and lots of stuff. After 2 hours (would have been quicker but it's difficult for him to carry things when he is yapping on his GODDAMN mobile phone constantly), my stuff is neatly piled on the roadside by the van.
"There's more than I thought mate, you're going to have to pay another £15"or I fuck off and leave all of your stuff on the road he didn't quite say - but the implication was clear.
So we are finally off. I give him directions and he whistles through his teeth slightly and looks symapthetic. I still have my keys, as I am coming straight back to clean up. We arrive at the house and I am greeted by the lady that showed me around again. "Sorry, I am dreadfully hungover" she mumbles returning to the sofa. As I climb the stairs (thankful that I didn't get the house I really wanted, that had 3 flights about half the width) I realise that in the stress and confusion of the last two weeks, I have exagerated the size of the room in my mind. Badly. Two more hours and the room is full. Seriously full. The boxes are piled 4 high on every centimetre of floor space, the double bed is half taken up by my suitcases. I'll have to get Mum and Dad up with a van on saturday I decide "it'll be fine...".
I spend the next few hours chatting to my new flatmates, they seem really nice - in a kind of hazy, profoundly hung-over kind of way. Finally, I decide that I have to get another 90 minutes sleep before I can contemplate going back to the old place and cleaning. To get to the bed, I have to move stuff out of the way. The duvet has what appears to be candle wax melted into it. I am so tired I don't bother removing the suitcase and TV stand off the bed and just peg out fully clothed.
Ninety minutes later, it is getting dark. I have noticed that there is no lock on the door and the window has vertical blinds instead of curtains. In the breeze, they swing back and forth clanking loudly. I've been awoken by the sounds of neighbourly arguing, dogs barking, revving engines and loud music. I decide to try and put some stuff in the closet. The problem is that the closet is jammed shut by boxes. I need to temporarily shift some stuff on to the landing, to give me room to maneouvre. I clamber off the bed, removing the bags in front of the bedroom door and placing them back where they belong, on the spot on the bed that I have just vacated. My stomach is rumbling loudly by this point, and I decide soddit, there's a chippy on the way into town, I'll go down there then walk into town and catch a bus back to the old place, clean it , then come back and unpack tomorrow. As I come downstairs, I realise that the music is coming from our lounge - and it is seriously loud. Rattling windows loud. I poke my head and around the lounge door and there is a strange man, naked except for cowboy boots and jeans, sprawled asleep on the sofa - strangley, he is sucking his thumb.
The front door is wide open, so I walk out into the night. By now, I'm concerned somewhat about the safety of my stuff, but there's nothing I can do. There appear to be no street lamps in this area, and as I walk down the road toward town, I notice there are gangs of kids and young men in their 20s standing aimlessly around. As I walk past, conversation stops and I am stared at until I have passed. I eventually reach town about 30 minutes later, having fobbed off requests for money from 2 men, and an aggressive drunk wanting to know where the "fucking chippy is". Still, the chips were nice.
I get on the bus, and sit down beside an aimiable drunk who teases me about the 2 really naff nylon carry bags that I have brought with me to fill with the cleaning equipment etc when I have finished. I tell him I have just moved. When I tell him where, he says "fucking hell, I come from Liverpool and I still wouldn't move to that shit hole". When I get off the bus back at the apartment, I suddenly realise that my throat is constricted and my eyes are burning. I sprint past security and into my empty flat, before completely breaking down. I can't believe it! I know full well that it is simply the inevitable result of months of stress on many fronts and too much caffeine and virtually no sleep for 72 hours. But coming back to my old apartment, where I have never felt so secure, with it's 5 lever mortice locks, electronic key fobs, 24 hour security and CCTV - it's the final straw. I'm sobbing like a 7 year old girl at a Westlife/Bros/Take That/Busted concert.
Despite being overwrought I realise that even after a good nights sleep I am not going to change my mind. The area is a fucking shitehole. My new flatmates are two lovely people, but our lifestyles are incompatible. They enjoy their chaotic, party-all-hours, leave-the-door wide-open lifestyle, and I'm not going to ask them to change. I ring my parents and pour it all out to them and they are brilliant. Dad reckons it is a family emergancy and offers to cancel all his meetings on friday to drive me and my stuff back to their home. But that wouldn't solve anything in the long term.
The solution is obvious. My apartment hasn't been put on the advertising board yet. Between us, we work out a deal. I will sign a new 6 month contract for my current place or at least one of the other apartments in the complex, and if I find a new job and move out I will simply ask the landlords to readvertise for me. Mum and Dad will help pay the rent and will cover me if the apartment isn't taken quickly. Meanwhile I will turn the experience into an opportunity. I will clean the flat in a way that is simply impossible when it is full of furniture (at the very least that will safeguard my deposit, should I have to move into another unit). I will then go back to the new place, give the landlady £100 (one week rent rounded up to cover her inconvenience - she can't really refuse, she was so hungover she couldn't face organising the contract the day I moved in, so I hold all the cards). And I will ruthlessly decide which boxes go back with my Dad saturday morning for storage in their garage, and which go back into my old apartment.
So - I am writing this, sitting up in my old bed. The flat is a lot more spartan and will be more so in a couple of weeks when I stick yet more boxes in the boot of Mum and Dad's car, but it has given me bit of a kick up the arse after 10 years accumulating more and more crap, requiring increasingly large removal vans as I go from place to place. It is not that I am attached to this apartment per se. It's not some old family home full of memories of childhood christmasses. If I find a job on the moon next week, I'm out like a shot, no regrets. It's what it represents. As my Dad said, I worked very hard and sacrificed a lot over the years to get a place that was "my own" (even if it was rented), and to have to take several steps backward over what should only be a temporary set back (I've only been unemployed for a month!) is a lot to ask and they are in a position to help me. All he asks is that I at least tour the old people's home and make sure it is clean before I pack them off in a few years ;-)
Mum and Dad don't know about this blog - but nevertheless, I want to publically thank the best parents anyone could ask for. Cheers guys, I love you.
Now, I just have to sort out the guest list for next weekend's house re-warming party! WooHoo!
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