I do hope to make up for the sobriety of my youth

1. People of blogland, you do look good for January, that limp, fizzleless month. I admire you. But enough about you, let’s talk about me. Yesterday was Wednesday, so I wanted to quit my job. By 6pm I was so tired with work I couldn’t spell wensday wenesday wfuckit anymore.

2. (What do you do you get such a lovely complexion, blogfolks?) Every Wednesday I want to quit. In fact every Wednesday I want to throw things, and run out and never come back again. Wednesdays are all kinds of crap. Thursdays ease off a little.

3. Today as things were easing off, an old man in a purple jumper asked me which bus I was waiting for, then immediately added: I’m not trying to chat you up, I wouldn’t want to cross your partner. Is he the jealous type?’ I cocked an eyebrow and felt mildly insulted that it wasn’t me he was afraid to cross. Not only can I not quit, but I don’t even seem to look remotely intimidating. Still it gives me an idea for when I’m retired and old. I can stand in bus stations and chat up unsuspecting youngsters. And wear purple, and spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves, yes.