Monday, November 13, 2006

Coming To Terms With Monday

My time at work today went mercifully quickly, perhaps the biggest plus point of my job in a Wishing-My-Life-Away context.

This evening, I took my first self-defence lesson. There were 18 of us and consequently I didn't learn a lot. There were, however, a couple of cute girls there, although they were probably less than impressed by my freakish sweating.

I say freakish because I am a freak. I have been to some of the hottest places on Earth and scared the living SHIT out of the locals. I looked like I'd been stood under a shower in my clothes. Although it is true that I have gorgeous, golden, strawberry blond hair, some have cruelly pointed out that I also have no eyebrows (I do - they're just delicately invisible, like my eyelashes.)
I do have some colour, but that colour is red. One recent girlfriend used to relish calling me Snowflake after an albino baby gorilla. She said it was apt on a variety of levels, which I didn't quite get. So, 15 minutes warm up and some casual kicking and I looked like I was wearing a t-shirt that had been rescued from a swimming pool with a long stick.

Ch4 once showed a programme called Anatomy of Disgust. The third most disgusting thing, apparently, was sweat. Ergo, I am disgusting, particularly as I am a walking sweat reservoir. Incidentally, the first two Most Disgusting Things Ever were Blood & Faeces.

So, that's marvellous.
The only other thing that could possibly hammer home my perennial undateability would be if I was covered in shit and bleeding.

And then I cycled home.

I'd got to Craven Hill in the Bayswater/ Notting Hill fringes when I heard an almighty localised scream in a little square to my right. I thought it possibly a little fireworks display, albeit minus the fireworks. As I drew opposite the source of the screaming, flashbulbs were going off and my interest was piqued.

"Who's over there?" I enquired at a passer by.
"Michael Jackson."

Dammit. I was hoping it would be someone interesting.

So I cycled over to gawp. I tried to phone Large Northern Flatmate - he'd be hearing about this in 20 minutes anyway but I wanted him to hear the near-hysterical screaming in the background - but my cycle-gloved fingers were mashing the delicate keys and I couldn't be bothered to do it properly.

Plus it was only an extremely famous oddball who, from what I could work out, was offering merely an occasional glimpse of his fingers twitching at a curtain high above our heads. Actually, from where I was stood, I could see bugger all anyway.

So I fucked off home. Not bad for a Monday.

I wish I had no moral objections to prostitution.

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