This is getting ridiculous; I've had little sleep. My boss told me to go home today because I was snappy and irritable and I fell for his reverse psychology, snapping back that I was fine and staying put.
Calling people up later on, a customer yelled that I was being rude, then slammed the phone down on me. (I'd spent the afternoon chasing people who haven't paid us in three months, who then take the moral high ground and get snotty with me because I remind them that they promised payment last week and still nothing's arrived.)
And this angry state of mind is largely due to lack of sleep - a lack of sleep thanks to Spider fucking Solitaire.
I can't stop myself. It is a drug. I don't write anymore. I don't watch TV. I barely do anything other than turn my computer on, fire up something on Youtube, then play 50 games of Solitaire whilst George Galloway rants in the background.
(I'll say this for Spider Solitaire: it is the perfect filling for a multitask sandwich. There is nothing that can't be listened to or even watched whilst losing to a simple card-based game.)
So. It is now 11:45pm and I'm squeezing this post out having forced myself, finally, from its sweet caress.
And here's my two vital titbits to impart:
1) Rob's stag, my Stag number 5, is tomorrow. I'm off to Newquay via Balham, fucking Balham, where Garry will pick me up (in 8 hours time). If you are in Newquay this weekend, please do say hello. I will be in the politest group amid all the other raucous, vomitting stag rabbles.
I'd take my camera but obviously it's still stolen.
2) I gave up waiting for my ineffectual mate to get Lovely Young Lady's phone number, and have stalked her instead (on the advice, it has to be said, of my mate Caspar who basically said, 'Go on, stalk her.')
The frightening part was the speed and efficiency of the whole process. I googled her place of work, clicked the first link and selected 'People', then came across not just her email address but a massive fucking picture of her.
Two weeks I waited for my mate to call me back with information, and he still hasn't replied. I found what I needed to in approximately 40 seconds. All of which merely reinforces my belief that if you want something done, Don't Ask Dan.
So, when my boss wasn't looking, I wrote Lovely Young Lady an email (composed from within a Word document lest I got spotted using Hotmail on company time). I tingled on seeing her name when she replied, a huge body of work that was friendly and cheerful. There were no tell-tale signs of an impending date (such as her agreement that we 'meet for a latte'), but friendly it was.
Which makes me think that she could just be one of those Friendly Girls™.
I've met these Friendly Girls™ before. Eager, yet disinterested. Any similarities to persons flirtatious and keen are purely coincidental.
Diane at University was one such Friendly Girl, and blonde, and bubbly, and attractive. We got on really well in the first year - well enough that she invited me up to her family home over the summer.
I drove up there at breakneck speed and met her Mum, Dad, brother and bunny rabbit and, after getting in to what was then the top nightclub in the country, her fucking boyfriend.
She'd neglected to mention him ever, remaining consistently Friendly™ and good-natured for about the first five or six months of University life I shared with her.
But don't ask me about women. Maybe friendly girls are really keen girls and are just biding their time until they suss you out.
Or maybe they really are disinterested yet incapable of indifference.
Fuck it. I'm going to bed. I want to be well rested for this mammoth six-hour drive tomorrow morning. That I'm merely a passenger of.
Newquay, look out - etc etc.
I hope I have sex.