I could do with doing something else. My job bores me witless. I know someone has to do it. Some people are born to do it. My immediate supervisor simply adores her job which is a glorified and slightly better paid version of my job. She's one of those people who lives to work. Her job and employer are just about the sum total of her life now her kids have left secondary school.
She's been at her kitchen table drafting Christmas schedules this week. She's happier than a pig in shit counting in boxes of pen and rationing paper clips.
If there were a better job in this town, if I weren't too poor to run a car, if I had indefinite leave to remain and could actually apply for a permanent post rather than a fixed term post then I would. If I could ditch the shit bag husband and the mountains of crap he insists on having in our tiny house... If. What a great big word.
Well today wasn't a day like most days. The Big Swinging Dick and I went off on another tour of the county. We left early so that BSD could get in a little shopping (a belated birthday present for the Handmaiden being required). He was in good form, and as this was our second "date" we were a little more relaxed in the company of one another. He's amazingly comfortable talking about the difficulties in his marriage, but also intriguingly expectant that he and Mrs BSD will be together in retirement OopNorth.
Probably what ever is going on between he BSD and the HM, if indeed anything is going on, is nothing more than an elegant bit of R&R. But most people are convinced that theirs is one long and unremitting shag fest or that nothing s going on but the BSD is nevertheless totally in thrall to the Hand Maiden's pert rear end.
Any hoo, we nattered about this and that, found common ground in despising Dubya and reluctantly agreeing that in certain lights such as the current one Reagan doesn't look so bad. Neither of us is terribly keen on God Botherers of any faith or denomination and look on in despair at the contortions Homo Sapiens Sapiens tends to perform over a turn of phrase or the meaning of a word, and the resultant mess that always ensues.
Apart from one short outburst on the motorway his leaden foot was kept under control and there were, obviously since I'm typing this out, no mishaps. The meeting itself went as smoothly as expected. Since we were there to deliver chastisement rather than dismissal and the girl herself has been proactive in getting the help she so clearly and desperately stands in need of the atmosphere was lighter and we all ended up hoping the best for one another.
On the way out of town I confided child care problems to BSD (looming this Sat., pm when we're both expected to be working) and he's agreed that the offspring can sit upstairs and run (for that is what the little bossy boots will undoubtedly do) the staff canteen. The staff currently think Pea Brain a tough task master. They've not seen anything yet.
My Feral Pig isn't the least bit grateful that I've sorted things out but I have my own special form of revenge for that in store. I've been keeping an eye on my calendar and I am going to be absolutely full of PMT right about Sunday evening.
I had to say something because I failed yet again to get myself sacked from my dismal job. I failed to send off an order yesterday evening which ought in my book be sackable offence. No such fucking luck. In fact no one said a word.
Must try harder next time. Perhaps if I emptied the safe? No, that won't work. I just want to be sacked, not shipped off to prison.
Any suggestions for where the middle ground might lie?
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