The flurry of snow didn’t quite cause the tizzy I had hoped for. That tizzy being a day off work. Instead the staff-room was the usual draining affair, menopause and diets (spat through biscuits) and gossip over who may be the female phantom 2pm pooer. I do most of the draining I am sure, the miserable bastard who doesn’t like hearing about labour pains or massive poos whilst he eats his sandwich…call me touchy! The rest of the day involved a meeting in which, quite frankly, I wasn’t in, but I was, but wasn’t at the same time, it passed me by like a Big Issue Seller. The remainder of the day consisted of talks about our moral compass: mine is pointing North West due to the Big Issue seller.
I avoid the changing rooms these days, you only pick up influenza, athletes foot and a sight for sore eyes from Talc-Tackle-Ted & his scrotal spectacle…enough to scare you stiff. On editing that is a poor word choice. I’m talking of the gym, from whence I have come, which was done after my boring day and beans on toast. Wallace & Gromit: The Wrong Trousers was on the gym television, a source of enormous motivation to all. Call me a Doubting Thomas, but that on its own is hardly a surge of adrenaline but the fact it had subtitles several seconds behind the plasticine animation hardly made me row quicker. The Roly-Polys enjoyed it as they sat on the bikes, made a screening of it in fact, sausage roll crumbs and cheese & onion fingers washed down with an energy drink. The peddles were glad of the rest I am sure. I suppose they are easing themselves in, and I am sure they had to do that on entrance: greased the door frame and went in with the second class post and a good kick.
This moaning is all part of my crisis by the way: it defects from the arthritic pains and growing weakness that is catching me. It creeps up on you like the hair on your bum, which as we know is tugged from your scalp. In a sick turn of events I am booking myself back for a Tabata session, perhaps I didn’t make it clear to them first time I am actually this fragile. I wonder, if I ask nicely, do you think they will put Wallace & Gromit on?
You have called me Touchy and a Doubting Thomas today, stop it.
I am the Scribbler.