I am a great liar. I know, it’s not a particularly endearing character trait, but I try to only whip it out for small scale jobs, like pretending to door-to-door salesmen that I’m only 17 or offering a detailed description of a nightmare train journey to my boss as the reason why I’m late, rather than saying that crying until I was sick was the reason that my schedule got knocked slightly out of whack.
I’ve never really had a head for numbers, but I know all the important ones.
This isn’t, for once, the emotional pornography that I am prone to writing but rarely publishing after I’ve just been chucked. In fact, for once, I haven’t been chucked.
I work in an office now. I am an office worker. I’m not sure how it happened, but the other day I found myself annoyed at someone for hoarding staples and it dawned on me then, as she counted out fourteen staples and handed them to me, that I work in an office now. I am an office worker.
“And so then they slid the camera up there…”
I closed my notebook and clicked my pen back inside itself. I wasn’t going to be taking any notes in this meeting.
I think Rightmove is trying to kill me. I don’t know, maybe I’m being paranoid, I just really get the feeling that someone there wants me dead. I’m currently flat hunting, and by flat hunting I mean that I spend my lunch breaks wearily trawling through Rightmove, bookmarking the same flats that I bookmarked yesterday. …