A very quiet day today – not much happening at all.

In fact, I spent most of it in a sweltering office, sweating like a paedophile in a playground. It’s the one thing I would consider having plastic surgery (or cosmetic surgery, whatever the hell it’s called) to sort out – simply cutting the nerves to my sweat glands. It’s horrible and I hate it – but the only reason I won’t do the surgery is that there’s some risk of also losing the nerve cluster that goes to your arm – and that’s not worth the price, to be honest.

I think the post-delivering person must have hated me today. Not just two loads of stuff from Open University, but also two (different) sets of info I’d asked for from MenCap about their fundraising events including sponsored treks in Japan and New Zealand, and a cycle ride in China. All of which appeal, but require a large amount of finger-out-ness. Oh, and a letter from a friend in Cambridge, and another one from Australia. Snailmail can be a wonderful thing, in the right hands.

Of course, everything coming at once does rather make you/me wonder if they’re not hording it at the Post Office ’til it’s worth the effort of delivering, but that’s just paranoid.

It’s been brought to my attention that there are some things that just make you go “I want one”, and several of them end up getting put on here.

And in that tradition, I bring you – the ultimate workstation. From those nice (if slightly odd) people at Poetic Technologies.

Do you ever get the feeling that some people really need to get out more? Mind you, it’s a stunning story (and pic to go with it)

Oh, and if anyone’s interested, I got a call this afternoon and didn’t get the job I interviewed for. Second out of two interviewees. I knew it was a sod-up of a day. *sigh* Hey Ho.

Right, following on from Gert’s post and NakedBlog, my dinner list is now here on my site. I put it on the site because it’s a big page, and I couldn’t be arsed to curse Blogger with it. Enjoy.

Oh, and if you feel the need to comment on it, do it here, because there aren’t any comments on the individual page. So there.

Added to, thanks to Vicky’s comment
And then just to brighten my mood, I went to le site du Bird avec Vodka, who’s normally got something fun to say. And she’s got this link to “talent” from the new McCrossroads soap on BBC Scotland, “River City”. And he reminds me of no-one more than a member of the Mcgann clan (ooh – nice rhyme). You decide…

I think that says enough…

I tell you, there are some days that you just KNOW are going to be shot to shit. Today’s one of them.

Leave for the interview with 2 hours to get there – dead easy – it’s only a 10 minute bus ride and then a 20 minute train journey. Piece of Piss. I could get there by pushbike in 2 hours.

And it turns out that’s exactly what I should have done. The train I was on broke down just outside the station – well, more accurately still at the station, because the doors of my carriage were still on the platform, which just added to the farcical nature of what followed…

Train breaks down at 8.50. I’m supposed to be at the interview for 9.30, so it’s not too traumatic just yet, they’ll fix it, or transfer us to the next train (the service seems to run about every ten minutes) or even just replace the engine. Simple, no? Not exactly rocket science.

Except for the little quirk that they won’t let anyone off the train, because it’s not fully at the platform. Some fuckwit might try to get out the wrong doors and fall to the track and hurt themselves. “Natural Selection and Darwin Awards” says I. So we sit for 40 fucking minutes while they decide what to do. By now I’ve called the people I’m seeing, explained (in no uncertain terms, but not quite as pithily as here) that the train company, and particularly the employees on this train, are epic fuckwits of the sort that get teased by amoeba for being thick. And that I’m going to be late for the interview.

Eventually I persuade the train chimp to let me off, because I’m at a door with platform under it, and not going to fall or hurt myself, (although I may consider hurting the chimp) so let me the fuck out so I can get a taxi the 8 miles to my interview. It’s now 9.40. I have that look of homicide in my eyes, gauging the range to the train chimp’s throat. So they let me off. Fifteen minutes later I’m where I was supposed to be 25 minutes earlier, I’m £15 worse off, and I get into the interview.

Which actually went pretty well, I think. So we’ll see what happens, and wait for feedback. Fingers crossed anyway.

The train ride back was pretty uneventful too, except for the grinding of locked on brakes on one axle, and the smell of smoke throughout the journey. Could’ve done with that posse of nuns from last week. So now I’ve just got to see what’s next in the Day of Shit. Oh, and write a stormingly shitty letter to the train company, who seem to run a better service when they’re on strike.