Sickbag
Track of the day Phoenix (excerpt) - Nerve Engine.
I'm knackered, beat and stiff everywhere except the one place where it matters. Ladder work is definitely not the way forward for me. I've spent the best part of two weeks trying to sort half a dozen windows and I don't seem to be getting any nearer the end of the job.
The woman on the checkout in HomeBase said, "Are you still up that ladder? Thought you'd have finished by now."
The greaseball sitting at a table inside the entrance asked if I wanted double glazing or a conservatory. He's lucky I didn't empty the latest tin of primer over his head.
The postman greeted me like an old friend when he dodged past my ladder and asked if I wanted him to put a good word in for me with his bosses.
But when the milkman came for his money and asked me what exactly I'd painted so far it just about finished me off. If no one can tell that I've done anything, what is the point? At least I can cross climbing ladders off my list of personal phobias. And I've finally found something that Volvo is good at - preventing ladder slip.
By way of a reward for all my hard work I drifted into the local bar last night and found myself surrounded by men. Hell's bells there were no women in there at all. No barmaids, no female customers. Nothing. There were plenty of couples but they were all male.
The chit chat was simlpy scintillating my dear.
"Oh he's much more handsome than me. He's very sporty and a vegetarian too. Only eats healthy food. He's lovely. I know you'd adore him."
At which point he squeezes his friend's knee and I wish I'd put my chastity belt on. At the other end of the bar a tall something or other leans over and licks his buddy's nose. He must have forgotten to bring his handkerchief with him. I had a great desire to order a sickbag but made do with another pint of Carlsberg.
So right now I'm sitting here with a great thirst on, dreaming of women and remembering last night's unproductive visit to the Pig & Plonker to mingle with the local intelligentsia. It's enough to make you spit. I think I'll open a whore house.
.
I'm knackered, beat and stiff everywhere except the one place where it matters. Ladder work is definitely not the way forward for me. I've spent the best part of two weeks trying to sort half a dozen windows and I don't seem to be getting any nearer the end of the job.The woman on the checkout in HomeBase said, "Are you still up that ladder? Thought you'd have finished by now."
The greaseball sitting at a table inside the entrance asked if I wanted double glazing or a conservatory. He's lucky I didn't empty the latest tin of primer over his head.
The postman greeted me like an old friend when he dodged past my ladder and asked if I wanted him to put a good word in for me with his bosses.
But when the milkman came for his money and asked me what exactly I'd painted so far it just about finished me off. If no one can tell that I've done anything, what is the point? At least I can cross climbing ladders off my list of personal phobias. And I've finally found something that Volvo is good at - preventing ladder slip.
By way of a reward for all my hard work I drifted into the local bar last night and found myself surrounded by men. Hell's bells there were no women in there at all. No barmaids, no female customers. Nothing. There were plenty of couples but they were all male.
The chit chat was simlpy scintillating my dear.
"Oh he's much more handsome than me. He's very sporty and a vegetarian too. Only eats healthy food. He's lovely. I know you'd adore him."
At which point he squeezes his friend's knee and I wish I'd put my chastity belt on. At the other end of the bar a tall something or other leans over and licks his buddy's nose. He must have forgotten to bring his handkerchief with him. I had a great desire to order a sickbag but made do with another pint of Carlsberg.
So right now I'm sitting here with a great thirst on, dreaming of women and remembering last night's unproductive visit to the Pig & Plonker to mingle with the local intelligentsia. It's enough to make you spit. I think I'll open a whore house.
.
Posted by Milt at 8:06:00 pm
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