I did a Dolly Parton today (worked 9-5).
There’s something quite weird about our staff toilets: the urinals are ranged in size from midget to giant. I chose the giant size and saw a man- mountain hunched over the child/vertically challenged end one. Trying not to snigger at this inadvertant visual gag, I fled.
On the way home, I got a copy of NME, attracted by the yellow cover and 90s reminiscence (Primal Scream).
I was reading a damning ctitique of the new Brighton Rock remake:
“The overall feel is that of a Sunday night TV drama”
Rock and Chips anyone? The only TV that ever redeemed Sundays was the heady combo of Ski Sunday-Bergerac-Doctor Who (Sylvester McCoy era). I would have my weekly shower (I put the BO in BOY) and come down in time for the ski theme tune, then I would spend the next 2 hours slack jawed and vacant, the thought of school the next day just a cushioned Mallet’s Mallet kind of ache hammering in the background.
What a BBC Radiophonic megamix!!!!
Anyway, back to my journey home…when I looked up I realised the bus had gone way past my stop. I let it take me up to the summit of Banner Cross and trekked over the hill. Psalter Lane looked like a gutted carcass, left as a warning to creative types “Abandon Art All Ye Who Enter Here”
I texted Esther to ask for a cuppa (I’m 2% male chauvinist), but of course that would mean leaving her bed, so instead she wrote about not doing it on Facebook.
“no i’m too lazy to make you a cup of tea, you’ll have to make one yourself, even though you’ve been at work all day. can i have one too”
Even capitals are too much effort. That’s my gal.
When I bring our cups of tea up to the bedroom, Esther is cutting her nails.
“There’s not just cheese in here, it’s nutty too” she says as I enter.
I turn away in revulsion, and flip open the laptop.
“stop writing it in your fucking blog” she yells as I start to tap away.
When she realises that I am going to write down everything she says, she clams up. Finally.