bugger and blast

They say loving those who have wronged you sets you free. I am trying to love Royal Mail, but I am still bound with murderous rage. Kill kill Royal Mail. They are twats and they are rubbish. Because they are so rubbish, ebay people send you perfume that needs to be signed for. This means getting a little red card shoved under your door because you are NOT a looser and home at whatever-the-fuck midday granny hour they called past. They then hide the parcel in a backstreet in Stockwell very briefly before sending it back the way it came, as though, being in the mail business, they feel that the more parcels there are rushing back and forth through their "system" the better they are doing there job. Twats.

Apart from suffering deep disappointment Saturday morning, this week as passed remarkably smoothly. i.e. I didn't come down with any illness and was able to get in to work each day. Work is scary and may make me cry some point soon, but I still love it. One my key observations of the week has been how tidal the Thames is. It flushes up and down and even revels little scanky pebbly beaches every-so-often. I think of all of the Charles Dickens period dramas that I have seen and pictures lecherous smelly old men combing the beach to pull gold tooths out of rotting dead people. It livens up my lunch break.

Anyway - Saturday were meant for doing washing and Argos shopping, not mooching in front of the computer, so I am off.