Thursday, December 08, 2005

the hors d'oeuvres of anger are modulated into the appetizers of wrath...

So it turns out that my rage yesterday was but an amuse bouche to the full-on smorgasbard of ire with which I am suffused today.

Several things have caused this: the approach of Christmas, my total lack of money due to the grasping thugs at Southwark Council who have put our council tax up by a whopping 40%.

But chief among the reasons for my disgruntlement is the fact I'm trying to break in a new pair of shoes. Yes, I know it's not the Middle East situation, or extraordinary rendition - but trust me, in the tiny personal universe of my feet, it's as bad.

Unlike hangthedj, who seems to buy a new pair of shoes every week, I lack the steely determination and (presumably) elephant hide-like skin to make new shoes fun. Despite affixing no less than four plasters to be soon-to-be-tested tootsies this morning, I currently look like I'm suffering from a particularly chic version of trench foot.

And tonight is the company Christmas party, where I had hoped to be Cinderella (if Cinderella had turned up early doors and, instead of dancing with the Prince, had scoffed all the canapes and tried to sneak out with two bottles of wine tucked into her waistband).

And all day my colleagues have been giving me dire warnings - telling the story of the trainee who was sick on the Chief Executive (worrying. as I typed that, he appeared in front of me - maybe he's like the Candyman...) and advising me to steer clear of the canapes, "which might have been hanging around all day".

What they do not know is that I have an appointment with around thirty Frenchmen in Elephant & Castle at nine, so will be long gone before anyone starts photocopying their arse.

Anyway, a proper post tomorrow - although, quite possibly, it will be about Anne Boleyn.


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