On account of incessant wife-like nagging from solitary commenter "Mr. Jerky", I am updating my shit. Speaking of shit, my lower digestive tract has blown a gasket. Each morning I am awoken by frightful upheaval therein. This has actually been An Issue for quite a while but only recently has it got bad enough that I’ve gone to A Doctor about it. I’ve seen two so far and between them they’ve disinterestedly poked at my stomach (through latex gloves, what are they trying to say about my hygeine?) and determined that, apparently, I have problems with my digestion. I could’ve bloody told them that, what am I paying the bastards for? Well yeah, I’m not paying them, but It’s The Principle Of The Thing. Anyway, I’m due to lose my droid-virginity in March when they poke a robot endoscope camera up my holiest of holes, to see whass goin’ on up in dis large intestine.
Until then, I’ve got to make do with the rubbish tablets they prescribed me, and they’re fucking useless. Picture a drunk chav assaulting an oncoming tank with a broken bottle and you’ve got some idea of how futile these things are at curtailing my intestinal fury. It just doesn’t feel like one of those problems you can solve with pills. I need some conclusively, invasively physical PROCEDURE done. I need something that’ll leave an impressive scar which I can later spuriously attribute to a swordfight with a Prussian baron on top of a burning Zeppelin. I need something yanked out, adjusted, and then put back in the right way round. And I demand it be performed by Doctor Cox from Scrubs, with attendant hurtful remarks.
Anyway, this coupled with the fact that I have a real, boring job has drained my creative juices. Mostly when I get home I just want to drink tea, work on one of my sad model plane kits and make the most of the moonlight hours before I have to crowbar myself out of bed again and traverse half the known world to spend all day in a gloomy, sunless warehouse/office building. I swear my skin’s starting to go a pale Gollum shade of white and my eyes are disappearing as they get "evolved out" in deference to webbed toes and giant Andrew Marr ears, the better to hunt prehistoric trilobites with.
Yesterday was my first company Christmas lunch. It was quite a surreal experience. Seeing co-workers outside of the work context and being People made it weird enough already, without the collection of extremely eccentric upper-class Tories grilling me on my life aspirations. One lady in her middle fifties - I will call her Mrs. Death to protect the guilty - kept telling me how attractive I am, in between mouthfulls of wine and ranting about society collapsing because of "alcohol and the Pill". Before I managed to escape, she’d asked me a number of quite personal questions about personal relationships, and had SLIPPED ME HER PHONE NUMBER. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwww. On the plus side though, I met my boss’s father, an incredibly engaging and charismatic World War Two veteran and OBE, who served as an instructor in the same artillery regiment as my grandad. Who knows, he may have shouted abuse at my gramps! For a ninety-year-old, he’s extremely spry. He still does the accounts for the entire company, and is far more in touch with reality than my boss, who’s a bit... strange.
For instance, when I arrived for work the morning before, he said "I’ve left a copy of the Chinese Times on your desk, there’s an article on Chinese traditional medicine that you’ll find very interesting". I know nothing about Chinese medicine, have no interest in it, and have never mentioned it to the guy. My boss is one weird motherfucker.
Oh, and I finished my Chrimbo shopping yesterday. And no, I didn’t buy you anything.