Yep, yep, yep, yep yep...Dragon very definitely rampant in me today (is this a good moment to remember it's now the Chinese YEAR of the Dragon?...Nnnnno, notsomuch. OK, good, glad I checked).
Got on a train this morning (yes, a train - pinnacle of civilisation compared to the normal UberCommute on a bus. There will be more trains in my future), and the guy opposite me sat there, carelessly swigging on a can of Pepsi Max and eating a kind of "healthy" snack bar, including cranberries, macadamia nuts and dark chocolate. Then the prick got up and left the train, leaving half the bar carelessly behind him, in its wrapper...
I wanted to chase after him and shove the remaining bar of wonderment up his cavalier, toss-aside nose, while explaining to him that a life in which you throw away half a bar like that was a life half-lived, and therefore wasted, and that ergo he himself was a waste of chemical electrical energy and should vacate the planet forthwith to make way for someone who understood what Pleasure was all about!
Sigh...
I didn't, obviously. Wretched pinko liberal commie bastard laws we have in this country...
Popped into a store on High Street Kensington on my way into the office, mainly to browse. They had a Dunkin' Doughnuts case in there, with a Valentine's Special in. It was called a Strawberry Gloss. An ordinary ring doughnut (fuck you, America, the way you spell it is just wrong, don't mess with me today or I'll torch your ass!), in this case slightly squished into an oval shape, and then layered with bright, glistening pink goo. I swear, these people are trying to kill me. Can I just say, if you're gonna take something with a hole in the middle, make it vaguely oval and then slather it with that kind of dripping pink sweetness, you're fooling no-one, OK, Mr Subliminal? You might as well just have the courage of your bastardy and come out with it - Dunkin' Doughnuts' Valentine Vaginas, six to a box, go ahead, single guy fat fucks, make a disgusting night of it....mmmm, freakin' sweet...
Stopped in at lunchtime of course for my weekly Starbucks. A young (for which read dreadlocked and clueless) PA was getting lunch. She held up a croissant.
"Anybody know what a-mental is?" she asked the line.
Yeah, took me a second too.
"Emmenthal," I said. "It's a cheese."
"A cheese?" she asked, as if the concept was bizarre and new to her. It was almost as if I'd suggested she was about to chow down on fresh foetus-in-a-bun.
"Yeah, a cheese," I maintained. "That's the yellow stuff you can see."
"Oh..." she said. "Riiiight." She put the croissant back on the shelf as though it might explode if handled roughly, and ordered a piece of chocolate cake instead. I closed my eyes and imagined banging her head against the milk frother repeatedly. I was still lost in this vision when the guy asked me what I wanted, to the extent that I genuinely couldn't remember for a moment, and almost had to be reminded what kind of store I was in.
And then there's the bookkeeper.
Perfect nice human being, our bookkeeper. Nice in the kind of way that, even on a good day, makes you want to do him physical harm, just to see whether he'd react. Today though....today he had the temerity...the indecency...the downright mild-mannered fuck-youishness to have a Mars bar on his desk.
All...
Damn...
Day.
There it was, just fucking staring at me while I tried to get on with proper, serious, grown-up work. At one point I swear it got up and started doing the Dance of the Seven Wrappers.
He left it behind.
It's still there, on his desk, as I write this now. And I'm going to confess a big, dirty secret here. I'm tempted to go and sniff it.
Now, this crosses a dangerous, positively pathological line. Sniffing desserts is all very well and good, but you have to be up front about it. Sniffing someone's chocolate bar behind their back, when they're not even there, is pretty much on a dietary par with sniffing someone's underwear in similar circumstances - you just don't do it, and if you do, it's probably the start of a slippery slope into madness and deviancy (Really? Like you're so fucking well-adjusted anyway at the moment??)
So I'm leaving now, before I do something I really, really regret. Gong back to Paddington Station, where the only things to do are eat, shop or hate the soul-festering rest of humanity...
Daresay I'll do a little of everything. Just to take my mind off the bookkeeper's Mars bar.
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