Working 9-5

What a way to make a living. Although working is of course a term used very loosely when my first task is to set up a tripod and blip my office corridor. Since I moved offices I've gone from where the camera stood in this shot to right down almost to where you can see me crouched in despair. Even with a ten second timer I had to sprint down the corridor to assume to position. I took a few shots, the other three are here if you are at all interested.

I'd love to write some words about me being miserable and work being dull (the usual prose from me) but I think I'll let the image say everything it has to.

I wonder if I should do my blip in the afternoon more often. Yesterday I seem to have caused some amusement with my attack on Mrs Middle Class and her wallet full of happiness. Today I have very little subject matter to work with, which means my razor sharp wit (!) and cutting cynicism barely gets the outing it deserves.

I wrapped my presents yesterday. Very exciting. It took 30 minutes and minimal fuss. I confess I don't have the wrapping precision of my sister in law, she goes with bows and tied string and sellotape and foily type paper and all that. Me? I roll with poundland paper and a black permanent marker to alleviate the need for a label. Got to be thrifty you know as there is a lot of drinking coming up (and thats just tomorrow).

I ordered myself some of that David Coulthard 'Pole Position' gentlemans smelly stuff the other day. My mum buys me Avon for work but I like to have a smell of class, and why not the scent from the stern jawed Scot who will forever live in Schumachers shadow? Besides my mate Casey has it and I noted it did smell quite nice. Personally I don't subscribe to this whole 'I was a sportsman, but now I've gone into perfume' vibe but I thought I'd roll with it anyway. Sadly on ebay I managed to mix my works postal address with my home postcode, so the only way I'll smell like Coulthard this christmas is is I go and lay under my car with the engine running for an hour (and maybe pour cider down my shirt and p1ss myself, he is scottish after all). Instead I've popped into Boots this morning and got some of the Paul Smith extreme. Now I don't think Paul Smith was a racing driver, I'm wondering if the little ginger full back cum striker that turned out for City in the 1980s has gone into perfume now? Last I heard he was a copper in Sheffield but perhaps he's had a change of heart.

Disclaimer: I am in no way anti Scottish and my little Coulthard jibe should be taken in good heart by Tadpole, Dotty, Snappy and anyone else of the Scottish dwelling variety. I am fully aware that you are not a nation of alcoholics who often urinate in their clothes. However Frankie Boyle has helped put this notion in my mind and now I can't help it. I didn't mention the smack though did I? Avoided the obvious. :-P