PERFECT DAY?
Eight am. Time to get up. Phone interview at 11. Must prepare. Why do I want the job? Why do I want to leave my current post? Think, THINK!
For three hours I stared at the computer screen, writing and rewriting my answers to the inevitable, yet still hypothetical, questions I expected to be asked.
In the bathroom, my builder was cutting tiles in half with a diamond-cut blade borrowed from an Irish hardware store up the road. I told him to pause. Five to 11, time to call...
Two minutes later it was all over. I GOT THE JOB! I felt like crying. It was the first bit of positive job news I'd received in over a year. The demoralisation, humiliation and depression of my current position would soon be over...
Within a few hours, my builder had finished the two-week job he'd begun a year earlier (all it took was a threat not to pay up). My flat was now finished with a glossy-white finish.
That evening my parents joined me for a celebratory dinner. I ordered a chilli chicken Balti. Or is it a Balti chilli chicken? Or perhaps a chicken chilli Balti, even? It was the hottest thing on the menu. I washed it down with several Cobra beers, went home and then waited for S to turn up.
It had gone 1am by the time her booty call materialised. And this time I kept the lights on.
Now I like to think that I've seen a fair few front bottoms in my time. Fluffy ones, well-groomed ones, even shaved ones. But I've never once come across a tufty one - if Hitler had been a cunt (and I'm sure most people agree he that he was history's biggest cunt) he would have looked like S's muff. In fact, now I come to think of it, looking down at me while I was going down on her, I must have looked a dead-ringer for the genocidal anti-Semite. Thank goodness I don't have a side-parting.
Eight am. Time to get up. Phone interview at 11. Must prepare. Why do I want the job? Why do I want to leave my current post? Think, THINK!
For three hours I stared at the computer screen, writing and rewriting my answers to the inevitable, yet still hypothetical, questions I expected to be asked.
In the bathroom, my builder was cutting tiles in half with a diamond-cut blade borrowed from an Irish hardware store up the road. I told him to pause. Five to 11, time to call...
Two minutes later it was all over. I GOT THE JOB! I felt like crying. It was the first bit of positive job news I'd received in over a year. The demoralisation, humiliation and depression of my current position would soon be over...
Within a few hours, my builder had finished the two-week job he'd begun a year earlier (all it took was a threat not to pay up). My flat was now finished with a glossy-white finish.
That evening my parents joined me for a celebratory dinner. I ordered a chilli chicken Balti. Or is it a Balti chilli chicken? Or perhaps a chicken chilli Balti, even? It was the hottest thing on the menu. I washed it down with several Cobra beers, went home and then waited for S to turn up.
It had gone 1am by the time her booty call materialised. And this time I kept the lights on.
Now I like to think that I've seen a fair few front bottoms in my time. Fluffy ones, well-groomed ones, even shaved ones. But I've never once come across a tufty one - if Hitler had been a cunt (and I'm sure most people agree he that he was history's biggest cunt) he would have looked like S's muff. In fact, now I come to think of it, looking down at me while I was going down on her, I must have looked a dead-ringer for the genocidal anti-Semite. Thank goodness I don't have a side-parting.
posted by David Cohen at 9:46 pm
2 Comments:
Felicitaciones por el nuevo trabajo!!!, verás que la ola vendrá con energías positivas.
Visita mi blog para que te enteres de la última travesura de Alan García,
Saludos
Muichisimas gracias. Ya me entere de que tienes un Toledo marca 2! Tengo mucha simpatia por el nino, no por tener Alan como papi, sino por el apellido Cheessman! Uyy.
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