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
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