an idiot in london


Friday, 2nd June.

At the start of play today, I didn't know what I'd be doing after soccer tomorrow. Looked like I didn't have a job for next week, and I didn't have any sort of contingency plan. Typical Ian.

This morning I received a call from Catherine (aka Cath) (she's a rine not a ryn) who works on the first floor. She's an Australian, and we'd spoken to each other before, although only on the phone. The conversation went something like this...

Lllllllllllogica, Ian speaking.
Hi Ian, it's Cath.
G'day, mate!
I need to book the Zebra Room.
Just let me get the book out...ok, what time?
Monday and Tuesday, all day.
Monday, not a chance, Tuesday, well the only booking is you.
Me? What for?
I don't know, you made the booking.
Right, well I'll take it for all day Tuesday.
So what are you up to?
Well, today's my last day.
Yeah, they're giving me the arse.
What for?
For being too damn good looking.
Basically, the sight of my fine arse marching up and down the office is too much for the others that work here.
Distracting for the women or the men?
Look, I'm comfortable with the fact that I'm a Universal Sex Object.
You're an idiot.
Hmm, perhaps.
So what are you doing next week?
I have absolutely no idea.
Yeah, I've heard that. What about work?
No work lined up.
Do you want to come and work for us?
Who's "us"?
Yeah, sure.
Come down and see me and we'll talk.
Ace. Catchya.

So there you go. Looks like I've got myself sorted for some work for the next five weeks. Although nothing's set in stone yet, so let's not go counting our chickens before they hatch, especially if they're going to be in my Cajun Chicken Pasta.

I arrived home in the evening to discover that one of my flatmates had bought a porno mag. We were flicking through it (it was very educational) and Suze, Simon's girlfriend, showed a healthy interest in its contents. Then again, she had been studying gynaecology all afternoon.