Another week passes in my continuing struggle to impress upon people the concept of finite resources. It's getting a bit like Groundhog Day; I seem to keep having the same conversations with people, telling them the same thing each and every day...
We have four electricians on site.
They're all immersed in other projects.
We can do your thing on Monday.
It's not so hard an idea to grasp, is it? Maybe I should draw them a picture.
On Saturdays, I cheer myself up by being sarcastic to customers at the Big Gay Department Store.
ME: That'll be £67, please.
IDIOT WOMAN: Why?
ME: ...er, because it is? I'm not sure I understand the question.
IDIOT WOMAN: How much is each of those jumpers?
ME: The brown one is £28, the blue one is £39.
IDIOT WOMAN: Oh, I thought they were both £28.
ME: Nope. According to the labels, the brown one is £28 and is made of a cotton/cashmere blend; whilst the blue one is £39, and made of merino. Merino is a special kind of wool that grants the wearer supernatural powers, so it costs more. Would you like to keep the hangers?
IDIOT WOMAN: ..........
And of course, by playing Cake or Death.
Obviously a pastry-type-thing containing something... but what? Could be anything. The red ooze seeping from the edges offers up few clues; could be summer fruits, could be monkey placenta...
Ew. I just made myself feel a bit sick.
JAM = CAKE. WIN
This crushing tedium has been punctuated only by an unexpected rendezvous with erstwhile work colleague Beautiful Steve, who was randomly in Exeter for one night only, to visit his parents. We got drunk, talked about how great we were (not very, as it turns out), and played a bit of pool (badly) before stumbling off in opposite directions to catch our last trains home.
Except that my last train had been canceled in order to allow workmen to drink tea at the side of the tracks in safety; and so it was replaced with the EMO BUS, a small clattering mini bus filled with the sounds of young American men singing through their noses about their feelings and shit, and driven by an awkward looking chap with an asymmetrical fringe, ill-fitting black clothes, and the kind of repetitive nervous twitches that make you think he shouldn't be allowed to drive people around in buses.
Seating was adequate.