I'm Great, Employ Me…
… is something that is very hard to convey after you have been walking around in London in the pouring rain for three hours, getting lost in Soho, smiling back at dodgy men in fedoras and sunglasses, avoiding Scientologists who want to drag you into a back room for 'a little chat,' spending far too much time in close proximity to the Middle-Aged Potential-Adulterer Business Man type (ugh), spending far too much time in knee high boots that are retaining more rain-water than the London streets, and with scary mile high frizz hair.
Nevertheless, I feel I may have made my mark, if only in soggy wet patches on their lovely thick pile carpets.
And as reward, I am not going to attempt any Shakespeare whatsoever tonight. I am not even going to open the optimistically-named word document wherein it doth not lie. He is going to stay in the corner until tomorrow. Instead, I am going to ponder three of the world's great mysteries, prompted by today's adventures:
- Why, at the only point in your day when you actually do want a Starbucks, one is nowhere to be found. Yet as soon as you've given up and have settled for a dodgy paper cup of something brown coloured in the corner of a tube station, an outlet miraculously appears, warm and dry and cosy looking and smelling of actual coffee, whilst you stand outside in the rain, pressing your nose wistfully to the window like orphans do with toyshops in Dickens television adaptations.
- Why I only ever get chatted up by drunk guys and middle-aged married men. I mean, really. Do I have some sort of sign on my chest saying Get Your Adultery Here? Which, for the record, I categorically don't. And yes, talking about your wife is a great turn-on, as is the business card. I'll stick to my original game plan with the cats, thanks.
- Why on every train, it is prerequisite that there must always be one elderly lady with a suitcase that is larger than her, and also one bolshy man in a business suit and horrible pink tie, probably called something like 'Stu' or 'Phil,' who insists on talking very loudly and agitatedly into his mobile about something very very dull like the price of paperclips per 100g as if it's a war council, and then persists in sounding annoyed and surprised when the signal cuts out as if it's some unexpected crisis, and carries on barking 'Hello! Hello!' down the receiver til everybody around him wants to ram his stupid shiny black all-singing all-dancing phone-organiser-and-sex-toy-in-one gadget down his ugly pink tie throttled throat. Come on Stu/Phil, you must have got used to this whole flickery signal on a train sort of malarkey by now. Surely at least you saw Trigger Happy TV at some point in your paperclip filled existence?
Ah, that feels a lot better.
I knew Shakespeare wasn't a good idea tonight.