February 27, 2005

Taking a deep breath 

I haven't had a cigarette since the 28th of December. For the most part it has been okay, but as you may have guessed, the past few weeks have been a little trying. To be honest, they've been pretty hard.

And yet, even in the hardest, most stressful of times, when friends around me have been sparking up, sucking the nicotine into their lungs and blowing out that beautiful release, I've held fast, held firm. Tonight, when I've felt tested beyond many of my limits, I didn't smoke, I didn't give in.

I can't guarantee that I'll never smoke again, but if I haven't given in today, I stand a good a chance as any.

February 26, 2005


Still busy, but I promise to be back soon. I'll just leave you with this little snippet.

I picked up the FA Cup on Wednesday. At the FA headquarters.

Beat that.

February 21, 2005


Ladies and gentlemen.

A selection of wines, beers and spirits will be served in the Bridget Who? bar. Act 2 will begin shortly. Please be patient.

very very very very very busy but will be back soon.


February 14, 2005

leave your name and your number 

"Hello. You have reached [the charity]. Our lines are open on Mondays from 2pm to 4pm, on Tues er Wednesdays, no Tuesdays...bugger!"

"Hello. You have reached [the charity].... we're er, er... shit!"

"Hello. er... you have erm... shit! shit! shit!"


"Hello. Fuck!"

"Hello. You have re... ARSE!"

And so on

February 07, 2005

What a bitch 

She's about a foot long and 6 inches high, a brown, floppy eared mutt called Duster. She belongs to the guy I work for on Wednesdays at The Media Agency. The Media Agency is a good place to work. It is laid back, creative and chilled. I can wear jeans and trainers and still look smarter than most. I can play music on my PC and no one minds. I can come in at ten and leave at four and take two hours for lunch and nobody gets on my case. I'm left to my own devices as long as I come up with the goods at the end of the day.

One could say it's a pretty good deal. Except for one thing. Duster the Daschund doesn't like me. She doesn't like me at all. She'll trot after Mr T. Bear, a hugable Canadian programmer who sits at the back of the office. She'll wag her tail, sit at his feet and nuzzle his turn-ups, but she'll snarl and snap at my ankles as I walk past. She'll suck up to Tinkerbell, a gentle young girl who designs beautiful wallpaper, but she'll growl at me and curl up her lip if I so much as glance in her direction.

Last week I took positive action in an attempt to remedy the situation. I squatted down and offered her a bit of my lunch. Instead of tail-wagging gratitude, I was greeted with a look of utter contempt and scorn. Undeterred, I inched slowly toward her hoping that she'd be won over by the chicken in my sandwich. Instead, she bared her teeth in a disgusted sneer. I stood up, defeated, and went to put the kettle on. There's no doubt about it. Duster's affections cannot be bought and clearly I'm not good enough to be in her gang.

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