I, in a fit of foolhardy optimism, left the house today without my normal fleecy zip up or pop over sweatshirt type thing.

Why? Because I was a total dickheeeed and believed what the weathermen said. And I believed what the weather said - this morning it said "look at my lovely blue sky, and the wonderous rich colours painted by the low angled rays of the morning sun! no need for a coat, ENJOY!"

Little did I know that the weather was infact laughing behind its hand and going "Twat! got him now!"

So after the lovely morning, it is now grey, chilly and drizzly out there.

Bugger.

At least it's always warm on the trains. Except in winter, which is odd.

In other news,

I have been informed by a trusted source that Brighton will be filled with gay people this weekend (like what else is new) having a rare old time. Pride and such, and much fun and dancing about will be had by all.

No I'm not going, before you ask.

Well. Just to show some support to Landers.

Lets all swear!

Giggle.

It's big and its clever.

so sue me.

I will of course take this post down after a ciggie, a coffee, and a crap in my bosses top drawer.

Thank you for your attention.

This just in from our "god isn't my life thrilling" desk!

My MP3 stick thing wotsit has for some reason decided that "Shuffle" means play songs in sets of two by the same artist, and just as owner notices this, stop doing it for 10 minutes then start again. Till he gets paranoid.

Well thanks for that.

In other news.

Another day without managers in the old office here today, so MDS has set in. (Motivational Depravation Sindrome.)

Ho hum

Where we live, you can drive for about 20 minutes and be out in the middle of the Essex countryside. Lots of little villages called “something atte something” and so on. Lots of pubs sitting on their own by the roadside advertising food that is served all day.

So last night Jo, Sarah and I found ourselves sat in the garden of “The Woodsman” in Wetly on the Vein, or where-ever having some pub food. We had a very nice view of the gently rolling countryside as it slipped into dusk, The Spitfire Ale was very nice, and the steak and kidney pie was a rich tasting feast. Sarah of course had the bread crumbed childrens menu “could be fish, could be chicken wossnames” that even the best pubs think are good for children.

In the bar I was amazed to see a real old style till sat on the bar back! One with old typewriter style keys and little flags that popped up at the top with the prices on, in a glass box running the length of the top edge. The front of this cash piano was engraved and embossed with swirly rural style patterns like those seen on the bright work of expensive shotguns, and the whole thing shone as if freshly polished.

And the noise it made! No beep beep touch sensitive rubbish, but a good, satisfying
“KER-CHING” as the draw popped open, and a very attractive CRASH of change moving around in the compartments as it was shut.

As I took the drinks back to the table outside I had a rather unfortunate mental image of Arkwright from “Open all Hours” and his evil snapping turtle of a till. Nearly spilt some of my pint with the giggles.

I said nearly.