This is a melancholy blog.
At present I have the distinction (since made redundant) of working at a Call Centre. I had considered being a bank robber, but with a slightly arthritic left knee, I felt my getaway techniques might be impaired.
Making the same call time after time is not my idea of fun. Oh, I try to spice up the calls a little, but some of those I speak to seem to have the intelligence of amoebas and I hope that remark isn't amoebist.
In particular, I find Geordies difficult to understand. Old ladies who can only speak Punjabi come second. And, would you believe it; they laugh at my calls. I have only to make a remark like "Your appointment is now being confirmed. It is shooting through cyberspace" to provoke a geriatric cackle at the other end.
I am well past my sell-by date when it comes to handling computers; a vital part of my equipment. My computer skills can be summed up as follows:
(a) ability to switch machine on;
(b) ability to get to right page;
(c) ability to summon help from supervisor.
But enough of such depressive mumblings. I set off for work shortly. Before that I can look forward to doing the dishes (thoughtfully left for me by my family), separating the dog and cat who live in mutual hostility and making sure nothing edible is left for the dog (Sasha).
That dog will eat everything. Bananas, would you believe? It somehow skins them (I suspect in its mouth). Butter, grapes; things no self-respecting canid should touch. As a special delicacy, it will consume the contents of the cat's litter tray. Its most fetching habit is to sit licking its pudenda. The cat regards it with scorn.
I must now away. You can see from the above the exciting daily routine I pursue. For some reason, the call centre regard me as one of their better employees. That should give you some idea of what the others are like.