So yesterday's temper tantrums have mellowed, courtesy of semi-but-not-really-solved problems and a very patchy night's sleep, into general self-pity and disgust with my immediate environs. I recently told an old friend no, she couldn't bring her new boyfriend to dinner, because we didn't have enough chairs and - more importantly - I didn't want any strangers seeing our cramped and cruddy little flat. How pathetic is that? I am ASHAMED of my home. I AM TOO OLD FOR THIS CRAP. I should be living somewhere that I own, with furniture that I chose. But I cannot bring myself to fork out half my net income to buy a place I actually like (and I equally can't bring myself to spend a ridiculous though lesser amount on a place I don't like, which is the more reasonable option and covers most places on the market or indeed in the whole country), so until the London housing market crashes [insert hollow laughter] or I leave this stoopid country, renting it is.
Renting sucks.
PS I also have a pimple.
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Am I *crackers*?
Because I seriously fucking MUST be to still be at my desk, not properly able to focus, at midnight. I should have just gone home after giving up my evening, and my much-desired gym time, to sit in an economics presentation.
But no, I came back to work because yet again this week I have four pages to fill.
Four pages.
It sounds so small. Four things that need sorting out. But it's a motherfucking enormous number of words that goes into four broadsheet pages, and let's not forget that all of those things will need a picture, because people like pictures. Words must be very tiresome things indeed if we need to print such a large acreage of pictures, but what do I know? However, pictures for my stories require v. large amounts of time to locate, and v. large amounts of clever lateral thinking, because 'equities' doesn't exactly lend itself to a picture, especially as I have already used Wall Street pics too many times before.
And because it's four pages, and that requires so much copy, I haven't yet started writing up my own really rather extensively researched stories, and I will spend so much time turning crap into filler material that I will have nowhere near enough time for my own output and my stories will be thrown together at the last second, and nowhere near as erudite or compelling as I could easily make them, given an extra day.
Oh, wait, we've been told by arseholish boss WE'RE WORKING ON FRIDAY, just like Good Friday. Goodbye forever, public holidays!
Oh, and yay whiney blog! MAHvellous idea.
PS: I have a pimple too, just under my lip, and I keep biting it and making it redder and sorer.
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