I almost phoned in sick this morning. I slept so badly and felt so exhausted, both physically and mentally, that work seemed to be too much of a struggle. But being the gal I am I forced myself in, only to bump into Little Boy Cheeky who told me he was on his way home because the boiler was broken.
So, I had no guilty feelings when I myself left at eleven. Especially since I’d done loads of photocopying and people think I’m wonderful. I slept all afternoon only to awaken at about quarter to six convinced that it was morning and The Blokey had failed to wake me up in time to watch Enders and eat dinner.
I ache everywhere, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I blame Mumsy. I spoke to her on the phone on Friday and believe that she breathed her take-three-days-off-work germs down the phone-lines at me.
My paper boy wants a Christmas bonus. I know this because he shoved a [very cheap and tacky] Christmas card through the letter box along with the evening paper. His name is Kevin. He could just have scrawled Give Me Money on the paper and it would have been as subtle.
There is no real reason for this post. My mind is blank. Instead of sympathy I would gladly accept donations to the Katiefinger Fund For Vodka.
[not that I’m an alcoholic, but it is Christmas]
please God [don’t] bless the boiler at work xxx Elsabeth