I sat shivering [yes, shivering] at the bus station this evening. I’d forgotten to bring a book to read and had already indulged in the reading of Chat – which is a daft and mind-numbing magazine aimed at Chavettes – so I had nothing left to do but think.
I think-ed [I know it’s not a real word, sheesh!] about how tomorrow is the end of the restructure consultation period at work, and how this redundancy lark has stressed everybody out. Even me, and I’m not still not actually worried about losing my job. It has rather been The Liza Show! though. I can’t be arsed to explain that further because it would bore you muchly, just as it has bored myself and the other TAs muchly.
I think-ed about the constant rain and how my poor little tootsies were exposed to the chilling dampness. It wouldn’t be half as bad if it was summer rain, but it appears to be rain that is more suited to late March or early April – chilly and wet.
I think-ed about how my poor pussy would be sopping wet when I arrived home. I was right.
I think-ed about all the nasty people who have passed on their germs to me and made my throat think I’ve swallowed a collection of rusty razor blades. Damn them.
I think-ed about how snuggly it must have been inside my mummy’s tummy and wondered why I ever came out. I decided I must have left her tummy so that each year I could have a birthday and get presents. I mention this purely because tomorrow I shall be celebrating the anniversary of the day of my birth, manymanymany years ago. There are presents on the table.
I think-ed about how nice it was that the bus had turned up, and then I stopped thinking and cosied up to the window and drifted in and out of sleep whilst listening to Muse. Why do bus drivers feel the need to whack the heating up in summer and leave it off in winter? Silly buggers. Humpf.
please God help my illness make a swift exit when it feels the wrath of Lemsip later xxx Elsabeth