some people have said I don't post often enough...

to them, I say 'fuck you'.

Since I last posted...

There's been a long weekend which was utter bliss (booze and sun), my review at work was very positive (fools) and my office has moved building.

The first May bank holiday was sublime. For those of you not in Oxford, May Day (May 1) is like, a HUGE fucking deal. People stay up all night partying and then head to Magdalen College to hear the choir sing madrigals and hymns from the tower. They've been doing this for 450 years. It's good fun. The road outside is FULL of people (6000 this year) which is a mega number considering how small Oxford is. Those of us in the know (and with connections) watch the spectacle from the Cloister in Magdalen, sipping champagne (which I don't like at the best of times, let alone at 6am feeling hungover and knackered). Anyway, every year a few people jump off the bridge into the Cherwell. The papers report that this tradition dates back hundreds of years but it actually only dates back 12 years. So, morons jump into the river which at the point under the bridge is 18", yes, INCHES deep and end up breaking ankles, legs, arms and in one case neck. This year 40 people were taken to hospital with various injuries. Now, I ask you...if you were standing on a bridge and some random person was standing, STANDING in knee-high water, urging you to jump, would you? I mean, would you? And if you would, then why? The river is fucking filthy and if you don't break a limb, you'll get Weil's disease. Yum.

Morons.

Some friends from my Cambridge days came around to supper on Saturday evening. It was a LAFF. I am amazing in the kitchen. Almost as amazing as I am in the bedroom. Not really!
And so, we ate lots, drank lots and made merry. We managed to squeeze in one hour of sleep before heading to Magdalen.

Sunday was spent in bed until noon then cocktails.

Monday: Max FINALLY came to Oxford with his MAN. He's Italian. Or so he says. Yet he failed every Italian-ness test I set for him. His parents don't have a holiday home in Sardinia (where all the Italians go on holiday), he doesn't drink Chianti the whole time and his mother doesn't do his laundry. Italian? I think not. Still, he was very pleasant and Max was GLOWING. Although that might be down to his recent visit to a German spa where he let it all hang out.

My review at work: Apparently, my work is excellent and evil Bosslady wants me to take on more responsibility. Now, I like responsibility as much as the next person, don't get me wrong, but I do NOT want any more. I want more money. That's it. I couldn't believe it. I think I'll test the limits some more and see just how much I can get away with...

Office move: My section moved out of our old building into a swish new one. Well, not really swish and not really new, but definitely better than the old one. The only problem now is that I no longer have my own office. It's all open-plan which will make net-surfing a bit more difficult. Also, I won't get to hear the gossip that was rife in our old building. We have the whole floor to ourselves here. In the old place, there were lots of freakish people. I'll also miss the cubicle masturbator who used to go to the loo at 11am on the dot everyday, remove his shoes and jerk off, bash the bishop, pull one off etc...then calmly return to his desk without a care in the world. One of my colleagues thought it would be amusing to put an 'out of order' sign on the cubicle door just to see his reaction. We stood by the sink pretending to wash our hands when he entered. He merely went into the cubicle, shut the door and proceeded to jerk off.
The situation was desperate. We decided that next time, one of us would occupy the cubicle and the other would wait outside watching wankerman. Anyway, my mate drew the short straw and dutifully locked himself in the cubicle. I positioned myself by the sink once more and proceeded to wash my hands. Wankerman came in, made his way to the cubicle and waited. And waited. And waited. I was washing my hands raw whilst my colleague had a mock dump. Wankerman merely stood there watching me. 'There is a loo upstairs' I said helpfully, but he said he wanted THAT one and pointed dementedly to the cubicle door.
FINALLY, we heard the flush and stood looking hopefully at the cubicle door. Nothing. We waited. And waited. Nothing.

That's 34 minutes of my life I'm not getting back...

The roofers are replacing the roof of the house. The scaffolders were mildly attractive in a chav kind of way but the roofers are repellent. Would it be wrong to sack them and hope the next lot are better?

Currently listening to: For What It's Worth by Sergio Mendes. Old but good.

Currently wearing: non-smelly sweater.

Now listening to: Soothe by the Smashing Pumpkins.

Oh to be in love. When's it going to happen?

Still want to move to Washington DC. Someone give me a well-paid, interesting, non-worthy job there, please.