7:00 am Alarm on mobile goes off. Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies never sounded so annoying at any other time of the day.
7:12 am Gosh, twelve minutes go by fast. Why hasn’t Fabulous Flatmate gotten up yet? Maybe set the alarm wrong.
Nope. Was right. I have to get up soon. I need to wash hair and blow dry it straight so that hair can go “whoosh” whenever I turn my head slightly. “Whoosh” is good. I am sure the Very Fine Energy Industries Director notices “whoosh” of hair.
7:30 am I am still very peeved about not working in Sydney for the week. Why get my hopes up and let conjure up all sorts of delightful working-in-Sydney scenarios in my head over the weekend, only to tell me on Monday that “sorry, you’ll be doing the same thing in Melbourne instead”? I had the whole week – mostly involving lunches with Pixie and Sparkles, and drinks and dance floor grooves at 333 on Friday night. Very mad still. Silent protest at desk (i.e. not doing any constructive work all afternoon) yesterday was obviously not enough.
7:34 am That’s it. I will call in sick. It’s the grand tradition. I will only be un-Australian for not doing it.
7:38 am But it is childish.
7:46 am Fuck that. Am not going. I deserve a day to wallow in self-pity and silent protest while watching day-time TV.
7:50 am “Hi, Shag-Fiend Director. Sorry I can’t make it today. I got a bit of a cold from walking home in the rain last night. See you tomorrow.”
7:51 am Back to sleep. Very good sleep. Why didn’t I think of this earlier? Always, always embrace tradition.
1:05 am Ooh. I had forgotten how good Dr Phil is. Very smart man. Put me on right path. I am no longer angry at Rather-Large-Bank for being budget-cutting cold-blooded wanker-breeding institution. Destiny is in own hands. There are more important things in life than missing out on a business trip. It will come in due time.
1:06 am Commendable insight to pull a sickie.
7:12 am Gosh, twelve minutes go by fast. Why hasn’t Fabulous Flatmate gotten up yet? Maybe set the alarm wrong.
Nope. Was right. I have to get up soon. I need to wash hair and blow dry it straight so that hair can go “whoosh” whenever I turn my head slightly. “Whoosh” is good. I am sure the Very Fine Energy Industries Director notices “whoosh” of hair.
7:30 am I am still very peeved about not working in Sydney for the week. Why get my hopes up and let conjure up all sorts of delightful working-in-Sydney scenarios in my head over the weekend, only to tell me on Monday that “sorry, you’ll be doing the same thing in Melbourne instead”? I had the whole week – mostly involving lunches with Pixie and Sparkles, and drinks and dance floor grooves at 333 on Friday night. Very mad still. Silent protest at desk (i.e. not doing any constructive work all afternoon) yesterday was obviously not enough.
7:34 am That’s it. I will call in sick. It’s the grand tradition. I will only be un-Australian for not doing it.
7:38 am But it is childish.
7:46 am Fuck that. Am not going. I deserve a day to wallow in self-pity and silent protest while watching day-time TV.
7:50 am “Hi, Shag-Fiend Director. Sorry I can’t make it today. I got a bit of a cold from walking home in the rain last night. See you tomorrow.”
7:51 am Back to sleep. Very good sleep. Why didn’t I think of this earlier? Always, always embrace tradition.
1:05 am Ooh. I had forgotten how good Dr Phil is. Very smart man. Put me on right path. I am no longer angry at Rather-Large-Bank for being budget-cutting cold-blooded wanker-breeding institution. Destiny is in own hands. There are more important things in life than missing out on a business trip. It will come in due time.
1:06 am Commendable insight to pull a sickie.
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