Mr Meeurghn has been convicted of murder. To add insult to my injured faith in human nature, it transpires that he can't have his passport back because he is on bail and, anyway, he doesn't need it to go home - because he can't go home. His country of origin won't let him back in. God knows what he did there. My faith in the public has taken yet another blow.
I email Greg and tell him that I don't care if he is still traumatised, I need him back at work tomorrow to save me from plunging into a suicidal depression.
There is some good news, though. The Boss has approved a new security measure! Just the one, mind you - and that's a replacement door for the one Steve Ellington broke on his way out this morning.
The viewing panel's shattered, and the frame is all bent out of shape - even though there wasn't a mark on Steve's forehead. I'm pushing for toughened glass to be fitted in the replacement but, if it's more expensive than the ordinary stuff, I'll be out of luck.
Steve's clash with the door isn't the only shock of the day. Johnny sends me an email in which he says that he loves my photo, but that I look tired and "in need of a massage." What on earth? Maybe the oil spill and Obama are messing with his mind, and he and I are locked in a delusional co-dependency.
I have no idea what any of that last sentence means, but I quite like the sound of it. Sam told me that one of his internet dates said it to him, immediately before dumping him. (I have warned him over and over again to rule out any woman who lists "self-help books" in the Preferred Reading category of their dating profile, but he won't listen.)
Max certainly isn't co-dependent this evening, or not with me, anyway. He barely says anything and looks very tired, so I leave him in front of the TV and catch up on personal correspondence at the computer instead. This doesn't include Johnny, as I still haven't decided how to respond to him yet, but Greg replies to my earlier suicidal email thus:
"What about drinky-boos and a little outing after work tomorrow night? To include pizza and gin, then gin, gin and gin? I have a pent-up rage that needs dealing with, and minority groups will no doubt suffer. "
I ask Greg where we're going, but he won't say. He just tells me to put together a list of all our craziest constituents. (He defines these as the people in whose company I hear The Twilight Zone theme.) No doubt I'll find out tomorrow why he needs it - mine is not to reason why.
When I tell Max that I have a date with another man, he seems unbothered, presumably on the basis that he thinks I wouldn't be tempted by an American Psycho lookalike half my age. Maybe he'd think the same thing about Johnny, the oil-rich Putin lookalike, too - but Max doesn't know about him.
Even so, I don't know whether to find his faith in me touching, or arrogant. Maybe he thinks that it's irrelevant whether I'd be tempted or not, as no-one would be tempted by me?
I email Greg and tell him that I don't care if he is still traumatised, I need him back at work tomorrow to save me from plunging into a suicidal depression.
There is some good news, though. The Boss has approved a new security measure! Just the one, mind you - and that's a replacement door for the one Steve Ellington broke on his way out this morning.
The viewing panel's shattered, and the frame is all bent out of shape - even though there wasn't a mark on Steve's forehead. I'm pushing for toughened glass to be fitted in the replacement but, if it's more expensive than the ordinary stuff, I'll be out of luck.
Steve's clash with the door isn't the only shock of the day. Johnny sends me an email in which he says that he loves my photo, but that I look tired and "in need of a massage." What on earth? Maybe the oil spill and Obama are messing with his mind, and he and I are locked in a delusional co-dependency.
I have no idea what any of that last sentence means, but I quite like the sound of it. Sam told me that one of his internet dates said it to him, immediately before dumping him. (I have warned him over and over again to rule out any woman who lists "self-help books" in the Preferred Reading category of their dating profile, but he won't listen.)
Max certainly isn't co-dependent this evening, or not with me, anyway. He barely says anything and looks very tired, so I leave him in front of the TV and catch up on personal correspondence at the computer instead. This doesn't include Johnny, as I still haven't decided how to respond to him yet, but Greg replies to my earlier suicidal email thus:
"What about drinky-boos and a little outing after work tomorrow night? To include pizza and gin, then gin, gin and gin? I have a pent-up rage that needs dealing with, and minority groups will no doubt suffer. "
I ask Greg where we're going, but he won't say. He just tells me to put together a list of all our craziest constituents. (He defines these as the people in whose company I hear The Twilight Zone theme.) No doubt I'll find out tomorrow why he needs it - mine is not to reason why.
When I tell Max that I have a date with another man, he seems unbothered, presumably on the basis that he thinks I wouldn't be tempted by an American Psycho lookalike half my age. Maybe he'd think the same thing about Johnny, the oil-rich Putin lookalike, too - but Max doesn't know about him.
Even so, I don't know whether to find his faith in me touching, or arrogant. Maybe he thinks that it's irrelevant whether I'd be tempted or not, as no-one would be tempted by me?
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