Procrastination

Another day, another bus-load of underprivileged kids at the academy:
Billy: Is it really true that you don’t have to do maths at university?
Olga: Yah, das is true.
They regard me with deep, deep suspicion.

I awoke this morning with an internet hangover: sore eyes, pounding head, and strange memories of an old schoolmate starring in a u-tube horror movie. There must be better ways to deal with insomnia than cackling at online photos of adversaries from yesteryear.

Frazzled by my nocturnal existence in cyberspace and ricocheting from one bureaucracy to another, the highlight of one woman’s day was gloatingly informing me that my latest guilty e-bay parcel has now been packed off to the arsehole of the universe. No wonder they speak to you through bullet proof glass.

Having slotted some community do-gooding and dictionary flicking into a hectic schedule of tax evasion and handbag evaluation I finally collapsed in a pathetic heap clutching glossy tales of ‘Victoria’s LA drama’ and a breezeblock of SCOTTISH shortbread.

And then I hear a little voice in my ear, “Men are the new women” says Richard, cue eyes to the heavens and near spontaneous combustion from Judy, (and proof of universal consciousness as unemployed Britain is momentarily paralysed by mass fantasy involving their telly and an axe.)

Tawdry debate follows, Richard makes sure the nation is aware that he’s cooking Judy’s dinner tonight (can’t help seeing images of that genius kid’s raw pigeon and Ms. Finnigan nodding in approval as she swallows it down to avoid a tantrum from hubby).

And then he says, “We men, we’re not quite sure what we’re for any more.” And if you listen very, very carefully, you can hear the muffled sound of several million women choking in horror as they find themselves in agreement with him.



Good Night and Good Luck
Olga Whim Signing Off.