Now I’ve realised I cannot possibly get all the World’s Worst Company paperwork done before Xmas, I have stopped trying and life has improved a lot. In fact, when they started making noises yesterday about even more repetitive and bureaucratic work that in their minds is urgent, mostly data entry that could be done by chimpanzees if you had a few dozen of them and the company software wasn’t permanently and irrevocably broken, I deliberately slowed down. Well done, guys. You’ve just ensured that the original behemoth of paperwork that I was sweating blood trying to get done before 21 December is now going to take me right up to the close of play on 12 January because I am not willing to take on any more of your shit. I am through with you. Finito. If you give me any more hassle, I will drop this first task as well. I don’t need your money and I don’t owe you any goodwill.
SO. My house is slowly improving. There is still very much to do and I might have to pull another all-nighter, however:
- I have found all the spare parts for the Xbox.
- Microsoft Office is installing itself on my laptop.
- I have freed up as much space as I can in the back room.
I am now having brunch at 2.30pm and the next big priority is the kitchen because (a) I need to wash all of the dishes and (b) the fridge smells funny even though it’s almost empty and (c) I am ready to paint the kitchen floor again, which means no going into the kitchen for at least a day afterwards.
I’m sorry, I’ve got to say this somewhere.
Dear Organisation that Employs Me
I do not want to go to your stupid party. Your invitation makes me feel angry and distressed. I’ve been severely abused by this company for three very long months. My health is in shreds, what’s left of my commercial business is in tatters. I am broke. I am powerfully disinclined to even consider spending one more penny on clothes or taxis across London. Why would I do that? Because it’s Christmas? Is that how Christmas works now? I let you keep punching me in the face, and then I jig around at a party at your command, like the performing monkey I am, and that’s how we celebrate the birth of Jebus.
How about fuck off. I am really insulted that you would abuse me that badly and then magnanimously offer me a couple of drinks and a disco, what kind of a fool do you take me for. You are lucky I am not taking you to court. That is my Christmas gift to you. I am not serving you with a lawsuit.
I drank a £40 bottle of wine on Saturday, by myself, out of sheer relief that I was interacting with someone unconnected with work. So let’s just say that that was my Xmas party, right there, okay? Done and done. I don’t have time for this shit. Don’t talk to me again until January unless it’s about money.
On the first day of Christmas, knowhow.com said to me “I can’t fit your cooker hood as I am not qualified, I am only a gas fitter.”
On the second day of Christmas, knowhow.com said to me “I will be round later” so I waited in all day and then they didn’t show up.
On the third day of Christmas, knowhow.com said to me “I don’t know what was wrong with the first guy, it is only a couple of screws”, followed by “I can’t fit this, we will have to drill a hole and the screw will not go through there”.
“OK,” I sighed wearily. “Just take it away with you. I don’t need it. What is a cooker hood even for. Take it away and I will get a refund.”
“Oh,” they said, “we can’t take it away with us as we don’t have the right paperwork. You will have to get someone to come out.”
“I have to make a fourth appointment to get someone to come out and remove it”, I said. “Yes,” they replied. “Great. Thanks very much”, I said.
So that’s why I am not having a new cooker hood any more, because it is sucking the life out of me. I don’t care any more. I will have an empty space instead. And now I have to phone this fucking company and get them to come and remove this new cooker hood that nobody can fix to the wall and spend the rest of my days trying to get a refund.
I called in at the hair salon and they can fit me in this evening.
Wish me luck. Last time I was at the salon, in June, my formerly loved hairdresser gave me a haircut that aged me by 10 years and sent me fucking running to the Botox clinic to try and claim those years back. A haircut that makes me feel depressed just thinking about it, never mind having to look in the mirror. A haircut that belongs on a woman who is actively trying to be unattractive. A haircut that looks awful no matter what I do with it. A haircut that is significantly less fashionable than the one I saw my 70-year-old aunt wearing the other week. A really, really inappropriate and wrong and bad haircut that I never asked for.
My hairdresser and I will be having a Very Serious Conversation about the haircut I actually want. It is still 4-6 inches too short to even achieve a very short bob, but at least we can start working on getting it into shape.
I swear to God, if he fucks this up a second time, I will never go there again. I will go straight to a competitor salon and have them attach an entire head full of extensions at whatever cost, until my hair grows back. I can’t live with this awful haircut any more. It has got to go. He is getting one more chance to demonstrate that he understands what I want, and then that is it. Finito.
I am scared of letting him come near me with the scissors now and I am ready to be upset. The last couple of months have wrecked my self-confidence. Wish me luck, please. It should be game over by about 7pm. I will immediately report in here with news.
I am angry with the Honcho but I am even more angry with myself for falling for his crap YET AGAIN. So I went to the pool and swam 100 lengths. One Hundred Lengths. That’s two kilometres. That’s 30 lengths more than the furthest I’ve ever swum.
When one or both of us acts like a fool, I go to the gym. And that is how it works around here. I am going to slim down enough to wear that Speedo bikini out of a white-hot sense of indignation. 1 Health point. One fucking massive Health point that is on fire with health.