Three thirty pm Friday: Further Application is Futile

Queenie is being very bad and posting from work which she never does, but today there is a special dispensation because it is the day after the Christmas work do and Queenie is feeling very fragile. Too fragile to do any work. But she needs to type something, otherwise the urge to crawl under her desk and drift off to the happy place for a while will become overwhelming. And she has to hang around and go to another effing reception this evening and then to the theatre in Dartmouth tonight when she just wants to go home and crawl into bed for the weekend.

Having said that, she made it into work this morning at 9.26am, which is not bad seeing as she had gone to bed only six hours previously. Not that her being here is of any use to the poor and disenfranchised of Nova Scotia. It took her four hours to write one letter and even then she had to get one of her MLAs to rewrite it for her. Which he did, bless him.

Canadians generally seem to have the right attitude to the work Christmas do. Arrive on time, sober. Eat the nice food. Have a couple of beers. Go home to bed at ten o'clock.

Queenie of course had to do it her way. Go to the Midtown for beer in the afternoon. Then back to the office to change her clothes and make up. Head to the party half an hour early to get a good seat at the bar. Drink everything that's put in front of her for the next eight hours. Insist on going to a bar so she can smoke inside as it is too cold to smoke outside now, despite the fact that noone else smokes. Have an argument with some stupid twat who starts lecturing her about northern ireland (not a PFW btw). Get hauled away to another pub before she thumps the twat. Be the last person to leave the Shoe. Fall asleep on her front on top of her duvet at three thirty am and wake up at five thirty with one side of her head frozen and the other side nicely creased with pillow face.

It could have been worse. It could have been seven thirty when I woke up. And then I would have had to go to work straight away instead of having a couple of hours to get the creases out of my face and the poison out of my system.

Why can't they have these things on a Friday?

Anyway, Queenie made it through the morning and had lunch with Shazz and managed to eat most of her chowder and bread. And now I'm just sitting here waiting for the winter bomb to arrive.

Yes, boys and girls, there are such things called winter bombs. It's a type of snow storm apparently, that is caused by two storms meeting at the cumulous-nimbus crossroads in the sky that is the south coast of Nova Scotia.

I spent a large part of this morning trying to imagine what the IRA version of a winter bomb would be. Would it be a car bomb that wouldn't go off when you switched on your engine? It would wait while you nipped back into the house and waited for the car to warm up and only detonate when you set off on your journey? Or would they hide grenades in snowballs and lob them into the garden of No. 10?

Queenie's boss gave her an award last night. It was the Arnold Schwarzenegger/ Frank McCourt Award for the best integration (and lilting phraseology) into an overseas political climate. Or something like that. It had a lot of words in it, anyway, as behoves a researcher's award; but the scroll also had pictures of Arnie in his bodybuilding days on it.

eeewww....

Reminds me, I was talking to someone with a large girth last night and he said to me 'you know I used to be really fit and benchpress 350lbs' and I said, 'what happened to your chest, dude?' and he said "It sank!"

Cape Bretoners are priceless. Better than Dubs even.

I had a conversation with a Dubliner today for ten minutes and it was lovely. I had this overwhelming urge to make him say Ronnie Drew over and over and over again, but I managed to contain myself.

Anyways, gotta go drink eggnog.
When Queenie becomes supreme mother of the universal family of light we are banning that shit.