Tuesday, April 12, 2005

So Tonight That I May See 

You must have seen the episode of The Simpsons where there are a load of garden rakes lying on the ground - I forget why - and Homer stands on one, gets whacked in the face by the handle, stands on another, gets whacked again, stands on another, gets whacked, and so on for a number of whacks.

The joke is not so much the sight of a man whacking himself in the face with a garden rake, which is in itself very funny, but his inability to learn not to get whacked again. Homer is locked into a grim cycle of self-inflicted pain, too stupefied to break out of the loop, too numb to begin to understand why the bad thing keeps happening. He accepts his fate with unquestioning gloom.

But apart from my boss comparing me to Homer Simpson, I had a fairly good annual appraisal. Stella seemed quite pleased with my efforts in what has been a difficult year - has it? I hadn’t even noticed - and was impressed with the way I took over the reins when she was away recently.
She’s more amused than annoyed by my tendency to send private emails out to the whole company or parts of it. Not everybody sees it that way, she said, nodding in the direction of Upstairs, but she doesn’t give a stuff. So that’s alright then.

I was distracted to see that my old ‘To Do’ list - the one that went missing - was on top of a pile of papers on her desk. There was a post it attached to it, ‘DRINK PROBLEM?’ written in capitalised scrawl, but clear enough for me to be able read it upside down. The note was upside down. I was the right way up.
I was waiting for her to mention it, but when the appraisal finished and she hadn’t so much as glanced at the note, I decided to let it lie. Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory is my normal way of operating, so I’m pleased for now that I didn’t screw up a reasonably decent appraisal. All the same, it made me wonder.

On Friday night me and Girlfriend finally went to see our punk rock plumber’s band. Pretty good.
The support band were good too. We weren’t sure if mini-punks between 11 and 15 are actually allowed to play pub gigs, but who cares? They already have appearances at London’s famous Marquee Club and on Blue Peter under they’re belts. I'm wondering now if I should have got them to sign the CD one of the punk-moms sold me.

And finally, the Continental Market - a sort of travelling circus with bratwursts, Breton biscuits and real foreign stallholders, not just chancers from Skelmersdale in stripy jumpers and funny hats - came to town.

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