Cooked goose

Have just returned from luncheon. I had a hot dinner today on account of my feeling a teency bit seedy from yesterday’s party. Well actually the seediness seems to be getting worse as the day progresses, so I’m feeling a bit mcjitter/nervy b-ish now.

It was a tasty meal and I was genuinely comforted by the woman behind the counter addressing me as darling every 2 seconds. I needed that kind of comfort today. When I unfurled the napkin containing the cutlery, I discovered that while I’d been given a stainless steel fork, my knife was made from plastic. I guess that is some kind of anti-terrorist measure.

I’ll never know. I just kind of humphed to myself, which while less pleasant did make a change from my chuckling aloud remembering amusing things people had said to me at the party, and thought "I’ll be blogging this", you can’t say that I’m not a woman of my word, a bore I cannot refute.

So I had my back to the "food court", where I reigned as Queen and faced the wall and ate my grilled salmon, salad and chips. To my left was another diner, the Food Court's King, who looked a lot like Jim Bacon from Bellbird/Bob Hatfield from Country Practice (same actor? now deceased), ie very “heavy”, some euphemism for fat, eh?, middle aged fella with a shock of white hair and porcine pink complexion. Each time I delicately shoved a chip in my mouth, my gaze would bounce from chip to Jim Bacon back to my chest and I’d worry about a heart attack. Eventually I gave up the ghost and devoured the entire meal, save the parsley garnish.

Fortunately I have returned to work without any major incident apart from the wind blowing my dress open and my fumbling to hold the dress down and bumping into a colleague at the exact moment that the wind blew up my skirts.

Venus and Mars and all their stars.

Must go and do some work. Well I’d like to but cannot for the harsh sound of mocking laughter reverberating throughout the office as my colleagues titter about the mistress’s latest shameful public display. As I peer over the partition I see that the colleagues’ faces have been supplanted with those of Joe, Mick, Topper and Georges, I mean, Paul. Still beats Marco, Merrick, Terry Lee, Garry Tibbs and yours twuly.

Now where did I put that plastic knife.