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Umpire
Here I go again, like a broken record, but I’m hot: damned hot, and I’m sick of it.
I am finding it hard to concentrate between wiping my forehead and rattling my shirt collar in a vain effort to get air moving between it and my skin. Things have improved since I hit the office and its blessed air-conditioning.
I think the problem with my concentration is primarily down to the silence. It’s eerie, and I’m very much unused to it. Even the customary Magic Roundabout theme tune that kicks in when I’m daydreaming has stopped. It’s not fair. And the voices. Normally they argue and argue, goading me on to world dominationTM, but they’ve stopped bickering and organised a barbecue instead. So now I have to sit here at work while my psyche holds a party and downs a few beers. To make things worse, I’m sure I can hear the steak sizzling and smell cooking.
It’s probably just that loose wire again.
There was a bloke on the Tube this morning, a chap of about twenty-five, dressed in a pale cream linen suit, complete with matching waistcoat and Panama hat. Very dapper, if a little out of place. I guess he was on his way to Wimbledon, or perhaps a cricket match. Other than being the best dressed person in the carriage, he was mainly notable for the fact that he seemed to be being held up by his suit. Linen usually crumples in that Sidney Greenstreet fashion, but in this case, it was the bloke who had crumpled in the face of his own sartorial elegance. I got the distinct impression that it was probably the clothing that wanted a day out, and the poor chap was there largely as a delivery mechanism for his jacket and hat.
Look, this is what happens when the old melon overheats; I can’t help it. I’m off to try and do some work.
I am finding it hard to concentrate between wiping my forehead and rattling my shirt collar in a vain effort to get air moving between it and my skin. Things have improved since I hit the office and its blessed air-conditioning.
I think the problem with my concentration is primarily down to the silence. It’s eerie, and I’m very much unused to it. Even the customary Magic Roundabout theme tune that kicks in when I’m daydreaming has stopped. It’s not fair. And the voices. Normally they argue and argue, goading me on to world dominationTM, but they’ve stopped bickering and organised a barbecue instead. So now I have to sit here at work while my psyche holds a party and downs a few beers. To make things worse, I’m sure I can hear the steak sizzling and smell cooking.
It’s probably just that loose wire again.
There was a bloke on the Tube this morning, a chap of about twenty-five, dressed in a pale cream linen suit, complete with matching waistcoat and Panama hat. Very dapper, if a little out of place. I guess he was on his way to Wimbledon, or perhaps a cricket match. Other than being the best dressed person in the carriage, he was mainly notable for the fact that he seemed to be being held up by his suit. Linen usually crumples in that Sidney Greenstreet fashion, but in this case, it was the bloke who had crumpled in the face of his own sartorial elegance. I got the distinct impression that it was probably the clothing that wanted a day out, and the poor chap was there largely as a delivery mechanism for his jacket and hat.
Look, this is what happens when the old melon overheats; I can’t help it. I’m off to try and do some work.
no subject
Are.
You.
Mad?
no subject