Oh, look: it's Friday

Valentine’s Day is just around the corner and my spam filter is registering an increase in spurious Viagra offers from odd little corners of the internet. They are increasing my blood pressure sure enough, but not in the way they might be advertising.

Well, as advertised yesterday, I finally – on the third attempt – picked up my artwork, a sheet of paper that has travelled much further than me in the past week, not only crossing Canada from west to east and the Atlantic Ocean, but taken in the tourist spots (such as they are) of suburban north London. Now I have to find someone who will frame it for me. No doubt that simple task will be a source of amusement and embolisms as well.

Although I didn’t have to waste time wandering from the beaten track to North Finchley this morning, I somehow managed to get into the office late again even by my standards. That’s four days from five this week. I seem to have got away with it, though. Better try harder next week: it doesn’t do to push it too far.

I have decided that I really need to be on a Caribbean beach in the shade of a palm tree sipping piña coladas. I don’t even know precisely what a piña colada is, I just know that I want to be under a palm tree sipping one. Neither does it have to be a Caribbean beach. The Seychelles would suffice.

And I don’t even like beach holidays.

I was going to hang around the office late tonight, as I have to rescue Furtle from her leaving do at some point before she becomes boisterously inappropriate. Having seen the sparsity of senior staff in the office, I may revise my options and leave earlier to wander up to the West End for a mooch around before heading off to the depths of the City in search of my slowly marinating girl. The arse end of Fleet Street is not the Seychelles, I can assure you, but it is not without its black print and gin-sodden charm in its own seedy little way.

I think I should go and buy a sandwich now. And some crisps.

Oh, look: it's Friday

Valentine’s Day is just around the corner and my spam filter is registering an increase in spurious Viagra offers from odd little corners of the internet. They are increasing my blood pressure sure enough, but not in the way they might be advertising.

Well, as advertised yesterday, I finally – on the third attempt – picked up my artwork, a sheet of paper that has travelled much further than me in the past week, not only crossing Canada from west to east and the Atlantic Ocean, but taken in the tourist spots (such as they are) of suburban north London. Now I have to find someone who will frame it for me. No doubt that simple task will be a source of amusement and embolisms as well.

Although I didn’t have to waste time wandering from the beaten track to North Finchley this morning, I somehow managed to get into the office late again even by my standards. That’s four days from five this week. I seem to have got away with it, though. Better try harder next week: it doesn’t do to push it too far.

I have decided that I really need to be on a Caribbean beach in the shade of a palm tree sipping piña coladas. I don’t even know precisely what a piña colada is, I just know that I want to be under a palm tree sipping one. Neither does it have to be a Caribbean beach. The Seychelles would suffice.

And I don’t even like beach holidays.

I was going to hang around the office late tonight, as I have to rescue Furtle from her leaving do at some point before she becomes boisterously inappropriate. Having seen the sparsity of senior staff in the office, I may revise my options and leave earlier to wander up to the West End for a mooch around before heading off to the depths of the City in search of my slowly marinating girl. The arse end of Fleet Street is not the Seychelles, I can assure you, but it is not without its black print and gin-sodden charm in its own seedy little way.

I think I should go and buy a sandwich now. And some crisps.

From the iPod

I have had it on my iPod for ages, but never got around to listening to Buffalo Springfield Again, the middle album of three released by Buffalo Springfield in the period 1966-68.

For such a dysfunctional band, they managed some good stuff didn’t they? That said, if there was ever an album crying out to be remixed (particularly for volume), this is it. I must remember to reduce the levels before I play any other tunes.

From the iPod

I have had it on my iPod for ages, but never got around to listening to Buffalo Springfield Again, the middle album of three released by Buffalo Springfield in the period 1966-68.

For such a dysfunctional band, they managed some good stuff didn’t they? That said, if there was ever an album crying out to be remixed (particularly for volume), this is it. I must remember to reduce the levels before I play any other tunes.