I got caught up at work with some drunk football fans on Saturday.
Apparently the fact that Norwich City had beaten Arsenal unexpectedly meant I should have allowed intoxicated teenagers to smoke pot in the dairy aisle.
I didn’t see it that way and got security to turf them out into the car park.
Little pricks.
One of them threatened to wait for me outside and ‘sort me out’ when I finished my shift.
I left at 10pm and he was nowhere to be seen.
Little prick.
Apparently I’m the only person who finds it amusing and ironic that the pub where Sophie and her girlfriend will be staying is called ‘The Cock Inn.’ I looked it up online today and it looks gorgeous. There are four rooms in a converted building next door to the pub, and they all have four-poster beds and en-suite bathrooms. They’re going to have better accommodation than Philippa and I had in Paris this year, but for half the price.
Ted and Beryl are talking about moving house. They don’t see the point of having the extra rooms now that all their children are adults, and Beryl doesn’t want to be struggling up and down stairs when her arthritic knees get worse. She has her eye on a nice bungalow by the coast, apparently. Ted seems unimpressed by it all and I can see a situation where he just sits in his chair and refuses to budge while she’s tearing around packing boxes full of ornaments. He really knows how to be an awkward sod when he wants to. Seriously - he could teach it at university.
Philippa has found some replacement pink plastic flamingoes and has ordered them to be delivered tomorrow. She’s been panicking for days in case David and Becky find out the old ones got broken and throw us out for causing damage. Why she thinks we might be held responsible for gale-force winds ripping through the garden is beyond me, but there we are - she is nothing if not lovably loony.
I’m off to bed now. Goodnight.
RC 22-10-12
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