Reaping the whirlwind

Predictably, there were casualties last night. I got home at some point, and awoke to find that I'd taken the wrong jacket home (depriving some unlucky midget of the top half of their suit), that I'd spent sixty dollars on a ten minute taxi journey, and that I was sick as a dog.

It took all day for me to recover: luckily I was just exhausted and mentally enfeebled, rather than vomitting everywhere. Another member of the party organising committee had made the mistake of making a grilled cheese sandwich when she got home after the party, and the aftermath of all that booze and the ill-advised sandwich was ... unpleasant. In fact this Friday was one of the least productive ones for the office, so many people being hors de combat.

Still, it could be worse. I read today in the news about a disgruntled call centre employee who responded to customer complaints by telling them to piss off and book with a competitor. It's important to keep your staff gruntled so they don't do anything like that; I suppose one night-before and one morning-after isn't so bad if it keeps morale high.

Through the day, the diminished band of employees came to see me, and some expressed surprise at my comedic talents. I suppose if they're not avid readers of my blog they won't know about my comedy career, such as it is, or the novel I've written, or the marathon I ran, or the 23 Bond film reviews I've spewed out. I prefer it that way. It's not that I'm not proud of what I've achieved this year, but I don't want to brag to people about myself. It's better to be fractal, for people to gradually learn your details, than to spout it all off at once.

I slunk out the office at 6, when the heavens opened and the rain bucketed down. Ah, pure, cleansing rain, which I hid from, under my big yellow umbrella, and rushed home as fast as I could. Tomorrow it will be my birthday and I need to figure out how to spent my time as indolently and as elegantly as possible. But tonight, I sleep.