Starving hungry, knackered, bored

Cutting out the crap from my diet has made me realise that crap must be good for you. Without it, you feel completely wrecked. Tempted to succumb to sausage barm (with brown sauce) for my brekkie, I resisted and managed to hold out until cup-a-soup time. In the intervening period, I couldn't get the thought of chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle out of my head.

The women here are obsessed with their weight and there are a set of bathroom scales in the kitchen for them to check themselves on a weekly basis. Odd then, that in all the time such weight watching has been going on here (about 3 years), none of them seem to have altered in any way. I made the mistake of availing myself of this facility. FU-KING-HELL! I didn't really need to since too-tight clothes are generally a good indicator that you're a fat fucker.

After a couple of hours of gradual loss of brain-stem activity, I thought it'd be a laugh to check my weight again: a gain of 2lbs. How? How can this be when I'd had precisely one cup of coffee, a couple of high-volume wees and a satisfying poo?

What does this mean?

Trust no one. We're all victims of some conspiracy or other that taps into a person's insecurity du jour and plays on it.

Either that or the scales aren't particularly good and I'm better off relying on how comfortable my clothes are.


Fuck, I'm shagged. Not literally, obviously - this is me afterall. It's that sort of weird pre-cold/flu feeling and my brain (or my brain being manipulated by The Mysterious "They") is telling me that a Gregg's pasty and a packet of crisps is what's required to bring me back from the brink of death.

Jesus, Cynthia is whispering to herself ten to the dozen. She does it all the time: you can watch out the office window and observe her approach to work in the morning, rabbiting on to herself about goodness only know what. She's over-conscientious, taking it upon herself to try and solve the problems of the world rather than just doing enough to get the job done, or perhaps going that little extra. She's great, a wonderful, fantastic oddball, but an oddball all the same. I heard her on my approach to the kitchen as I hurried to prepare my coup-de-soup earlier. As I stirred in the hot water and watched in amazement as my hot, delicious soup appeared before my eyes, she said something to me and I swear it was in Russian. She's fluent you see, after living there for a number of years. I think she was testing me to see if I'd respond, perhaps checking to see if I was a sleeper who'd been planted in the UK at the height of the Cold War. Alas, this is not the case, I'm just an average, boring Brit.

I wonder what my desk tastes like. There must be a couple of calories' worth of accumulated food stuff that I've spilt on here over the years. I shall give it some tongue action and dream of Snappy Tomato Pizza.