To confuse you, I also posted this at 20six.

(Sorry, I won’t do it again.) 

Anyway, The Healing Properties of Sweet, Sweet Booze: 

Well yesterday I got my knickers in a right old twist at work, due to an ongoing and rather boring saga that I can’t really be arsed to go into here. Suffice to say the library are cunts and the IT team are patronising fucking gits. And I have been made to look goddam foolish, which is my most hated thing ever. Because I am no fool. Oh no.

Anyway.

Out last night for pizza and beers. I don’t care what The Chauncemeister says about The Waterfront (he says: “it’s soulless!! How can you like it?!”) I like it. The food is lavish, and although the service might be a little tardy, it’s never mardy, which is the most important thing.

Then onto The Earl Ferrers which IS THE BEST PUB IN STREATHAM. No-one in there at all last night, so the pool table was all mine. I can’t understand why it’s not packed out every night. It is the best pub in Streatham. I wonder if I keep saying The Earl Ferrers is the best pub in Streatham whether google will pick it up next time someone wants to go for a drink in the best pub in Streatham, ie. The Earl Ferrers. It is the best pub in Streatham. Should you find yourself in Streatham and in need of a beer you should go to The Earl Ferrers because it’s the best pub in SW16.

There.

And then onto Taylors which was quite busy, but we managed to get a seat on the sofas which was great. I was quite proud of Streatham last night. It definitely impressed The Hannahaha and she lives in Clapham so it was no mean feat. Well done, SW16. You did good.

She text me this morning to say she was still drunk. I think I might be too because I am feeling great. Although the great feeling might be because I’ve realised what the cause of my abysmal mood was (sorry Diva, I don’t think I am due on after all…) It’s that since I’ve gone permanent I’ve started to believe people when they say mine is ‘the most important job in The Centre’ and I should stop putting myself down and saying I’m only the receptionist because without me the whole place will fall apart.

People, people listen up – I took the job, not for the money or the status (ha ha! money / status in this job = 0) but because of the lack of responsibility. I love love love sitting here listening to The Smiths, drinking my lucozade with my feet on the desk (okay, I don’t do that all the time, but I could if I liked.) I don’t have the power to progress a student, or access their accounts or find out why they show as a debtor. I don’t even have the power (contrary to popular belief and let’s keep it that way) to decide whether or not to take in late coursework. Sure, sometimes I make a show of throwing it in the bin to frighten them into line, but it’s down to the tutor’s discretion if they mark it or not (once they’ve fished it out of the bin.) (I joke, of course.)

I am but the conduit (at school I once had a piece of work returned to me marked with ‘you run the risk of becoming inebriated by the wit and skill of your own verbosity.’ I have only just got the joke. Twelve years on. Anyway, but a conduit -) between the students and the people actually in administrative power. They decide how to deal with situations, I merely highlight the situations as they arise. The biggest decision I can possibly make regarding students is whether to give them three pieces of graph paper or four. I am not in Sales Admin, I am not something lowly in The City, I am not managing my own start-up company. I am a receptionist! All I need worry about are the photocopiers, answering the phone and looking pleasant. How on earth I let myself get wound up by work is utterly beyond me. It can’t even have been displacement because I was having a great week emotionally (seriously, the greatest week) until all this business with the library kicked off. Which made me upset. Which fucked up my great week. Bah!

But seeing Han last night and having a good ol’ booze has made me see things so much clearer. The clarity of hangovers amazes me sometimes. And the relaxing properties of booze. I was going to give it up for lent but now I’m not too sure. Everyone’s addicted to something - work, sex, love, drugs, hot chocolates from Costa (my god, what do they put in that stuff? crack? *), their children, the internet, etc. I lean on booze. So what? As long as I don’t lean too hard and I can still stand up without it, who cares? I feel great, and it’s all down to a bottle of Pinot Grigio and a pint of San Miguel. And my beautiful friend and a lot of gossip, I concede. And the sunshine. And friday. And my boy hefting boxes around for me.

I will leave you with the thing I was going to blog about in the first place, before I got sidetracked by work/drink.

Why oh why oh why do shopkeepers put the vanilla yazoo right next to the banana yazoo? I have bought the banana one in error twice now, TWICE.

Mistasteful!

* okay, I know, marshmallows. But marshmallows laced with crack.