I'm pretty sure God (other omnipotent beings are available), must have read my last blog, and seen it as some kind of complaint. Specifically, that I was complaining over the absence of crotch related stories in my life since moving to London.
ASK, AND HE SHALL PROVIDE!!
On Monday, on the tube, I was looking for the perfect opportunity to say to this guy:
'Hi, sorry, hi, I see you're incredibly engaged with that newspaper article, but could I trouble you to explain something? It's just that your penis, that's right, your whole penis, has been pressing very firmly against my shoulder, with each gentle sway of the carriage. So firmly in fact, that should you request it, I could draw you a quite accurate picture of its outline. If you could not sexually assault me every ten seconds, it would contribute a real sense of relaxation to my journey which so far, I've been unable to experience.'
But like most men, after five minutes of this activity, he left.
I'M JOKING. I mean he did leave, but the sweeping generalisation was completely out of order.
Does anyone have people at work who are paid to say hello and goodbye?
How does one break into that line of work?
I don't think I'd be very good at having to genuinely care about people, but I'd be interested to take a sneaky peek at the salary.
Sometimes I forget that it's not real, because this one guy looks at me with such sincere joy. He wishes that all my weekends be absolutely super, and that each day is totally fantastic and that my evenings are especially lovely.
And I wish the same back for him. Because he's TRICKED me into believing that it's real.
And what folks, is even more devastating than no one smiling at you in reception? Someone whose salary is entirely generated from faking interest in your life.
BASTARDS
For your sake, I hope you don't have to endure this daily cycle of humiliation and lies.
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