I popped on some trotters today to scoot to an agency interview. A PA agency. I was put through my paces with speed, touch typing and SPG tests. I enjoyed it.
The outcome was 51 words per minute, minor mistakes in touch typing and bang on the money for SPG. I did not, however, receive a gold star. Foul play.
Leaving me disgruntled (it was too quick an application; I'll get no call, that I'm sure of), I took a stroll (heels still on) to the Royal Mail sorting office, Wood Green.
Helping several geriatrics as I went, I was feeling buoyant and almost festive. I slip into the 13 deep queue, amongst some Scots. Their banter was audible, though I couldn't decipher most. Filling my time with Tweets and e-mail deleting I admired the weather.
Slap my knee and call me Janet, who joins the line? Alex Zane no less. I freeze. I stare. I keep staring for a whole 10 people til I am poked in the arm to pass my parcel request over. I'm playing it cool, naturally.
His curls are taut, though I can only see a few as they're stuck under an OTT beanie. I could get used to it though, gun to my head & all that. The males facial hair is magnetic and his relaxed-casual get up is ... alluring. Is this love? Possibly.
It's not reciprocated. I'll tell you why;
The package I'm picking up, is not a package - it's a card. A monstrous card from my mother. All singing, all dancing Christmas humdinger. It's tinsel, baubles and gaiety that I've been avoiding. What's worse, I have to pay £1.12 for the pleasure of receiving the damned thing.
Bollocks, I don't have the cash, my shrapnel only reaches 90 pence.
I look to love of life. Nothing. Blank.
I look to postman. Request to try before I buy (open the card).
BOOM a crisp ten pound note. I pay with it.
Shuffle out & mourn the lost lust of Zane.
Heel.
