Monday 22^nd August

The solicitor, Mr Harding, was prompt and efficient, arriving exactly on time and immediate in his business. He was clearly familiar with the layout of the house as we followed him to the study to begin proceedings. At least I think it was the study. It was one of many rooms in the house filled with books, so it could just as easily have been the library, or the other library or the office. It's not important. There were eleven of us in total, gathered in the study, awaiting the outcome.

Bert was the model of indifference, laying casually across a camel wing back, his long legs swinging playfully over the side. His family on the other hand, perched on the edge of their chairs, were beginning to sweat.

Mr Harding got right to it.

A reading of The Last Will and Testament, according to Joe;

“I, Joe Turner, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath the farmhouse and all of its contents to my son, Bertrand Turner. The ninety eight acres on which it stands, the stables and any and all livestock, I leave to my son. The cottage in Cobh, and my home for the first sixteen years of my life and the numerous antiques therein, I leave to my son. Any property, material possessions, or monetary wealth I may have at the time of my death, I leave to my son. To my sister, Morag, her husband Mick, and all the subsequent children calved as a result of their loathsome alliance, I leave nothing. Not a penny. Not a red cent.”

The room was deathly quiet and then Bert started to laugh. He laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks, and his face turned red from lack of oxygen. Standing in the corner, Mr Harding held a single finger to his pursed lips and despite his best efforts, I could see a grin beginning to form at the corners of his mouth. The other eight sat stock still, frozen in disbelief. Bert eventually composed himself, and picking up the large sheepskin rug, which he draped across his shoulders, proceeded to stride around the room, humming the tune to “If I were a rich man”.

Da Dee Da Dee Da Dee Dum.....

Bert was two verses in before the guests finally got the hint. Red faced and furious, the eight exited the room, muttering various threats and expletives under their breath. Bert thanked Mr Harding and assured him he would be in contact regarding his inheritance and the sale of the house. When all the guests had departed, Bert stood in the hallway with a vague smile on his face. I was genuinely happy for him but there was something I just couldn't let go.

-Bertrand???

-That's Lord Bertrand to you.

-My apologies, so what's the plan of action?

-Money bath?

-I like it.

Unfortunately, the money bath had to be postponed until Bert was actually in possession of his inheritance, and since that was weeks away, we decided to head back to Dublin to celebrate in style. On the drive back, we stopped at the cemetery to say a proper goodbye to Joe. I waited in the car and watched, as Bert pilfered flowers from the adjoining graves, picking through various bunches, and throwing back carnations in disgust. After some serious deliberation, he eventually settled on a bunch of Tiger Lilies in the next row. A classy choice by Bertrand.

Bert made a few phone calls and our entire evening was arranged by the time we arrived at my apartment. As I rummaged for my keys Bert pulled yet another note off my front door. He read out the brief note, another soliloquy dedicated to yours truly, and true to form, it had all the charm and eloquence of the first.

“Ms Good, it is becoming clear to me that you think that the rules of this building do not apply to you. Though it is not written in the lease, as it was not felt necessary, it is still and shall always be forbidden to attack crows from your balcony. Furthermore, the residents of this building would greatly appreciate it if you would refrain from befriending the local vagrants, as it lowers the tone of the area. Failure to adhere to either of the above will result in a final written warning, and should your shenanigans continue, eviction from the building.

George.”

Well, if that's how you want to play it George, that's fine by me. You might have the residents on your side, and possibly the ISPCA, but I have something you'll never have...an overgrown man-child with no conscience to speak of and a penchant for evil dealings. You will rue the day you messed with me. And Bert! Actually, maybe just Bert.

I prepared for the evening ahead, as Bert set to work on designing an elaborate scheme to wreak havoc on the life of one George Barry. By the time I emerged from my room, fully equipped for a night out, Bert was still busy, furiously scribbling away on a notepad he'd requested earlier. Wads of paper were strewn about the floor, illegible markings scrawled across them in red ink. He was clearly having a little trouble coming up with a suitable revenge tactic, as plans were disposed of one after another, the paper pile slowly beginning to mount at his feet. No matter. Bert dispenses misery like China dispenses crap. He'll produce.

Our table was booked for eight at The Grocery, a restaurant built in the wine cellar of a run-down building near Dun Laoghaire's waterfront. Attended by Dublin's elite, and lit by church candles and hand crafted lanterns, its white washed walls painted an elaborate display of chic and impossibly slender silhouettes. Our obvious age difference and comparatively healthy appearance caused quite a stir as we entered the premises. Not one to shy away from the lime light, Bert placed an arm around my waist and planted a big wet kiss on my cheek. Still not satisfied, he began rubbing my head, something he intended to be a loving and tender gesture, though it actually felt more like the attention one offers a cherished pet or a woolly simpleton. Still carrying on the charade, Bert took the liberty of ordering for me, an act of chivalry I cannot abide. Fortunately, I eat with the man on a daily basis so it was exactly what I wanted, giving me no cause for complaint.

We discussed at length the George situation, the Newbie situation (I'm still owed some tears there), and after three bottles of wine, my sex life, or lack thereof. Since my break up six months ago, I had taken a sabbatical from the world of men, giving myself time to grieve. I was devastated. I spent two years with that man. I could never get that time back.

Bert informed me that enough was enough, and the time had come to get back on the horse. I informed him that there was no way in hell I was getting back on anything in the near future. Fool me once shame on me, fool me twice and I deserve everything that's coming to me. Absolutely not. Not now and not in the foreseeable future. The argument raged on for half an hour before he decided to tell me it was too late now anyway. He'd already set me up with Rob, a man from his building, who was apparently picking me up tomorrow at eight. There's no point in even including the remainder of the night, as it could easily be summed up in the following brief and infantile exchange:

-I'm not going.

-Yes, you are.

-No I'm not.

-Are.

-Not.

-Are.

-Not.

Got into bed shortly after twelve, and read a few more pages of J. Richardson's book. I can't make up my mind about this guy. I honestly don't know if I pity him his pernickety pilgrimage through life, or envy him the endless opportunities for smugness that only a perfectionist can enjoy. I text Bert “Not” and turn my phone off. I will not be bested.

Sunday 21^st August

My reputation does not precede me. At least a dozen birds have gathered in the tree beneath my window and they are singing up a storm. I retrieved my marble stash from the drawer. You have chirped your last my feathered friends. With a single marble clasped between forefinger and thumb and my body poised for precision, I swung my arm like a seasoned pitcher and relinquished the glass ball.

It hurtled through the air, deftly avoiding branches and foliage, and incredibly still picking up speed as it continued its descent from balcony to bird. A muffled thud resonated in the early morning air, ousting the remaining fowl from their perches. I leaned over the balcony to assess the damage, only to find I had indeed hit my target but not with the full force I had intended. A large crow with severe concussion was staggering about on the footpath below. That’s just bloody great! That in no way solves my problem. A dead bird sends a message. A concussed bird can't even relay a message.

Bert picked me up at 07:14. I dragged my suitcase down two flights of stairs, past the flustered crow, which was now flying in circles a foot off the ground. I resisted the urge to kick it as I walked past, since there were people around, who undoubtedly frowned on that sort of thing. What ever happened to the circle of life? The natural rivalry between all God's creatures in a constant battle for survival. No-one gets on the dog's case for chasing the cat, or the cat for chasing the mouse. It's not my fault the crow is my natural enemy. If I discovered a human singing in the tree outside my apartment, I assure you they would receive exactly the same treatment. Man, woman, animal, black, white, hairy, bald, young, old, religious, atheist...I don't discriminate. I hate you all equally.

The journey began on a high note, as Bert spotted the crow frantically orbiting the bin, now three feet in the air and climbing. Bert, bent over the steering wheel in hysterics, started to cry as I explained to him the reason behind the bird's antics. See? The mistreatment of animals can be funny. You just have to know your audience. Despite the purpose of the trip, Bert tried to maintain an upbeat attitude, demonstrating his own version of I Spy. This version is not the fondly remembered game of your childhood but rather a fishing expedition for the ugliest person in the vicinity, (Not only a fun game, but also a test of your observational skills, and a lesson on local wildlife). For example: “I spy with my little eye a fat bird in leggings and a hoody that could double as a hammock”. You get the idea. One girl was so ugly Bert made an illegal U-turn in the middle of a busy street to show me, thereby claiming his title as I Spy King. That might seem unnecessarily cruel but he was absolutely right....won him the game.

We arrived in Baltimore at half ten and pulled up outside what could only be described as a mansion, previously referred to by Bert as “the farmhouse”. I'm not sure if Bert has ever seen a postcard but I think he'd be surprised to find that this was not your conventional representation of rural Ireland. It had two stories, a gravelled driveway, and no live stock or smell of shit to speak of. Even more confusingly, the sun was shining, and I thought, if I closed my eyes I could be anywhere right now. Ah, if ifs and buts were candy and nuts...it'd be Christmas every day for paedophiles.

Familiar with my aversion to small talk, Bert ushered me past the grieving friends and relatives that were gathered throughout the house. After showing me to my room, he disappeared to another part of the castle to get ready, allowing me to do the same. He returned a while later dressed in black jeans and a grateful dead t-shirt, while I donned the customary funeral attire of women worldwide, the black dress. Not to be confused with the LBD or little black dress...an outfit designed for pulling men, a task not usually deemed appropriate at funerals. I'll be the judge of that.

The funeral proved far more entertaining than anticipated. Bert organised the entire event and as such, it was not your garden variety funeral. As with every other aspect of his life, Bert dealt with the situation the only way he knew how, by mocking the long venerated traditions upheld by the Catholic church and offending the sensibilities of anyone with the ability to hear, see, and on more than one occasion, smell.

The ceremony began at noon in the dining room, where Bert's father, Joe, was available for viewing between the hours of twelve and one, for genuine mourners and the unashamedly curious. Funerals are a much loved pastime in Ireland, for where else might one be in the company of misery and free food. It never fails to amuse me, that after the burial of a loved one, it is not unusual to hear the contradictory statement “It was a great funeral”...an opinion generally expressed by strangers and avid readers of the obituaries. We gathered at the graveside to mourn the loss of a friend, relative, and respected member of the community. A small, local choir stood at the foot of the grave, patiently awaiting its cue. Tears were shed and hugs were shared. Flowers were placed reverently on the coffin, their hands lingering on the satin wood as they said their final goodbyes. The coffin was lowered gently into the earth and the mourners bowed their heads in silence, as Bert gave the nod of approval to the waiting choir.

My knees buckled as the opening verse of 'Going underground' reverberated across the cemetery. I made a grab for an equally faint Bert, who in turn grabbed the elderly lady standing next to him. Not built to carry that kind of load, she stumbled forward, following the still descending coffin into the freshly dug grave below.

To say the crowd's response was negative would be an understatement of such magnitude, it would be like saying the North Pole's a bit chilly, or Ireland's a bit damp. Or Americans a bit fat (McDonalds on every corner), or the English a bit greedy (Six counties, six counties, six counties), or the French a bit rude (I do not speak English, spoken in perfect unbroken English). I could go on and on....

As the rescue mission for the fallen pensioner got under way, her cries for help lost in the impressive vocals of the Baltimore Baritones, Bert and I made a feeble attempt to compose ourselves. However, the sight of an old lady scrambling up the side of a grave, desperately grasping for outstretched canes and walkers was more than we could bear. We made a hasty retreat, sidestepping nosy spectators, clawing their way to the front for a better vantage point. Our getaway car, a 1998 Nissan Sunny, awaited us at the cemetery gates and after much spluttering and a blast of smoke we were away.

Back at the farmhouse, Bert and I prepared for our nettled guests, by getting completely hammered and interfering with the finger food left by the caterers in our absence. It all started off innocently enough, with the odd sneeze sandwich here and there, but it wasn't long before we were playing Frisbee with the cold cuts and juggling the vol au vents. Bert licked every slice of cheese and grape on the cheese board whilst I took care of the crackers. By the time the guests arrived, there wasn't a crumb in the house that wasn't covered in the saliva of one or both of us. Just to be clear, there was only one item that contained both our saliva, a piece of smoked salmon, and I can assure you, that was an accident. Just a drunken miscommunication on our part.

They greedily consumed every morsel like the famine was making a comeback, and declared it all delicious, thereby forgiving us our earlier misdeeds at the graveside. With all the food gone, the small talk began, fuelled by copious amounts of alcohol. Anecdotes spilled from every corner of the room, and Danny Boy echoed from some distant corner of the house. In my drunken stupor, I somehow became embroiled in a battle of the woes with Bert's aunt Morag, a woman tragically afflicted with a terminal case of the “me too’s”. The poor woman seemed to be plagued by every disease known to man, and in the end I started making names up. We discussed at length the painful symptoms of Conjunctivinal Syphilitis and Haemorrhoidal nasal blisters. Swollen Rectal abscesses stopped in her tracks though. She didn’t seem to want to commit to that one.

It was after ten before everyone left and I was glad to see the back of them, shower of whiny old biddies and cantankerous old men the lot of them. But then not everyone can be the perpetual font of positivity that I am. The reading of the will is tomorrow morning, and Bert is nervous Morag, and her band of monkey children will get the house. I don't know who he hates more, the old battle-axe herself, or her attending offspring...unwilling to leave the well until it has completely run dry. But I don't think it'll come to that. He'll burn the place to the ground before he'll let them have it. Bert's insisting I go with him tomorrow and since its taking place in the very house in which I'm staying, I see no way out of it. We stumbled to our respective beds, tired but surprisingly jolly all things considered.

Saturday 20^th August

Wandered into the living room in my underwear, bleary eyed and generally confused, with the nagging feeling I had forgotten something. Through half closed eyes I scanned the room for clues, in the vain hope that something would jog my memory. Nothing. Can't have been too important.

My bum was mere inches from the couch when it all came screaming back to me. I dug my heels into the carpet and desperately flapped my arms in an attempt to return to a standing position but it was too late. Gravity had bested me. As my ass hit the couch and I heard the unmistakable crunch of Charlotte beneath me, I couldn't help but wish I was wearing more than a thong.

One long shower later, I returned to the living room, fully clothed and feeling a bit delicate if I'm honest. Spider against bare ass was not an experience I wished to repeat. Although considering our positions, and the possibility of their reversal, I couldn't help but feel I came out the victor.

A homeless guy has taken up residence on the steps of my building. He looked about mid-thirties and despite his ragged clothing, appeared reasonably well groomed. An empty hat lay between his outstretched legs and in his hands was a large cardboard sign that read: Has anyone seen my keys?

Not one to miss an opportunity, I rummaged through my bag for my camera and some cash, and proceeded to introduce myself. His name is Jack, very friendly, reasonably attractive, and a former estate agent. Oh the irony! I offered him twenty Euros in exchange for a photograph of him holding the sign, and unsurprisingly he accepted. Happy with the result, I said my goodbyes and set off for work, again.

Bert took a personal day, leaving me to fend for myself, and giving me a glimpse of my work day without him in it. Can only hope that more of his family don't go and die on him. I'm not sure how much more of this self-harm inducing establishment I can take on my own. Sure, there are other employees I could talk to, but to be honest I think I'd give the self-harming a go first.

The day eventually came to a close and just to be different, I went home. Another note awaited me at the apartment. This was getting out of hand. Is confrontation a thing of the past? How am I supposed to defend myself against these allegations of noise pollution if no-one is willing to face me? I am aware that they are not so much allegations as they are complete truths but I'd still like to be given the opportunity to lie through my teeth about them. Surprisingly, the note was not from George. Far more worryingly, the author was actually my new and residentially challenged friend, Jack.

Thank you for your generosity. I hope you liked the photo. Love your apartment by the way, very accessible! See you tomorrow.

Jack.

That’s just what I need, a stalker with no prior commitments.

Friday 19^th August

Accidentally keyed in the wrong numbers on the remote and ended up on Sky News. Not a bad thing as it turns out as I may be a little behind on a few issues. Apparently Londoners have been rioting this past week and I knew nothing about it. Have to start reading the newspapers I buy. The crosswords don't tell you squat, except to better your words and learn you to read good…money well spent.

From what I could gather, the rioters were on a mission. Not simply looting for lootings sake but standing up to the powers that be to reclaim their taxes, and take back what was rightfully theirs. They stood together as one, marching on London with their heads held high and their loot bags slung triumphantly over their shoulders. This was a proud moment for any Brit. Robin Hood and his merry men were back and ready to recoup the losses. Hear ye hear ye...trainers and flat screens for all! And all the mobile phones you can carry! Truly inspirational.

The rioting quickly spread to Birmingham, Manchester and Liverpool...shockingly! I’d imagine, as news of the riots aired on TV, there were a few unsympathetic Paddies with an opinion or two to share. Over the years, we Irish have developed a certain taste for tragedy, and our palate has never altered. Misfortune is like bullshit in Ireland, it's not rare but we like it. And an English misfortune? Well that's money in the bank.

Switched over to RTE news for the Irish version of events, and they were stopping people on Grafton street, asking them stupid questions like “So what do you think of the riots?” As if they were going to say “I love it. Can't get enough of the riots. Really breaks up the week.” They went on to discuss the rumour that the riots would be in Dublin before the weekend, and the indignant responses were laughable. The standard line seemed to be “Oh that would never happen over here.” Like we don't have our own breed of asshole, our own special brand of opportunistic pricks willing to loot our fair city for an i-phone 4 and a Burberry cap. And I'd imagine finding the culprits would be considerably easier in Dublin. The Guardai triumphant as Abrakebabras are raided across the city.

Current affairs quota met, I got ready for work, eagerly awaiting Newbie's tears. With twenty four hours to prepare, I could only imagine the kind of spirit breaking plan Bert had in mind. I considered taking my camera to work to document the occasion, but if caught, it might appear premeditated. On the other hand, if I did manage to capture Newbie's tear stained face on film, I could blow it up and use it to wallpaper my ceiling. When God gives you lemons…

I got stuck behind a bottle blonde in a queue for coffee, on a rant about excessive foam in her cappuccino. The rant continued for another five minutes, detailing her ever decreasing disposable income, inflation, the state of the economy, and of course, half-filled coffee cups. And then she turned the argument on me.

Blonde- I'm not going to stand for this.

Me- Good for you.

Blonde- I ordered a cup of coffee, not a cup of foam.

Me- Me too.

Blonde- Doesn't it make you furious?

Me- Some days it's all I think about.

Christ on a bitter bike, she didn't half go on! She should get a bit of Sky News into her; see what they're dealing with in London. In some areas there are children as young as ten having to loot their own dinner. It's fucking tragic!

The moment was upon us! I pulled Bert to one side and demanded to know the details, but Bert simply shook his head. There was no plan. There would be no tears and humiliation for Newbie today. I prepared to launch into a full blown tantrum, when I noticed something odd. The arch was gone. His eyebrows were parallel to his hairline. He looked almost sad.

-Jesus Bert, who died?

-My dad.

Fuuuuuuccckkkkk!!!

The funeral's in two days in the small fishing village of Baltimore, in west Cork, and he wants me to go with him. I explained, as gently as I could, that given my precarious state of employment, I didn't think time off was a possibility. Bert gave a nod of understanding and quietly exited the room. Moments later, an argument erupted in the back of the restaurant. I crept into the corridor between the kitchen and the offices, where two of the wait staff were loitering, and earwigging. All they'd managed to work out so far is that there was definitely an argument taking place, but they had no idea who it involved or what it was about. Won't be pilfering these wasters for my restaurant. Can't earwig worth shit. The shouting continued as we crept closer to the source of the racket. Crouching outside the office of Jacintha Hackett, I recognised the unmistakable voice of Bert. I caught the occasional word, but the general account of the conversation eluded me. Unless; “Bitch......time........work.......Sunday.......quit”, has some special meaning I am unaware of.

Bert came storming out of the office, slamming the door as he left. Holding me by the elbow, he dragged me into the kitchen and signalled for me to sit. He looked pretty angry so I complied, taking the stool farthest away from him. His face was all red and pinched with rage. I'd never seen this side of Bert before. He slowly massaged his temples, his knuckles kneading the ruddy skin, pulling it back with each circular motion, which gave him a sort of temporarily deranged look. He struggled to speak, repeatedly clearing his throat to get the words out.

-The bitch is giving you time off work. We leave at 7am Sunday morning. Bring rain gear.

For the next two hours, I contemplated the horrors of the impending trip, which will be the closest I've come to a holiday in years. Pretty sad considering I'll be spending two full days in the wettest region of Ireland, in a black dress and rain gear. I will begin my holiday by watching my friend's dad being lowered into a hole in the ground. And when that nightmare is over, we will all return to the house where I will be forced to make funeral small talk with strangers. In case you are unaware, funeral small talk is just regular small talk, but with a mournful twist. Think of the most tedious small talk you've ever experienced. Now imagine what it would be like, after you've stuck someone in a box, buried them in the ground and then gotten together to talk about it. Pretty grim, I can tell you.

The day grew steadily worse, as food was sent back time and time again, and dissatisfied customers had the waiters carry messages of disappointment back to the kitchen. The most popular complaints of the day were “This is under cooked”, “This is over cooked”, and “This is cold”. But the complaint of the day, and all out prize winner was “This is taking too long”, and it was this particular complaint that sent Bert over the edge.

A man, sitting alone, ordered beef medallions in a port and red wine jus, with leek and baby potatoes, but he apparently did not want to wait for his meal to be cooked and Bert thought that this was an excellent idea. To that end, he grabbed the nearest frying pan and onto it, slapped a large raw steak, surrounded it with a mix of raw leeks and potatoes, and then doused the lot with a generous splash of port and red wine. He carried it to the table himself, and presented the still bleeding meal to the offending customer.

Customer- What the hell is this?

Bert- Is there a problem, sir?

Customer- I should think so. It...It’s, well it's raw!

Bert- Oohh, you'd like it cooked? Well that takes fucking time!!

Bert left not long after that. Completely his own choice.

I got home after eleven to find a spider the size of my fist, waiting for me on the couch. Cheeky git was actually sitting in my spot. I had two options. I could either, relinquish the living room and hope to God he didn't follow me or, I could strap on a pair and deal with the situation like a grown up.

In bed by half eleven. Didn't want to watch TV anyway.

Thursday 18^th August

As I left for work, I passed the new family in the process of moving in. Tried to do a quick head count as I crossed the crowded lobby, but all I could see was a horde of blonde heads and dirty hands as they dashed between stacked boxes and black bin liners. A little girl in a tartan dress approached me, extended a grubby little hand and in the sweetest voice possible managed a single word. “Chocolate?” I looked at her adorable face, and the dimples set deep in her chubby cheeks and thought...not even if I was Willy Wonka himself. I deftly avoided the grimy hand still outstretched and made it to the front door without a single dirty paw print.

The sun made an appearance for the first time in weeks, and I decided to make the most of it. With an unmistakable spring in my step I walked to work, ignoring the bitter stares of my fellow citizens. Two cappuccinos and a forty minute stroll later, I descended upon Greenpeas in an uncommonly good mood. Whistling a jaunty tune, I sauntered through the swinging doors of the kitchen, only to be met by the cold hard stare of my boss. Murphy's Law: If your boss seems like a soul destroying, obnoxious, harbinger of death, then she probably is. With a menacing look in her eye, she started towards me.

Familiar with the rules of combat, though clueless as to what this was about, I reluctantly closed the gap. However, fear of unemployment caused me to hold my breath and just as we were nose to nose, I let it all out, along with an unanticipated burp. From the corner of the room, Bert let out a snigger, which he attempted to pass off as a cough. The Boss turned an unhealthy shade of purple, slapped a red plastic pocket on the counter and stormed out. No need to inspect the contents of the folder, as I am more than familiar with the details of my business plan. How she got her filthy paws on it is another matter.

Bert examined the document carefully, muttering the occasional “hmm” and “I see”, finishing it off nicely with the obligatory head shake. He looked up at me with a wry smile and said “You are so fired”.

Images of moving back home flashed through my mind...me sitting at the kitchen table getting the latest on who's died this week, me sitting at the kitchen table listening to regular updates on the health of each and every member of my family, me sitting at the kitchen table openly weeping now because I just can't take it anymore. Traumatised by memories of a down trodden upbringing, I snatched the folder from Bert's hand and made a dash for the boss’s office. I'm not too proud to beg! Bert grabbed me before I even got a foot out the door and offered another solution. His advice was simple;

-Quit. She can't fire you if you quit.

-That's true. Doesn't really solve my problem though.

-Fair point.

-Bert, I burped in her face.

-I know. Fucking priceless!

Rent: €900 p/month. Utilities: €200 p/month. Food: €300 p/month.

Burping in your bosses face: Fucking Priceless.

Will people ever stop ripping off that ad? Not me.

Bert made fun of Newbie to cheer me up, but nothing could distract me from thoughts of home. I wonder if anyone was diagnosed with prostate cancer or liver failure while I was away. Or maybe something sexier, like TB or gout. The Irish love a bit of old fashioned disease, reminds them of the good old days. If I'm very lucky, and that's a big if, I might even get to attend the funeral of my second cousins' great aunt, twice removed, whatever the hell that means. If I'm to believe my parents, I'm related to half the bloody town and the next town over. I hope to fuck it's not true or there's a good chance I was involved in some seriously incestuous relationships as a teenager.

The boss made an unusual number of trips to the kitchen today but made an obvious point of ignoring me. Feeling brave, I asked her about my hours for next week, but got no reply. Half expected her to turn to Bert and say “Did you hear something?” It quickly became apparent that she saw my exclusion from the conversation as a form of punishment, but all in all it was pretty good.

To add insult to injury, Newbie got a pay rise today. I have a dream and am punished. Newbie's a twat and is rewarded! I would truly be hard pressed to think of someone more idiotic and undeserving of a job, let alone a pay rise, than Newbie. He's about as useful as tits on a bull, a lighthouse in a bog, a twat in a restaurant! I informed Bert that we are not yet done with Newbie and I expect a plan by tomorrow. I want to see him cry. Time to take it to Def con 5 or Def con 1…whichever's worse.

Home time! I picked up dinner from the non-English speaking, Polish run, Chinese restaurant on my road. Food's only OK, but the service is entertaining. After my Polish Chinese, I got into bed with Jon Richardson's new book, “It's not me, it's you”. So far very good, I'm all about passing the buck. So single for eight years Jon? Strong wrists indeed.