I've got work later at The Big House. The Facilities Manager and various underlings are having a "meeting" there tonight, the purpose of which is unclear.
As we sat round the dinner table last night in the same Italianate villa. the husband of Sexy Ex Boss said "it's a meeting so that no-one can say what they think. So if someone says 'what do think your problems are here?' and someone says 'shit micromanagement' -- well they know they can't say that."
Sexy Ex Boss got a bollocking recently for overspending on flowers for the drawing room. In the meantime the MoJ -- read, you and me -- are paying thousands a months for scaffolding up the back of the house which can't be utilised because the roof repair hasn't been signed off yet. It's just sitting there, with the scaffolding company coining it in whilst doing fuck all. Anyway I don't care, I'm getting ten pounds an hour for it, serving canapés and Prosecco and chatting, but not too much. Thanks, we've got our food now so fuck off.
I'm having an affair with my new scooter, so zoomed down to the harbourside. I sold the old one off last night to a roofer from Keynsham, a miserable little town near Bristol. Me and Mel went to Keynsham once and sat on a bench outside Sainsbury's drinking, and saw two of its staff chase off some harmless young people who were sat with us, one of whom was making this staged but charming attempt to chat up Mel.
I was relieved to get rid of the old scooter. The suspension is too hard, the acceleration is aggressive and difficult to control at low speeds, and the stem lurches back and forth. I got a message from him this morning saying "great fun!", and how he'd had it up to 28mph down a country lane, so that's him off my back.
Me and Mel had a good day and night in. We were talking in bed and I said I was a member of the loony left party. "I like how education is important in the Party. If you want to learn about basic Marxism they'll always help you." "What's basic Marxism?" "Well, it's about how to suck cock in different positions." We then proceeded to a reification of the materialist basis of human relations. The development of the bra from a practical to a sexualising item of underwear has been a great advance of the twentieth century.
Mel has got lovely tits. As has Cath. Cath is my ex-landlady from my previous place in Bristol. We met up in the pub on Sunday. Grim-faced men staring at my scooter as I wheeled it in. The barmaid, attractively fat in a black vest, waved me and my vehicle in.
Cath was there already. She was in the tight jeans she sometimes wears, but was wearing a long shirt that covered her arse, which was a disappointment. I once walked into the kitchen whilst she was bent over the recycling boxes, the seam of her jeans dividing her arse tightly, a sexy constraint. No it's OK Cath, carry on, just push your arse out a bit more if you don't mind. She wants to meet up again, with Mel. A woman friend to tranquillise the man.
I texted her afterwards. "It was a delight to meet you today Cath, and I look forward to some one man - two girl action soon x". I hoped it would sound a bit flirty. I'm fond of her, despite all the problems we had when we lived together in a power relation determined by a landlord.
