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Lost in knitwear

  Mon 29th May 2017

Sent a polite email to Newby Bridge apologising about the consequences of my invented accident in which I was knocked off my bike at Grange-over-Sands, providing my bank details in case the manager might be pining for them, longing to pay me for my trial shift. I have already been informed that I won't get paid for it, but I don't remember that conversation. I'm looking forward to a bit of ag.


Went round to Kirsty's and sat out in the sun today in the pretty yard, with her and the girls; my eldest sat Protestantly scribbling notes for History, on a circular glass garden table more intended for salad and wine than revision. "Dad," Fiona asked rhetorically, "do you want to know about The Great Terror?"

"What? A-levels?" said Kirsty, which made us all laugh and Fiona end her revision. I wanted to have a go: "A-levels were introduced in nineteen blah di blah. Many opponents of this change lost their jobs in official positions for expressing their reservations about this innovation." Kirsty's so quick and bright; she gives me things to follow, things that ignite a sentence I wouldn't have had without her.

Middle daughter came in, hot from rehearsals, and proceeded to remove her shirt. I looked down at a completely uninteresting report about a rugby match, but then noticed that she wanted to show us and talk about her new and comfortable bra. "It's nice isn't it?" I talked about the problems Trina has with bra straps that saw her when she walks, and Jenny told us about a girl in her school who is going to have a breast reduction.

Jenny reclothed herself and went off by train and phone call to her boyfriend's. I hope they're having kind and forgiving and laughing sex, or an approach to it. Me and Kirsty talked bits of The Observer out to each other.


I rang Donna number 2 because we were supposed to be going out tonight. You'll get the gist from my texts to her.

1834: No Donna no. 2, I don't want to just come round, I want to go out. Otherwise, I'll stay where I am, with my girls.

1841: OK, but next time, only tell me when you really want to go out! All the best x

2157: Well if you change your mind at the last minute I'm getting a bus at half ten from the bus station.

No reply. I've marked her card: unreliable.

I got the bus there, which for some reason seemed a very trying half hour. Other people were being searched as they went in but the bouncer ignored me flashing at him. Inside, a yoof said to me: "It's great that people your age still go out." "You," I said, pointing my finger at him, "are a cheeky bastard," and from then on he was me bessie.

I was also asked where I was from, and what I was on, so Morecambe's learning the etiquette at last. Fabulous venue -- a working men's club in the West End which looks clapped out and run down, probably because there aren't any working men in Morecambe.

Some riff-raff to skirt around on way back, although once out of the town I enjoyed the walk along the cycle path, and the dawn chorus of pissed up blobbers trying to find the kebab shop first and then their keys.

Walking through town up to mine at half past three, there was this bloke sat doing nothing in a car. There is always a bloke sat in a car doing nothing on your way home late at night in Lancaster. "No it's OK love of course I still fancy you, I just feel like driving to the next street and sitting in the car doing nothing."


My second shift at the golf club. There was a wedding so it had waves of being rushed. I had to be told what a "jaegerbomb" is. I thought it might be one of those surprise human telegrams, one where you get ambushed by someone in an excess of knitwear.

Edit: I've misspelt it. Depending on your norms of orthographic fidelity, it's either "J├Ągerbomb", or "jager bomb".

A couple of with-it staff, but also having to bite my lip with a slow-witted smiler, well-meaning but practically useless in that way that only boys from good homes can be. I made a mistake on a large glass of pinot blanc, so I had to dispose of it in an environmentally friendly way.

The boss asked if I could come upstairs afterwards to sort the paperwork out, and told me that I'd be on 15K to start with, for a forty hour week. Well, that's below the minimum wage, since 7.50 x 40 x 52 = 15 600, not 15 000. And I need to be sure that I'll get paid for my hours in excess of forty, so I'll have to raise that with her when I see her on Monday.

Which has suddenly become today!

5 comments

What do you mean you won’t get paid for it?! That’s an outrage! You did the work. Asses.

I’m ‘people your age’ too. I hate it. I exercise and the next day I’m achy. It’s all so unfair.

There are ALWAYS people sitting in cars in Manhattan. It’s because the flats are so small, it’s the only place where they can get some peace, quite and solitude. Can you imagine? There’s no room in your own home in which to just sit in the quiet?

Do you earn tips as well?

A bit of self-promotion. I just did a post about the spring contemporary art auctions. Never dull.

Mon 29th May 2017 @ 20:28
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

Yes, I must get paid for it. I can’t just accept that.

Work makes me achy. I don’t notice the aches of dancing – they’re good ones.

That’s remarkable about Manhattan.

We’re supposed to pool the tips for a Christmas Party. I don’t know why we don’t just share them out at the end of the month. I can imagine accidentally keeping mine to myself. In that case.

I’ve just had a look at your post. That “please” thing takes idiocy to new and very profitably heights.

Mon 29th May 2017 @ 23:49
Comment from: Homer [Visitor]

Pool the tips for a Christmas party? That’s seven kinds of wrong!

Tue 30th May 2017 @ 07:25
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

Yes – in what way is a works Christmas do an attraction?

Tue 30th May 2017 @ 08:16
Comment from: kono [Visitor]

No pay and pooling tips for an X-mas party? and i thought American business owners were shady, looks like we don’t have the monopoly on shitbag owners… get paid and start a revolt to get your tips, make Upton Sinclair and Walt Whitman proud!!

Wed 31st May 2017 @ 19:43


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"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

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