“I must tell you, you’re very sweet,” he began. “Excuse me for the tavern comparison, but you remind me of a freshly pickled gherkin; it still smells, so to speak, of the greenhouse, but already holds within it a little salt and the smell of dill. Little by little you’re taking shape as a magnificent woman.”

Three Years, Anton Chekhov

 

Work is a funny old place. You’re either on the inside track or picking up trash outside as I discovered after deciding to leave and start working out my notice.

First, I was asked to move desk and then excommunicated to another floor. No meetings, no phone calls, no mail. Absolute zip.

I seem to have slipped through the cracks and now have two months to work out my notice doing whatever I fancy as no-one seems to care.

 

 

The moronic inferno is being stoked higher by the day with William Hague rattling his stick in the can. How did that over zealous boy scout become our Foreign Secretary? It was all brought into beautiful relief a couple of weeks ago when the front page of one of the red tops ran the headline ‘You couldn’t run a bath’ highlighting his questionable diplomatic skills in Libya. What can we expect next? Sending our 15 tanks into action against the Red Army?

Anyone who appears on stage with Margaret Thatcher as a teenager should be sealed away in a drum with ‘break only in cases of emergency’ stamped on the front of it.

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