Foolishly, in my cups, I opened up the calculator on my phone. I factored money coming in against money going out and slept no kind of a sleep afterwards.
Don't do that. Please don't ever do that, it will only depress you if you're a man like me that enjoys the fine things in life. Fine things like beer and cheese, the odd cinema trip and occasional mini burger with foie gras and truffle mayonnaise.
Catching a hold of myself, I resolved to go on a budget for a few weeks and eschew the all too frequent taxi jaunts over to, and back from, hers in place of sitting with Joe Public on the 19A and some honest to goodness ambulation.
I resolved to seek out some new employ and got my first invitation to 'kindly fuck off' in the post last week.
It didn't piss me off, this rejection of an interview, because I know that I'm a few steps away from being the CEO of a major overseas investment firm. I'm more than a couple of rungs down that ladder but I'll start off by getting the suit dry-cleaned while I brush up on my bullshit bingo.
Soon enough, and I'm a patient man, but soon enough I'll be briefcased up to the balls and my gurning face will greet you from a plinth in Citywest. I'll tell how you can do it too while doling out the synergy like yet another unwieldy analogy.
Oh yes. Corporate Radge. Gizza job. Giz one, go on, help me to help you.
Until such a time as my accession to First Class, however, I can be found here, and there, feeding my newfound porridge addiction and worrying about the price of McCambridge's finest.