Uptight & Personal Diary Commencing Oct 1st 2009

11 10 2009

Thursday 1st

New photos for those of you not on Facebook

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=57963&id=622667523&l=5982afde23

Nice sunny day here. I’ve had to close the blinds in my office. Now I’m management I get my own window. I didn’t have a window before. It was my dream to get a window. Now I have one. Unlike those people upstairs where I used to sit who only have skylights which occasionally let in diluted rays from the wan Pom sun. I reckon they are not trusted with windows because management is scared people will start throwing themselves out of them. It’s tempting, I have to say. Trouble is, mine is on the ground floor.

People, especially those back in Australia, tend not to believe my tales of Melrose Books and the characters with whom I presently share my working life. The usual reaction is that they have to be creations of my over-active imagination – and then pushed to the nth degree. But Cave Girl, Monkey Boy and the Sock Horror et al really do exist and in these pages, as subtly understated versions of their real selves. And that’s just my co-workers. Never mind the authors.

I don’t know whether this experience will end up as a book or a TV series. The latter would of course, attract inevitable comparisons with The Office when there is nothing derivative about this place aside from the tomes produced by our authors. But I do have the title whichever way I choose to go: Pure Vanity.

Saturday 3rd

Pringles are an evil food. Strike that. Pringles are not food. They are a pre-formed barely digestible form of polystyrene packaging chips disguised as a snack item. And I momentarily forgot I am allergic to them and ate some.

Strike that. I am violently allergic to Pringles. If anyone reading this sees me reaching for Pringles in future they have my permission to rip them from my grasp.

Very ill all night as a result of Pringle consumption. When I start to feel better I have fantasies about comfort foods – thick processed ham sandwiched between two slices of fluffy white doorstop bread like my mum used to make. Pathetic really. Especially as I am also allergic to wheat.

Sunday 4th

Kind suggestion from a friend of a friend regarding my various allergies and health issues. Apparently there is a website for ‘people like me’ who are sick where they can meet other sick people for dating purposes.

I want to know what it’s called. Let me guess – http://www.dateagimp.com?

We are all entitled to love regardless of our physical and mental health. But the mere thought of someone like me hooking up with someone who may have a few health issues of their own beggars belief. Between us it would be the medical equivalent of the Big Brother house with various physicians acting as housemates and being summarily evicted when they fail to come up with suitable treatments, much less a cure.

And I am not sick. My body just has a few interesting eccentricities. So there.

Monday 5th

Feel terrible. Make appointment with doctor about interesting bodily eccentricities.

Tuesday 6th

Doctor running half an hour late but worth the wait as actually unlike last doctor, seems to know what he’s doing.

However, I have infections – and pus. Yes. Pus. Pus in my insides which is why my stomach is bloated. I can’t have pus. I’m a Princess. Princesses do NOT have pus. Princess Pus. Nice ring to it. No wonder nobody loves me. Who could love a woman with pus? I can see it now – me on a date with Daniel Craig and he looks deep into my eyes and says: ‘So, Helen. Tell me more about yourself’, and I respond: ‘I have pus’. That’s it. Game over right there. With that admission I’m relegated to a lifetime of watching programs on that women’s channel on cable and Heinz soup-for-one. What’s more, have sneaking suspicion that pus ups ones ranking on http://www.dateagimp.com

Can you imagine my wedding vows should I ever get that far? ‘Do you take this woman and her pus?’ Pus. It’s just such a sickening nasty word.

Have two lots of antibiotics to take three times a day to rid my body of said pus but may have to go back if I don’t feel better by Friday. It’s depressing to realise that when Bill Murray says ‘mother pus bucket’ in Ghostbusters, I am the mother pus bucket he was referring to.

Jesse says my superhero name should be Princess Pus. I prefer Pusy Galore.

Aurore says to refrain from mentioning pus until second date with Daniel Craig by which time there may be no more pus to mention. Good plan.

Banoffee pie for supper. Just banoffee pie. Feel sick afterwards.

So to bed and instead of reciting positive affirmations like I normally do which are designed to manifest man of dreams and three picture Hollywood deal end up thinking ‘I have pus. I have pus. I have pus. Ihavepusihavepusihave . .’

Wednesday 7th

I have pus!

Day very bad. Get de-friended on Facebook.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the bearer of bad news will not only be shot but most often have their corpse desecrated after the event. My corpse shot, stabbed, hung, drawn, quartered and then pissed on.

End up crying. Matt has to come down to my office and be lovely to me. Jesse then comes down and is lovely. Does not help however when someone is out to get you.

My whole life has gone pusy.

Thursday 8th

Tell Matt about Pusy Galore pun which he finds highly amusing saying he wishes he had come up with it – but then this is why I am a writer. However, finished antibiotics and have no pus as far as I know.

Still upset about situation at work and can’t be bothered to eat. However, manage two courses for supper – banoffee pie and tortilla chips in that order. Feel sick again. Must have been the tortilla chips.

Friday 9th

Situation at work gets worse. Person now wants to set fire to corpse after they shot, stabbed, hung, drew, quartered and then pissed on it. I threaten to resign. Told not to resign but person is going to continue to be difficult. Matt then weighs in and says will back me that person has done things deliberately to undermine me out of need for revenge. Still feel sick. Haven’t eaten so can’t blame banoffee pie or tortilla chips.

Jill says the spare desk in my office should be moved out. This would make office positively Japanese in its minimalism. Wonder if I manage to weather current storm whether I can replace desk with sofa, mini bar fridge, plasma TV and Playstation with Sing Star. However, have nasty suspicion that desk will only be moved when the stench alerts management to the fact my rotting corpse has been hidden beneath it.

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