Tuesday, 13 March 2012

Night Shoptalk

On the surface of it I'm a fairly sensible person.  Barely a sixteenth of an inch (Imperial if you will) under the surface I become really bloody stupid.  Example:  I know that drinking even moderate amounts brings on migraines.  And yet I sit here, halfway down the only glass of wine in the apartment plotting a walk to the Night Shop.  On Monday (following Sunday's Pinot Grigio discovery) and Tuesday (following PUB QUIZ, which is always typed in upper case) I have woken up feeling really quite shit.  To waste my expensive medication ameliorating a self-induced crapness seems very stupid indeed.  And yet the Night Shop calls me. 

It's not been a bad day.  At my morning job she leaves me lovely food to eat and today it was a rather tender and magical cottage pie; most welcome after two hours hoofing.  So what is making me want to go down the Night Shop? 

I hesitate to give too much identifying detail, but suffice to say one of my charges who should be using a toilet will not.  And I get to deal with the consequences of that.  Foul and horrible and nauseating.  I feel a rash of job applications coming on.  Or a lot of wine.  


  1. Nothing worse than having to deal with shitty bums. Surely she should be toilet trained by now? You should charge danger money.

  2. mm. I could get rabies or polio or something.