All the good conversations at work happen between 6:30 and 7 at work.
A#1 said he thought that the Frenchie saying “What can you do with a vagina?” was really sweet.
I replied it was actually very infuriating, that ‘breeders’ attitude…
“Yes of course, it’s against your anti-breeding, anti-baby philosophy!”
I say I’m not anti-baby, nor completely anti-breeder. But it’s this ‘breeders attitude’ that annoys me – That a womans only purpose is to shoot our some grub. If not (especially not by choice, something totally ‘outrageous’) her ‘vagina’ is useless. That life has nothing more important. Also the sense of entitlement annoys me (case in point – a belief held by many that the majority must support their far too many, and quite frankly burden-some children) What a crock of s…
Anyway A#2 said I should go into politics, but I probably shouldn’t use the word ‘breeder’ so much.
“No of course not, I’ll coat it in political sugar.”
God, I wish I was running the world.
I WOULD RULE WITH AN IRON FIST!
I also suggested breeder permits to A#2.
“What would be the criteria?” he asked.
I said I’d have to think about it, but most probably the same criteria adoption agency’s judge prospective couples.
Money, stability, health, age, smoking non-smoking, house size race, etc.
Met up with Leo & his Mundus crowd in Angel. It was very multi-cultural. Maltese, Chinese, Spanish, Indian, English, Slovenian.
I’m glad I’m not the only one who feels there are not enough hours in the day to get anything done. Emma was complaining too. And I’m glad. Leo’s theory is that he can’t bear the idea of just going to work and then going home – so he goes out every week day.
I feel the exact opposite. I can’t bear being out all day and then just coming home and rolling into the sack. I like a steady evening routine. Downtime etc etc as discussed earlier.
Emma & Leo first came over pre-pub. I introduced Emma to the joy of Sour Cherries at the corner shop. I foolishly decided to road-test liquid sweets (totally revolting). One was shaped like a water pistol. That goes right into the bin. It’s virtually inedible
Leo complains, in the gayest possible way (his elbow outstretched, wrist up, fingers on his chest), that I insult his dignity when I insult his rolling.
Leo later complains that I injure his pride when I ask him if he’s stolen my lighter. You can’t blame a guy just because he’s done it once or twice or ten times in the past. Forget the past, the present is all that matters.
We finally went to the Camden head where the rest of Mundus turned up in drips and drabs.
We’re joined by a very drunk Welsh poet (total stranger, but very friendly and very Welsh), who was so happy we knew of Abergavenny (his home town) that he refused to leave, recited us a poem and rolled a joint. (we all stood there a little stunned during the poem recital, after all it’s not common to have poems recited to you outside pubs. When he finished we all clapped.)
I left after the poem. I had run out of ginger beer.