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your fickle friends are leaving
On 2002-09-25 at 12:08 p.m.... So. Back on campus after two years, and I've completely forgotten where everything is. Not being helped at all by the fact that, in my absence, it seems to have become the muthafucking FUTURE. Seriously. I checked my email in a phone-box, and Manchester Piccadilly has installed alongscalators in the manner of an airport - I kept expecting to have to open the pod bay doors please, HAL. So, yeah. I have this secret (and entirely false) idea that this place is my spiritual home, but this is entirely false because (a) come on. Who really has a spiritual anything these days? and (b) I'm a self-obsessed wanker. All I want for Christmas is you. It will be mine. Oh yes. It will be mine. I need to save, however. Which means a job. I can never, ever get a job because I always overcompensate wildly on application forms, and I also get nervous which results in my retreating into Posh Voice. The last time this happened, I was mistaken for a rugby-playing public schoolboy. I'm still dealing with the shame. Speaking of shame, I got my wallet back. However, I had neglected to remove from the inside pocket a Post-It (tm) note, on which I'd written (purely for comedy purposes) a detailed transcript of my dream about Toblerones. Which explains why the guy who found it sort of smiled nervously at me, and left as quickly as he could. Two entries in a week. Happy?
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