I don't quite know what the title means, but it was the subject line of one of the trillion of porn spam emails I received this week and I think it's probably the most awesome subject line for a porn spam email *ever*. I also got one about foot sex, which was entertaining, but not quite so surreal.
The last two months have been a little trying in various ways (despite the Easter weekend - hurrah for no work!) and I'm only just starting to feel a bit better. Or at least like I'm coping, which is something. The sunshine and the bank holiday fest that is next month are getting me through. Yesterday, between meetings, I sat outside a cafe in Paternoster Square, enjoying the sun and eating pineapple. It felt good. If only that was my entire job. Sadly, this is not the case - my *actual* job involves travelling for two hours to get to the office for 7.30am, only to discover on arrival that the meeting is cancelled and then still having to be fucking perky for the rest of the day in case someone decides to fire me. The gloom is only punctuated by small acts of pineapple-eating rebellion.
I am also getting sadistic pleasure out of the new, 50p tax rise on the miniscule 1% of the population who earn over £150k. Several members of my company are having the biggest hissy fits over this - why should they have to pay this tax? Why don't they tax the lumpen proles? What if they have to sack one of the nannies because they can't afford 3 *and* two homes and millions of foreign holidays - OH TEH HORRORS!!1!11! This griping has caused unrest among some colleagues who have suddenly figured out that a few of their peers are obviously earning one hell of a lot more than they are. Next pay day should be interesting, at least...
Perhaps Darling is in fact a G20 protester at heart - the budget has inconvenienced and terrorised the City far more effectively and potently than the G20 protests did. I just wish Labour had introduced it sooner, really.
Otherwise, all is quiet. Apart from the sodding Morris Dancers that invaded the City on St. George's day, no doubt all part of the Mayor of London's plan to make us all feel like we're English. It certainly made us all feel embarrassed and awkward, so maybe it worked. It was surreal and terrifying, like wandering through a James Herbert novel that had gone horribly wrong.