Have a question about my life or the UK?

ask at natefitzgerald100@gmail.com

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Chapter 7


He added a splash of Glen Moray to his coffee. Yes it was 8.30 in the morning, but it wasn't like he was opening a purple tin. He simply liked the taste. You couldn't become an alcoholic from the odd nip of Scotch.

He looked at his reflection in the toaster.

Orwell had said every man got the face he deserved when he was 50. Kenneth had a few years to go, but he didn't expect the situation to get much better. His beard was kempt, though it had gotten a touch ratty since his redundancy. The wrinkles around his eyes spoke of loneliness. His hair was thin, but keeping up the fight.

What about people who had been bludgeoned, he wondered. Did they really deserve the face they got at 50. Say, one lived in a particularly rough section of Jo-burg or Detroit and was set upon by ruffians with iron bars. Would the mashed outcome of a rewired jaw and pulped nose be deserved?

Those who believed in karma might say yes. Kenneth decided it should go on a case by case basis. That is how he had always approached his work, taking each individual as they came. Though there were trends (the heavily tattooed ones tended to abuse the system - sorry, just a fact), but each person was a novel all their own to be opened and discovered.

But look where that egalitarianism had gotten him. Now he was a number in a category, one of many shuffling on worn shoes. He bet David Cameron dressed up at Maggie late at night at Number 10 and talked to an imaginary Dennis in a high-pitched voice, like an organ grinder's monkey which had swallowed vinegar.

No, this was not the face he deserved.

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Official warning

Hello dear readers,

Well, a bit of excitement in my long dormant life. I have for the first time in my short professional life been OFFICIALLY WARNED.

It even came with letter sporting the header OFFICIAL WARNING, underlined, in bold. I'm not certain what happened to being subtle. I had a short meeting with my manager - my fifth since the start of my employment. But that's another story.

All I can say is if your name is Diana Ross, you're bound to get a few remarks of a jovial nature come your way. And if you're a pasty white woman of a certain age (mid 40s), you would think one might foresee the potential for irony and go by a different moniker. Perhaps Di Ross? Perhaps a middle name?

And if one were offended by what I'll admit were perhaps over frequent remarks such as 'How are the Pips today?' and 'I may ease on down, ease on down the road* for a sandwich, would anyone like one?' you would think the offended party would voice some sort of dissatisfaction and not lodge a formal complaint.

*remember that classic? still holds up

Not that anything is likely to come from my wrist slap. I will simply substitute comic overtures with withering looks of veiled contempt, which I have been practicing in my mirror while beard trimming. And any notion of a romantic night out is now most certainly off the books.

Yes, still single and looking.

Well, dear readers, it has been a long time since anything noteable or interesting has happened in my life. Read this as good or bad. Perhaps I shan't wait so long to communicate in future. Please leave some comments. I am still quite desperately lonely.

Stay well,