Tick tock tick tock...

I’m sitting at my office desk, it’s 9:54pm, I’m waiting for my boss to call me with questions about the financials behind a presentation he’s showing the global CEO of our client’s office, and I’m kakking myself because:

a) the CEO is an exceptionally perceptive and
argumentative man, and will poke at the
numbers till he finds a hole in them
b) the project manager has a personal grudge against
me and elevates any error I make
into a major crisis
c) I’m frightfully drunk after a colleague team
building event this afternoon (I was unaware that I
might be summoned into the office ‘on call’ for any
number-crunching activities) and I’m not sure that
the work my boss asked me to do urgently in my
drunken state actually got done

So I’m awaiting the dreaded calls…

While I do so, I thought writing a post might while away the time quite effectively. (It’s now 10:04pm)…

The only thing of vague interest that has happened over the past two days since last I posted is my commitment to early morning runs with Third Roommate. I set my alarm for 6:40, force myself out of bed and change into running gear, then get back into bed and wait. Promptly at 6:55 he gives me a missed call, I answer the door, he strips off his tracksuit and slippers to reveal similar running attire, we try to outdo each other at warm-up stretches with feigned professionalism, then we start. A total of 2 km either way: down Oxford Road, past the traffic circle on Fricker Road, all the way down Third Road (past my high school, Hyde Park High, or Hahd Pahk Hahr as alumni so eloquently pronounce it) and then the nightmare return path, up the long sloping hill of Third Road – with two-and-a-half stops along the way (it’s my blog so I can blame Third Roommate for these and get away with it) – and down a brief 50m respite past Fricker Road, then a race back up Oxford Road to the flat.

For the whole duration of the journey on these past two days, I’ve had “Shut Your Fucking Face Uncle Fucker” in my head, which would be less painful if it wasn’t the Peas rendition. Every 200m or so, Third Roommate spits a mouthful of gob, which on the three occasions I tried to emulate, ended in disaster: my spit is so coagulated from the exertion that it ended in it dribbling down my chin rather than on the pavement (and yes, you needed to know that).

(10:18pm)…

We arrive back at the flat as Peas is ready to leave for work, Third Roommate lights up a ciggy (how on earth can you do that with the taste of blood in your mouth? Argh!) and then we take turns to shower in our newly-exposed white enamel bathtub (thank God Pretty will be there next Monday to ensure it maintains this pristine state) with Sky News blaring in the background. Come 9am we’re all done, and off to the office for a day (and often a night) full of work… I’m hoping to see some reward in the form of inches flying off my midriff for the effort (can’t take these damn love handles anymore). In fact, I’m convinced I can see the effects already!

Spare a thought for coughing, hacking and spluttering me while you’re all snoozing away in bed in your state of obese slothiness!

Good Fridays and weekends to all of you!

(10:29pm…)