Greed

Again a delay in writing, please accept my apologises. I wouldn't standfor this sort of tardiness from the train service so rest assured I shall endevour to keep my blog as upto date as possible. As you can see rom my typing errors I am struggling with my spacebar, the critter keeps sticking so the tips of my fingers are bruised from thrashing away at the troublesome piece of plastic.

Aside from computer difficulties I've had some scathing correspondance from my ex-wife who was highly offended by an Easter card I sent as a (belated) peace offering. It read 'Easter is a time for chocolate, I hope you receive lots, why just enjoy a mouthful when you could scoff the whole box.' Funny, timely and referencing her favourite food. 'Perfect', I thought. Even better was the discount I received at the till as I was purchasing it the day after Easter Monday. So imagine how horrified I felt when I received the card back this morning torn to shreds. Apparently she's struggling at slimming club. She always was greedy.

Less greedy are my colleagues. The team shunned the packet of bourbons I brought in last week, opting for organic ginger snaps instead. Not that they'll be able to afford such fancy biscuits for much longer. Redundancy looms large even in the voluntary sector, they found out this week that paid maternity leave has been cut and pay frozen. Not that it affects me, being male and at the top of my pay scale. Still the fear stops me from purchasing a new PC.

Last Easter I went to the shops

Oh how my life has shifted seismically since this very same bank holiday last year. Granted Easter was a bit earlier but so much has happened in thirteen months. Last Easter Sunday I was pounding the streets in search of insecticide to tackle a woodlice infestation in the kitchen. After six hours spent sweating it out on the streets of Lytham, happening across many a closed hardware shop, I returned home with an organic crustacean killer only to find my wife chortling into her cup a soup. She had managed to sweep the 'woodlice' up with a dust pan and brush.
They weren't woodlice after all, they were merely my daughter Louise's pumpkin seeds that had spilled onto the floor, probably when she was in a rush leaving for one of her bendy Wendy yoga sessions. Quite why my wife hadn't inspected the infestation earlier was beyond me. Instead she had woken me with a blood curdling scream and demands that I go out and get something to 'kill the vermin in the kitchen'. At a glance they looked like woodlice and so I hot footed it out to the shops. Crossing His Master's Voice would have resulted in a miserable day for all.
So finding my wife smirking in the kitchen after a hard slog seeking out lice killer was really the beginning of the end of us. We'd been in the wilderness for a while and now I felt cast out in the cold. Three months later and I was out of there. I often wonder if she had set me up that day. One day I will find out,I'm sure.

Bad Good Friday

Despite my protests Ray insisted I manned the studio this evening. I raised the issue of a bank holiday and lack of public transport home but he couldn't see my point (it was more than likely obscured by a large cider bottle).

I considered giving the evening's broadcast an egg theme but try as I might no song became apparent. I had egg-sausted all options so in the end I plumped for the Birdy Song (egg related-ish) and threw on a Monsters of Rock compilation CD. I had hoped for a heated debate on the diminishing size of chocolate Easter eggs but Ray lay slumped in the corner of the studio babbling nonsense.
I should have asked him to leave when he came crashing down onto the mixing desk but he offered to pay my cab home on the proviso I help him find somewhere to stay for the night. He is conked out on my sofa as I type clutching a stale hot cross bun and his urine soaked trousers.