Studs and Stilettos

Lesson 23 - pay day! The only reason to go to work.

Sometimes week-ends do not live up to expectation.

They are merely the end of one five-day instalment of ones life and the start of a two day period into which all the fun things on the planet (parties, friends, dinner out in posh restaurants, walks in the park, sunbathing, reading trashy novels, shopping) need to be stuffed before monotony and routine start again.

This week-end is SO different.

Pippa, Brutus and I got a taxi home. Brutus was too inebriated to remember the promised, potentially chilli- hot date with the gorgeous Beetie and when Pippa and I had put him in the recovery position with Samantha scrabbling up the newspaper under his sick bowl, we were too tired to even phone for a take-away pizza and made do with cup-a-soup poured over instant noodles.

Saturday did not exist until 4 p.m. when I dragged myself into the kitchen for a cup of tea and walked straight through a freezing puddle of liquid which soaked straight into my favourite stripy bed socks.

Yuurrg. 'Someone's turned that kitchen tap on full power again' or we've got leak from the flat above,' said the bubble in my head, as I ripped off the sock and took a quick sniff (as you do!).

AAAAAAAAhhhhh!! Samantha's finest chilled urine (chemical formula K9P)

'Effing bleeding sodding...!' Where is that pet of Satan? I'm going to mince her!

'What's all the noise?'

Pippa, supported by the door frame, looked worse than me – and that's hard. Her hair was standing upright unaided by artificial sprays, gels or creams and her mascara was smeared in thick lines down her face. She'd pulled on her most fetid dressing gown, the colour of bile, which matched her skin to perfection.

'Samantha!'

'What's she done now?' Pippa dragged herself towards the kettle, straight through the stagnant puddle of Samantha's bladder contents.

'What the....? Bloody bitching snouting little fucker!'

'Now now Pippa. You never swear – much. I suppose for once I can be sympathetic to that rodent canine. Nobody has been alive enough to let her out for two days. She had to go somewhere. Let's hope there's nothing more solid on the shag pile.'

'Is Brutus alive?'

'No idea.'

'Shall we look?'

'Later. Let's have some tea first. My head is so bad. If he is dead he can certainly wait around for a bit longer and, well, if he's not dead, he's not. End of.'

'Good thinking. How many lumps of milk would you like?'

'Lumps of sugar Cammie.'

'Today Philippa, our milk is coming in lumps. If we'd bothered to go shopping we may have the liquid form rather than this unattractively scented coagulated stuff.'

'Black please.'

Sunday did not improve. We ate take away curries from Mr Mac in the parade and watched DVD's of old films, waiting for Brutus to emerge from his chamber.

And then it's back to Monday morning.

The start of another groundhog day.

I've only been in the world of work for a few weeks and already I can see the pattern emerging which will set the pace of my life for the next forty years.

Get up, eat, battle through traffic, teach, crowd control, mark, drink tea, eat, teach, tick books, battle through traffic, eat, telly, go to bed.

Millions of people on the planet are doing this at exactly the same time as me, breaking the monotony with little interruptions for bonking, boozing and holidays. Little synchronised gnats trailing the same routes day after day, week after week, wearing holes in the carpets of the planet. But we don't stop. We don't complain – much. Which means that most people may just perhaps enjoy it?