I’ve had this weekend off work. I don’t seem to have had many weekends to myself in the last few months. I’ve been doing Saturdays for other people just lately. At least I’ve got a few days off at the end of this month. I really need it. A break from the continuous calls, the boredom, the people asking for a discount because the price has risen by £1 per annum, the people telling me they’re pensioners, people relating their illness to me, people who think I can’t spell.
‘My name is Mr Cox. That’s C O X. Cox.’
Don’t worry I haven’t won the lottery yet. When I do I will slip up and call you Mr Penis. I shall do it deliberately if you think I can’t spell. And, no, I don’t want to hear about your haemorrhoids, boils, warts, kidney disease, enlarged testicles, diabetes, tumour, flu, earache, glandular fever, incontinence, worms, or whatever it is that you’ve got.
The place is enough to cause deep depression. It’s a wonder I haven’t been committed and sanctioned yet. Still, there’s time yet.
