I truly love my job

Last week I came home with only fifty quid.

Today I came home with two hundred and twenty.
Alright, forty of that is tips from my lovely Katrina.

But still ... £180 for not actually shagging anybody at all.
£180 for answering the phone, pouring glasses of wine, and changing a bed.

Feckin' brill!

Oh, and, of course, for putting up with having to read Maggie's bleating messages about not having left the place IMMACULATE (and stinking of cigarette smoke). Get a fucking grip, woman. I leave that gaff as perfect as you. Try finding another receptionist who keeps it tidier than the other ones that are there ... So maybe I don't leave the place nearly as perfect as you want it, but when was the last time YOU dusted the tops of the picture frames, Maggie me old mucker?

I used to get upset by them, now I just read them and go "Oh Fuck off".

And now ... having mentioned the very thought of things Spanish, what does the cat drag in?

A heart-achingly burly biker who now lives in Spain, still sending texts with kisses on the end and declaring an interest in seeing me when he visits London this week.

Can I bring myself to do it?

REALLY can I go through that again.
Every time he's back?

Fuckin' does me brain in, he does.

Oh well, at least I'll probably drop a few pounds, back on the "Love Hurts Diet" again I suppose :rolleyes:

Men - can't live without them, can't bury them in the garden!