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".
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