sanemagazine: wonderful rubbish

So imagine you're not having the best day. Or the best weekend.
Imagine it's all going quite crap, as a matter of fact.
Like your boss has just stuck a fork in your leg, and sat there, smiling at you , waiting to see if you'll take it out or leave it in, because the boss jammed it into your leg, and not, say, the little bugger down the hall. Of course, the vast majority of us wouldn't work in a place where the boss stuck a fork in you. Or would stop, pretty soon after it became apparent, with or without the scars to prove it.
Even if it weren't quite so apparent, and a co-worker just happened to have been stabbed in the leg with a fork as a result of a misguided attempt to spear a pea (and, let's be honest, peas can be difficult to get ahold of), perhaps, I'd still strongly consider leaving.

But, luckily, that's only an example, and it's only an "imagine", and no one's got a fork stuck in their leg, boss-induced or otherwise, it's not a quite poor day, in fact, it's quite lovely , looking over portions of England south of the Thames, and the thirty billion aeroplanes headed towards Heathrow, and the four hundred thousand or so crows with whom they vie for airspace, rumble and squawk on contentedly towards their destinations; the crows out of the way of the aeroplanes, the planes probably towards Heathrow in the evening sun and a slight breeze that manages to come from the direction of the Thames relatively odour-free, and it's a glorious timem to be alive.
Which is when the dinner set from a passing 747 sees fit to skewer the lot of us, standing outside, watching the south of the city, and now awkwardly pierced with silverware.

disclaimer:
We all need to get out and way oh way away more. Honest.


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	archives horoscopes contacts fables home		So imagine you're not having the best day. Or the best weekend. Imagine it's all going quite crap, as a matter of fact. Like your boss has just stuck a fork in your leg, and sat there, smiling at you , waiting to see if you'll take it out or leave it in, because the boss jammed it into your leg, and not, say, the little bugger down the hall. Of course, the vast majority of us wouldn't work in a place where the boss stuck a fork in you. Or would stop, pretty soon after it became apparent, with or without the scars to prove it. Even if it weren't quite so apparent, and a co-worker just happened to have been stabbed in the leg with a fork as a result of a misguided attempt to spear a pea (and, let's be honest, peas can be difficult to get ahold of), perhaps, I'd still strongly consider leaving. But, luckily, that's only an example, and it's only an "imagine", and no one's got a fork stuck in their leg, boss-induced or otherwise, it's not a quite poor day, in fact, it's quite lovely , looking over portions of England south of the Thames, and the thirty billion aeroplanes headed towards Heathrow, and the four hundred thousand or so crows with whom they vie for airspace, rumble and squawk on contentedly towards their destinations; the crows out of the way of the aeroplanes, the planes probably towards Heathrow in the evening sun and a slight breeze that manages to come from the direction of the Thames relatively odour-free, and it's a glorious timem to be alive. Which is when the dinner set from a passing 747 sees fit to skewer the lot of us, standing outside, watching the south of the city, and now awkwardly pierced with silverware. disclaimer: We all need to get out and way oh way away more. Honest.

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