I don't know how I haven't killed myself
Admin weekends for army. If there's anything on this earth that will make you lose the will to live it's paperwork. Forms, applications, statutory declarations, nominations, appraisals and power of attorney. To top the weekend off, there was a lot of down time as well, sitting watching movies on the projector. It was mind numbing. The highlight of the weekend was receiving innoculations, two in my right arm and one in my left (because I'm right handed - duh). But I get paid for this shit, so I shouldn't overly complain.
I ducked into Coles Sunday night and stumbled around looking for things to eat for dinner. I was served by a lovely young checkout chick and we had a moment as I swiped my FlyBuys. "Where does it all end?" She asked me, well, here was someone who truly cared about me! I proceeded to tell her all about my crazy weekend in service of the nation when she quietly interrupted me. "No, sorry, your groceries? Where do they end?" I stared at her blankly before realising my mistake and right hooked the cabbages of the old lady behind me back into her trolley. I quickly apologised for my incoherant rant that I subjected her to and made light of the situation, as I normally do. She was a little embarressed and put three bags of shopping into one bag as quickly as she could. "Thanks for brightening up my day." She concluded, and left me to go into Vintage Cellars and harass the staff with my superior knowledge of wine and beer. Ahhh braindead Sundays, I could do them for a living.
Now this morning was a completely different kettle of clusterfucks. I couldn't remember the address of Births, Deaths and Marriages. So after wandering up and down the length of Collins st for an hour I rang a mate who pointed me in the right direction, to where I'd been an hour earlier. Braving the masses of red tape and warning signs of red tape I went in, filled in my form, and took a number. Number came I straight away. Made small talk with old lady receptionist. Print this. Sign that. $25.50 please. Thankyou. Out the door walks Alan. That's all I have to say about BDM. No smart arse remarks. No sceptical comments. That's it.
Now I'm hungry.
I ducked into Coles Sunday night and stumbled around looking for things to eat for dinner. I was served by a lovely young checkout chick and we had a moment as I swiped my FlyBuys. "Where does it all end?" She asked me, well, here was someone who truly cared about me! I proceeded to tell her all about my crazy weekend in service of the nation when she quietly interrupted me. "No, sorry, your groceries? Where do they end?" I stared at her blankly before realising my mistake and right hooked the cabbages of the old lady behind me back into her trolley. I quickly apologised for my incoherant rant that I subjected her to and made light of the situation, as I normally do. She was a little embarressed and put three bags of shopping into one bag as quickly as she could. "Thanks for brightening up my day." She concluded, and left me to go into Vintage Cellars and harass the staff with my superior knowledge of wine and beer. Ahhh braindead Sundays, I could do them for a living.
Now this morning was a completely different kettle of clusterfucks. I couldn't remember the address of Births, Deaths and Marriages. So after wandering up and down the length of Collins st for an hour I rang a mate who pointed me in the right direction, to where I'd been an hour earlier. Braving the masses of red tape and warning signs of red tape I went in, filled in my form, and took a number. Number came I straight away. Made small talk with old lady receptionist. Print this. Sign that. $25.50 please. Thankyou. Out the door walks Alan. That's all I have to say about BDM. No smart arse remarks. No sceptical comments. That's it.
Now I'm hungry.