Tuesday, 30 March 2010

Who cares?

The long man has embarked on what I consider to be a futile attempt to better himself by changing career. He has thus far done what I can only decribe as a plethora of crappy jobs, and in my opinion that suits him down to the ground. I cannot for the life of me imagine him in any position of responsibility or any position that requires a degree of common sense. Sense of any description, where the long man is concerned, isn't very common at all. Bloody rare in his case. For instance, he loves playing with his tennis ball and always brings it with us when we go to the park. Then he'll proceed to throw the bloody thing away and immediately want it back again. And does he go and get it himself? Does he balls. Muggins here has to go and fetch it for him. So, off I plod, find the damned thing, take it back to him and drop it at his feet, and what does he do? He only goes and throws it away again. Moron. Anyway, as I was saying, he wants a change of career so guess what he's applied to be, a CARER. Him. Caring. Looking after others. Ha. How in the world is that going to work? I'll tell you this, he had better not be expecting me to go to work with him and spend all my time pulling him out of the sticky stuff. I like my mornings listening to the radio and my afternoons watching loose women on the telly thingy whilst licking my lady bits and snoozing. Following the long man around and reminding him to breathe is very low down on my list of priorities I can tell you.

In between his pointlessly completing application forms for jobs he has little or no chance of getting the long man has also been spending a lot of time piddling about with his Vespa. Taking bits off, swearing, putting new bits on, swearing when the new bits fall off, phoning his friends to find out where he's going wrong, putting the fallen off bits back on and then swearing before taking them off again because he forgot to do something else. I'm beginning to have something of an attention deficit where he is concerned. After finally getting the scooter looking and sounding exactly like it looked and sounded immediately before his meddling, at daft-o-clock on Sunday morning, he destroyed the peace and tranquility of another lovely Leyland Sabbath by popp-popp-popping away up the street in a cloud of thick, blue smoke. His mission, along with his friends, was to deliver a seventy nine pence Easter egg to the childrens hospital in Carlisle. I've checked, that is a round trip of one hundred and eighty four miles, and all to drop off a piece of cheap confectionary. Very noble I'm sure, but how much did the fuel for this mammoth journey cost, and more to the point how many poor little asthmatic kiddies were caused to suffer because of the scooterists selfishly pumping god knows how many cubic metres of noxious gasses into the atmosphere?

Meanwhile, free of the long man's sycophantic simpering, the clippy cloppy woman and I took the little people to visit the cat lady and the black furry coat woman. I do enjoy going out with them, and they get a big kick out of it for which I love them all the more, but the journey to the cat lady's house is not the most pleasant. Especially with Wing Commander clippy cloppy at the wheel. It's best described as a roller coaster ride of terror. She seems to use the accelerator like an on/off switch. At least in the new metal box thingy I am situated at the very rear, keeping me a far as is possible from the front which will be the point of impact when the inevitable catastrophic collision, for which we are long overdue, occurs.

The long man returned late in the evening and was walking rather gingerly, like a rider who'd had his horse stolen, and wincing whenever he sat down. Serves the damn fool right, riding all over the place at his age. He proceeded to regale us with the most mundane tales about, well, quite frankly I don't know what they were about. I tend to switch off whenever he starts banging on about most things. I really couldn't be bothered paying attention.

Tomorrow the long man has to go to Manchester for an interview with one of the companies he wants to work for. They must be mad to even consider him. Perhaps they're just toying with him, letting him down gently or are really, REALLY desperate. He's got more chance of seeing a rocking horse take a poo than getting a job with even the tiniest bit of responsibilty. Let us hope that, when the inevitable rejection letter lands on the mat, he will learn his lesson and apply for a more suitable position. Ideally part time and in a biscuit factory, giving him plenty of free time to shower me with gifts of heavily staff-discounted biscuits to which he would have access. Since I don't have fingers, puppy fans, I beg of you to cross yours on my, I mean his, behalf. Thank you, and ta-ta for now.