Sunday.

A fistful of roast potatoes up the arse-hole, covered in lukewarm gravy and a punch in the mouth. That’s what Sundays are to me. They’re the single most despicable day of the week, after Doomsday and Crumbday.

The problems stem from its cloying, droopy appendage. To most, Sunday is the start of the week. To me, it’s the end; a tapered end, a turd, a dog dying in an alley after the war’s ended. I dislike it immensely.

Not least because I work in a kitchen. I’ve seen more roasts than you’ve seen roast dinners. I’ve cooked a great many of them, and while I pride myself on a mighty potato here, a moist shock of beef there, I often leave snarling and stinking, covered in the viscous coating of grease and gravy scent, throttling each other to the death for ownership of my tired skin.

My particular Sunday was spent with dogs barking me awake (Metaphorical) early. Then a dog did start barking for real (A real dog called Vimes), and caused me to sigh. I fed a cat, who poked his furry face around a bowl not really appearing to get anywhere. I suppose forcing the fact in and around food is how all cats eat. I hope so. Otherwise he’s mental.

It isn’t a face you could marry. Imagine that turning up, encrusted with Whiskas. Leaning in for a kiss. You’d tear the ring off and be out the door and down the road before you could say “John Travolta’s Rotten Onions”

I played Final Fantasy XIII, an incredibly boring video game I can’t help playing. It’s like picking dead bees out of a sock. Pointless and irritating, and yet somehow compelling.

Eventually, the game actually sends me to sleep again. I lie painfully wheezing through the despair of imminent work. I dislike Sundays. I hate working Sunday nights. The dread is largely dissipated by news of a Liverpool goal. Apparently, this brightens my mood. A number on a screen.

The world’s gone Mordor again when I hit the stones toward work. Some orcs are playing cards in a lonely corner. Hobbits tap tankards and exchange terrible folk songs. I realise this is not Middle Earth and I am not Thorin Oakenshield, and my fantasy disappears, replace with a cat licking a shop window.

That didn’t happen either.

I arrive to find a cluster of staff hunched about Toni, who is perched rather awkwardly on a stool apparently too high for her, like an absurd monarch. A monarch with a netbook.

The entire meeting turns out to be about Keplar 186f, which she still insists she discovered. She wheels the netbook around, and clicks a pen tip against the screen.

“This is Keplar 186f. The planet I discovered”, she says, chirruping like a Disney bird. “Here is the moon. Here is the stars. I created it. And then I discovered it.”

When I point out the flaw, that she couldn’t discover a planet she created, she goes silent, then just starts chanting the word “PLANET” over and over like a malfunctioning robot.

“This isn’t about my team leader book then?” I interject. Toni is now pounding a fist on the table while chanting. I leave and go upstairs.

It’s like somebody rammed a firework into a corpse’s arse-hole in potwash. Takes me three hours to get the kitchen clean, and then I deftly hack up some onions for rings. I leave, clutching hope in a bin-bag and make for the Griffin. Imbibing happens, then a trek home, which ends with a lost front door key. It turns up, inside the lining of my coat. That’s another one falling apart, then.

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About neilstilwell

Abseiling into trouble, a sewer rat staring at the stars. Disgusting. You can assist my search for the one ring by buying a Kindle version of this diary from here. http://www.amazon.co.uk/frozen-fridge-Zoomeister-Diaries-ebook/dp/B00C426DD0/ref=sr_1_sc_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1366481719&sr=8-1-spell&keywords=a+frozen+turd+in+a+hot+frudge It has some other stuff in it, and a dreadful cover.
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