I was on the tube again this morning, due to my unusual hamstring. It's not actually sore today; don't tell anyone. I've an appointment with my physio tomorrow. If it carries on like this, I'll have to start making symptoms up.
I've got a bit of previous when it comes to bullshitting professionals in a one-to-one situation. I'm a Catholic, and as a child I had to start making up sins when I went to confession. It's not that I was free from sin at that age (I am now), but I used to dry up under the pressure of the confessional, so I'd start inventing generic venial misdemeanours. I don't suppose Father [insert Irish surname here] bought it for a minute. I wish now I'd taken the trouble to make up so more interesting ones, from a
theological perspective I mean. "You been feeding your budgie Holy
water? Hmm...not sure how to deal with this one...it does sound quite
bad...I'll have to phone the Bishop. Give up cheese and hop around on
one leg until I get back to you."
Where was I? Oh, yes, the tube. So it's about 50 degrees Celsius as per on the Jubilee Line, and we're rammed in there like bluebottles inside a hollowed-out turd when some rotter decides to fart. I'm not a violent man, but by Christ I would battered the culprit flaccid had I got my gloves on him. Have we not all got enough to deal with, what with the heat and the general pervasive air of gloom?
No comments:
Post a Comment