I'm unemployed and well into my savings. My pension is depleting. I'm looking out of a window where I can see people wondering around hopelessly, looking for a get-out clause. There's a light on in the adjacent building. But only one. The workaholic. That's the workaholic. An alcoholic facing a workaholic. Both are afflictions in this modern day prescriba-mania society as I like to call it. Which affliction is worse? Well I don't know the guy, he could be an alcoholic as well. Maybe he's just there drinking, like me.
I spent a remarkable amount of my day at the laundrette. A northern fella was there, and he was under the impression that I had no idea how to use the washer's or dryer's. He took it upon himself to tell me how to use and for how long, "remember not to overstuff, otherwise it won't work properly" and all this. Looking back on it, he must have mistook my drunkenness for incompetence. What a drag that guy was.
I spent the rest of the day watching TV, Nadal winning, The Wrestler not bad film. I tried reading a book on the problems in Afghanistan but quickly gave up. I smoked. I drank. I picked up my laundry. I drank.
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