Empty page. Lovely. For the last week, I’ve been editing and publishing text written by other people, referring to the Guardian’s excellent style guide often enough to illustrate how much I rely on charm when I’m slightly out of my depth.
It’s been good! The text I am obliged to edit, publish and promote is not uninteresting (case notes pertaining to employment law), and the remuneration for my time and effort is generous. I’m even enjoying dressing smartly for a change. This is a consequence of wearing nothing but flip-flops, linen trousers and beer t-shirts for a year.
One of my new colleagues is a guy with thick black curly forearm hair. He is going bald. I bet he wishes his forearm hair grew out of his head. I met another guy who looks and acts like Ted from Scrubs. Zoinks!
Imagine you had access to a database in which you couldn’t help but see web users’ passwords. Imagine you found out someone who worked for a fire department uses the password lucifer_rising. What if you knew a social worker’s password is helpme, or a policeman’s ganjatoker? Laugh or cry? Hypothetically, of course.
I bought so much stuff this weekend: I got the first series of The Wire (some obscure American television show, don’t ask me…) and Christopher Brookmyre’s Pandemonium. I also picked up a second set of Sennheiser headphones (different sets for different purposes) and a bottle of single malt scotch. A shamelessly material response to completing my first week of work.
I only acquired a taste for single malt a couple of months ago, when someone gave me a bottle of The Balvenie for my birthday. My first thoughts – according to the pretentious tasting notes – should have been of cinnamon spiciness and vanilla high-notes, but were in fact: “Oh, fuck. That’s done it. I can’t drink cheap whisky any more.”
Going back to Famous Grouse after drinking The Balvenie would be like masturbating into a dirty sock after having sex with Angelina Jolie going back to your Fiat Punto after driving a Mercedes.