Observations from the day here, just because I can. First point: What the fuck is with Christmas cards these days? Seriously, who the unholy fuck thinks that kitties, puppies and motherfucking dolphins are Christmassy? I shit you not, dolphins. On a Christmas card. I say this because I spent this morning buying the cards I'm sending this morning. Weirdly, I usually buy a couple more presents than I do cards, but that is because of online retailers saving me postage. So I'm wandering around every card shop here, for over an hour, looking for cards. I don't want anything tacky, anything cutesy or any of that silly shit. I want a nice card. There were none. I ended up selecting funny ones for the family, but trawled yet further for a card for coaldustcanary. I finally found one in a newsagent. One good card.
What happened to real cards, like there used to be back in the eighties when I were a lad? You'd get two joke cards, one with Santa being stuck and one with Santa trying to get into an igloo. But they weren't the real cards, oh no. Your real cards were easy to use. One had a robin sat on a branch, in a snowy woodland scene. One had a snowman. And one had a snowed-in cottage with warm light shining through the windows. You could always tell who was worse off than you (they sent you the cottage) and who was better off than you (they could afford a luxury like a robin sat on a branch overlooking a snowman). Choosing cards was easy, and there was none of these fucking teddy bears which infect greetings cards like stupidity on humans.
Stupid fucking teddy bears. Them and the dolphins, ohhh, they're going to get it. One day just after Valentines I'm gonna come up behind them with Mr. Happy, and they're all gonna be sated and happy and all "We spread love and look cute! We rule!", and I'm gonna take Mr Happy and announce my presence by knocking the head off of every fucking teddy bear in the room to have ever seen snow! Yeah, and the rest of the bears will try to dogpile me, but they don't know that I brought backup. Proof of what a Leatherman can do to teddy-flesh, ohhh, yeah. But that dolphin is going to be last, and that's going to be sweet. I'm gonna get him out of water and brutalise him with Mr. Happy the Crowbar. Bury it so far the aquatic bastard's arse it'll be able to pull nails when it speaks, while screaming "The fuck do you know about snow, you stupid excuse for over-hyped consumerist bollocks?"
Shit. Maybe I should switch to fucking decaff or something.
Nah, life wouldn't be any fun if I did.
Still. With the card bought and a sandwich waiting (bacon, sausage, mushrooms, fried egg, black pudding, and brown sauce out the arse), I thought the day's stress was over. As if. With everything written, cards set and Kris' present wrapped and in the envelope, it just needed sending. This is a simple process, involving no more than two minutes at the post office. Well, not only was it pension day or some bollocks (there's got to be some excuse for me being the youngest in the queue by at least thirty years and a head of non-grey hair), but half of these old shites had a couple of envelopes. Not the pension books that I expected, and man did me asking out loud if it was pension day or day release from the nursing home get me some evil looks. Just one or two envelopes, and for this they are taking up space in the queue. Now, pardon me if I hallucinate perfectly normal things, but outside the post office is not only a post box, but also a vending machine to buy stamps from. It will give change on any note up to a tenner, though by the look of some of these they wanted to pay in shillings... but there's a stamp machine and a post box. Using these two is not fucking rocket science! The most dim-witted care-in-the-community case can get it right with a couple of tries, and yet there's all these supposedly right in the head old people wasting time in the post office chatting to the assistant and trying to pay for a first class stamp in pennies while asking for reassurance every ten seconds that the letter they are sending will be delivered right and not go to Bolivia, like one did thirty-five bloody years ago. Old people who waste my fucking time will be used for medical research and then ground up into a nutritious paste to benefit those of us who aren't old.
Oh, bruceb liked the intro fiction for the Trinity ST's Handbook. Ergo, I'm well happy, despite the tone of the above.