I was sat in a cafe on Saturday - drinking tea and watching the world go by - when it struck me that I’d had a ridiculous amount of jobs in my life.
My first paying job was probably baby-sitting when I was a teenager - although I prefer to tell people it was wearing a bear costume and handing out leaflets, because that was my first job that wasn’t just, basically, sitting in someone’s living room for several hours.
From there I have worked in bars, pubs, restaurants, cafes, offices, factories, shops, supermarkets, clubs and sundry miscellaneous places - some of which I’d happily never think about again. Some of which I’ve worked at more than once.
I’ve quit, been made redundant, had to leave due to ill health and even been fired from a few. And there was that one time that, between me being told I’d got the job one day and starting the next, the place went in to administration.
Don't make me angry! You won't like me when I'm angry!
Why do some people think that the sign at the supermarket checkout that says “10 items or less” means everybody else but them? That’s 16 items, you stupid woman! Can’t you count!
I am far too angry a person. Little pointless things anger me - sometimes things that aren’t even directly affecting me.
Cars parking on double yellow lines. People taking things off shelves in shops and then just dumping them back any where. People wearing socks with sandals. The words guesstimate and staycation (and it pained me to even type those words and even more that the former wasn’t flagged up by the spell checker as misspelt!)
And it all builds up inside me.
Most of it I can just get over - with a little time (and a cup of tea) - but some of it lingers. And boils away. Until I pop!
The woman at the checkout almost got an earful. Almost. I tutted and muttered and tried to ignore it and knew it was, ultimately, pointless to say any thing.
But when I rule the world (nay, the Universe!) there will be severe penalties for that sort of thing.