Somewhere in that queue is One…
Later that day One shall be sleeping on a park bench or hanging from a tree in aforementioned park.
‘How so?’ you chorus Dear Reader. Well it’s like this here…
Yesterday’s petite panic situations began with the refusal to refund One’s washing machine.
‘Hey Ho’ thought One, ‘can swerve round that at the launderette until sanity is, if it ever is, restored at the Bung of Doom.’
Later that day, having Jeyes Fluid-ed and polished to within an inch, the bloke who wanted to rent the spare room, cancelled,
Then, to finally put the tin hat on a shite day a letter arrived from the Working Tax Credit agency that stated along the lines of…
‘Even though we gave you some dosh to top up your meagre earnings the year before last, we shouldn’t have, so we want it back please.’
‘Ah’ thinks One a tad difficult there, given One spent it on food and rent.
What nasties will today bring…
Losing a limb in a freak accident at the checkout in the Co-op?
Being flattened in the square by a runaway tractor?
Coughing Oneself to a collapsed lung?
All of above One suspects.
Any road up, not quite defeated yet, so am now choosing between the dole queue, see above, or care work (if I can get it)