Thursday, 1 December 2016
In which One is a snot machine...
So, here we are, Dear Reader, at the end of a complete shite year, at the beginning of advent and behind door number one...
A snot filled Kleenex.
Yes, One has a cold in der doze...
A tad difficult to get any time off the Emporium of Fine Groceries, but wheedled two days in bed, no pay of course, and am holed up on the sofa watching stchoopid American Christmas films and hacking up lumps of lung into a bucket.
If One is in this sort of state now, approaching sixty, what will One be like when One reaches the new retirement age of sixty-fecking-seven!
What's that all about, Dear Reader?
Correct moi if moi is wrong, but wasn't it those city bankers who dropped the country in it with their risk taking, for which not a single one has been brought to book? Yet it is the poor sod at the bottom of the heap: Moi et al who are fecking paying for it.
Every woman who would have retired next year, like me, has had thirty thousand pounds stolen from them. And that is thirty thousand as of now. A figure which will surely rise as the retirement age goes up and up.
One doesn't mind doing One's bit work-wise, but pay is so bad now that it doesn't even add up to enough to meet basic bills, let alone have any left for luxuries like heating and hot water.
I kid you not, Dear Reader, I still haven't got a hot water tank. Oh well, perhaps I'll get pneumonia and die.