The Word Cloud

Hullo. My name is Sheldon and I am procrastinating. Ooops; Maybe I should put a warning on here first...

For those of you that know me, you know the score. For those of you that don’t… look away now. No, really. I implore you. Sigh. Do not say I didn’t tell you.

So today is going really slow here in the sun. This, by the way, is me *cough* updating *cough* my CV and hunting for a job. I am out of contract y’see. Well… I have been out for a while now; since the 2nd September but I had to have my birthday week off and then, right, I fell poorly sick with a snuffle and, right, I got up yesterday because the sunlight hurt my eyes and I thought… hold on a cotton picking moment what the fuck is this brightness all about?!

It took me a while but eventually, scraping the barrel of my memory, I dredged up some garbage about sunshine in summer. I had a mild panic whilst my head decided it was now 2012 and I’d slept through the Autumn/Winter/Spring… again… sigh. Thankfully EzBird, also not in gainful employment –ok, so she hasn’t worked since 2001… - brought me to my senses by turning on the radio and news soon spread across my face that summer had been delayed like a British Rail service and would be this week instead of its proposed mid-July slot. I feel for the school-kids, I really do. Ok… I don’t; but I was trying to be nice. Oh how I grinned.

Anyway, EzBird pointed out that the grand I spent on this loverly laptop was a waste unless I sat in the garden with it. Job hunting. I tell you, the woman’s a menace and no mistake.

So here we are. Job hunting. Anyone reading this got a job for me? No? Tch. Cheap as chips, me. Not the high-street, wrapped in newspaper, stained with vinegar, salted and hiding ‘neath a slab of highly endangered North-Sea Coddiness, though. No. I mean the wafer of silicate, etched and doped to electronic perfection and sold in dinner plate sized biscuits to chop-shops that then duly flog ‘em for £1k wrapped in plastic and electronics. I’m saying I’m actually expensive. Interestingly, I have been told this by my usual agency too. Which is sad, because I really liked them.

So. No jobs then? Tch. I’ll just have to stay here in the garden pretending to write my CV and look up prospective jobs on Monster, Jobserve and what’s that one on the telly again?

In the meantime I want to ask you something; how do you deal with the car-starers? You know the ones; they cross the road in front of you, slowly, and then use their super-power to stop your car. I know it’s a super-power because what else can you call it when you place your life in your faith that just staring at a one-tonne lump of metal moving at, granted, thirty miles an hour, will prevent it from mowing your in-bred small-town mentally challenged fat-arse down? And what am I expected to do when you bounce off my bonnet, disappearing like a loose scarf over the top of my car? Sympathy? Oh, yes. You’ll get sympathy alright. So long as sympathy includes the word “twat”, you’ll get loads of sympathy.

I’m not saying it has happened to me or anything. It was just a thought experiment.

Why is there never any jobs in the Maldives as a long-term sun-lounger safety tester? Hmm? I have the, wait for it… weight for it. Sigh.

Right. I’m off to look up “humorous fiction” to try to work out why I can get a bloody book deal... oh... wait... sigh.

Ez