I'll never learn

A houseful of no food; a supper requirement; a Pizza menu... it's like the kebab issue I've mentioned before, I can be a masochist when it comes to food. I WILL order delivery pizza. I can't stop myself. I won't learn. And Dominos in this town are the one branch in the country that can't cook a damned thing right. And once again last night. Dominos Ipswich or Harrogate, you get a lovely perfect thing that looks like the picture or better. Here, you get a brown flat thing dusted with something that puts one in mind of of the Whammyburger scene in Falling Down where Michael Douglas holds the place up with a machine pistol and points out the difference between the marketing and "this squashed, flat thing" he's been served. Aught to put a block on their damned phone number, a notice in my stack of takeaway menus or order from one of the other strange places that always put kebab meat on a meat feast pizza... an excentricity unique to this town in my experience. I just have no resistance to shit food, come a certain time of the evening. You'd think I'd know better by now.

Not a good day anticipated. Today's mugshot day. New ID cards for all, and thus the whole station's got to be there and in white uniform and stroll to the visiting humiliation merchant down for the ritual stealing of our souls. Don't know what it is about official ID photographs; there's a whole subculture in our place of officers producing their warrant cards to each other, sniggering and "hur hur hur, look at my hairstyle back then, isn't it funny, lets see yours". Hmmm. Deep comedy. My own one looks like the troll in Moria from the first Lord of the Rings film; fresh #one haircut, five o clock shadow, the look of studied unintelligence, mouth drooped open at an angle that could not be described as "jaunty" - my excuse is that the lass working the machine didn't know how to do it and they caught me in mid "how long is this going to bloody take". Having said that, I suppose it's like passports; it wasn't until the age of modern digital photo booths that I was able to get any kind of official doccument that didn't make me look like a convicted criminal (football club travel pass); a gibbering retard (passport, entertains border control officers all over the world, that does) or something that's not quite human (European fireams pass). Nowadays I look like an alien, criminal, gibbering special needs case that's had the choice of about five attempts to get it right, so they're a bit of an improvment.