This weekend...

Somewhere in this country is an airshow with my name on it. Always assuming that my surname is "Waddington". Which it isn't but never mind, work with me on this one. Two days of flashy flying, colourful hairyplanes and my mates texting me to tell me how great it is, and how amazing the Vulcan's first public display was. Because, friends and neighbours your scribe is stuck in stinking work, hassling poor tire bloody tourists for petty offences that aren't going to make ANYBODY think they're fighting the good fight in a way that anybody's going to give a toss about; and they've just told me that I can't have Sunday off either. Fuck that. The work-life balance that our tin gods love spouting on about seems more than a little skewed at the moment. Not that I can actually DO jack all at the moment, since I remain languishing on "light duties" while the health service machine creaks from fuck up to fuck up; having discovered that my case "dropped though the middle" when my consultant changed secretaries, they now can't offer me an appointment until September. Bollocks to them too. I am cracking in about minus a hundred out of ten in the "satisfied with my lot at work" chart at the moment; of the three "must do" shows this year that I had lined up, they've managed to squash my chances of doing any of them.

In fact folks, quite frankly, at this moment in time, the service can officially kiss my arse.