Mr. Right is losing his muscle tone

HOLY SHIT.

Work has been so busy, and promises to be so busy next week, that I, a lily of the fucking field if I'm anything, have been out of my fucking brain. It was a relief to wake up sick this morning so as to be able to call in sick, though I'm still taking care of a pile of stuff here and dealing with a situation which will only get more annoying as the weeks go on; I'm nearly hoping it implodes, as I know it eventually must, in the near term just so I can get it over with, but since I'm that annoying stage of under-manager I have no power to make it do so, which is 3/4 of the frustration in itself.

Anyways, you know how busy I've been? I don't even remember the last time I've had a wank. Can you believe that shit? I'm a female, childless grass consumer in my early thirties with a boyfriend who works long and tiring hours; I should be servicing myself - well, actually, I don't know how often I should be servicing myself in statistical average terms, but my common sense tells me at least twice a week. But nope. Nada. None. My week: come home late from work, spend some couple time, read a dozen or so pages of whatever book, conk out, roll out of bed, and go to work. It sucks. Frankly I'd nearly forgotten how. I hate being a yuppie. Don't know how much longer I can last. I love the money too much, that's my fucking problem.

Gripe gripe gripe. Oh well, one day at a time. Will get through more work, light a pipe, and put on some Spiritualized. I wonder if anyone else thought the lyrics to "Soul on Fire" were
I've got a hurricane between my legs," rather than the much lousier "I've got a hurricane inside my veins". I also wonder if there's any single band over the last 15 years that so many women have soundtracked their self-service to. This is the sort of thing I really wish Eurostats would look into.

So much to read

So little time. Rodelinda loaned me An Instance of the Fingerpost a little while ago and I made the mistake last night of reading the first chapter whilst in the thick of The Secret Life of Trees, which continues beautiful. Fuck. The first chapter snared me. But I will wait until done the tree book.

I've put the Nancy Mitford omnibus by after finishing The Pursuit of Love, which I found actually terribly moving. Thought about just continuing reading, going on to Love in a Cold Climate, but I found I actually needed a rest after that. I think the closing line of the Pursuit of Love is one of the best in the history of literature. I have a nasty habit which I work with occasional success to suppress of reading the final few lines of books after reading the first chapter - in the case of The Pursuit of Love I failed to suppress it (though I didn't go back far enough to 'ruin the ending' as it were). But that last line still managed to catch me absolutely off-guard.