Only the crumbliest, flakiest Tuesdays

… tastes like Tuesdays never tasted before.

Good morning.

It’s Tuesday.

The most nothingy day of the week – the day where dreams go to die.

It’s raining.

I’m wet.

I was late to work.

Today, there was a Spanish speaking woman who had a voice like nails on a blackboard, having a heated debate throughout my entire bus journey. I know I shouldn’t acknowledge this, but I was cursing the fact that she was not speaking in English.

Not because I’m a Brexit-supporting, immigrants OUT, OUT, OUT type of person (in fact I’m very much in favour of free movement of people everywhere – if our capitalist overseers want free movement of product and removal of all trade barriers to increase their profits, then the obvious consequence is to allow free movement of people to make the best lives they can, for themselves, wherever they want to).

And on a purely selfish level, the dietary choices in Ireland in 2016, are 34 million times better than they were thirty years ago – this not due to the inexorable rise of street food, or eateries, or even the sundried tomato and extra virgin, gluten free olive oil. It’s directly linked to immigration.

No. My annoyance at her shrieking melodrama, was as a result of frustration. It sounded like big, meaty domestic argument. I don’t wish ill on anyone but I do love a soap opera in the morning on the way to work. Since angry South African woman has bought a car, the domestics on my daily bus journey have been mundane. This one sounded like a zinger however, involving accusations, and recriminations and apportioning of blame, and insult. In fact if I was to hazard a guess, I might even say it was a ‘You done me wrong, and now you’re going to pay’, type conversation.

Just my cup of tea.

I didn’t understand a word of it however, so was denied the opportunity to live vicariously through someone else’s melodrama. Instead all I got was shouting. And at 8.30, that’s simply not on.

I suppose if she becomes a regular, I may have to take Spanish lessons, to facilitate my eavesdropping.

On the plus side it’s only 4 days to the weekend; and there are free Danish pastries  in the canteen.

Hmmm!  Danish pastries – something else we can thank the immigrants for.


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