Things that seem true but probably aren't

1. Half of Adelaide has taken up smoking in the past eight weeks. Perhaps there was some sort of World Take Up Smoking Day Event and I missed it. Probably fortunate that I did, really.


2. Working days are awfully long affairs, aren't they?


3. Despite there being several hundred foot outlets in town, every single one of them sells sushi, soft cheeses, cold meats, pre-made salads, alcohol and/or coffee. And nothing else.


4. Every single one of my workmates is so irritating, obtuse and dull that really in the scheme of things my bad mood is entirely justified because honestly can I be expected to keep quiet when M makes sexist jokes or G tries to tell me how to do my job or K asks me whether I've finished that thing yet when obviously I haven't finished that thing because I am TIRED and BUSY and my God do you people realise how much effort it takes for me to get out of BED in the mornings recently and furthermore and additionally SHUT UP.


5. Alternatively, all of my friendships are based on the shared consumption of alcohol. I don't know which explanation gives me greater pause.


6. Bed, despite wafting its lusciously soft pillows through my consciousness at inconvenient moments (much in the same way that the touch of a man's knuckle brushing against one's cheek or the sensation of gently biting into a warmly salt-slicked shoulder comes back into one's mind during an important client meeting and makes one blush, or at least it used to, you know, back in the days when one had a libido) and flaunting its wanton comfiness as soon as I arrive home, is not actually very comfortable. In fact, I swear that all of my pillows have morphed into strangle triangular beings designed to give me a neck crick. This is the only plausible explanation for the fact that, no matter how tired I am when I go to bed, I never sleep particularly well.


7. No, really, the working day. Let's talk about it. Does it seem reasonable to you that one is expected to work for up to ten hours a day? Does it? Does it really? Because it seems to me that we'd all be far happier with a thirty hour week. I'm just saying, look at the French! With their...chic, and their cafes, and their haute cuisine and okay okay their racial tensions and high unemployment rates and may I refer you to point number 4 wherein I invited you to SHUT UP?

Reading books together is an excellent way for a couple to bond before the great day

Okay, so it says here that you may be worried that I will get fat and flabby and stay that way forever and ever, and that this is a completely legitimate concern.

Right.

And if you do worry, you should never ever tell me or even hint at it, even if that means lying through your teeth.

Does the book say that?

No, that's me telling you.

Okay then.

...

Just out of interest, what does the book say?

Oh. It says "It is difficult enough to stick to a rigid diet for two weeks. To help her stick to it for nine months you will need to provide encouragement and support." But you have to prod my conscience, not be my conscience. Apparently this involves 'quietly reminding' me when eating out with friends in a restaurant rather than making a public announcement.

So I should whisper that you have to order the salad rather than shouting You're Not Having The Alfredo AND The Garlic Bread Are You? No Wonder You've Turned Into Such A Porker?

Yes.

Got it.

Or, and it's just a thought I'm throwing out there, you could always just remember that I'm a grown adult capable of choosing my own meals, and mind your own damn business.

That was pretty much my plan.

Glad to hear it. What's for dinner?

Hey, remember how I was going to stop blogging unless something really interesting happened?

When we moved into this building, one of its much touted features was the glass-walled offices. Each office is walled entirely in glass, meaning that anyone walking past can see you and what you are doing at any given point. Comparisons with the Panopticon come to mind.

In the past, this has meant that shopping online for lingerie, spending half an hour rearranging my shelf ornaments (...shut up) or snacking on anything less decorous than a pre-cut-up apple* have been fraught with danger. How the Partners manage to conduct their tawdry affairs with their little blonde secretaries** is beyond me. I guess one finds ways and means, just as I've learned not to be bothered by people looking askance at the feminist blog up on the screen or the fact that I have seven pairs of shoes in one corner.

These days, it mostly just bothers me because I can't take a 3 pm nap under my desk.

* The pre-cut apple has long been my visual symbol for What Is Wrong With The World Today. Not the home-cut apple, you understand, nor even the little baggies one can buy at sandwich bars. But did you know that you can buy pre-sliced apple, vacuum packed in a little plastic bag, from the supermarket? As in, the fresh food aisle? As in, next to the actual apples? The ones which are about a quarter of the price? Those apples? Well, you can. And that is What Is Wrong With The World Today.

** This is a joke. To the best of my knowledge, all the Partners are fine upstanding*** members**** of society. Who do not have affairs with their secretaries, blonde or otherwise.

***Heeee

****Okay, okay, I'm stopping now