I work hard for my money. I must make enough to pay for food and for vices. And for bank charges. Sometimes I even do some extra work – I must if I want to maintain the level of wine to which my liver has become accustomed. So, when someone wastes my time, my precious wine-money-making time, I tend to become markedly less jovial than usual.
Read moreRoot cause of great service
Every six weeks or so, as mentioned in a previous story, I develop a marked grey halo around my hairline. This is the manifestation not only of my genes (my mother did, after all, turn grey by around the time she was thirty), but also of my level of maturity (read: age).
Read moreOffer me the avo, dammit!
Every so often, when the grey demands it, my sister and I visit the hair salon for the sake of those forced to look at us. We order wine from the pizzeria next door to the salon, then we sip that wine and catch up while some of our favourite people do their best to make us look respectable and feel good. (The latter always works. As for the former…there’s only so much they can do.)
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