Monday Morning Misery

The laughs, the gossip and the tequila of Friday night have been replaced with the tiredness, the drudgery and the small talk of Monday morning and I am not happy about any of it.

Meeting up with Doormouse and Snow was hilarious and we all had such fun. We gayed it forward and spent the night bar hopping round Soho. There was no trip to the Hell pub of the previous week, so we were all safe from stabbings and flashers and we got so drunk we didn't notice the rain was hammering down and we were all soaked through. Highlights of the evening for me would have to include the big-breasted barmaid in the Admiral Duncan from Bognor Regis - poor girl - telling me and Doormouse that we were the most interesting people to ever walk into the pub. "I believe you," I said. "Look around - the place is full of cunts."

Then of course there was the paparazzi man who couldn't stop taking pictures of Snow in the same pub. He said he was a professional tabloid photographer, but we weren't sure whether or not to believe that coming from a man holding a simple digital camera not much bigger than a mobile phone.

Cider got drunk, shots were downed and men were talked about. The night was brilliant and ended with me and Snow on the last train home from Kings Cross while Doormouse tried to score some naughty white stuff.

Saturday was a blur, as was yesterday. But now I am back at the office for another week of looking for a new job when I should be finishing up all of my work. The pity looks have already started from people who've heard of my fate. They try not to look you in the eye and usually bite their bottom lip and just say, "you alright?"

I had two this morning: one in the lift on the way up and one at the water cooler. My reply tends to be along the lines of: "Yeah, I'm fine, I just wanna get the fuck out of this place now." Which I think is the best way to deal with it.

Why is small talk with a co-worker so painful?