Miles of curry and mobile phones
Isn't it amusing how as fund levels lower, stress levels seem to act like global warming?
I'm not stressed as such yet, but there is a distinct odour d'rush creeping over my once so clean and perfumed body.
Not all is like a sauna though!
I have found a new home. It will serve as a base while I try to find my long lost childhood friend... and a job.
The mere use of the word sends shivers running up and down my spine.
To tell you the god's honest truth, some of us are made to work and other's are more suited to spending... and I sure as hell don't fit into the former catagory. Since I stopped working my dandruff has cleared up! If that's not a sure sign that I'm allergic to commitment, I don't know what is!
But now I have a base, so nothing's holding me back. I've decided on a two-track approach to deal with my dual missions in life (finding Robbie and getting a job). Yes, I'm going to attempt to do both at the same time in a juggling act which may (but probably won't), eventually, get me a high paid job in a circus.
Manchester is divided into different neighbourhoods, the new neighbourhood I'm living in is called Rusholme. It's pleasant in a working-class sort of a way and it's multi-cultural in a sort of "hood" like way.
I live next to what is known as "The curry mile".
I can hear you thinking: "Why the hell is it called the curry mile?"
So, let me explain...
First, I don't really hear you thinking. That would not be a good sign of fine mental health.
Secondly, it's not really a mile, it's more like half a mile. A mile is a distance, not unlike a kilometer, but slightly longer. Or something like that. So it's basically "The Curry slightly more than 500 meters."
It's so called because every restaurant in it sells curries. It's like "little Bombay."
No. The irony of it all hasn't escaped me either. Maybe my destiny is linked to Indian food and I will meet a nice little Indian girl who'll cook me curries and vindaloos for the rest of my life; which will be spent on a squat bog as fire shoots forth from my burning and tattered anus.
Everywhere I go, I get asked the same question: "What's your telephone number?"
At the jobcentre (or "hell" as I refer to it as), at the bank when you want to open a bank account (which is another little bureaucratic nightmare just waiting to snap at my ankles or sour my wine, although probably both), at the library, etc. etc.
So, I caved in and bought myself a mobile.
It cost ten pounds and comes with thirty pounds worth of phone-minutes (or whatever they're called) and another thirty pounds worth of equipment (that's me joking about the money and the weight system being the same...just in case you didn't get it).
What it seemingly doesn't come with is a telephone number.
I'm going to have to spend some of my phone-minute pound thingies to call someone and ask them what my number is. How daft is this?
Hell, the bank and the library (and the etc. etc.'s) will just have to wait a little longer. In the meantime I'm off for a curry and some vaseline.
I'm not stressed as such yet, but there is a distinct odour d'rush creeping over my once so clean and perfumed body.
Not all is like a sauna though!
I have found a new home. It will serve as a base while I try to find my long lost childhood friend... and a job.
The mere use of the word sends shivers running up and down my spine.
To tell you the god's honest truth, some of us are made to work and other's are more suited to spending... and I sure as hell don't fit into the former catagory. Since I stopped working my dandruff has cleared up! If that's not a sure sign that I'm allergic to commitment, I don't know what is!
But now I have a base, so nothing's holding me back. I've decided on a two-track approach to deal with my dual missions in life (finding Robbie and getting a job). Yes, I'm going to attempt to do both at the same time in a juggling act which may (but probably won't), eventually, get me a high paid job in a circus.
Manchester is divided into different neighbourhoods, the new neighbourhood I'm living in is called Rusholme. It's pleasant in a working-class sort of a way and it's multi-cultural in a sort of "hood" like way.
I live next to what is known as "The curry mile".
I can hear you thinking: "Why the hell is it called the curry mile?"
So, let me explain...
First, I don't really hear you thinking. That would not be a good sign of fine mental health.
Secondly, it's not really a mile, it's more like half a mile. A mile is a distance, not unlike a kilometer, but slightly longer. Or something like that. So it's basically "The Curry slightly more than 500 meters."
It's so called because every restaurant in it sells curries. It's like "little Bombay."
No. The irony of it all hasn't escaped me either. Maybe my destiny is linked to Indian food and I will meet a nice little Indian girl who'll cook me curries and vindaloos for the rest of my life; which will be spent on a squat bog as fire shoots forth from my burning and tattered anus.
Everywhere I go, I get asked the same question: "What's your telephone number?"
At the jobcentre (or "hell" as I refer to it as), at the bank when you want to open a bank account (which is another little bureaucratic nightmare just waiting to snap at my ankles or sour my wine, although probably both), at the library, etc. etc.
So, I caved in and bought myself a mobile.
It cost ten pounds and comes with thirty pounds worth of phone-minutes (or whatever they're called) and another thirty pounds worth of equipment (that's me joking about the money and the weight system being the same...just in case you didn't get it).
What it seemingly doesn't come with is a telephone number.
I'm going to have to spend some of my phone-minute pound thingies to call someone and ask them what my number is. How daft is this?
Hell, the bank and the library (and the etc. etc.'s) will just have to wait a little longer. In the meantime I'm off for a curry and some vaseline.
posted by Mark at 11:38 AM
5 Comments:
dude your number is in the box on one of the little booklets, is your phone by any chance red?
No, Hell is red.
:)
Ah, and there goes his life of freedom...the blocks are falling like dominoes...
Give us your number then, precious...
Oh, and is there room enough for Trace and me? In your base, I mean?
Hey hey how u'r doing, sorry I can't get bloody through. So why don't ya give me yer name and yer number and give it to hell too.
the dude is a poet?
I can see it now. A life spent slinging curry and flinging nan in a cafe ib curry half-mile, with your off hours spent sitting on the porcelain throne.
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