Justice

I'm going to get sick of the Michael Jackson thing in five ... four ... three ... two ... one.

We didn't really get the trial here, so far as I could see. What we got was occasional sidebars in Metro with Americans with signs and shrines to the man's innocence. So frankly, I'd almost forgotten he was on trial. I didn't think he'd get anything more than a slap on the wrists, though -- it was kind of obvious from what little I did see that the prosecution side were trying it on at least somewhat, which gives reasonable doubt a look-in. Still, LJ is going to be full of arguments, quotes and opinions, and I will go quietly nuts. Or not-so-quietly, knowing me.

Must leave fairly soon. I at least have my route mapped out. I take the 263 as normal, then I take the 43. Then, when I'm done helping justice to be served insofar as I can when I'm undercaffeineated at 8:30 on a Tuesday morning, I will hop a 2-something-or-other and go back to work. Yay. After a day at work, I will come home to an empty house as dodgyhoodoo is going off to the movies with weaselbitch. I think putting together a dinner for one with what we've got in the fridge shouldn't be a problem, provided I can be bothered at the end of the day. Then? Probably Sims 2 or just a book.

Oops. Chatting to nightskywarlock and the time, it has got away from me. Hasta.

Doing and not-doing

Went through mug shots with a couple of police constables dressed like hobos with access to washing machines. Picked out kid who actually did the smashing. Am supposed to give witness statement -- probably Thursday. So I'll be off work early that day, hurrah! I don't think work can complain as I'm doing my civic duty; we do work with the Islington Council, after all. Besides, last week someone in my building had the same thing happen to their car so there's a vested interest in getting the toerag caught, if that happens as a result and if indeed it was the same toerag. Same modus operandi, anyway.

dodgyhoodoo off at the pictures. I hope he's having a good time. I'm at quite the loose end at the minute, though -- yesterday I was too apathetic and mopey to properly bitch, and now I could actually do with a drink and a massive rant about the fact that, among other things, I wound up spending my morning packing boxes full of someone else's crap (what am I; a mover?) and he's out. Boo.

I did text him about the mover thing, though. He asked if I had seen contract or even job description. I've seen a job description (but no contract, of course; that would make sense), but I was told in the interview that part of this job involves not paying attention to the job description at all and doing whatever random shit needs doing. That is not a secretary -- that is a Girl Friday. I am a Girl Friday at 28 years of age. Holy mother of fuck, this is depressing. Not to mention the fact that, after watching Vera at work, I realise that I'm a better secretary than she is (better organised, better at multi-tasking, and I can type faster and more accurately than she can even when thrown off by the finger injury) and I still don't get anything but menial shit to do. Maybe it'll be better when I get paid and can 'dress for the job'.

So I'll go prepare myself some dinner, then sit around and faff, probably. Ugh. If only I wasn't so migraine-prone; Sin City sounds like one of the few movies I'd actually like to see. Oh well; I couldn't take a late night and possible alcohol overindulgence anyway, not if I'm going to stomach another day in the spirit-sapping job without yelling at someone.