No, not Madonna. Moi. Yes I am now officially a 'Care Worker'. My friends are laying bets on how long I will manage to stay in employment in this capacity. Odds on for 5 seconds. You can get quite good odds apparently for me going back in time and retracting my application, so I will actually be employed for a time period in negative terms. I'm exaggerating slightly. Everyone's almost as thrilled for me as when I got engaged (not). Seriously, I'm looking forward to it slightly, in the same way one has a sort of nervous expectation when going to collect the newspaper in the rain. To be honest, they've already singled me out for a sacking probably - I was the only person who read our job contracts, they were actually trying to employ us as office workers. I have another new boss who I get on with very well, that's in my other job that I'm more keen on keeping. Astute readers will notice that this blog has tried to clean up its act recently. Patricia Hewitt in particular has had an easy time lately (or perhaps that's because she's retired, or should I say gone into consultancy with BT on £60k per annum for 1 day a week). Anyway, the new boss who I get on very well with has a lot of journalistic experience, so I'm hoping to nick some of his creative asperge. (A French word which probably doesn't exist but not knowing any French couldn't think of a good one to put in there). Apparently he takes four weeks to think of an idea and then takes 2 hours to write it into a six hundred word article. I'm the other way round. I get two million ideas per minute, then have to try and make it at least palletable over weeks. I'm my own worst editor and consequently delete a lot of rubbish. Even my new boss doesn't earn any money from it.
Other news, we had a marvellous meal at the Boxtree on Tuesday for our anniversary meal. It was bargain basement prices (compared to London anyway) superb, great service. It has made me want to try 'Anthony's' in Leeds. Our word of mouth reviews (who quite frankly are useless) said it was rubbish and overpriced. But the Good Food Guide put it in the top twenty in the Uk, so we'll have to go there soon. (They said the Boxtree was good). Our 'word of mouth' reviews recommended this 'all meals under the sun on one plate and as much as you can eat' place in Leeds, which Phil took me to. I lasted two nano seconds. I preferred the taste of my own vomit. And, as all my friends have been informing me, that, as well as the smell -and feel, if not taste - of excrement is something I will be having to get used to over the coming weeks. And these people get the minimum wage. It's an Outrage. If only Tony Harrison was a trade union rep. [Mum: You probably haven't seen it, but he's the pink octopus Shaman on the BAFTA awardwinning comedy The Mighty Boosh written by Noel Fielding and Julian Barratt]