This week sees me back where I belong, in my ecological niche on the A45. Plus I have not one but TWO Gideon bibles – one being the one I stole from Westone Manor last week. So I’m planning to have a full on meltdown this evening and wandering the corridors wearing a towel and a shower cap and reading aloud from St Paul’s letters to the Corinthians. Then I may sit in reception for bit offering to heal lepers and trying to magic the sweeties out of the vending machine, before popping down the canal for a spot of walking on water. I think it might provide a bit of much needed good PR for Christianity after the book burning loonies of Utah have been hogging the lime light. We need to hark back to a time when religious zealots were a bunch of harmless eccentrics.
As you can see, living in a Travelodge is causing not inconsiderable damage to my mental state. In fact, I don’t think I am going to be doing it much longer. You know when you see articles in lifestyle magazines about people who gave up their six figure salaries to sell patchouli door to door, and you think “why the fuck did you do that then, you prick?”? Well let me tell you, these people probably had to spend weekdays in Travelodges and after a month of that being a patchouli salesperson seems quite appealing. If any lifestyle magazines want to interview me, I will be happy to explain exactly how and why living in a Travelodge sucks cock and likes it.
I’m wondering if I am in spectacularly the wrong job, or if everyone spends their working days having violent fantasies and setting elaborate traps for other users of the shared kitchen. Perhaps the office environment simply isn’t for me. Perhaps I’d be happier with something outside, door to door maybe. Possibly involving patchouli.
