Just when the prospect of a fine weekend started to be a distinct and welcome possibility, the phone rang.
'What are you doing this weekend?' asked the manager, plaintively. He was calling from Qatar where one of our more 'demanding' projects is coming to the boil. I knew instantly that it wasn't going to an invitation to a garden party, one where free gin is served and all the other guests are drop dead gorgeous cover girls with a penchant for overweight mariner types.
I was right. Lowestoft calls. A town famous for its past glories as king of the Herring catchers and its new one, as a dosshole. The temptation to say I'd got a bad back a couldn't possibly leave the comfort of my sofa by the telly was great, but you can't let a chap down when he asks nicely. Tomorrow then, I shall venture forth into the land of hopelessness and incest (and that's just in Margate) and do my bit for the cause. Just which cause is, as yet, undecided.
On the corporate front, Farce of the Dribbling Stream continues its quest to oubloat the bloatiest when it comes to management structures. We've got more directors than Overheads Unlimited Plc, winner of last year's Queen's Award for 'Courting immininent disaster due to inappropriate overmanning in non fee earning departments'. But hey, what do I know, I'm only solvent.
Not being a fan of the UK road system I checked online to see how long it would take to travel from dearest Margate to Lowestoft by choo choo. Seemingly, 7 hours!!!! Now doesn't that just make you want to ditch your jamjar and opt for public transport.
