Dave From A Registered Charity, Goldfish Eyes, And The Crapmobile.

"Hullo, can I speak to a uh... *stutters over my father's last name a few times*?" "Ah, no, I'm afraid he's not around, can I take a message?" "Uhm, who is this?" "Well, I might ask you the same question, sir. His daughter." "Oh, then tell him it's Dave from a registered charity." "We'll see, Dave from a registered charity, we'll see."
Some people.
Huzzah, peoplefolk, it's me. Just twentyseven days later than last time it was me and I was whittering on about GI Jive Hour or something. Seriously though, the 1940s UK Radio Station... so much love.
Now, there three key thoughts on my end today:
1. A woman with goldfish eyes insisted of picturegraphing me in my uniform in a very unatural position. Nobody poses like that, woman. Nobody. We won't go into the details, but it involved rolling my sleeves down so I didn't agree with it.
2. Builders. I love builders. It seems they mostly drink tea, and talk down their phones, but suddenly infrastructure appears at their finger tips.
3. As I was crossing the road, a young man who looked a little...spaced out... drove past with banging fairground music blaring from his crapmobile. Resisted the urge to skip in circles.

Love, luck, tea.
Daphne.