Day 273: I Send My CV To My Brother

In three weeks, my contract in Amsterdam is up! I do not want to go back to London, the scene of my birth, as it is a terrible place to live unless you are originally from elsewhere and/or a millionaire. Because of this, I must "actively look for work", something I have never really had to do before, what with nepotism and blackmail in my armoury.

"Send me your CV", yawned my brother the other day. He lives in Amsterdam with a beautiful lady, and has done for nearly five years. Because of this he knows some people who need other people to do jobs.

My CV is two pages long, and is not prefaced by a "personal statement" written in the third person. This is because I do not like "personal statements". They make me want to vomit.

"Derek is an extremely competent marketing professional with over twenty years' experience as the Director of a Blue Chip Company. Experienced across a wide range of marketing disciplines, Derek combines a solid foundation in marketing expertise with the creative-mindedness of the lateral thinker. A strong and respected leader, Derek has an active portfolio of marketing qualifications, including a BTEC in Cockmonkey Studies from the University of Luton. Derek is an asset to any organisation, combining a bubbly personality with solid inter-disciplinary stapling skills."

But I digress. I sent my brother my CV with an email. The email said "Here it is. I think I need to update it a bit. What do you think?"

My brother replied:

"What about your interests section? Photographing coffee and biscuits, falling off your bike, being a twat?"

I shall be employed before the day is out!

Day 272: I Am Back From New York

"Do you mind gutting fish?" I asked the pathologist once, wide-eyed with wonder. He looked at me sideways. "I'm a pathologist", he murmured. Had he been less kind he would have patted my hand.

Several months later, we were standing outside a shop. "You'll like it in here", he said, and opened the door.









"What are THEY?", I yelped, pointing at the stripey things.

"Chipmunks", said he.

"Like the ones in your wood?"

"Yes".

"Will they eat the ginseng?"

"Possibly."

"And squirrels. Little fuckers. I hate squirrels."

"I know you do", said the pathologist.

Time passed. We went to look at dogs playing in a park. There were women and whippets in coats. None of them were fat.



Later that night, in the hotel bar, the pathologist was chatted up by three men.

"YOU. ARE. SO. GAY!", said the tiniest of them.

"Am I?" said the pathologist.

The tiny man's bald friend inspected the pathologist's hands.

"So soft!", he sighed.

"He wears a lot of latex", I replied.

"But not gay. No. No manicure", sighed tiny man.

The following day we went to the park. Instead of an Easter egg, the pathologist gave in to my incessant demands for a go in a carriage. I chose one with a happy horse, a jocular driver and a number of fake flowers and Irish flags. "Can I hold your hand under the rug?", I bellowed. "Yes", said the pathologist. We followed all the other carriages in a line. It snowed, and the man driving the carriage pointed things out, like the towers that were in Ghostbusters and the skating rink that was in everything. "How interesting!", I squeaked in insincere tones. (The driver took our picture: in it, I am doing a double thumbs up, and the pathologist is wearing a backwards casquette.)

We were maudlin for much of the afternoon, pushed to the edge of reason by an oat bran muffin eaten at a table with yellow rice stuck to it. "I resisted fried chicken", said the pathologist gloomily, picking out raisins. "I hate raisins. And there are only two in it anyway." I complained about my leg and hopped down the stairs. We went back to our hotel, where I tossed fitfully on the bed whilst the pathologist turned the pages of the New York Times quietly and like a mouse.

There was a comedy show in a place with beer after that. We queued in the cold; the pathologist suggested I go to the pharmacy to keep warm aware, as he is, of my great love of the North American 'drugstore'. The comedy was very good, despite the "woops" of the Californians on the Leprechaun bus.

The next morning we ate egg, took cabs, didn't queue, went to things that were closed, and travelled the length of Manhattan looking for donuts which were not available on Monday, despite their creator's support of Hilary Clinton. We drank capuccino at the bar of a man with an unsuccessful hair transplant who made a Shirley Temple, talked about the weather and maraschino cherries, and asked us to "stop by" next time we were "in town". We didn't tell him about the pigs.






















We left the transplant man and went and found our suitcases, which we put in separate taxis. The pathologist went left to California to talk about his nemesis, and I went right to ride upon an aeroplane filled to the brim with pug-faced Brummie schoolchildren, who ate crisps all the way back to Amsterdam.

It is strange without the pathologist, but I will leave it there: for nothing is more boring than that sort of story.

Day 270: I Am In New York

Day 267: I Am Going To New York

Last time I went to New York, I drank martinis and woke the next morning to find myself fully dressed, with M&Ms stuck to my face and German pornography barking in the background.

This time, it will be different! Not only am I certainly not travelling business class (for I will be crammed into seat 44J on my KLM flight for eight hours, eating cheese and watching Mr Bean in Dutch), but I will have a charming companion when I get there: the sort of chap who books things in advance, carries a knapsack and knows where the good restaurants are. I shall give him cocktails and see what happens.

Pip pip!

Day 266: I Drink Coffee

Things have been a little slow round Monkey Towers of late, what with the result of falling off my bicycle like an idiot and all. Despite the amusement involved in showing my mangled ankle off ("Fucking shut up! Put it away, you FREAK"), I cannot move very fast, which means long evenings in front of the televisual apparatus encased in ice packs, sipping Jenever from the jug.

But on Sunday I went outside! It took twenty minutes to make a journey that usually takes three, but heavens, look what was at the end of it! A very pretty cup of coffee and tiny slice of cake which makes, I am sure you will agree, a very interesting addition to my magnificent collection.












I have generously included for your enjoyment (and reference) my joint favourite, the cup of coffee from the Botanical Gardens (please note the attractive fern motif carved from the purest cocoa, probably made from beans in one of the greenhouses).






















Whatever next!