Tuesday, 28 January 2014

Holidays

There seem to be periods of time when people do nothing save for discuss their holidays. The first of these times comes between January and March when people are so depressed by the weather here that they start planning to escape it...except they wait until June through August to do so.

So people talk about the plans they are making of where to go and what to do and see and where they have been before - especially if someone brings up a particular landmark in an area... The number of times I have heard people say "oh don't go to the Louvre, the Mona Lisa is so disappointing" makes me want to scream, take an art course and then explain to them in painstaking detail how and why they are more wrong than Fred was the time he decided I should stop smoking and drinking.

The second time is just before they actually go on holiday and all they can talk about is packing, which books they are taking and how much they need a rest. The third is when they get back from the holiday and all they can do is either talk about how wonderful it was or how truly awful and how they are never going back.

All of these conversations you would assume I would manage to avoid not working in an office with 53,000 other people, but no, apparently my clients think I want to know more about them other than if their cheques won't bounce. Sadly sometimes instead of saying they can pay me they just launch into talk of their holidays...I have had to learn not to shoot these people if I still want to get paid.

I have never been on holiday - I have too much to do hunting down villains and annoying Fred and when Fred is away on his holidays having the space and time of not having him breathing down my neck. So I guess that is technically a holiday for me.

The idea of sitting on a beach doing nothing for two weeks apart from increasing my chance of skin cancer has never appealed to me, nor has trawling around great sprawling cities - dodging pickpockets, beggars and cheap plastic tat being waved in my face also doesn't particularly thrill me.

So when Fred and Harry turned up at my office, put me in handcuffs and threw me in the back of the car I assumed that I was just being arrested again - this time for break and entering, however when I was taken to the airport and frog marched between the two of them onto a plane that took off; I got the impression that I wasn't being taken to the police station - call me crazy.

When we got off the plane into heat that made me lose half my body weight in sweat in three seconds I found I wasn't in Kansas any longer.

Now I am trying to get in touch with some black market arms dealers so I can get hold of some form of weapon to put bullets in the feet of both Fred and Harry so they can understand how much anguish they are making me suffer.

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