Nervous though I may be about my new hospital gig, I'm not that sorry to be bidding adieu to office life and the existential head-scratching it provokes in me; 'business' - the name for that which sheaths our fangs. Yesterday The Da and Bro 2 met up with the Boys, the current sharp-creased dream team, to hatch their latest money-generating scheme.
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I've always tried to imagine how Jane would sound. I keep picturing her as a female mirror of the Masterpiece Theater guy.
I may adopt your scheme for telemarketers..
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Telemarketers - emit a piercing shriek down the phone. Good enough for the intrusive annoyances that they are.
Or pretend you're a fax machine.
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Hmm...I like being able to get my cyber-hands on some previously difficult or impossible-to-find things through the wonder of Google or whatever but it does take some of the pleasure of successful hunts or chance discoveries from life. The Internet - doing away with serendipitous finds since the late 20th Century.
Hullo then young Mr Westwood. For a frantic moment I thought that was the same name as radio's ageing wigga hip-hop authority but no, he's Tim, aint he?
When I seemed trapped in office hell, the hospital job seemed a perfect escape route. Now that it's more or less in the bag I am crapping myself a bit. But it's true, doing real work with visible, positive results will bale out my foundering self-esteem.
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I love Bad Bob's child psychologist - chin-stroking do-gooder!
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