Another Day, Another Dollar...

...and another fucking library. As a fat scouse mother mewls to a spluttering milk-covered baby, and some teenagers outside bray away to each other in that cadence reserved solely for young Liverpudlian reprobrates and mentally ill Norwegians,  it becomes irritatingly clear to be once again that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

You find me in a n uncharacteristically foul mood. We moved into a new house on quite a nice main road over here; the place was looking quite nice, if a bit unfinished, but Plastic Gav (the new landlord- a six-foot-plus rugby-shaped Southsider with a penchant for see-through shirts) assured us that despite the disarray of the electrics and appliances that the joint would be finished within a week.

One week on, there's no washing machine, cooker, internet or light bulbs in the hall, and the lad's only come round to fix the hot water today. So off I trot, in my usual fashion, to the library, to get some of the tension out of myself.

And to add to all this tension, every bank I've ever talked to seems to be asking me for money. And there aren't any jobs. So I'm sober. And it's not very nice.

Upshot? Well, I may be coming back to Belfast, at least for a few weeks. I hear Teletech are still hiring. Think it's time to report back to the Sky Broadband barracks... Lance IT Ballbag Lackey Hutcheon reportig for duty, carrying the last shred of my soul. It's overrated anyway.