A Hard Day At The Office

This is where it all gets a bit postmodern (with a small p). The writing I was referring to in that last post was something I was asked to do for The Guardian G2 supplement. I have actually never read it but by God I’m writing something for it. Sort of. It’s all because of Franz Ferdinand you see. That last time I saw Bob out and about he mentioned something about it and then sometime last week I got an email from someone at the Guardian. (Maybe it was actually The Guardian himself. Guarding us all from the horrors of unsuitable cultural influence).

So The ‘Nand have somehow wormed their way into being guest editors for an issue of G2 and it seems that they decided to inflict my good self on an unsuspecting Guardian readership. Good work.

What’s actually happening is that I have been instructed to have a discussion via email with two complete strangers. Yes, well. One guy hasn’t said a thing and the other guy, Rhodri is managing to put up with my flippant attitude to forced discussions.

The upshot of this being that I am currently writing about some writing that I’m doing about the writing that I do. The knock on effect of the inclusion of this information here in Burning Salad means that the writing that I’m doing about it will now be me writing about my writing that is about the writing that is about the writing that I do. Far be it from me to actually write about anything that actually happens. Oh, okay then…

I chucked out an old office chair the other day because it was here when I moved in, rather mangy and I’m allergic to office furniture (offices full stop actually). I left it out front for the special forces binmen that only come on a Monday. Woe betide you if you don’t get your rubbish out before eleven and to tell the truth I was cutting it fine. I thought, ‘Shit- I hope I don’t have to lug that bloody chair back up the stairs- especially if it rains’. Imagine my surprise when at about midday I heard a fairly loud and quite strange sound coming from the street below that could only be described as somewhere between a whiz and a trundle. (My untrained ear had failed to correctly identify plastic office chair wheel on concrete). So I looked out of the window and saw an unruly youth from the nearby school sat braced in said item of ex-furniture as a willing cohort wheeled him around in a very random and dangerous fashion. In the middle of the road. And I though, ‘Aw fuck- they’re going to crash it into a neighbours car and abandon it’. But no. I looked on with glee as they successfully tackled the learning curve for steering an office chair up the street at speed. They actually managed to navigate a perfectly straight course right down the middle of the road. And as I leaned out the window to watch them disappear off into the distance I was pleased to note that the elite Monday binmen had failed to make an appearance. I was the only resident whose rubbish had been removed. (Albeit by being dumped in a hedge somewhere by a couple of delinquent future binmen).

Anyway, where was I? Let’s see… Well, the cat’s been the major feature of my home life at the moment. We’ve had him for about a week and a half now and he’s already grown. He’s not big enough to jump up onto things yet. For this he has developed a technique of running up the nearest pair of jeans (sometimes t-shirt, and sometimes head). Very funny. Very painful. Not very funny anymore. When he’s not slashing you, he’s slashing the nearest object and when he’s not doing that he is very friendly. Then he starts destroying things again. (I am currently saving up to buy Rob a nice comfy pair of mouse pyjamas). And he’s got a name now too. After much deliberation and scratching of head (and being scratched), he is called…[drum roll]…[the sound of mice evacuating]… Cat-Shape!