phone of blood

I have foolishly purchased a mobile phone from the internet. I only wanted a basic one, though I naturally assumed that it would be less basic than my current and very old Nokia. Not so: it is thinner, but the size of the font on the texts seems anxious to make up for that. The letters are so fat that you can only see one word at a time on the screen; or half a word, if it's a long word, like - say - 'number'. This means that you have to scroll through any messages you manage to receive one word at a time, which makes you feel like a retard, reading the words of a retard. Maybe it is intended for people who only text in emergencies: brief and non-specific cries for help. Like, for example: 'Help!'

Although I'm not sure that it has an exclamation mark.

It does have a more discreet and melodic ringtone than my old one. Not that this is necessarily appropriate. It rang the other day - discreetly, melodically - to announce, via the letting agent, that our 'nightmare of a landlady' was on her way round to the house, even though she was meant to be coming the day after. After all her ominous calls about her desperate financial situation, and her warning that 'her problem could become our problem' if we didn't get out ASAP, I anticipated carnage. I was at work, however, and could only picture the scene. Would she chain herself to the radiator? Would I return home to find her lying in a pool of blood minus her head with Ross standing over her, sword in hand?

But all she did was wander round measuring things, pick up the mail for her new business mysteriously located at this address (Suggested slogan: 'Our problem could become your problem!') and apparently not mind at all that we will indeed be leaving right at the very last minute. Because we do have a new house, not available until the end of the month, hastily secured by Dave before either Ross or I could view it. It's a bit of a contrast after a big town house: a one-room bungalow.

It is a very nice room though.

This week I look forward to a job interview at the National Blood Service. I applied for this despite never having given blood, and indeed being made rather squeamish by the very thought of it. Nevertheless, I figured that at least I won't be bored there if I'm fighting off nausea all the time. I imagine myself being shown 'the blood room', where all the blood is kept, and laughing and saying: 'But of course it isn't real!' And then they tell me, and I scream and scream...

But Nici Dawson used to work there, and she says it isn't like that. You need security clearance to get to the blood. They do demand discretion and confidentiality though. I'm great at that, as everyone knows.