There is a fly in my apartment (new today, not a resident). It flies around for a bit then lands on the carpet and walks around. What? Right? I yell at it: “dude, you’re a fly, not a walk, get the fuck up!” It does not respond. It taunts me with its tiny walking legs. I chased it but it ran under the couch.

You win this round, fly. You win this round.

I went to the newsagent to buy a pen and paper (Bonnie and Clyde). The chap in front of me bought $30 worth of lottery tickets. “Anything else?”, said the lackadaisical youth behind the counter*.

“Umm, I’ll get a Financial Times as well.”

Oh no he di-uhnt. $30 worth of lottery tickets and a Financial Times. Are you going to check if the experts say that lottery tickets are no longer for twits that don’t understand probability? Hey maybe lottery tickets are where the smart money is in 2015? Perhaps you want to know which lottery tickets will make the best long term investment: the ones with the pyramids, or that farm-themed series that just came out. Fucking moooo.

And don’t give me that shit about lottery tickets being an excuse to dream a little; that it’s fun to imagine what it would be like to win big. Why don’t you imagine buying the fucking ticket? Dream about that, dipshit.

In fact, give me the $30. I will buy $30 worth of water and go pour it on the grass over yonder. It is a little dry now that I look at it so probably could do with a drink; but still, I think it would get my-waste-of money point across.

I was in a little corner store this morning (no, not the newsagent; yeah I get around). One of those ones that’s really crowded like they got the number of aisles mixed up with the number of shelves**. Anyhoodles there was a doddering old man or significant year, looking a little bewildered (that he was still alive), loitering by the packets of soup and cat food and sewing kit shelf. One of the staff was coming through with a big tray of breads and said “excuse me, coming through”***. Alas, Father Time’s hearing aid was set to ‘do not disturb’ and she was forced to repeat this several times. This disgruntled her from her otherwise gruntled state and led her to mutter, in her outside voice, “oh for fucks sakes, I had to ask him three times”. Seriously, this really happened. The old man looked upset. I was upset. I wish I’d had the gall to set her straight. I played it over and over in my head on the way home:

“It’s ‘for fucks sake’. Not sakes. It’s for the sake of fuck, not the sakes of fuck. Gawd.”

But I said nothing. I let it slide. And that’s something I have to live with for the rest of my life.

* Did you think it was ‘lack-see-day-see-cal’?

** “We want four aisles.” “Four shelves down the middle. Got it.”

*** What in the devil is the plural of bread?