Going to the dogs.

This week has been far too plain sailing for me. I’ve had 3 nights out of fun seeing friends, I’ve had decent nights of sleep, I’ve not spent too much time bickering with Steve or worrying, so I guess it was high time for a series of amusing and embarrassing things to happen. This morning I arrived in work to find a large box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts sitting in the kitchen, a present for our breakfast from one of our newest recruits, a developer called Kevin. I tucked in to a doughnut or two straight away, smacking my lips and licking away the delicious sugariness. I sat at my desk and gathered my thoughts before the first meeting of the day.

During the meeting I was harping on as ever when I felt a little ‘pinging’ sensation somewhere around my tummy and something fell neatly into my lap. A button from my shirt. It seems the button had been overstrained around my middle and had given up the fight against the doughnut army. I scooped it up and held it in my hand so that no-one would notice and gave silent thanks that said button, had not popped off my chest. Realising I couldn’t spend the whole day exposing my pudgy midriff I sent a plea to the office for cotton and a threads and the sniggers were audible. I cursed my doughnut munching. Within minutes I'd located some thread in reception and was waiting for the lift to arrive, and pulling up my shirt to try and bite off the loose thread (and exposing all my white tummy and some of my bra) when the lift door opened and out walked a besuited chap who went bright red at all this over exposure so early in the morning.

Later on, my friend and I went to lunch, within seconds I had managed to slop bright yellow chicken curry down my trousers. This outfit had been carefully selected for its seamless day-to-night transition ability and there I was with a wonky button, manky trousers and quite frankly looking a wreck.

Ah well, the consolation for me has to be that tonight’s entertainment, greyhound racing at Wimbledon, is hardly likely to be a glamorous affair. In fact with some popped off buttons and curry stains I might actually fit in more seamlessly. I just need a wedge of well fingered grubby notes, a flat cap and a pint of ale and I’m away. By this time next week, I’ll be a millionaire.