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Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Black Cat, Black Kitten

I'm not sure where my mother has learned to drink, but I have a horrible inkling that it was the George Best School of Alcohol. And that her end-of-term certificate was presented by Peter O'Tool. Thus, this week is gradually becoming a write-off thanks to some inner monologue on Saturday suggesting that "Ha! You can keep up with your own mother!" Apparently this is not so. Nor a clever thought, as she was off ordering doubles and had already got so drunk she'd blagged a holiday to Oz from a woman she'd only met ten minutes before.

There's a new boy started working with her, 22 years old and quite naive. He is gradually working out that there's something not quite right with her - like her insistence that she can dance like Beyonce (she can't - and getting on the bar to do it certainly doesn't help) and that her arse is just like Kylie's (it's not. At all).

In fact, she's told everyone at work that her rear end is just like Kylie's so many times, and that she's so insistent about it, people are willing to let it go. So when she rounded on the new boy and said "Don't you think my arse is just like Kylie's?" there was a collective department sucking in their breaths, waiting to see how the new kid would do.

He took his time, mulled it over for a second or five and said "Well, I suppose they're spelt the same, aren't they?"

We like him. He can stay.

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