I'm back at work now, which is pretty fun on the whole, if you exclude our deli radio being taken away. All workers are now forced to listen to possibly the worst radio station known to mankind as it is played through a tanoy system linked up to the office. What makes it even worse is that the volume on it is so low that you can only hear little bits of the song every few seconds - particularly annoying when it is "Irish Jig Hour". The other day there was a song playing that repeated the lyrics 'bless you child' for about three hours, shortly followed by a jazz version of 'Here We Go Round The Mulberry Bush', a personal favourite but not something I want to listen to as I stand there and get splattered in chicken fat because some incompetent member of staff cannot hold the bucket properly. (Ok, so the incompetent member of staff was me, but that's really neither here nor there...)
At the moment I am taking a break for my ever continuing essay writing period as I seem to have hit some kind of a block halfway through. I'm meant to be writing about how the recession is affecting consumerism... Unfortunately, all I know about the economy is that Chomps have gone up to 17p and I am not happy about it. And apparently TK-Maxx have started charging 4p for carrier bags - what is that all about?! I would rather carry my hideous crocodile-skin shoes (seriously, that's what they sell) in my hands than pay 4p for a bag only to watch it later be sabotaged when some stupid pigeon gets its head stuck in the handle. I don't mean to be rude to pigeons, but seriously, all (and I stress all) the pigeons in Bradford seem to have inherited some kind of stupid gene. On average, I see about three a day almost get run over by a bus on Sunbridge Road and yet, when they see it coming at them, instead of flying off they proceed to run down the road in front of it... I don't know if they think they can outrun it or what, but I honestly do not know what they're thinking - YOU'VE GOT WINGS, USE THEM! I'd have thought the Bradford pigeons especially would be more prone to using their wings as about 1 in 3 of them seem to have one, if not two, deformed feet. Maybe they're like, thalidomide pigeons or something.
Still, there are some good things about Bradford. None that I can think of right now, but there must be something. One of my friends was telling us the other day about an article they'd been reading entitled '50 Things To Do In Bradford', to which Sally responded, 'what was number 50? Kill yourself?' There is seriously nothing good about this city, if you stood and turned in a circle, all you'd see is knocked down buildings, junkies and deformed pigeons. The other night me and Taaryn had the pleasure of being subject to a man ranting to us outside Wetherspoons about how cool we were and how he was now 'off the drugs'. He didn't hesitate to tell us he'd been in prison twice, after which we made a sharp exit back inside to make sure Sally hadn't been hit on again by the old man who had earlier sat next to her and attempted some kind of snuggling before he left. After two nights in one week, going out in Bradford isn't really something I particularly want to participate in again anytime soon. Or ever, come to think about it.