So this job I managed to land myself, you know what it is?

Promotional fucking fundraising.

Yes, that's right. So if a rather small member of girlkind with a bad cold and a funky hairdo with rainbow streaks in knocks at your door and asks for you to help out St John Ambulance the charity she's working on behalf of, you'll give her money, right?
Because she gets paid on a commission basis. And she needs to be paid lots, because she has a shoe fetish.

And I've just discovered the shop just round the corner from where I'm currently living (I was going to tell, but then I'd probably get fired, and I need the money. Frankly. I mean, I signed a contract saying I wouldn't talk about any of it, so it must be followed. *yawns*) sells bottles of wine for £1.50- not that that has anything in the slightest to do with me being rather penniless at the moment.

But it's uncouth to talk about money, and thats not what I've wrangled internet access for. As such.

My job being what it is- what? I know, I know, it's crap, but it pays pretty fucking well- I work a six day week, nine hours a day *mutters slightly incoherently under breath* so essentially, I meet lots of people.

And people are weird.

As in, I met a woman yesterday who told me she believes in mermaids, because they make sense, evolution wise.

And someone else told me blue wasn't my colour, which is a very valid point, but I knew that already.

And someone else thought I was a prostitute, somehow not noticing my ID badge with very attractive photo and hideous charity sloganised blue t-shirt. "Don't talk to me," he said. "I'll pay you what you ask, but don't say anything."

*grins*

But it's not all bad, and I want to get some of these things down before I forget.

One lady- rather lovely, invited me in and gave me hot chocolate and biscuits- told me some of her family history, which I love. Her Grandmother was Basque, and forced to flee Spain during the Civil War (I think. I'm sketchy on this point, so if you want to poke me in the right direction spelling or history wise, knock yourself out). However, comma, being a baby at the time, her parents doped her with opium, put her in the false bottom of a cask of fish and snuck her out of the country.
And settled in Wales and married into farming stock, which is quite a weak end to what began as a rather swashbuckling bedtime story Toby would be proud of.

More equally thrilling tales of life trying to exhort people out of money to follow- but not for a while yet, not having internet access where I'm living, and not being paid for another month *cue mental swearing* I'm not spending pennies on an internet cafe that could go on one of those rather delish bottles of cornershop wine. Or nicotine, or food, whatever.

But I have other stories! More brilliant family histories, far far too many tales about ambulance response times and messy pregnancies (I wish people wouldn't overshare in that particular direction), an ever looming trip to the dentist (tomorrow. I expect commiseration and a two minute silence at 2pm), a case study of the local Ladies Only gym ("No men! No mirrors! No lycra!"), my hilarious Australian housemate ("Cemetaries are just so fasinating, don't you think?") and the Other One ("I can't wait to get married- so I can just eat dinner, have sex, go to bed.")

Oh, and I'm currently metaphorically sort of dating Mick Jagger.