I've forgotten what I was going to blog about.

I have. It's true. Five minutes ago I had an inspiring idea - I started to edit a blog and 'whooooomph' ... the idea has gone. Shame really. It was going to be life-changing.

Anyhoo, in the absence of something actually interesting to talk about, I'll tell you about my new job. You see, I've been working recently in a sandwich making emporium. Well, less of an emporium and more of a ... cupboard. Seriously. Its not even big enough to swing a cat. Which would, on the other hand, be quite ill advised and unhygenic. Thinking about it - in the interests of public health and the cat's sanity its probably quite fortunate one can't swing a cat in there.

You would think, of course, that sandwich making was a simple affair, what with having a basic set of ingredients and the like. Nooo nooo - how wrong you'd be. It takes great skill to apply the correct thickness and even spreadability of the butter, for example, so that one doesn't get a big chunk of butter in one bite, and a gloop of filling in the next. I'm a bit of a sandwich-making expert by now, and have become more than a little picky when eating the products of rival brands or establishments. I am, in fact, a sandwich connoisseur. That's something to put on the CV.

I have, as a matter of course, already covered the learning stages - such as dropping a toasted sandwich on the floor just after spending five minutes cooking it (At home I would usually apply the three-second-rule, but thats just not the done thing in a catering establishment is it?), and the inevitable 'oh shit I just tried to pack up this sandwich and it disintegrated in my hand and I now have mayonnaise running down towards my elbow' moment. I've come to realise that I will never consider sandwich eating in the same frivoulous light again.

Of course, as I'm also on one of those dreaded diets (aaaaaaaagh! - you know the type - its one of those where you feel perpetually hungry and irritable, and would gouge your own eyes out with a rusty spoon for just the merest hint of chocolate), the daily temptation to consume my own body-weight in sandwich-related produce is becoming overwhelmingly torturous. I think I need hypnotherapy. Or a patch like what those cigarette smokers have that feed you nicotine - except in my case it would most definitely be chocolate and cheese. Yes. Very definitely cheese. Mmmmmmmmm. Of every flavour (except blue, 'cos mould just seems a bit 'yeuch' to eat).

Anyway, the sandwichery pays a wee dose of beer money and keeps me in a life of modest comfort, as long as I have no ambitions to retire on a Fred Goodwin-sized pension (which is, quite rightly, a scandalous amount. Although the real scandal is that his pension is not considered exceptional for a corporate fat-cat. And these are the same people who create redundancies as cost-cutting excercises). I can afford, at least, a night out once a month and at least give Alfie (my new car - technically not new as he's 10 years old, but he's new to me) a few drinks of petrol every once in a while. It also meant that last Saturday I ventured out for a few bevvies with her lady-ship, mademoiselle Lara, and one of her good chums. The night ended for poor Lara thanks to a painful wrist which kept bothering her, but her chum allowed me to indulge in a wee trip to the local nightspot whereupon I realised two things:

A) I was ageing very untrendily, because I only knew 3 of the songs I heard all night, and two of those were at least 10 years old, I'm sure... and I was now definitely getting very old, because I couldn't dance like Beyonce ...

and B) (After encountering another friend drunk and swaying, talking to herself in an animated fashion) Being drunk and talking to oneself is never ever going to be an attractive image - and one I shall endeavour to avoid at all costs in the future.