I'm sitting in the gallery being fucking deafened by our sunday afternoon freeform jazz. We get it, guy. You're soulful. You "got it going on". You "dig that crazy sound". Enough already. It's bad enough that someone stuck gum on The Arctic Monkeys while I was browsing footwear on Office.co.uk (we sell mostly-vintage rock photography, I should probably clarify, but some of it is new and really goddamn shitty), making me feel like a lousy employee for all of ten minutes, before I realised that I am doing this for fuck-all money and as such, am fully entitled to prioritise sandals over vandals (felt me leading up to that little bon mot, huh internet?).
There is a stall outside the gallery which sells leather jackets for £10 a pop, and I am seriously considering shooting for the moon and buying something tan, fringed and suede. Is that so wrong? I mean, I'm originally from Dorset, so t
hat probably makes me something of a white-trash, hicksville bumpkin anyway, or so the precocious fuckers who were born in the city would have me believe. I wonder if they'll let me pay for it with "magic beans", and by "magic beans", I mean "sexual favours". "Hey, guys, let's play cowboys and indians! You be Rootin' Tootin' Heroin Shootin', and I'll be Goes-Down-In-Bathrooms! Yeee-haw!"