The first three chapters of People Like This are available here for free download. Below the links is Chapter One to read here on the website. Enjoy.
‘Nothing.’ Comes Morts reply.
‘Let me have a look.’
The document we’re browsing is the Times top fifty graduate employers (e version) and is published unfailingly year after year regardless of the fact Ian Huntley has more chance being appointed Minister of Education than a none Oxbridge graduate has of winning a position with one of these hallowed institutions.
Yet unfailingly, thousands still apply, convinced by the indoctrinating of parents, colleges, the media and basket weaving universities that everyone who puts their mind to it and does the obligatory three years at university, can expect a great career and lifestyle of their choice though judging by the opulence of the dining room we’re sitting in and the price of drinks and food which we’re consuming along with this ideal, they don’t seem to be far wrong.
The ones who have achieved it of course.
I push these thoughts away and tweet my location then update my Face book status to reflect this and write an appraising comment about the menu. I also check in at the restaurant noticing Morts has already done so. I then comment on six pictures of people’s dogs and four of newborn babies (one, featured in seventy two pictures is wearing a different Pretty Green polo in each as his father, who I was at university with, is a big Oasis fan.) I quickly open the sky plus app and add the new Peep Show, Made in Chelsea and The Walking Dead to the library. Of course I wouldn’t dream of instagraming a photo of the decor or food.
‘Let’s see, Deloitte, BP, Royal Bank of Scotland, big surprise there, HSBC, Price Water House Cooper. The usual suspects basically mate. Funny how there’s never anything in there about managing a McDonalds or taking anything you can find, even if it’s not the job you dreamed of and feel you deserve, as thousands more graduates flood the work place year after year, making Degrees and more recently Masters worth slightly less than the pound.’ I remark as I open Face Book on my Iphone again and read the comments people have already made about us being in Gaucho, post several of my own and leave a comment on a picture of Marc at a PwC function informing him he needs to learn to tie a tie (even though I told him so on the night), then send the obligatory text to Lydia regarding my whereabouts as she wanted to go through to Manchester today and though I would like to catch up with my mates there, the day would be instead dedicated to Lydia spending her fathers money in Selfridges than me socialising in the Northern Quarter. I inform her I’m busy then respond to four Plenty of Fish messages including one from the brunette who seems reluctant to give me her real name let alone meet.
‘That’s easy for you to say, you’ve got a Masters on top of your degree’ he counters.
I want to tell him to add a Masters to his own CV, even a PhD if he thinks he has the confidence to pull it off. People swallow a big lie yet happily disbelieve the smallest truth hence if you sound like you know what you’re talking about and have the loquacity to sell these lies with some strength of conviction you’re home and dry while others are still googling ‘CV tips’, ‘How to get the best graduate position’ and ‘How to fall back on daddy’. Years of bull shitting have allowed me to get it down to a fine art, the right clothes, bearing and manner and people will believe anything. Walk into an interview for a position on Barclays trading floor in the city wearing Crombie, droning on about your third year triumphs at LSE, your Masters at Durham, an internship with Goldman Sachs and spouting anecdotes about dinner with Wills at Gordonstoun, the interviewer would no less believe you than he would that the Tories would freeze city bonuses, even if you left school at sixteen and spent the last five years dishing out chicken at Nandos. A large helping of cynicism helps and is very easy to muster if you’ve survived your first twenty or so years having been born above the North-South divide and still have a smile on your face . Sometimes I wonder when these attitudes and beliefs began gestating in me and what I or the world did to nurture and raise them so they would flourish and eventually pollinate other, unsuspecting blooms. Why I didn’t work harder and achieve these things or more importantly have the inclination to do so, not just sit back and take, take, take.
I decide to explain this theory to Morts in an attempt help him find happiness, yet all he says is-
‘Eton.’ After a moments thought.
‘What?’ I ask, flustered at losing my train of thought and of him not agreeing with me.
‘Eton.’ He repeats. ‘Prince William went to Eton, he broke family tradition by doing so or something and it amuses me how you call him ‘Wills’ as if you know him.’
‘Whatever.’ I say, waving the comment away as if it’s irrelevant and wonder how he knows such a trivial fact considering his background.
‘Anyway.’ I go on glaring at him, hating being corrected. ‘I grafted like a coloured for those grades and now its time to reap the benefits, sit back on the gravy train, big salary and loads of whores; pick a euphemism.’ As I say this I glance briefly round in the time honoured tradition of any sensible person making a remark which could be misconstrued as racist and in this ridiculous post political correctness gone mad world that could be anything from enquiring about the weather to denying the holocaust. I’m shocked I needed to look as over twenty five years of mentally checking every statement before uttering it means that I, like the vast percentage of the population, have no involuntary slips. There are however some people who simply cannot avoid their prejudices spilling out and while I’m prejudiced against everybody, some people are more worthy of prejudice than others.
I’m fine though, Restaurant Bar and Grill in the centre of Leeds financial district on City Square, with its ‘black guy on black horse statue’ looks less like a Benetton advert when it comes to clientele and more like the original, Malibu jury, in the OJ Simpson trial before that wanker Johnny Cochran decided to re write the US justice system.
I use my Tanqueray and tonic to wash down a prescription ant acid (provided of course by John), a Berocca, a vitamin b tablet and an iron tablet.
Everything said though, I must admit as a normal, middle class English person I am probably in the best position when it comes to opportunities and the vast majority of doors are open to me. Whenever there’s a case of ‘one rule for one, one rule for another’ chances are I’ll come out on top, though it has to be said it appears times are changing which is a little disconcerting.
Take for example the Polish (probably, as the vast majority of Eastern European accents sound the same to me) waitress, while the EU has allowed workforces ease of migration to areas of high employment across borders and so called equal opportunities again this is simply not the case. Anyone with a poor grasp of English and foreign accent cannot hope to rise above waitress or perhaps supervisor in a bar or restaurant and god forbid they should consider applying for professional positions and making white collar graduates uncomfortable in interviews.
Still they have the right idea coming here with a minimum wage, tipping culture and a million and one health and safety guidelines because, let’s face facts, the vast majority of Brits refuse to lower themselves to menial or low paid work, assuming that a British passport and accent entitles them to “twenty five plus a year” minimum. It’s almost as if British people expect compensation for the collapse of Imperialism, why we feel we should just sit back and be handed a living on a plate. The eighties boom didn’t help when everyone had a taste of the upper crust and now want nothing less for their children, never stopping to consider that Shangri La doesn’t exist for everyone, unless they’re willing to work. These children who consider no job is worth doing if it isn’t done in a suit, in a well air conditioned office with an excellent expense account and perks which increase exponentially through years of service or are carried with them to the next employer who offers them a stimulating, rewarding position to be filled at their leisure.
This fledgling bourgeoisie also have an almost subliminal way of differentiating between those nine to five, formally attired positions which are acceptable and which aren’t, i.e. dressing for (and therefore making an effort for, being proud of etc.) a career in HSBC’s head office legal department is acceptable; a job behind a HSBC counter is not.
A working class or immigrant girl can easily make their way in the world if they have looks, as many have done already, and will do again after the first divorce and settlement. There are always bankers, lawyers, accountants and doctors (or any other member of the acceptable, professional class), looking for a trophy wife who will do as he says, when he says and will not do or say, when he does not say. If the girl in question goes to the right bars and clubs on the right nights, dresses accordingly and is prepared to lose the accent, attitude and most importantly the family, then the world is her oyster.
Although in the present climate leaving school at sixteen and taking a job making coffee at a major corporation can see a disadvantaged child rising further and faster than his or her well off counterpart who elects to take the degree route so who in reality is the real fool?
‘I don’t know why you bother looking in there anyway, let alone applying for positions, you won’t get anywhere, plus it’s too much hassle’ I grandiosely inform him.
‘It’s too much hassle working?’ he replies incredulously.
‘Mmm hmm.’ I murmur in the positive. ’Well no not all work, if you get in at a decent level and get the perks and a reasonable salary and the work isn’t too strenuous or mind numbingly boring or in the slightest bit stressful then yeah I suppose that would be ok.’
‘Oh well just sit back and wait for the phone call’
Hearing the word phone forces me to open all my social networking apps and send approximately fifteen messages. I also like a comment about Pippa at a gala and one about holidays to Mexico and one about a friend going to Berlin with his new boyfriend.
Id like to put my MacBook on the table and open World of Warcraft but there’s no room with all the glasses.
‘Exactly, there isn’t going to be one. Even without the recession and people being laid off left, right and centre, getting in on the first rung is next to impossible let alone something cushy.’
‘I don’t want something cushy! I’d be happy with anything half way decent which is why I work this one hoping I’ll work my way up.’
‘You lack perceptive’. Is all I say.
‘Oh, what the hell does that mean?’
What the hell does that mean? God knows, it sounded clever before I said it, thinking it would make me sound more intelligent than even I suspect I am.
‘You know, just there isn’t anything out there unless your father already does it or one of his friends or colleagues or one of his fucking badger baiting buddies from Surrey that he used to wait on at Harrow. I noticed the other day on Face Book a guy I went to school with is writing for the Guardian, he was thick as pig shit! How did he get that? Daddy! What’s more Daddy owns a construction company yet his son rights for an almost socialist paper! Good to renege upon the values which made your family wealthy, ha, I suppose it’s easy to believe in socialism when you come from a family that not so long ago would have been known as aristocracy’.
‘True.’ Though he doesn’t sound convinced
We take a well-earned status update, text and tweet break and I also send a group WhatsApp to John and Marc and email Soph.
‘Hell, you could just say fuck it and go work in All saints with the sixteen year olds with full tattoo sleeves, who are all far too important to help you, let alone be polite to you because getting three GCSE’s entitles them to patronise you when all you want to do is buy a fucking t-shirt and get the fuck out of there. At least you d be able to stop worrying about losing face in front of people you used to know, on web sites and in texts, you just say ‘this is my station in life, that’s it, I’m done, no more thinking or worrying for me’’.
‘Ha yeah’. He relents, briefly looking up from his phone to drink from his pint then back to his phone. Still after all these years I can’t get him to drink wine. Sometimes I despair at the futility of it all.
Fagged. Fagged was the word I was thinking of. He was his fag. He fagged for him. Great word, sadly been corrupted now.
‘Plus, why are people so obsessed with jobs? You know it’s the least enjoyable part of your life, the part which, in theory should be secondary to friends, family, hell, even religion but still people think it’s the be all and end all and spend more time worrying about it than actually doing it. What’s more some people actually live for it! Look at the boys Marc works with! Living their life at the beck and call of a company email which has to be answered at any hour, day or night if they wish to achieve the exalted title of ‘Partner’! We live in a country that will never let anyone starve so just kick back and relax.’ Mentioning Marc makes me remember I need to text him about the weekend so do so and inevitably I don’t get a reply as I assume he’s in a meeting which if doesn’t take place would mean the entire FTSE index could come crumbling down. Now it’s not even considered impolite to take advantage of a phones many functions at the table, you’re more likely to be viewed as some queer nineteenth century Luddite if you don’t and to confirm this, a quick glance round shows everyone in the restaurant is using a phone, even the hostess.
Although I made the point of parents already I reiterate now.
‘And our parents taught us that work and your job was the nadir of existence, the holy grail of modern life yet it seemed that one minute we were being told ‘if we don’t do well in our GCSE, that’s it’, then the next minute A levels are the one true god before finally hearing without a degree we’re nothing yet thousands of people have them and are nothing and will remain nothing until the golden hand shake! Our parents have no idea who we should be but more importantly, we have no idea who we should. We’re expected to live up to an impossible ideal, made even more mythical by the fact that the very people who push it seem unaware of what it actually is.’ I finish this speech at the same point I finish uploading a picture I took of myself trying on a suit the day before and sit back and await a response.
‘I suppose,’ he says looking thoughtfully at his phone while simultaneously looking round for our food, before writing a comment about its delay as his status. ‘That’s life though.’ He concludes after a minute. I don’t want to continue this argument though, just try to have a normal lunch.
‘You know what I hate?’ I say after a pause and at an attempt to change the subject.
‘What?’ he asks.
‘What?’ He splutters and I realise I’ve gone off on quite a radical tangent. ‘You hate blind people? God that’s plunging new depths even for you.’
‘No, no, I didn’t say blind people; I said ‘guide dogs’. I was very clear.’
‘But why?’ he says bewilderedly. ‘Out of all the things to hate in and about this country and world why guide dogs?’
‘Because.’ I inform him. ‘They’re smug, self satisfied bastards. You know its like ‘look at me I help disadvantaged people and wag my tail and look noble when sitting at cross roads and everyone says, ah look at him isn’t he lovely’.’
‘So you hate them because they contribute more to society than you?’ He goads. ‘Mate if you hated everyone or everything like that you won’t have anything left to like.’
I do hate everything like that I think to myself but don’t voice so as not giving him the satisfaction of being right.
‘Ha, yeah maybe.’ I say doing so anyway. ‘Maybe one of them can have all my rights? Well what few I have. It could have my vote in the next election and I could be taken out the back like Old Yella.’ I like this idea so much I post it on my wall and eleven people soon like it and four have commented on it.
‘So by that theory do you also hate sheep dogs? Bomb disposal dogs? Sniffer dogs?’
‘Definitely! I hate all dogs in general but the professional ones even more so’ which he looks confused at forcing me to continue
. ‘But god, bomb disposal dogs definitely. I mean those things are even more arrogant than guide dogs, they get medals and two page spreads in the paper when they heroically save their handler. These things have years of training and probably more qualifications than us put together; it wouldn’t surprise me if they get a state pension though I’m not sure that’s anything to write home about at the moment. They’re like the Lassie of the dog world!’
‘But they save lives!’ Dog’s best friend tells me.
So do Doctors I think to myself and I certainly hate them but for more personal reasons, i.e. how one of the multitude I know is related to me and that said doctor just keeps succeeding and succeeding and succeeding. And now, appears to be about to take another step forward in his otherwise exemplary life.
I vent my frustration by making disparaging comments on several pictures posted on the ‘meaningful tattoos’ page. Unsurprisingly most of the ink works are located close to self harm scars.
‘Yeah though without being too harsh the only lives they save are those of people with a mid eighties IQ whose only other option is an existence, alternating between the dole, abusing their wives and prison.’ I counter, feeling the need to justify my opinion.
‘What about officers? Red Cross workers?’
‘Rich, spoilt wankers and interfering do gooders.’
Opening Face Book an Asian girl who I know from somewhere has statused ‘Luv u mik jagger my bst boyfriend eva since I first heard u’ and sixteen people like it. Seventeen when I do.
‘I can’t believe you at times.’ He tells me.
‘Why? I didn’t make any of these people travel to these hellish war zones. I mean, I feel a certain amount of sympathy for the families but you know, they chose this life. Journalists are the worst, paid six figures to go out there and get blown to hell and a village gets raised to the ground in retaliation by forces seeking revenge’ I sip my wine before continuing. ‘I mean. The people that actually live in these places are the ones that you should feel sorry for, they’re the ones getting the fall out for these miscreants actions or they talk to a journalist, who thinks he’s there to highlight the problem and therefore help, then are forced to watch as the local freedom fighters rape their daughters as an example to their neighbours!’
But as I don’t know any Afghan peasants or want too I don’t really think about it. Life’s hard.’
Well some lives are, mine isn’t really unless you consider choosing wine, buying innumerable t shirts and eating Tesco Finest difficult.
‘Besides, we’ve got enough problems in this country without concerning ourselve’s with ones being shipped over here’
Mort’s puts down his iphone as he nods agreement and we begin eating our excellent quality, twenty one day aged Argentinian Rib (the only reason I come here) which, because after what seemed like the aeons between ice ages, the aforesaid waitress has deigned to serve us. For some reason we didn’t order starters, which is strange as, I love the risotto here. A pastis along with my Tanqueray has served admirably though.
He’s had his hair cut a lot shorter recently and coupled with the Polo shirt he’s wearing, which is very similar to the one I’m wearing, makes him look a bit like the mentalist, violent types I do everything in my power to avoid. It looks good though and consider replacing my ubiquitous, today’s slick back with it, then discard the idea as I’m taller and bigger so will just attract the wrong sort of attention.
The only other people dining at one o clock on this Monday afternoon in August are a pair of middle aged women several tables down from us, fortunately not close enough to overhear us, and a guy in his mid fifties wearing a blazer and club tie (who actually isn’t using a phone) in the company of his trout of a wife and two spoilt, haughty looking, though undeniably attractive, teen daughters (who all are) and are also taking up all the seats around their table with shopping bags.
The ladies, in the loosest sense of the world, are eating salads with no dressing, which they stressed several times to the waitress in the slightly loud drawl used by the English when speaking to immigrants and drinking sparkling mineral water as if god forbid they should put any meat on their Treblinka modelled frames. The nuclear family appear to have gone the other way, stoically making their way through three courses and several bottles of Australian Albarino and considering the grape has only just left Spain it must cost a fortune, a glimpse at the wine list confirms my suspicions. The two daughters have merely picked at their food, yet supplemented it with extra courses of status updates, tweets and comparing Mulberry handbags. One of them catches my eye and I smile yet she pretends not to have seen me, just makes some disparaging remark to her sister. I wonder if she’d respond more warmly if I was on X factor or was at her fresher’s ball or contacted her by fucking semaphore? The hostess is greeting and seating a couple who look a little out of place in a restaurant, i.e. working class, and is doing so with the usual slightly patronising smile they reserve for the proles. After giving them menus she doesn’t bother to take a drinks order, just goes back to the stand and opens hotmail while Wayne and Waynette exclaim in amazement to one another about the prices. Already the hostess has made it obvious what kind of service they will receive, due to the good waiters skill in detecting none tippers.
‘See that’s the thing lad.’ I say around a mouthful of medium rare beef (I grimaced when Morts ordered his well done), gesturing across at the trophy wives who are yet to speak to each other. ‘Those two women there have never done a day’s work in their life yet sit there draped in Vivienne Westwood and under an armour of sun bed tan, eating and drinking away their wealthy husbands money and if they’re divorced, still living off it and the scary thing being is they’ve convinced themselves that they deserve it.’ Realising we’ve returned to the topic of work with mind numbing inevitability. ‘Same over there.’ I add, inclining my head towards the family.
‘Yeah but at least that old boy has probably grafted for his wad’, he replies after a quick glance across at the other dining party before his eyes return quickly to his phone. ‘Have a go on the daughters lad I know that.’
The lunch crowd have started to arrive and the hostess seats a table of four suits a little way from us and a long way from, what appears today to be the working class section, with a much warmer smile than she bestowed on the previous table and immediately asks if she can get them anything but they all have Blackberry’s attached to their ears so don’t hear her. I’d like to go over and ask them if they can help with the dilemma I face every time I wear a suit, or more importantly take off a suit. Obviously the jacket is the first thing removed then tie then trousers, but as the jacket is now on the hanger and the trousers have to go under the jacket do they sensibly remove the jacket, hang the trousers on and replace, or, try to jam the folded trousers under the jacket and get them straight on the hanger which takes far longer and inevitably leads to the trousers ending up in a heap on the floor and me weeping in frustration next to them? I always prompt for the latter, I’m sure most men do as we convince ourselves time and time again that this will be the one, this will be the time it turns out perfectly.
When it does, I intend to set up a Face Book group dedicated to it and the only men who may join have to have video evidence uploaded of them pulling off the manoeuvre which will of course be named after me. It will be my Sandwich or Wellington or Omelette Arnold Bennet and men everywhere will speak my name in respectful, reverent tones.
Well, those that wear suits will and theirs are the only opinions which matter to me.
I don’t feel like sweet stuff so have ordered cheese and look forward to seeing the expression on Mort’s face when the bill arrives and he sees how much we’re paying for the five, miniscule lumps which have just arrived, plus I don’t eat the Reblochon as we’ll probably go straight out after lunch and it fucking stinks, therefore wasting more of his hard earned cash.
But I feel good today and generous so intend to gallantly offer to put a larger share of the bill on my card, maybe take care of the service, fully aware this will also give me a slight feeling of superiority. Moneys fine at the present as a large housing payment has come through, I’ve just withdrawn from some investments, Lydia’s father has just handed her another hefty wad and I’ll get my job seekers on Friday, though I’ll still try to make Mort’s feel guilty when I offer to pay more. I also order an espresso and black Sambuca before she departs so it arrives, taking into account today’s service, approximately when I finish my cheese and think it’s cool how she puts the order into an IPad and decide to treat myself to one sometime this week as it will complete my Apple basket.
I comment on a status of Lydia’s about her new Pug refusing to eat any food which isn’t Wainwrights Luxury and immediately four of her friends sympathise with her plight, one of them sharing a similar tale of misery about her having to placate her Bengal with king prawns and sashimi grade Tuna when her parents renovated their kitchen.
‘Ok, so the father has worked hard but imagine how arrogant those daughters will be! They wouldn’t dream of associating with anyone outside of their own circle of wealthy, superficial, pretentious, upper-middle class student chums. If a person can’t meet the bench mark of; foreign holidays on the spur of the moment, a large house in the suburbs or country and wearing the hideous, reality show fashions they wouldn’t give them the time of day, if a person does they’ll add them on Face Book and post comment after comment on the fab nights they have with them. Each and every philosophy, ambition and opinion they have, will have been copied and pasted from the pages of Heat magazine. They’ll have brand new cars bought for them on their seventeenth, horses and designer dogs and all that shit and then do some joke degree like sociology or media studies or the old good-looking girl standby, photography. Then after smiles and tears of joy at graduation they ll head off travelling for six months to ‘discover themselves’ on daddy’s money, then return to their career of choice courtesy of daddy dearest while kids from less advantaged backgrounds break their backs getting a half decent degree and spend the next ten years in debt managing a fucking Burger King.’
I pause and sip from my wine glass feeling a little light headed after that rant.
‘Like my mate Harrison?’ I ask.
‘Hmmm?’ He says questioningly.
‘You know Matt?’ I clarify in answer to his puzzlement, to which he nods acknowledgment. ‘Well I went to university with him…
‘And you still talk to him? He quips.
‘….So he’s our age,’ I go on ignoring him again, ‘did all the right things, got a two one with honours in English literature and he can’t get anything.
‘So whats he doing?’
‘Nothing. He’s doing some ridiculous call centre job, that looks like getting shipped to India in the next few months.’
When Matt told me all this on Skype a couple of weeks ago I said that’ll be alright, their paying you to go to India, most people have to save up for a holiday of a life time. Needless to say he didn’t see the funny side of it.
‘So there’s him, nearly thirty, hung out to dry. A degree isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on anymore.’
I tell him almost accusingly as he sends yet another text and I do the same only mines a Face Book message.
‘Am I not right? Am I? And yes I’d treat them both, although one looks a little young but hey, that’s for the courts to decide. They’re certainly nothing like that woman we saw earlier before we got here.’
‘Which?’ He asks briefly tearing his gaze from his phone.
‘You know.’ I say ‘The one we saw in Jakes before coming here. The one on the cusp of thirty who had let herself go to the dogs’ Mort’s quickly interjects here that at least she could make a fine career sniffing out bombs and I incline my head at the reference before continuing, ‘And was talking to her slimmer, more attractive friend about said friend’s upcoming wedding and if asked there’d be any ‘fit guys there, though not too fit!’ in what she must have thought was a coquettish way. Who obviously is willing to do anything to prevent ending up alone and would love it if the guy she settles on as a compromise akin to resignation actually gives a fuck about her and doesn’t obviously view her in the same light i.e. the best he can do before it’s too late. Did you see how she’d put a couple of high lights in her hair and got some ridiculous star tattoo on her wrist in a vain attempt to look out going and unique?’
‘God she was a state.’ He agrees. ‘Like when you see a similar woman, fat or ugly or a mess and she’s carrying Agent Provocateur or La Senza bags, and you think, ‘who the fucks gonna see it?’
I expand on this theory by adding, ‘yeah or she accepts the inevitable loneliness in a one bedroom flat which she decorate to the nines ‘in a quirky fashion’ and buys a cat to lavish all her unrequited love on. Which she names Buttons or Angel or Mouse and then spends the next ten years uploading pictures of it chasing bits of string before mourning its loss like a real person mourns a child. Of which she will also know nothing.’
‘Ha, ha yeah, it’s tragic we know so many women like that too.’ Then adds gleefully. ‘You’ll be getting into the wedding spirit soon if likely events unfold lad!’ which I obviously choose to ignore. ‘Do you reckon he’s going…’
But I quickly cut him off before he can finish.
‘But anyway, back to the point’ I go on. ‘They’ll never live in the real world. They’ll live a charmed life of luxury when what they deserve is less than nothing because of the way they and perhaps the generation as a whole have been brought up.’
‘Yeah ok you’re right but what the fuck do you want me to do about it hey? Go over there and say its not on? I’m sure if I explain your interesting social theories they ll see the error of their ways and go work on a checkout on Tesco’s and take a council flat.’
He counters defiantly and the way he drinks almost aggressively from his pint after this comment makes me think the argument is over and that I have come second. Good intentions have routed cynicism. Reality has overcome ideals.
I use Google to see if there are any decent sounding nights on tonight, even though I already know, before Tweeting and posting a comment about what I thought about the food and service, liking Johns status about his trip to South America, similarly eight pictures of Marc’s new car, ignoring two messages from Dan and checking if Pippa Middleton, my future wife, has appeared in the news in the last eight minutes.
The first three chapters of People Like This are available for free download again here. Enjoy, and please purchase the full novel!