Pink Ribbon Day

Last Friday was nominally Pink Ribbon Day, in support of the Breast Cancer Awareness campaign. Now, I'm all for Breast (Cancer) Awareness (hur hur) (I couldn't resist) (I mean, how could I, really) but it wasn't until I browsed closely enough to the collector and read the slogan upon her realised that I realised the proliferation of pink balloons were supposed to represent large, nipple-less boobs. That tickled my fancy so much I had to photograph them; having done so, I had to give the poor buffeted collector some of my pocket change, as well.

On the morning of the same Friday I had to apply for my own job. DON'T ask, it's a public sector thing. Mine is not to reason why, mine is but to do and, er, well, reason why, really. And so on. It's the first proper job interview I've ever had in my life; every position I've held to this juncture has been the result of headhunting, nepotism, and/or bloody coup.

The shortlist for the position held only two names; mine, and that of My Rival. My interview went well, I think, thanks mainly to the coaching of The_Sifter and others. After it was over, I hung around the office waiting to get a glimpse of My Rival as he arrived for his turn over the coals (he was old and poorly dressed) (that's saying something, coming from such a sartorially-askew figure as I), and then went out for a while and stalked around the wind-blown canyons of Thorndon listening to Burzum, trying to invoke some kind of a black-metallar's curse on him. It must have worked; later-on one of the panel told me that he was "crap, though not as crap as we were expecting".

I spent most of the weekend getting drunk, and trying not to get even more drunk.

I still await the official word on whether or not I got the job. Come on already.

..my rival / I'm gonna stab him on arrival..

- Alex Chilton