Tick.... Tock....

Clock watching should be a sport in the Olympics. Not that I know anything about the antics going on in China as our company is failing to show the games on big screens in the office, choosing Bloomberg on silent instead. Someone remarked - wow - 5 eh? to me the other day, and I looked at him blankly. Seems that was a global greeting, referring to Michael Phelps' awesome achievment. I knew nothing. I blame work. Pesky concept.

It is almost the weekend though, and so each minute is taking approximately seven times as long as it should, following Appendix A6 of the weekend-clock-watching rule, which states that the length of each minute should be inversely correlated with an individual's level of busy-ness, meaning that the busy person ends up working well in to their drinking hours, whereas the idle sloth has to sit through tortorous decades of nothingness before they are allowed to sup the froth off a cold one.

Tomorrow Hans & I will be gracing an ASW bunch with our presence at a brunch in the Dusit, which should be good, if only to meet 23 completely random people. I lie, Rupert is going, there will be 22 randoms, one acquaintance/nearly friend, Hannah, and me. I'm not good at maths, but that should make 25.

Speaking of maths, I have had a blast from the past week on Facebook, as Vicky Walpole posted a number of pics from Rydal Prep, of people who's faces I just about remember, and who's names have disappeared in to the soggier parts of the grey matter occupying the nooks & crannies in my head. Hard to get to, in other words.

There were comments from people I just can't remember, and to find out more, I'd be forced to befriend them. They were clearly in my year at school, I just can't face admitting that I really don't remember anything about them, as they would invariably point out in some public fashion that I'd done something unspeakable to them aged 11, like put talc on the bottom of their slipper, or extra salt in their Pot Noodle, and I'd be exposed to the world as an evil bitch. My pride couldn't take it, and really - do I need to be friends with someone I can't remember at all, just so I can snoop in to their lives?

I think I've been spotted blogging. It is probably a bad reflection on my current care-factor that I haven't stopped immediately. Now I feel guilty. Over & Out.