Today I ordered some really cheap shoes online, realising that all of the footwear I own seems to have holes in. I didn't think things had actually gotten this bad to be honest. I have been on the dole for two months and am now it seems, so poor, that I can't go out without getting sore or wet feet. I pondered for a moment as to whether operative footwear was an essential thing to buy, because obviously with my limited funds at the moment I have been careful to restrict my purchases to only the most necessary items - like the beer, cd's, and the harmonica microphone I bought yesterday. So after much deliberation, I decided actually being able to go outside was almost as important as being able to play amplified rhythm and blues, and I ordered two pairs of £7 plimsolls off of Amazon. I can't imagine what they'll be like. They'll probably look really cool and last for ages.
Before heading out this afternoon to drop some posters off in pubs in Brighton for my band, and having a few pints in the process - I am prepared to call this PR, rather than another example of unnecessary spending - I spent some time on my exercise bike at home.
Following my heart doctor's orders to exercise more (from the other day's entry), I was doing pretty well and working up quite a sweat. I'd cycled over 10 miles when the doorbell rang, it was the postman. I've struck up quite a friendly relationship with our postman since I was rendered unemployed. I have time everyday to chat to him a little, and seems always to ring the doorbell rather than to force a big bundle of letters through the letterbox as, sadly, he knows I'm nearly always in in the mornings. I've started to be the regular drop off point for other people's parcels when they're not in.
I ran down the stairs and opened the door to him, realising as I opened it I was only wearing a tight pair of shorts and was sweating profusely. I must have looked flushed and flustered, and it struck me that he might have thought I'd been doing something other than exercising. I mean, he knows I'm unemployed. He knows I am the only person in the house. I was half-naked. And I was really sweaty. The evidence was all there! I felt like protesting to him, "I WASN'T WANKING, YOU KNOW!!" I didn't, sensing it may make things worse. He gave me my post, and gave me a look. Guess he might not be leaving other people post at my house to look after any more. Not at The Wanker's house.
Of course, he might have just have thought I had been exercising, which I was, I wasn't wanking.
Of course not, Tom. Of course not.
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