Back to work

Oh London, how I have missed you.

Today marked my first day of work in 2013, and a welcome return to the relative sanity of the office (relative compared to my family, that is). As much as I love my parents and brother, the holiday spirit was definitely beginning to fray around the edges by last night.

I enjoy my job, and love everyone at work an unreasonable amount, almost without exception (those exceptions being a couple of the more terrifying directors, and the guy I accidentally slept with a couple of times who now no longer talks to me unless it is absolutely necessary.) That being said, it took until 3pm, aided by a large burger, chips, five cups of tea and a slice of birthday cake, before I was actually able to work up any kind of enthusiasm, project management wise. I mean really, how excited can one get about gluten-intolerant Sainsbury's shoppers?

I was also mildly devastated to discover that my Office Crush was off sick today. The OC is a fair bit older than me, cynical, sarcastic, tactless, utterly hilarious and (mercifully) completely oblivious to the fact that my friend and I spend an inordinate amount of time plotting ways to get him to marry me.

Today also marked my return to my beloved flat, sadly sans my equally beloved but emotionally unstable flatmate, S. S and I lived together in halls at university and then again in our third year, in a ramshackle house that we loved and my mother referred to as a health hazard. (She memorably refused to use our bathroom, oven or any of our crockery on one of her very few visitations.) Thus, we are very used to each other and our little foibles: S is an expert worrier who frequently dashes back to check the oven is switched off; I am a borderline OCD-freak who rearranges the cupboards to suit my mood. I miss S inordinately; her return will doubtless be greeted by hugs, vodka and swapping tales of horrendous New Year's Eve shenanigans, followed equally doubtlessly by tears over Russell Brand, her douchebag not-quite-ex boyfriend with whom she is kind-of-sort-of back together.

I also had an emergency Whatsapp confab with the Slug Club over my most recent Boy-related heartache. The Slug Club comprises of myself and two friends who took English with me at university. We bonded over our shared love of all things geek (Harry Potter, Doctor Who and more specifically David Tennant, Sherlock Holmes and more specifically Benedict Cumberbatch, Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones, Mario Kart), as well as good food, English literature, and excellent conversation. The general SG consensus on the Boy was basically "he's a twat", which while informative, wasn't all that helpful.

Incidentally, that was S's pronouncement when I told her about the New Year's Eve messages. "Let him go", she advised. Slightly pot calling kettle, given her current situation, but as Oscar Wilde famously remarked, "I always pass on good advice. It is the only thing to do with it. It is never of any use to oneself."