Queeniness

A horrid sort of day: muggy. I went off to the job centre to see my new deal adviser and tell her the wonderful news that I've got an interview for a placement in a library far far away arranged by Edinburgh Council's Deal Me In for the Terminally Hopeless. I thought my appointment was at 11am; I arrived at quarter to and told the man on the reception desk, who looked down a list in front of him and frowned. After taking down my national insurance number he told me that yes, my appointment was at eleven o'clock, but... next week. Could be a good deal worse, of course, I could have missed it and thus got much shit from my adviser and all connected to her (especially the scary woman who does New Deal for the Disabled; I swear she never blinks), but the fact remains that I trailed halfway across town in unpleasant weather, wearing my 'smart' trousers with the shiny nylon or polyester or some kind of synthetic ugh thing lining, for no reason at all. So I went to the library, paid a fine on a book, and then went to the goth boutique on George IV Bridge and bought a t-shirt saying QUEEN OF THE FUCKING UNIVERSE for fifteen quid.
That's what I did today. The end.
(Shit, I can't believe I spent fifteen quid on a t-shirt.)