I have to check the tickets. The ones I bought before I left. Someone won £11m. "It could be you" as the lottery ad says. I hope to fuck it is. Work doesn't seem very attractive to me right now. 
Spain seems too warm at this time of year but with £11m I reckon I could find somewhere suitable. Fingers crossed.
It's that time of year. The time when I pack up my suitcase and worry twice as much about work as I do when I'm actually supposed to be working. This year's photo scrapbook will be of Marbella. When I return it may be to resign. Something for me to think about.
Anyone want to join me for a drink? Help yourself to the contents of the drinks cupboard and fridge.
And bring me that bottle of whine.
Some things leave me cold.
Some things leave me angry.
Some things make me want to hurt somebody.
Hotels. Hate them. Or at least the last one I stayed in. Two nights in a row they couldn't take me for dinner when I needed fed and the head waitress seemed to smirk gleefully when telling me. I'll have her, down one of the back corridors. Quick twist of the neck from behind. Two crunches and she's a floppy doll. She'll never see it coming. And then on the second night when I did eventually get seated I was on my main course and still no sign of the wine so they gave me a full bottle. I had death in my eyes and they chose wisely. Gave me a bottle of Chilean red. House of the Devil was the literal translation of the label. I'd agree. Bloody dinner had obviously not been made fresh but had been reheated in an oven or microwave. More neck cricking to be done in that establishment I fear.
Got to keep moving. Very busy trying to get some work done before my hols. Plenty of stuff needed on the personal front too. Must make a list. Must get stuff on the list. Arrange holiday parking. Arrange airport transfers. Must start to pack.
