One year later and I have a shit job at the shit council, shit all money, shit prospects and I have to get out of bed at 6 o'clock in the shitting morning. Whatever abstract ambtition I did have twelve months ago has been ground out of me by Mircosoft Excel and complaint letters. The only excitement left in my days is when someone brings in Jaffa Cakes.
So, I thought I'd blog about my demise into gin-addled, pigeon-heckling bitterness to pass the time. And sit and mourn Aberystwyth and all that it represented: sleeping for 48 hours, eating tomato soup for breakfast, missing 3pm lectures, feigning an interest in Virginia Woolf, debating which Professor to sexually proposition for better marks, wandering off with strangers, forgetting where I lived, grilling my own mail in a George Foreman and obviously skipping all those seminars on career advice.