I have landed a job working behind the bar in a place called 'the electricity club' (that last link is the most interesting, btw) - it's a members only social club. Everybody is really nice but very established in their roles and completely unlike myself. "We're like a family," they repeat like mantra. I imagine it must be a very controlling family. I haven't decked anyone yet, or screamed at management, but I screwed up like fuck on the tills last night and customers were getting impatient so I was stuck on the door for the rest of the night, counting people going in and out of a wedding reception on click-counters. In the end I got really bored and frustrated and fantasised about telling off the boss which I guess means I'm not officially part of the workforce! Anyway, I wrote some observational prose to pass the time.

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I rustled through the little draw looking for a pen and something to write on; having grown bored of Nausea with my mind drifting away on its own thoughtful ponderings. It was filled to the brim with random crap; pens, recipt books and little pieces of paper covered sparsely with random numbers. Unable to find something suitable for scrawling I resort to peeling the covers from beer matts, like so many thoughtful individuals before me left wanting for a canvas on which to express themselves upon.

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There is a young lady in a shiny blue holtertop pushing a baby in a pram around the foyer. The baby refuses to sleep, staring into space with empty infant eyes. The movements of the pram strike me as a delicate waltz; going to and thro and rotating in quarter circles. After a while a man in a polkadot shirt, presumably the woman's husband, comes to relieve her. They chat momentarily, discussing the childs persistant concious state, before the woman rejoins the party, leaving the husband to continue the silent lullabye. Finally the youngster succums to the gentle rhythmic motions, lowering her eyelids, and drifting off to sleep. Man and baby rejoin the party.