bored of excitement – the griefjunkie blog 

Dear Rachel

If you get a teaspoon, immerse it for some time in very hot water, and then drop it down the back of someone’s trousers while they are talking to someone on their market stall, they jump about in a manner strongly reminiscent of Riverdance, while really, really swearing. Also, because no one expects to have scalding cutlery in their underwear at, well, any time of day really, it also creates a lovely cartoon effect as the moments when a) you are happy that you have underwear which is free of scalding cutlery and b) you realise that actually you don’t, converge, rather like when Tom realises that Jerry has set his tail alight again.

I did this to Pikey Dave as a Christmas present last year. A surprising side effect was that the resultant string of imaginatively arranged obscenities was the loudest ever heard in the United Kingdom. If you listen carefully you can still hear two w*kers and a c*nt reverberating under the canal bridge even now, four months later.

[Bitch slapping Read More now will reveal what happens when you unexpectedly channel Gandalf while ordering coffee]

There aren’t really the same opportunities for the permanent scarring of your fellow traders at Greenwich, but the food is better. Once I had a fried egg sandwich from the Veggie Bar in the Middle Yard at Camden which tasted of fish, which, now I think about it, could well have been a miracle. I used to get coffee from there too, whereas in Greenwich I get it from a small shop in Turnpin Lane.

It’s strange, but because the girl who works there doesn’t speak English particularly well, I talk like a philosopher to compensate. We’ll be chatting about, usually, the weather, and she’ll say, I dunno, the weather is a bit rainy but apparently it’s going to clear up a bit later on, and I’ll say ‘Yes. Many traders see bad weather, stay at home, these traders will lose money today’, and I find that I seem to have channelled the speech patterns of a Native American chief while doing so. I have literally no idea why I do this, or what comes over my vocal chords on these occasions. This morning, she said to me ‘Are you going to trade on Bank Holiday Monday?’ which is a perfectly reasonable question, and I replied with some old bollocks along the lines of ‘Sometimes best to take day off, stay strong’, like I was Gandalf or something. I might walk in there with a magic staff tomorrow and chuck a bit of lightning about, to liven things up a bit.

Bored at work?: Facebook.

Future psycho?: Twitter.