2003-12-04

Confession: there is a television ad running right now consisting entirely of scrolling text; its basic premise is that according to research, the mind can process misspelled words as long as the first and last letters are in place. (I don�t know what this is intended to sell me � I think it�s an ad for a radio station.) To prove the point, naturally, every single word in the ad is egregiously misspelled. And such is my degree of inherent anal-retentive editorness that I have to literally avert my eyes from the screen while the ad plays. I simply can�t stand it. I need help. I�m in danger of experiencing cardiac trouble, not to mention permanent unpopularity, if one more misplaced goddamn apostrophe strays within my proofreading range.

Things at work are weird. With the new regime swooping down upon the hapless civil service in a week�s time, the political staff in the Minister�s Office are sort of milling about aimlessly, like an upended ant farm. Today they got official notice that next Thursday will be their last day. Our financial officer made the rounds this afternoon instructing everyone that they were to turn in their cell phones and Blackberries, like an irate police sergeant throwing maverick detectives off the case: �Your badge, and your gun.�

Ah, political life is a harsh mistress. And a homely one, judging by the rows of pasty, jowly faces lining the House of Commons; but I digress. I am so sad! I am fond of my bosses. I have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified. I have not been buried with inferior minds�oh, pardon me. Got a little Bront� there for a sec.