I just got home, and boy my feet are killing me. I would do many very bad things for a foot massage.
(Very bad things like leave my recycling bin out on the curb overnight, say a sweary word outside a church, and not return my supermarket trolley to the designated trolley area. Not sexy bad things, because: Ew. I only deal in cash for sexy bad things.)
I made plans to meet Louise for Brunch late tomorrow morning, and at this stage I think I’m going to have to crawl to get there. Or steal a wheelchair from someone. Or a car. The possibilities are endless.
I was in the same corporate box tonight, but I had in a different crowd. Yesterdays (awesome tippers) were the corporate team for Big Company. Todays group were the retail team. Big difference. For starters, no tip, but lots of heartfelt thank you’s – which was almost as nice. (Almost, because this job pays just above minimum wage.)
Thankfully yesterdays tip stretched for my taxi home tonight, and a pizza, which I have been imaging eating since 8pm tonight… It’s now 12.23 – and I finished my 12 hour shift exactly 53 minutes ago, and the SECOND I was out of the stadium I started calling pizza places to find an open one (yeah, food delivery stops pretty early here in New Zealand – 11pm is pretty much it.)
I finally found a place that would send me pizza, and guys? I nearly cried. It was that emotional. That and my feet REALLY hurt.
OMG. PIZZA IS HERE. NOM.