I Send Some Text Messages.
Last Thursday. There are plans for ‘cold drinks’ involving myself, Grotbags (resplendent in spray-tan for the event), Blonde Colleague, Uncannily Similar, Gay Mark, Grant From Work and Thug Colleague. I am rather looking forward to it as I’ve known each of them for over five years and have now decided I quite like them.
And then realise that I have a previous work commitment and can only join them for about an hour. Deeply unhappy about this, I send a group text to those concerned after I get on my bus:
Tired Dad: Enjoy the rest of your evening fuckers. Think of me pulling pints for a bunch of 60-year old cunts with no crack.
I get a number of surprisingly sympathetic replies, except from Grotbags, who is pretending she has forgotten I even exist:
Grotbags: Who is this?
Funny lady. I reply:
TD: It’s Tired you knob.
G: Tired who?
She’s milking this.
TD: Oh fuck off will you. I’m in no mood. Dale Winton called – he wants his tan back.
G: What tan?
This isn’t right. She should have bitten. I think for a bit.
I’ve recently had a harrowing 14-hour train journey during which I now remember receiving a rather significant text message from an unfamiliar number:
Unknown Number: Grotbags – new number.
I start to feel quite uneasy and send the following text to what I now know to be Grotbags’ new number:
TD: I’ve just sent a lot of quite insulting messages to your old phone by accident. Please apologize to whoever has it now.
I receive the following, quite chilling, two-word reply:
Grotbags New: My daughter.
Her very beautiful daughter is 11 years old.
I madly send messages of apology to all concerned and explain to daughter that I work with her mother and am also a fool.
I am not looking forward to my return to the office tomorrow.
And then realise that I have a previous work commitment and can only join them for about an hour. Deeply unhappy about this, I send a group text to those concerned after I get on my bus:
Tired Dad: Enjoy the rest of your evening fuckers. Think of me pulling pints for a bunch of 60-year old cunts with no crack.
I get a number of surprisingly sympathetic replies, except from Grotbags, who is pretending she has forgotten I even exist:
Grotbags: Who is this?
Funny lady. I reply:
TD: It’s Tired you knob.
G: Tired who?
She’s milking this.
TD: Oh fuck off will you. I’m in no mood. Dale Winton called – he wants his tan back.
G: What tan?
This isn’t right. She should have bitten. I think for a bit.
I’ve recently had a harrowing 14-hour train journey during which I now remember receiving a rather significant text message from an unfamiliar number:
Unknown Number: Grotbags – new number.
I start to feel quite uneasy and send the following text to what I now know to be Grotbags’ new number:
TD: I’ve just sent a lot of quite insulting messages to your old phone by accident. Please apologize to whoever has it now.
I receive the following, quite chilling, two-word reply:
Grotbags New: My daughter.
Her very beautiful daughter is 11 years old.
I madly send messages of apology to all concerned and explain to daughter that I work with her mother and am also a fool.
I am not looking forward to my return to the office tomorrow.
posted by Tired Dad at
10:50 pm
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