Yesterday morning it was lovely to be welcomed back by the NPLCC / Bread-Shed team, especially as they came armed with birthday gifts and a proper cuppa. I think they’re trying to tell me something though. Wine, gin, and a cosy dachshund jacket. So either I drink too much, or I officially look like a full-time dog lady. Both are true. I only brush my hair for work these days anyway.

Most excited to see me was SSSSSamatha, who beamed at me and said: “I’m glad you’re back! You don’t just sit at your laptop after all, you actually do a lot of shit.”Too bloody right, which is exactly why I drink. I’m a cheap date though, and arseholed by gin number three. Cheap for you, very expensive for my dignity.

Today’s big drama: the sheer VOLUME of eggs we get through by 10am. I’m seriously considering buying a chicken and calling her Rodney. Yes, Rodney is a bloke’s name. This is MY comic, my characters, so all politically correct people can piss off.

My vision for Rodney is that she just perches over the frying pan and pops one out on demand. Chef Amy then trains Rodney to crack the shell on the way out of her arse? Vagina? Arse? Vagina? Whatever the chicken’s exit route is. She should be in her own Shitflix original: Eggs On Demand… Give it another 12 months after that, and Rodney will be in another Shitflix documentary on how we give her PTSD from having to not just lay the egg, but having to crack the shell into the pan on the way out.

It was the last day of our school holiday breakfast menu yesterday; you could tell it was the last week because the parents definitely weren’t drinking coffee out of those mugs. Passing the whiskey bottle under the table like it was communion wine. I remember those days well, which is why I stopped at two kids. Any more and I’d have been sectioned. To the parents of three, four, five, I salute you. No wonder you’re on whiskey for breakfast. Poor buggers.

SSSSSamatha then handed me a to-do list as long as both my arms sewn together and instantly looked 10 years younger. Thanks for that. She dumped all the stress back on me. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, poor Chef Amy’s eggs kept sticking to the pan and ruining her rhythm. She announced that if anyone touches the new frying pan with a metal spatula, she’ll park it sideways up their never-come-back. And that’s without Vaseline.

Customers were safe this morning because Matron Walker of the Wards wasn’t in, so the sausages could relax and not get nicked off plates. Especially Matthew’s. YES, of course he was there! He smelled the bacon from his bed and followed his nose to the community centre. He’s healing nicely from his Rodger eviction. We still know bugger all about Rodger and how much of an arsehole he actually was, so we still don’t know if there’s more treatment to come. Which drives you fucking mental, just sitting, waiting, and waiting some more.

After wading through 2,678 emails (mostly spam, and not the good pork luncheon meat kind), I finally hit some FAB news: we’ve been awarded funding for one of our projects!

Even better, Toby arrived and had to open my birthday card for me because I apparently can’t anymore. Plus flowers. And George gave me a massive hug. Grandkids are the best, aren’t they? You can feed them pure sugar, spoil them rotten, wind them right up, then hand them back to their parents again. Karma’s a bitch.

Overall, first day back was actually really good.

Oh wait. It’s only 2:07pm on a Tuesday as I’m writing this. Now watch some bastard come along and ruin it.

Until the next drama,

Chow for now!

Disclaimer:
All characters and events in this post are (mostly) real, but any resemblance to sanity is purely coincidental. No chickens, sausages, or gin bottles were harmed in the making of this story, except my dignity, which took a slight battering. Parental judgement, hangovers, and frying pans are used entirely at your own risk. Read on with a cuppa (or something stronger) and don’t try this at home, unless you have a Rodney of your own, or you can hire ours, cos she only works Tuesdays!.. Lucky chicken.