Monday, February 2, 2009

The neverending story of my bung finger

So in order not to bleed all over stuff I afix a plaster to my finger, which seems quite keen to pump out a great deal of the red liquid that I would quite like to keep in my body because of its magical life-giving properties. I have to raid the first aid kit at work where they only have the superior cloth superglue plasters, none of this childish sticky plaster with novelty images on it nonsense. Unfortunately, I seem to be mildly allergic to the superglue ones, but I wear them anyway, because they are so superior. But they make me itchy, bring me out in lumps, although only where the glue has touched my usually pristine skin, and eventually cause me to peel. They also make my finger somewhat numb. I can use my finger and I can feel through it but it's jolly darn odd. Perhaps this is what wearing a condom feels like?

I work for Internal Affairs, right? The translation section, right? The phone calls we get, disturbing our day as we try to destroy people's lives by not doing their translations properly. (I just stamp them, am not smart enough to be allowed near the dictionaries with their fancy foreign lingo.)
'Can you send cheese to America?'
'I think my rental company is lying to me - can you tell me if they are?'
'What's shadow in Yugoslavian? That's what we want to name our dog.' (They did at least have the right department, but . . .)
'I have a forklift license - do you have any vacancies?' (They wanted Tranzlink, not translate)

They just keep coming and it's so hard not to laugh. I've only had one woman shout at me but I have high hopes of many more.

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