Rubber bands.

One of the things I do at work is clean up (after a fashion). Unfortunately the workers on the polywrapping machine fling the rubber bands that keep the letters together on the floor - and there are a lot of letters. And a lot of bands. And it's usually your friendly neighbourhood muggins who has to pick them up in the mornings. And it drives me completely insane. So messy (the place generally is, but the bands are the worst). Cleaning up if I'm there late on Fridays helps get the weekend off to a really bad start, but at least when I go in there on Monday morning it won't be so fucking depressing. Maybe that'll be the thing that drives me to move on; I'm not really sure I should be a glorified janitor. Then again, keeping places tidy is nothing to be ashamed of, and it makes you feel better if it's straightened up a bit.

Meanwhile, my bank card's expired and my new one hasn't come yet (according to the lady in the Abbey National up on Muswell Hill - cough, spit - things have been delayed because of the flooding, and the Royal Mail strikes can't have helped). You wanna hurry up?

Going back to work, I'm on one of my listening-to-everything-I-have jags (go to and from work listening to tapes... yes, children, before iPods there was an invention called a Walkman which allowed people to listen to cassettes, and since I have a hefty amount of soundtracks on cassette a tape player is of more use to me... and CDs at work), but annoyingly I decided to try and synchronise the tapes and CD, subject-wise. CDs are up to the great Danny Elfman, tapes up to Bruce Broughton, and it's one disc a day at work until I catch up. And it's very painful to put up with playlisted Radio 1 (the other stations are even worse). Especially with Scott Mills, the twat.

At least the sun's out.