Hot Prospects
The following day followed its usual routine. I arose from the dead at around 7am, made Tam’s lunch for work, and took the dog out for a quick stroll. Arriving home to find, like almost every weekday morning, that Tam had left her breakfast stuff strewn around my lovely kitchen. And she calls me messy.
A quick check of the home phone reveals no calls missed, and the post that arrives isn’t exactly inspiring either, just more people wanting more money that I haven’t got. I hop into the shower, then grabbed a piece of toast and check my emails. Nothing.
To be honest with you, I’m annoyed. I left every contact detail under the sun on that answerphone yesterday. Oh yeah, the voicemail...it was odd.
A foreign voice with an accent I couldn’t quite place. The message went something like;
“Hallo, thank you for calling this noomber, if you are applying for the position of coaches, please leave your name, telephone noomber and email address and I will have to contacting you as soon as I can be. Thank you”
My first impression was this was that annoying Spanish guy from the "Polaris World" ads on telly. I gave my details. And thought to myself, that I could only wait and see.
The rest of the day passed with little incident, except for the bank ringing me to inform me ever so gratingly that I was £400 or so over my overdraft limit. I feigned complete innocence of course, probably unconvincingly, and assured them I’d rectify the situation. The reality is however most banks won’t cash in shirt buttons. I had no idea if we could meet the mortgage payment due in 10 days.
As I sat on the sofa, with all 36kg of my dog draped uncomfortably over my legs, I played on my PS3 and mulled. At 5.30pm Tam came crashing through the front door, complete with a bottle of Rose wine and a work colleague, both wanting feeding. Annoyed with her, as we could hardly afford to feed extra mouths (albeit quite an attractive one) I stomped off to the kitchen, and started to prepare a lasagne. Then I managed to antagonise myself further by discovering we had no Bolognese sauce. Tam and her mate were already halfway through the wine already, and giggling like idiot schoolgirls on the sofa about some new bint at work. Getting more irritated by the second I threw my jacket on and took her car to the shop, grumbling yet even more at the extortionate price for one jar of sauce.
I arrived home in the perfect mood to shred somebody, only to be met by my rather flushed-in-the-face girlfriend.
Someone had called for me while I was out...Somebody called Jorge.
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