Its been a day of trials and tribulations. From the hilarity of realising catalogue search terminals were blocking access to nursury rhyme cds (I suspect they filter out the profane "Hickory Dickory Dock" songs; not to mention "Hey Diddle Diddle") to the drama of lift doors closing too quickly. The moment that will most stick with me, however, is a woman calling us all primitive because one has to show proof of address to get a library card.
Thats the thing that really gets me. These people go overseas, get back and then feel all superior and sophistimicated because they chavved it up in ye olde Englande. Any chance, and there they are, trying to wedge the fact they were overseas into conversation. Whats this phone number? Oh, I gave you my INTERNATIONAL calling details, in case the library wants to phone about overdue messages from its love nest in Borneo.
In general, the people who are most brazen about their international travel are the ones who have been to the most tedious of places, proliferating like fungi in the grottos and kiwi ghettos of London. They probably show interminable slide shows of their castle visiting, night clubbing, and carry fond memories of Andrew Lloyd Weber musicals with them to this day. Harrods would have been a must see, and you better believe they saw the changing of the guard.
Travel is wasted on these people, they should have given the ticket to me.
At last I would become the International Superbitch I am destined to be.
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