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At the start of the year, I enquired about renting a bit of an office, you know the co-working hot-desking they have these days. It wasn’t at all obvious from the poster I’d seen outside a grand building that a company is renovating, nor from the website I gave my contact details to, but it quickly turned out to be a front for the scumbags Regus, which soured me on the idea. (I’m sure they’re no worse than any other commercial landlord, and their staff are upstanding fellows – some of you contrarian fucks might even argue that their destroying a podcast production company was actually a net positive – but I’ll hold a grudge if I want to.)
Still, I meekly agreed to look around (a different building to the one I was really interested in), but due to agonies I didn’t attend, then they phoned some sixty times (each time from a different number) over several weeks until I deigned to answer, what’s wrong with me.
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My railcard auto-renewed and I didn’t want it to. It’s my own silly fault for not carefully reading the emails that were sent to warn me, but I’d counter that it’s their fault for entitling them “Your railcard is about to expire” and not “Your railcard is about to auto-renew”. I drafted a reply to that effect, but haven’t sent it for fear of coming across a bit Karen, you know, insufficiently grateful that at least I’ve been spared the unpleasant surprise of finding it’s expired.
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Since seeing an ex-prisoner on TikTok demonstrate how to fold an opened bag of crisps (potato chips) to keep them fresh without an elastic band or clip, I’ve bought bags of crisps for the sole purpose of practising the technique (and eating them, of course). It’s satisfying, and has made me less apprehensive about being imprisoned for a crime I didn’t commit.
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🎦 The Brutalist.