Perhaps my greatest blunder in life was in seeking employment as a manual labourer and member of the proletariat. My only excuse is that I was cruelly deceived by moustache-twiddling bourgeoisie types and the location of my work: The Cushion Factory.
Naturally I assumed that this would be a relaxing job, given the preponderance of sleeping material to hand. Of course I had failed to understand the precise meaning of the term employment.
No sooner had I arrived at the dust-swept establishment when I was initiated into one of the most pointless tasks which are not already the exclusive preserve of womankind. Namely the conversion of inside-out cushion covers into covers ready for filling.
I had just mastered this demanding skill when I was transferred to the vast blowing machine that transformed the flimsily-sewn cotton sheets into exciting, dynamic and brightly-coloured couch accoutrements.
Sadly, I knew my career was doomed as soon as my first cushion exploded in a shower of synthetic feathers to the cheers of my unsympathetic colleagues.
2008-01-15 @ 18:15