Late Night Conversations

"Hmm, is that the firetruck?"

"Yeap, the firetruck's going home".

It's been quite the month. The weather turned warm quite suddenly without warning; and in an act of rebellion, became cold again today despite fierce sunshine in the late afternoon. Walking home from Natasa's, I tutted at stupid girls who chose to ignore nature's warning and donned tiny skirts/shorts/tanks. Crossing Granville stank of booze. It was quite strange actually. The stench of alcohol was so saturated, so pervasive, so tell-tale of the debauchery and shit that happens along that dirty street. And all so strange because I've never actually smelled alcohol in the air before.

Oh, so I got the interpreter job. In fact, my first assignment was the very next day. I was a little traumatized by the experience, actually. It turned out that my "client" and I were separated by one degree, one rather high-profile, well connected degree if I may add, which made me question my choice of occupation. Nonetheless, it pays well so I shan't complain.

By the way, it's spelled "shan't", not "shalln't" (Pango: that's a kind of onion). It's not, if you're wondering. It's shallot.