I just received a letter about my company pension. I am due for retirement in 2038 (which I’m sure will come around in the blink of an eye), and, should I die in service (paper-cut to a major artery? OD’ing on printer fumes? Buried beneath an avalanche of hardbacks?), I get £95,000. Not that I’ll be around to use it. Steve could pay off our mortgage, and still have plenty left over for a hot young mail-order bride. Or to give me a kick-ass funeral. Margaritas and quesadillas all round.
OK discussing my own funeral is depressing me. Enough! Plans for this weekend: viewing flats tomorrow, then having someone round to see my place. Going to old friend’s wedding in Blackheath. I was going to wear a strapless satin dress and sheer lace jackety-thing (I don’t want to say bolero, cos that sounds so eighties… but it is cropped…), but as the forecast says 10 degrees C, this needs to be revised.