Hit Man

One of the benefits of working for INoGITCH -- other than the regular paycheck and daily adoration of my fellow wage slaves *ahem* -- is the fact that I can go to the shops at lunchtime. OK, so I could always do this while being an at home write-ist, but it always seemed to involved a big kafuffle of driving to Inverurie and all sorts of associated tractor-related nastiness. And nice though Inverurie is, it's not the bustling metropolis that Aberdeen can claim to be. Third largest city in Scotland, etc.

Now I am what is known as 'delicate'. My skin is soft and silky smooth, and She Who Must Take Care To Make Sure That When She Beats Up Her Hubband She Does It So The Bruises Don't Show anoints it with lark-grease* on a regular basis, just in case I need to expose any of it to the vulgar gaze of the public. And that means these cold morning starts to get into INoGITCH often result in my delicate artist's hands freezing to the steering wheel, like frozen porck, apple and rosemary sausages. Only with fingernails. Which a reputable butcher will usually remove before selling.

Being of a logical bent I decided to purchase some gloves this very day: leather ones, so they're not all slippery slidey on the steering wheel, resulting in my careening off the road into a ditch, tree, or sheep. Black leather gloves. And luckily enough Tesco in Danestone had just that very item on sale for £10.00, with an extra 20% off! Woo and indeed Who!

I've never had a pair of black leather gloves before, and I have to confess I really liked them. There's something very satisfying about knowing you're not leaving any fingerprints. Plus it makes people look at you as if you're about to whip out a firearm of some description and pop a cap in their monkey asses. Especially if you're wearing a black suit, white shirt and red tie at the time. Very hit man.

I wore them for most of the afternoon. I wore them and didn't leave any fingerprints, right up to the point that I noticed that the bloody things were falling apart. Poop. No more pretending to be a hit man for poor Stuart. And worse still, when I finally managed to extract myself from INoGITCH this evening, Tesco were all out of man-sized gloves, so I couldn't even swap them for a new pair. All that was left was a pile of small gloves, for angry little people who want to be secret agents. Provided they can reach the shelf the gloves are on. Maybe they could all cooperate and make some sort of small human pyramid?

Tomorrow afternoon I'm off into town to meet up with someone from BBC Scotland to do some research for Book Number The Fourth. Maybe I'll pop past Markie's and see if they have another pair of OJ-style gloves. One feels naked without them. Especially while typing nude...

* Because let's be honest: no one wants a squeaky lark.