By LuckyJimm

The only time I played poker in the last week was on Thursday night after being paid.  This is the worst time because my bank account is flush and I'm eager for action after a week's abstention.  I threw away £200 in half an hour at $0.50/$1.   One buy-in went to a bad beat and the others to bad play as I failed to get away from outflopped hands. After losing my £50 maximum deposit on Betfred I got round it by opening an account on another skin, showing how easy it is to break artificial restrictions one tries to impose on the amount one gambles.  I reloaded for a final £50, moved to $1/$2 and started playing properly. By 7am I'd won it all back except for £45, a more tolerable loss. I set my alarm for 8.30am and had an hour of almost-sleep with my mind still thinking of poker.
 
 
I arrived at work my customary ten minutes late and checked my email.  Then I had a fried breakfast in the canteen, a cigarette outside, and went for an hour of compulsory I.T. training.  During this I had a missed call and a text from my recruitment agency. I knew what this meant, and as expected when I called them later they told me it was to be my last day at the law firm since they'd found a permanent recruit and would cover the vacancy internally until she started.  The agency did say they hadn't had any negative feedback about me, so I shouldn't have difficulties finding work again.   One problem was that I'd run up a £60 bill on my security card which I used to buy food from the canteen without topping up since it allowed a negative balance.  I didn't have the money to pay it off so told the agency to deduct it from next week's wages.  Sexy Trashy Pseudo Sloan and the two other secretaries I got on with were all away that day, so I shan't see them again either.  I was mildly irritated to have had no notice, but such is the temp's lot, such is the choice I've made.
 
 
On Saturday afternoon I went with my newly friendly Italian housemate to Borough Market, the best food market in London. It's just a fifteen minute ride from my flat but I'd never been before.  It was crowded with tourists and the many stalls selling £3.50 sausage sandwiches were doing a brisk business - clearly this is where the serious money is.  As well as Italian, Spanish, French and Middle Eastern food there were many stalls selling English farm produce, particularly from the West Country.  At one stall there was a gutted wild boar hanging from the wall and we watched a butcher skinning rabbits.  I bought apples, tomatoes, quality pasta, smoked cheese, and buffalo mozzarella flown in the day before. I'd spent so much on food that the only wine I could afford was a £2.50 bottle from Tescos labelled simply "French red wine", no further details given.  Back home I felt reassuringly groggy after drinking the bottle and eating a dessert my housemate made from peaches and wine.
 
 
I cycled into town and went to a gallery show at the Foreign Press Club on Carlton House Terrace above the ICA.  It's a grand building with very high ceilings and a sweeping staircase, and it was an unusual venue for a show of East London artists.  I spend most of the night on the smoker's balcony high up above Pall Mall with views of  the Millennium Wheel and of Westminster Abbey and Big Ben behind St James Park.  A few more drinks ensured my continued drunkenness.  I told my friend I thought his posters which were on display couldn't have taken him more than five minutes.  He answered that one couldn't judge the importance of a work of art by the amount of time spent on its creation.  There had been thousands of artists over the centuries whose industrious toil had been forgotten because their art was judged inconsequential.  I accepted the point and asked for another drink.
 
 
My first day out of work was spent idling at home, posting on poker forums and failing to do anything I intended.  I woke to crisp blue skies and thought I should start the day with a long bike ride, but didn't make it out of bed.  I have a pile of books I'd like to read, but am too scatty and easily distracted.  I started Patrick Hamilton's Slaves of Solitude but put it down in favour of railing the Omaha games on FTP.   Yet there is so much I ought to do.  I need to look for another temp job if not a more permanent solution - a caeer, even - since although I've paid the rent for March I don't have much cash left over.  I'd like to plan a holiday for May and to see if there's a university course I could start in the autumn.  But I don't seem able to spend a single minute productively.  I'm stuck in this lethargic and unfulfilling trance of compulsive and pointless Internet surfing.  At least last week I was getting paid for it.