I've ducked it twice, tried to weasel out of it a few more times and moaned about it on several separate ocassions.
That training course in London is back in my diary.
"Not in-house then?" I asked.
"No, sorry, Matt," said my manager, "They don't seem to do that after all."
It's in Paddington, it's 'interactive' and it's someone else's idea of a check box that will make them feel better. At least I've got until September to get ready for two days in the stifling, horn-honking, claustrophobic capital.
Maybe I'll stay over and have a night on the town? Hey, why not? - hit the pubs and recount my hilarious anecdotes to eager tourists and slick-haired suits who will undoubtedly be hanging on my every uproarious word. Then, after a spot of fine dining (Pizza Express) I could cruise downtown and bust some funky moves at a fancy club, tipping off the paps in advance, of course.
"Hey who's that cool guy over there?" they'll all shout over the thumping music and big bass beats, "Yeah, where did he come from; what does he do?"
"Who me?" I'll say, smoothly sliding over to the bar with all the ease of 70s Travolta, "I'm a technical author, in town for one night only, baby," and then I'll click my fingers, spin on my heels and point like the Fonz while the music pulls me moonwalking back to the dance floor.
Yeah, maybe not. Stuck standing inside a tin tube, ricketing over the railway with a copy of Metro and several hundred grumpy commuters is a bit more likely.
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