The fate of the English lit grad

I was telling damned_colonial last week about a job I once had proofreading legal commentary (yes, it is utterly as boring as it sounds). Most of the editors who worked there had their doctorates and masters in English literature, although though there were a few, like my friend Rachel, who'd snuck in with other similar degrees (masters in French lit, in her instance).

And, if I was bored, my friends, they were bored out of their tiny trees. Thus mad outbreaks of feyness happened at intervals. One of the best was sparked by one of the editors who was from England, who innocently asked what a choko was. Very quickly, he was provided with history ("Let them eat chokos!" cried Marie Antoinette), recipes (self-saucing choko pudding) and literature. And here's one of the best examples from literature:

Greenish blues - WH Audit

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone

Shoot the pianist and with feelings glum,
Put away the coffee, don't let the diners come.

Let the waiters circle moaning all as one.
Scribble on the menu "It's all gone".

Put great bells around the red necks of rugby jocks.
Let traffic policemen wear white bobby socks.

It was my nosh, my spread, my feast, my boast,
My breakfast and my Sunday roast.

My lunch, my midnight snack, my feed, my scoff
I thought my choko frittata would last forever. It was off.

Pickles are not wanted now, put away every one.
Pack up the spoon and dismantle the bun.

Pour away the vinaigrette and sweep up the pud.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Weather report

I have just officially found out that my heater is not enough to warm my living room when the temperature drops below 0°C. And yes, we've already established I'm a wuss.

Off to bed then.