Your Digger

Hey Ray and gang.

I hear you have a digger sitting idly in your office.

Any chance you could send it my way? You won't need an address, just follow the smell of crap in Dublin and it'll bring you to my pit - I'm in deep shit and could do with a hand to get out.

So you know the way it goes. Five o clock rolls round on a Friday and the office stampedes towards the door for a pint to start the weekend off.

Some, with sense, will go home after three drinks, pleasantly tipsy. Some, with no sense who are trying to avoid packing up their apartment, will stay out drinking until they start swaying while sitting and tell their boss that they can be a right bitch at times.

Thats right. In a moment of candour and extreme stupidity I told my boss- who you'll understand dictates my every move every day - that if she'd just lighten up once in a little while people might like her. That I personally didn't think she was a complete cow, but I could see why some people would think that. And - the cherry on the cake - that making the effort with your appearance and putting on the odd bit of lippie can really lift your spirits and no one would think her less managerial if she did.

So please. If you could. Send your digger round to me and pull me out of the black hole I find myself in.

Many thanks.

A desperate Niamh.

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