Bugger the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
I know the end of the world is nigh.
I know this, because there's a girl in the office today who has made the decision that it's okay to wear tracksuit pants to work.
Sulphur will rain from the sky. Oceans will boil. And slobs will bring their lack of self-respect to the office in polyester-cotton form.
Honestly.
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Dies irae! Dies illa!
Satanus in Inferno!
Fa la la la la lee
Sanctus in eternea!
A-a-a-a-a-a-a-men!
I blame the homosexuals.
And the 1970's oil shocks.
And pesky static cling.
I blame the fact that I'm an uppity bitch-snob.
Tomato, tomato.
I don't think we're in for a plague of frogs just yet. But she's crapped in her own nest, if you ask me. Now what's she gonna when she gets home and wants to snuggle into something warm and cosy and non work-related? It's a slippery slope to slobdom. And alliteration.
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