Today I was waylaid at Liverpool Street Station by the boy who made my life a misery for a good four or five months when I was at university. He was charming and funny -- and mean as a polecat when you got on his bad side, which everyone who shared a house with him did at some point. Just a spiteful, spiteful self-righteous arsehole.
Anyway, I was going home from work at 10.30 tonight, lost in my ipod and thinking about bathroom tiles, I heard him shout. He was utterly pissed.
God, he's really, really short. I'd forgotten that he was about two inches shorter than me. And very bald. And fat. With a ridiculous ponce beard. Still pompous. And I work where he always wanted to work and have done for ten years. And he worked at a PR firm -- which he always used to pontificate was akin to working for Satan and/or prostituting yourself. Only he's just been laid off.
Ah, the glorious waft of schadenfreude...
I hope he gets a job soon because he's talented, and not a terrible person, but thank you, universe, for that tiny present on a bad week. I know, I know; I am a bad person. Don't bloody care.