I know you were craving to know how my story ended. If only I could say something full of slam-bang humour, oh good Lord [this is a vocative form], give me the lexical appropriateness to do such a thing! But before that, let’s bitch a bit about Kate Middleton. And yes, she married a (bold and surprisingly old looking) Prince, and yes she’s skinny, and yes she can actually have formal occasions where wearing a diamond tiara is appropriate but –there’s is always a but– she’s just so bland! I understand she dresses high street and that made her a bit more likeable to people, but when wearing Zara is so boring, well we don’t need her for that! That’s not the reason why we (I mean “I”) pay taxes to the Her Majesty’s Revenue and Custom office*! I do that not only to avoid jail but also to be provided with juicy scandals from the Royal Family and she shouldn’t make an exception! That doesn’t make paying taxes more likeable at all! I want her to make fashion faux pas, I want her to diet and gain weight as Sarah Ferguson did, I want her to be a slave of her own destiny and not some boring neat housewife always in control of the situation no matter what! Bloody Hell! She looks like my middle age aunt! And perhaps they share the same makeup artist! God she’s boring! Michelle Obama is a way better fashion-wearing than Kate Middleton, and I’m pretty sure they have the same clothing allowance!
Well, back to our commoner misery, my bosses –just 24h late respect to the agreement–called me in and, in a very fake-friendly way, they partially agreed to my requests and partially not. So, I’m not satisfied at all, but I made the best of a bad and–above all–it’s not done yet because: who laughs last, laughs longest. And I will laugh.
*also knows as HMRC