Thursday 12 March 2009
Today’s dream involved me knocking around my parents’ apartment complex and attempting to deal with the scum therein. In the dream the site was overrun with chav kids and young adults with no sense of community, which I fear is something of a worrying possibility/reality.
In the dream I set up some kind of careers advice booth/event to help out – it majorly fails as the mass populous ignore it. Out of the blue an out of work Andrew Dice Clay turns up acting very unemployed. As I go to help him out (and stop him bashing chav kids) I breath in with my mouth open and a snail butterfly mutant flies up into my gaping mouth and becomes lodged in my throat. I can still breathe but cannot gulp or swallow.
Awakening from this it is with a tiny headache, a baby hangover. Probably as a result of this I leave late this morning. In doing so I see my new neighbour also leaving dressed in her nurse’s outfit – now there is almost a fantasy come true.
My foot remains fucked. The walk hurts but I still manage to catch the 7.03 but it is at a cost/price. From Chelmsford onwards the Dull Couple sit near me and the prematurely receding humpy hunking mass of bore doesn’t seem too enthused by the amount of seatage I take up on the train. What the fuck can I do, I am obese.
Once on the tube I watch as a half pretty but rough (probably Spanish) lady gets on at Moorgate and proceeds to apply her makeup on the ride. What an effort, she was more attractive before she started. Is this really what all women do/go through?
When I arrive at Baker Street it is to the strange sight of everybody appearing to have small mouths today. As I ride the tube from Baker Street to St Johns Wood I become paranoid that a fart slips out but obviously I can’t hear it, listening to my iPod. I hope they have small noses to go with their small mouths today.
I have what is technically called a “delicate tummy” today.
A dubious day takes a dip for the worse when one of my bosses decides to take the piss out of me in front of too many people regarding the obvious, calling me a “fat cunt.” This is good for neither morale, self esteem or the soul and particularly not good when dealing with the person doing the accounts of your business. An accountant with a grudge is not a good thing and a reality that has plagued and blighted me throughout my career – whoops. Perhaps I should have mentioned Josef Fritzl and some kind of resemblance. By the end of the day the bank is shouting at him which I guess resembles some kind of evidence of karma. As a result of this a minor panic sets in and suddenly my work rate is about to be upped. I’m a humourless bastard sometimes.
As I leave for home we acknowledge each other as I head off. There is no lasting damage (unlike the other week when he made the new lady cry).
Getting home, as ever I pop into the olds to check things out and see the dog. It would seem in the absence of my computer consultant capacity to them dad has accidentally ordered the same pair of tickets to Seville on the Ryanair website three times. I fear it was the slowness of the internet connection brought on by my running Torrent that brought this on so immediately I feel somewhat responsible for this. It turns out also that the security code on the back of the credit card threw him somewhat.
He asks me to look into getting a refund for him but as soon as I log into the Ryanair website using one of the booking codes the words “non-refundable” are plastered all over the fucking terms and conditions. Unfortunately to an extent this is fair enough as they offer the most basic, backwards and cheap service but in the event of this stupid occurrence you would like to think there was some kind of leeway. Suddenly for my pensioner parents a £150 pair of tickets has become £450. Undaunted however dad still has hope in clawing back a refund long after the words “non-refundable” have caused me to throw in the towel.
The old man asks me to get the contact details of Ryanair for him and when I pull off the telephone number it states it charges at £1 a minute. It’s a fucking scam, even if he got through to them the cost of the call would probably wind up nearing the amount of money he was hoping to save.
Tonight I want to get home quickly as the Comic Relief shows about the celebrities climbing Kilimanjaro is coupled with Celebrity Apprentice. I attempt to watch both but neither is any good. The mountain documentary is particularly annoying after listening to them hyperbole every five minutes on Radio One how hard the climb is the footage just does not match up to their description. At the end of the day though I think I just want to see Cheryl Cole sexy and suffering.
I fall asleep during the Celebrity Apprentice and never come back.