Tuesday 31 March 2009
Tuesday morning and I awaken exhausted; last night’s late one was a really bad idea in retrospect. I think I had energy once.
Walking to the station I am confronted by the sight of a scummy guy in a orange hi-vis vest and hoodie pissing up against the wall at the corner of the Matalan’s car park (or rather pissing OVER the wall – it is angled so). There couldn’t be a better endorsement of their product.
At Witham some dickhead takes the seat next to me on the train and for the remainder of the journey the prat appears to be fucking incapable of sitting properly. As a result of this arm feels as if it is lodged in his armpit for 45 minutes.
The train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.08 – why is my train company fucking incapable of arriving on time?
With my left foot now playing up again I am beginning to wonder if maybe it has now come from me putting on a lucky wank sock by error. It guess its feasible/possible.
An already bad day continues to get worse as after the girl arrives late as I help her downstairs with the coffees she is talking away to the Brazilian chef who once more proceeds to make comment and call me “Fat Boy”. No, that was his nickname for my predecessor a person that not only deserved such a moniker but could also take the humiliation due to a distinct lack of dignity. Perhaps it’s the guy’s shitty fucking food that is apparently making so fat. Jesus, the guy looks like Erik Estrada with Lego hair for fucks sake. Its not as if I got around calling him a “Spick Cunt” because that would be rude, insensitive and racist and somewhat frowned upon.
So off the back of this I just storm off ignoring him (but stewing) and as I do so flustered I pass the restaurant manager who’s gig it was I blew out last night. He is hobbling down the stairs and asks where I was last night. I just shake my head and ask him why he is hobbling although I’m not really interested.
Soon afterwards upstairs the office girl pulls out her codeine for her neck and all things calm down.
Beyond the annoying/frustrating start it turns out to be a flat day. The auditors are in which unfortunately means questions and obstacles/obstructions to my duties for the day. At least when work doesn’t get done my bosses understand.
At the end of the day I leave work feeling depressed and deflated. Walking down Loudoun Road there are lots of police around the American school complete with scary looking machine guns that don’t really look real. You begin to wonder with the Obama’s heading into the country is St Johns Woods preparing itself for a visit.
Today Justin is down in London going to a Rocket Number Nine gig in Hoxton at the last minute. There was an invitation but with the realities of a tough period at the moment I blow him out (second gig second night running) and head straight home. One day these social invitations will cease and I will feel even more unpopular than I do now (if that is at all possible).
The train home at least offers yuks as the deaf Eugene Levy lookalike is back on the train, evidently once more eager to engage in conversation. Fortunately tonight he is on the table opposite me with three other lucky potential buddies for him. Once more he pulls out a large bag of mixed dry nuts and begins chomping his way home. When he offers the bag to the (pregnant?) lady sat next to him it is a hilariously stupid gesture, could he be any more obvious. Or perhaps this is my mean spirited streak reading far too much into a genuinely kind gesture. Either it would seem the guy sat opposite thought it was funny also as I swear he begins occasionally having brief bouts of uncontrollable laughter at it, even to the point he has to get up and go get something from the canteen bar. Or maybe he was just listening to a really funny podcast.
The train crawls on its way home. This is so common now. As much as I record the times of arrival in the mornings, in the evenings this is next to impossible to do, especially when I don’t even know when the train is supposed to arrive back in Colchester. I believe the length of time for a non-stops intercity Norwich train from Liverpool Street to Colchester used to be 48 minutes but there is no way we are achieving those times these days. Unhindered however they still continue to religiously check our tickets every night in the prospect being able to cream some extra pounds out of people with the wrong tickets (off peak).
When I eventually get home I begin watching an episode of SNL and fall asleep immediately nodding off before 9PM tonight. I awaken briefly but do not bother to check out either 606 or The Wire I just turnover and head back to slumber.