Wednesday, 18 March 2009

Wednesday 18 March 2009

I emerge this morning from some kind of dream but I forget it almost immediately after arising.

I would really have liked to have stayed in bed today, as the alarm screams to awake it coincides with something of an unfortunate cosy state. The ability to remain in bed on a weekday is a luxury that I have long since been able to indulge.

Today once again I consciously decide against my kickboxing class this evening. As my foot heads towards fully healing (I believe) I sense attending the class would only serve to set it off back down to pain city.

Despite the suggested summer state of the day I am somewhat shocked when I have to scrape frost off my car window. Still!

Only the train ride into town a (not literally) beaten up looking woman sits opposite me with the look and expression of a lady that has been raped. Hard. Unfortunately this is what I have to sit staring at all the way to Stratford – damn these commution journeys.

Likewise at Kelvedon a woman with her daughter (apparent) sits next to me. They are obvious amateurs to this rush hour lark as I watch the pair of them get their stupid women’s magazines out, the ones that have problem pages aplenty and numerous stories where women have become victims of one ailment or another, the ailment usually being begat from man. These magazines are the print equivalent of Loose Women. Once you pass the gloss of the photos of models and Jade Goody dying the subliminal message appears to be screaming “do not trust men, give them a hard time at every opportunity you get.”

Anyway, to the woman sitting next to me I pay her no mind until I notice that she fucking smells. When they thankfully get up and get off at Chelmsford I look up at the great riddled pair and acknowledge that I would still do her up the arse should the mood take me to such a place (yeah, as if I would ever be capable of doing that to anyone or anything).

Eventually we arrive at Liverpool Street only to sit outside the station for five minutes with our thumbs up our arses. By this point the rape woman is getting her revenge on me as her empty coffee cup that she left behind on the floor keeps banging into my new DC shoes.

As I hurtle towards North London on the tube I feel my body grind to a halt as the long days catch up with me and I begin to sag.

On the tube at Kings Cross I find myself being accosted by some black woman storming me as I take the seat she was previously sitting it before getting off. At first I think she is turfing me out of the seat for some reason but then she gargles something about a ticket. Tightly I grip my iPhone as it all appears a scam to rob me. Luckily she soon fucks off onto the streets of Kings Cross. Was my reaction racist?

At Baker Street once more I see the Baker Street Dwarf yet again. Is this becoming my equivalent of the Ally McBeal dancing baby?

On the tube from Baker Street to St Johns Wood I find myself confronted with the sight of a kooky lady finishing off what appears to be a large jar of mustard by scooping it out with a large spoon. Of course it is probably some kind of home made yoghurt but eating in such a fashion with such a coloured food, it is just fucking odd looking. Soon she is done in what, judging by the size of the spoon and jar, must have been a lengthy process in total. Then she flosses.

Flossing at the best of times is a slightly disgusting thing when shared with spectators but this woman looks fucking determined to max on oral hygiene. Judging by the food stuff from the jar it seems unlikely that there would be much from there to be flossing for so I can only but figure it is loose pubic hairs she is looking to remove.

As I get off the tube it is at the same time as a little black school girl with her hair in bunches and when the pair of us notice the crazy lady following behind us we both speed up our ascent out of the station to get away from the trailing loon.

Today is the day of “cuddles in bed.” When I checked my Facebook first thing this morning two people had become “fans of cuddles in bed.” To me this only proves how a) relationships and b) social networking websites can turn brains to mush. From here I proceed to rant to the office (room) about how wet such a public gesture is and how this is potentially the end of civilisation. Surprisingly I feel I get a fair amount of support.

This Wednesday is a hell day all about make manoeuvres and gestures towards keeping the bank happy. Unfortunately this also coincides with the occurrence of every distraction known to man. At one point however when assisting the FD I notice one of the other directors browsing on Facebook. Skillz.

I stay back a little after the 5.30 home time just to make sure that everything is all right and if I am needed, I am still around. And indeed I am as I assist with a quick computer/email problem before heading home.

As I leave I am thanked for my help. After a day of tidying up errors I inherited but have never been able to get a handle of due to the rushing of jobs, I have tended to find myself feeling my performance has been distinctly sub par and were I in the boots of my employers I could be tempted to start looking elsewhere.

Getting off the tube at Liverpool Street this evening I notice Adam from Baker Street, a timely reminder and ghost from my recent past.

I return home late, briefly stopping by my parents’ before arriving home to Bohemian Grove exhausted. On TV I begin watching Interview With A Vampire but it is a slow boring dog of a movie and I never got into gothic stuff anyway (unlike some of my strange friends and their Paradise Lost record collection).

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