Friday, 3 April 2009

Friday 3 April 2009

Relief as the end to a very hard/difficult week arrives. Unfortunately I still possess a huge menu of work still to complete before this afternoon’s meeting, a list I won’t be able to complete so this morning will very much be an exercise in damage limitation.

I trolley into town with little drama. The train is happily sparse, a small relief. As we enter the Essex/London clouded borderline the train is hurtling at impressive pace and it looks like it might actually arrive on time for once. Hopes however dash as once more we sit outside Liverpool Street for a lengthy bout of time and the train ends up sloping into the station at 8.05.

The beached train felt excruciating today, I wanted off the train fast before I would begin screaming.

Bowling into work it is with a lot to get done before the afternoon, which realistically isn’t all going to get done so my morning looks like to be an exercise in damage limitation, cutting corners and papering up the cracks.

Chris gets in touch today regarding him being down in London. The suggestion of getting dim sum is an exciting prospect and I suggest we do so in the evening after I double up and head to Millwall.

Racton also gets in touch, texting a suggested a meet up over the Easter weekend. Unfortunately I have set aside the weekend for a planned flurry of writing at which point I truly hope to finally knock the first draft of Gestures on the head.

By the time (2PM) our accounts consultant turns up I have managed to do a lot of the work set/planned and look good for it.

Away from work I look over the train timetables only to discover that yet again this month the trains are FUCKED every weekend, not only Sundays as was previously unacceptable but now also Saturdays for the Nth month running. How the fucking hell can National Express justify charging passengers to ride piss stenched rail replacement buses just to have a daytrip to London. This ruins my plans and my flagging social life, yet again I find myself confined to Colchester at the weekend. The £4500 I pay for my annual Travelcard leaves me the overriding sensation of being financially gang raped.

With work being solid at the moment again I end up remaining behind a little late which then turns into drinks with the boss before I finally get away staggering towards the tube station at 7PM. As I announce on Facebook, I am a little drunk but all amazing.

It is headed towards 9PM when I finally stagger towards my parents’ place in the hope of blagging some food in order to soap up the numerous Jack Daniels and Cokes I have sampled this evening.

As I cross the bridge over Balkerne Hill I see an old school foe called Russell that happens to be a “friend” on Facebook. I see him and look unimpressed and unamused as I quickly ensure we avoid eye contact in a process, which once more blurs the reality of just who ignores who today.

More and more I find myself regretting adding old school acquaintances to my Facebook account. At school this guy was an arsehole. His family were arseholes and when I had my world torn apart by the bully Pullen when I hit secondary school this piece of shit was one of his henchmen that never once served to hinder the process, indeed I can recall a number of times he explicitly assisted the guy pushing me to the floor physically and mentally and kicking me when already down. So why on earth would I even entertain the idea/concept of allowing the person anywhere near back into my world/life?

We pass each other and without doubt we see each other and acknowledge that we need not acknowledge the other. Perhaps I should have pushed him off the bridge as a favour to humanity (and maybe a little revenge).

When I pull into the olds apartment Bobby is happy to see me. In my dubious state I find myself nodding off on their sofa watching the Clough documentary again. When I wake up startled it is with the realisation that I need my bed. Just before leaving I sneakily steal a Chunky Kit Kat before heading downstairs to get in my car.

My heart sinks as I turn the key in the ignition and nothing happens. Bummed out I sit and eat the Kit Kat while pondering what to do with the car half hoping that if I leave it a couple of minutes the car will miraculously start. Needless to say it doesn’t.

Recently the car has been making some strange noises when starting it in the mornings and immediately my suspicions are that there is a major problem with the electrics, which traditionally equates to big bucks, as the modern car appears to be developing larger and larger brains and computers by the year.

Defeated I head back upstairs from the underground car park back to my parents’ place where I go running to them for help like the not quite fully developed adult that I am. As ever they are the ones that save me and allow me to borrow their car with view to dad giving the car a knock in the morning.

Driving home in their boxy little Fiesta in an intimidating thing, I do not feel safe in such a small car with so little kick/boot to it. At junctions I find myself having to weigh things up a lot more cautiously, especially in the light that it is their car and I am probably driving slightly/technically over the limit.

Despite this I get home safe and sound but depressed. I pass out watching The Ringer on Channel Four remembering the lost weekend that me, Tom and Chris got this on PPV Chris’ parents’ house.

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