Thursday 7 May 2009

With last night being a late one ultimately this can only ever equate to this morning being a late one also. As a result of this I leave the flat late, resigning myself to missing my usual train.

As I head out this morning once again I see the nurse and once again she blanks me. Raggy.

Despite all this decoration/obstacle I somehow manage to still make my 7.03. Sweet.

After a nondescript train journey to Liverpool Street the train pulls into the station at a disappointing 8.05.

Today I am excited about ATP and my impending weekend away. I am more excited about this ATP than I have been any other in a long time. With this in mind I know today will fly by because I have so much to do in such a little time to be completed by the end of the day.

As I step into work it is to listening to “Navy Sheets” by Hold Steady and I could not possibly imagine a better opening theme for the day, snarling and cynical but upbeat piece of ruckus. I wish that band were playing the festival this weekend. “Everybody’s reaching for the sharpest knife, legs wide open on the opening night” – for various reasons these are probably my favourite song lyrics from the past year or so.

My neck canes this morning, it would appear that I got whiplash from dancing to DEVO last night. It aches.

After a productive morning lunchtime comes around. As I make trip after trip up and down the stairs to collect all our food the angry boss acts weird around me, looking at and inspecting our meals if to be checking whether we are taking the piss in our complimentary orders or not. He is in a funny mood and I can’t tell which kind of funny it is. Regardless it would appear that I come through some kind of test it seems unlike the IT Guy for whom angry boss makes sarcastic comments about suggesting he is taking the piss in what he orders (swordfish steak).

Halfway through the afternoon there is the sudden sound of carnage outside and as I look out of the window I am confronted by the sight of hundreds of kids spilling out onto the streets. It is a terrifying sight; these London kids are truly little fuckers. I watch as not only one but a bunch of altercations occur and several stand offs take place. I swear my generation were not that bad when we were at school (and/but that was awful enough). What is going to happen in the future with these miserable fucks?

The sudden spew out of the kids does however raise the question as to why we have been invaded. All thoughts/conclusions point towards the very real possibility that swine flu has hit their school and they have been sent home to safety. Looking at some of the kids they already look pretty far gone.

While checking out the swarm and beginning to feel weary about the prospects of having to head home trawling through these masses my boss emerges from downstairs to report that Fabregas is in the restaurant. This truly is the afternoon of events and very quickly I make my excuses to head downstairs and get a butchers of the footballer. First however I have to Google search him to remind myself of just what he looks like. When I get downstairs and see him the restaurant manager begins taunting me telling me how Millwall could do with Fabregas in their team. Dude wouldn’t fit in mate.

By the end of the afternoon I have to admit I probably spend equal amount of time setting up my iPhone for the weekend as I do actually working.

In addition to this I make the HUGE mistake of looking at my American friend’s Facebook profile and a status that boasts about how she has just booked two tickets back to the U.S. on her birthday. Depression hits/punches me like a boxing glove. Why him and why not me? I wish I knew where I went wrong.

Finally the day ends and I feel let free for ATP.

As I rush to Liverpool Street to get home to prepare for a victorious weekend I bump into a number of fellow passengers/commuters getting in my way and as I curse them I begin to worry about the point where my internal monologue begins to be external and I start mouthing things in public.

In the end I wind up catching the 6.38 weird train home, the one that goes to Clacton. As ever this is a freaky fucking train.

Tonight the ticket inspector REALLY inspects my ticket as if he doesn’t believe it is mine. I am super cool, I have made it – I earn a stack but am able to dress like shit to the point that people such as this do not believe.

On the way home I stop by the olds at Balkerne Heights and stay longer than I was intending, especially in the light of so much to do at home for tomorrow.

When I finally get out of there I head immediately to Asda to pump up my front right tyre. This is easier than I remember it being but then again the Asda air pumps don’t tend to be working (“out of order”). From here I hit the main store and do some shopping but experience one of those “what do I need” moments. The main thing really to buy is a four pack of Relentless for the weekend ahead, the saviour juice of the last ATP.

On the way back I get £30 of petrol having to use a pump situated on the opposite side of my tank/nozzle due to the big truck refuelling the pumps. In the process I manage to park too far from the pump and end up stretching the petrol hose to the limit barely fitting it into the nozzle, in the process spraying petrol all over the forecourt and slightly on my trainers.

When I finally get home to Bohemian Grove it is with half wanting to watch Synecdoche, New York. Unfortunately the download takes too long to unzip so I end up smoking a Cuban cigar while watching the final two episodes of season 1 of Entourage, which relatively pay off more than I was expecting.

Suddenly before I realise it the time is 11.30 and with any early start in the morning towards excitement I really need to be in bed.