Thursday 18 June 2009
Today is going to be a fragrant day.
I wake up comfortably in Streatham/Tulse Hill – not drinking last night was a very good idea.
Gradually I hear Racton begin to make moves around his crib and when I emerge from the stranger’s room the pair of us are slow venturing out – I don’t think Racton realises that I begin work at 9AM.
The journey to Brixton tube station is a bus full of nightmares for me. I really hate buses, especially peak time ones. Everyone looks depressed, defeated and beaten having to trawl themselves into jobs they hate giving birth to lives they do not necessarily like or enjoy. When I see a little lad stand in the keep clear section near the exit doors I find myself genuinely fearing for his life (or at least his wellbeing). As I look on in horror he survives to fight another day. Good lad.
Arrival at Brixton tube station does not improve or enhance things as a scary bottleneck occurs at the entrance with the gate occasionally having to be closed to keep the crowds back. This is a hard/tough part of town.
By the time the tube gets moving it is already 9AM – whoops. Racton apologies for making me late but staggering into work today in the clothes I left in yesterday is much more of a statement of my status at this time.
Just before I get off the train at Green Park to hop aboard the Jubilee Line a saggy girl in summery and flowery clothes boards the train. Immediately I look at Racton and mouth “is she pregnant?” Talk about a lose-lose situation. If I offer her my seat and she is not pregnant it will completely her day, perhaps her life and give her justification to slap me in the face. However by staying put and not giving up my seat I appear a complete fascist bastard to a potentially pregnant lady and by standing she runs the risk of a miscarriage should she fall if the train judders too much. This is a lot of responsibility and guilt to have playing on my mind. I look over at Racton again confused and he goes “its just one stop.” This is the kind of levelheaded mentality I can get with.
As I change lines I worry about my entrance to work and how it will be greeted. Leaving St Johns Wood station I ensure I let my boss know that I am coming but accidentally I say in the text that I am coming from Swiss Cottage for some reason (the reason being that my last text message to him was the word “Swiss Cottage” last Wednesday).
When I stagger into work I apologise profusely for my timing but ultimately my boss is just relieved I have turned up at all because we have so much work to get done today in order to meet the bank’s deadline of tomorrow.
Stepping into our office I find myself met with looks of disgust as I am wearing the same clothes that I wore yesterday. Also in my hands is a Japanese music DVD that is kind of against type with me being a 32 year old man that should know better. Thanks to Shonen Knife I am still relatively euphoric though.
Regardless I tear into work and pull together accounts for people’s perusal.
News breaks today on the BBC website that Colchester is now a “brown town” and how skag is cheaper than going down the pub. I should ask my relatives that live in Greenstead whether this is true or not.
At 5.05 the electricity fails and the office dies. Not only does the office die but the entire building goes and with it the fridges, the kitchen and the evening’s business/trade. A mild panic hits as the powers that be obviously want to get things up and running as soon as possible, not least the reality of the alarms coming on when the power does. I stand around and try to look helpful for a bit before being heading home at my usual time. Thankfully I did not lose any work with the failure.
By the end of the day I am exhausted. I sleepwalk through the journey home and on the way back to Bohm Grove I stop by the old’s at Balkerne Heights where I am regaled with the latest stories of Terry Sutton.
Flicking through the channels on Sky I come an old episode of On The Buses before finally heading home. As I drive home “Institutionalised” and “Pass The Mic” are what is being played on Radio One this evening. Didn’t something incredibly positive suddenly happen to music and radio? I almost orgasm driving to this music, this is it!
When I arrive home I can barely open my door for post. Outside my flat is a HUGE box from a sports mail-order company which is plainly my two pairs of Airwalk shoes I ordered online but the box is actually big enough to house an entire team’s football kit – this is ridiculous. The shoes however are fantastic.
TV this evening is OK. Comedy has returned to Thursday nights BBC2 but it’s not great. Even worse however is the newest, hot shit comedy show on Channel Four that is called TNT. The presenters are drippy young people who it is tough to take seriously. However then for shock value they employ some disabled and handicapped people to interview the Cheeky Girls. This is truly offensive and mean spirited. I begin ranting on Twitter about this and what a piece of shit television show it is (“exploiting disabled people = hilarious, if you’re a cunt”). I don’t it just feels smug and up its own arse.
I pass out.