Monday, 3 August 2009

Monday 3 August 2009

After being kept awake half the night with my tooth hurting this morning I awaken feeling fucked.

I pull myself together and leave the flat as normal although during the walk to the station I do feel like the walking dead.

My tooth is still aching and as I look at it in the mirror the sight of the apparent wisdom tooth ripping through my gum looks like something from an HR Giger painting.

Today The Wookiee is on the train looking as devastating as ever. I managed to get “my seat” so all in all it is good times on the train this morning.

Shockingly the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8AM, which to me indicates a sure-fire demonstration of performance improvement due to guilt for Thursday and Friday. This however is too little too late.

On the way to work I breeze through the tube journey and as I step into the office the big boss has evacuated all his office belongings into our room which includes the creepy little waiter man ornament. The fucking thing makes me hop/jump at the best of times but when I step into our office on a Monday morning to find a little orange man standing in our room seemingly waiting to pounce on me; it almost resembles something from a movie like Child’s Play or Leprechaun.

It is a good start to the day when I check Outlook to no bad emails from the consultant. Off the back of no such hindrance I tear into the accounts of the new company’s accounts, endeavouring to tidy them up after the outsource guy botches them.

Then the phone calls begin. I think I remember now why Claire got miserable and jacked in as a barrage of abuse hits me from people chasing up outstanding monies that my bosses do not seem in any hurry to pay.

The worst person on the phone today is some whoring cunt from a company called Elite Contracts barking ultimatums down the phone at me. Oh yeah, that is really going to enthuse me into assisting you, incent me into action.

The second worst person is some foul fucking twot from a company called Casa Julia. When I look at the invoice and see the company is based in Braintree it all begins to make sense.

Why are so many women working in credit control? Is it penis envy? Does it give them the opportunity to shout at men in a way that their marriage does not allow or accommodate? Do they actually look forward to getting the blob every month just so that they can tear loose and feel free?

For lunch I have penne with chargrilled chicken. Succulent.

I’m on my own this afternoon which means I have to deal solely with the fucking phone. This is a job in itself. The Girl is off to her dentist again.

At 5.30PM I head home as usual and leaving the offices it is to bad vibes from those around me as I put on and listen to “Pod” by The Breeders for my soundtrack.

When I get on the tube at Baker Street it is to a dude in a Stone Island parker coat. He looks fucking stupid with it and that is before you even consider today’s heat. He must have a lot invested in that garment.

On the tube I move from “Pod” to listening to the freshly downloaded Entourage soundtrack and mos def Obie Trice. Yes!

During the train ride home some bald little fucker keeps scuffing my shoes. He looks like the dude from Sex And The City.

Along the journey Szesze sends me a text message telling me how her restaurant is getting another refurbishment (second one in six months) and how she is bored. I’m not really sure what she wants from me at this time. I respond with nice nice and not a whole lot of enthusiasm.

When I get back to Colchester I pop in at the olds’ in Balkerne Heights and I continue my training/teaching of making the dog bite mum’s feet.

We discover tonight that dad is actually still a director of Balkerne Heights Residents Company despite being told by this Barry Hepburn guy that he wasn’t. This guy with all his apparent corporate know how and it would appear he doesn’t know how to remove a director. He has probably left it in the hands of this Terry Sutton guy who doesn’t tend to do things in a hurry. The Ibogaine effect?

By the time I get home to Bohemian Grove I am exhausted. I managed to squeeze out some writing but I fear and sense that it is laboured and so as a result isn’t very good.

Soon however I find myself in bed falling asleep to Big Brother. There’s not a lot going on there.

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