Thursday 24 September 2009
Today I wake up from a fun dream, happy even before my 6AM alarm clock rude awakening. Unfortunately not getting asleep until around 2AM this will mean I now limp through the day off the back of barely four hours sleep.
This morning it is even colder than yesterday, these are now truly the end of days.
As I walk past the offending party house at Balkerne Heights this morning there is a major urge and temptation in me to go ring their doorbell and hit them with Jamie T blasting out of my stereo at my hour. This begins to feel a bit like the Lost Boys. These Chav kids partying at night and sleeping during the day, they are like modern vampires – Chavampires. Their directive is to suck the blood and spirit out of all those that live around and near them. Some guy called Terry Sutton should be policing this but instead he appears to have other things to do. Closer on guard is another gentleman apparent called Barry Hepburn but he lives up in the clouds and thankfully does not have to contend with this rabble. Fortunate for him.
The train journey is nondescript today but it is noticeable for its not beaching outside of Liverpool Street station this morning. Unfortunately though somehow it still manages to pull into the platform at 8.04AM late. How on earth do these things happen? Really?
At this point as I leave the train Tom texts me to tell me how some doddery woman nearly causes him to miss his train for a second day running. Suddenly it feels like somewhere I have an ally in the commuter wars. We then briefly get into a bout of lookalike poker as I tell him how Commuter Jay-Z is on my train today and a very good Stuart Braithwaite lookalike is on the train also. He responds by matching and raising me with “I had a Lee Marvin yesterday. Stern!”
Later as I emerge from St Johns Wood it is again jaunty with the sound of “More News From Nowhere” playing out on my iPhone as I find myself faced with the most glorious sunny day in front of me. Autumn is beginning to tickle my fancy as the closing days of summer provide many forms of pleasure. This is the kind of climate I look for in a perfect day.
When I arrive at work it is to the form of an email from The Consultant. His requests are relatively standard Excel schedules and to his credit the right areas that need reviewing. At this point however they are not going to get any better than they currently are without giving me time and breathing space to properly and correctly produce then review them. As ever we need pacing, we need time and a proper approach to these things, to manage our days in a more staggered method and not to rush and eventually fudge stuff. He adds also that he will be coming in tomorrow afternoon, Friday afternoon. Oh yeah that is exactly the prime time to be addressing these accounts, Friday afternoon when we all have one eye on the week and a foot out of the door. Off the back of the email I am left scratching my head wondering if any common sense if ever applied to these things? Likewise I think we are going to require a bit more than an afternoon to put three sets of figures spread over three periods to bed.
As a result of the email and my prompt response it means that the ball remains as ever in the consultant’s court resulting in my having to scrap around for work yet again this week. It does not take my accountancy qualification and letters to point out the logistical problem of doing sets of accounts spread over three different periods (Mar 09, June 09 and Aug 09) and two different groups. I can do no more.
The IT Guy comes in and under instruction works in the other office. I guess he is taking notice of that request.
For lunch I have tomato soup and lots of bread. It is revolting, perhaps related to the fact that the Albanian chef that thinks he is Brazilian/Mexican is on.
The afternoon moves slowly. I do a little bit of tidying up on the accounts but it feels pretty futile. Unfortunately as a result of having such idle hands I find myself leaning towards online retail therapy in moments of boredom.
Eventually 5.30PM comes around and with it escape. As I head towards St Johns Wood fatigue hits me. This is not good.
It is a strange evening. First the tube is quiet and then when I board the 6.20PM to Norwich it too is dead. Not that I am complaining about the leg and arm room.
For my journey home I choose the first Arab Strap record as my quiet downbeat soundtrack. This album still hits so hard, I don’t think I have heard anything like it since.
As I check my email it appears that I have won an Ebay auction for a pair of BAPE shoes. A pair of worn BAPE shoes. Now this could really go either way. Who the fuck wears worn/used shoes? The thing is, they just look so cool. Hopefully they won’t arrive inflicted with fungus.
When I pop into my parents’ place dad is nowhere to be seen. It would appear that this Barry Hepburn guy has casually made a comment about banning animals from Balkerne Heights and it has given birth to a fresh squabble, which is where dad currently is – having it out with the person on the other end of the email. That place is a joke.
Curious I look at the email and it seems fairly harmless. I dunno, these guys and their internal squabbling is just playing into the hands of this Terry Sutton guy and PMS.
Not long afterwards I am heading home and upon arrival there are two pieces of post awaiting me – one good, one bad.
The bad one is a long time coming angry letter from my accountancy body. I still have not done my CPD (continued professional development) forms and now it really needs to be put to bed before I drop six years hard work down the toilet as they threaten to strike me off their members list. Heavy.
Much better is the latest Colchester Arts Centre leaflet that features DJGRAM in the gig listing for the Joe Lally gig. Wow, I have never been on any listings ever before. Its something of a false billing but exciting all the same.
I attempt some writing but tonight it is too late to really get anything done and by this point in time I am too tired to accomplish anything.
I head to bed at 9PM to watch the final episode of the Love Of Money documentary on BBC2. I barely last ten minutes before passing out.