Wednesday 30 September 2009
Things are delicate this morning. Blame it on the Alli. As a result I find myself leaving late and subsequently needlessly rushing.
Once at the station and aboard my morning train chariot I soon unfortunately find myself stuck and crushed into the corner of the train by an Essex Girl conference. For over an hour without drawing a breath they talk/speak in their thick thicko accents about the most inane subjects known to man but always with a total sense of utter qualification. The ugly one sat to my left keeps rubbing herself up against me to get closer to and speak with her friend. It is almost unendurable.
Eventually the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.06AM with the Essex girls in no rush to exit the train. I huff and puff to get past them but despite my explicit gestures they still proceed to get in my way and hold me up. God hates me.
As soon as I find myself on the tube it comes with a strange sense and feeling of freedom. I am in London now, no more Essex for me for another twelve hours.
By the time I am in St Johns Wood and walking up Loudoun Road I think I see Mr Bean but instead it is just an Asian guy that looks exactly like him. I wonder what his speaking voice is like.
I step into work to an email from the consultant. It is regarding the June accounts on the new company with a whole stack of queries when really with the March accounts requiring finalising it is really that area I feel he should be addressing. Such is our consultant.
Ultimately the day proves frustrating as my boss tells me he wants to through the queries from the consultant before I respond to him. To be honest I appreciate a second set of eyes looking over things. What I don’t appreciate is my boss beginning to look at the queries and figures at 5PM which blatantly means that we will be working late. After a quick but slow review we come to the conclusion that the consultant is messing us about because we owe him a cheque and he is holding us to ransom purposely being flaky and producing substandard work. We end the day in resignation, it now feels too late to pull this work back and rectify it. The guy’s method of working reminds me of Mr Who from Butt Road. Not good and the second Butt Road partner he has reminded me of.
Eventually I get out at 6PM feeling flummoxed. As I walk out of the restaurant I see Boy George sat outside having drinks at one of the tables with somebody. That is still quite a spot.
I hate leaving late because it means I get home late and being a period when time is of the essence for me, at this time as I feel my life slipping away unfulfillingly wasted on trains and tiredness. Currently time is my most prized and treasured commodity.
Par for the course the train stalls just outside Baker Street soon after I board. Baker Street has always had a curse on me.
These days are not days that I cherish. These are the days that feel wasted, the ones that fill me with fear that this is as good as it is going to get and there is not much more in it for me.
My soundtrack for the moment is “The Week Never Starts Round Here” by Arab Strap. These guys were truly onto something with this record, never is there going to be a more succinct description of modern life than in these songs. Shame they were never able to keep it up.
The tube journey back to Liverpool Street genuinely echoes the rest of my day so far as it splutters its way pathetically back to East London and my homebound train.
By the time I get to Liverpool Street it no longer appears that there is a 6.50PM Norwich train anymore so now I find myself on a cramped 6.48PM loser train wheeling its way to Clacton and despair. Thank god I am able to get off it before that place.
As I sit in my rubbish seat the guy on the other side behind keeps bumping and banging it. For some reason I am hypersensitive to such things these days and promptly I proceed to bang my seat right back until at Stratford I hear the guy repeatedly yelp “toilet toilet” and then I realise it’s a handicapped dude. My bad.
We pass through Stratford with the work in progress Olympic stadium silhouetting against the sky. It is the most beautiful of sights.
Nearing Colchester I pick up a copy of the London Lite and flick through it. Thanks Harriet Harman for informing me of the Punternet website, I would never have been aware of its existence otherwise. That website couldn’t buy this kind of press.
By the time I eventually get back to Colchester the time is pushing 8.30PM and Manchester United are well into their game against Wolfsberg (whoever they are, a teen of werewolves?).
At my parents we stagger into conversation with them telling me of a bargain apartment for sale on their complex and we begin weighing up my options deposit wise. At this point I really wish I were a silver spooner. I can carry the mortgage if someone would just assist me with the deposit. We actually float the idea of pulling the money together from credit cards. This idea scares me, it’s a true act of desperation.
Eventually I head home and after my nightly meal of Berocca and a large cup of white tea (two bags) I manage to squeeze out some writing before Shooting Stars is on TV.
Soon I fall asleep watching the second episode of season seven of Curb before reawakening to the sight of Dawn Porter Goes Geisha on Channel Four which is just terrifying. Drippy pretty rich girls with TV shows – you gotta love them.