Friday 6 November 2009
Today I wake up with my TV still on from last night. This is usually a bad sign often meaning that my nights sleep will have been vulnerable to subliminals from the tube. One day it will suck me in just like on Poltergeist.
I don’t want to get up today, don’t want to go to work. Yesterday was a fucking nightmare, ridiculous through none of my doing. My role felt cheapened and my actions undermined. I don’t want to deal with people who are going to treat me like that.
The main news story today is about the American soldier that opened fire on his base in Texas. They mention his name quickly a few times and it is Maj Nidal Malik Hasan. He has a Muslim name and nobody is pointing this out. As they look to make sense of the occurrence the newscast chooses to neglect the blindingly obvious. This is GMTV and this is their political correctness is full flow.
As I leave the house I spot The Ghost and scream past him as soon as possible before he is able to unleash any of his seemingly ungodly powers onto me.
On the train I attempt to work out why everyone was acting so antisocial last night. The additions to the crowd do not feel necessarily healthy for the “scene” if they are going to immediately adopt their own favourites.
As I flick through the pages of this morning’s The Metro I read about the school in Brightlingsea that has set up an angry group on Facebook dedicated and aimed at their headmaster with view to garnering free speech. They appear to spell “speech” wrong in the process. Or was that me? Regardless I read on as the name of Colne hits the national pages. This is the school a number of my cousins went to and I think it was also where my parents went. Backwards all the way.
Once off the train and on the tube when it arrives at Kings Cross a huge fat man boards the train wearing a Looney Tunes t-shirt. This is what happens when single men are left to dress themselves.
I feel I am suffering full on depression today. This has been a shitty week with shitty people in shitty circumstances making shitty comments.
When I make my eventual walk down Loudoun Road towards work The Girl texts to announce that she won’t be in. I didn’t think the day could be made any worse but this just goes to prove it can.
Walking into the office I see the angry boss and we both wave. Ironically it is possibly the earliest I have ever made it into work. A little later he shouts from his room thanking me for my “efficience in sorting out the phones yesterday.” The Lady gives me a thumbs up on this but the damage has been done and his reaction shouldn’t have happened in the first place. I don’t want commendation for me doing my job I want a fucking apology. Oh well, we’ll all live.
With The Girl not in I head downstairs to make coffees (or at least attempt to). The manager then comes in hungover to shit telling me how he has been up until 6AM drinking when his friend’s friend had been trying it on with him before flipping out and insisting that he leave his girlfriend before they do anything. Why doesn’t weird stuff like that ever happen to me?
Next he adds how he didn’t see The Girl last night but she had been texting him all evening. All in all it sounds like he ditched her in the same manner he ditched me in the summer at the roller derby.
After some early quick dealings ultimately the working day never really gets started. Out of boredom I put the photo of the drunk fat fuck on the train as my Facebook profile photo and immediately people seem to love it. So its not just me that is mean spirited after all then. Later the heavy metal manager comes up and celebrates it, even showing my boss in the process. Unfortunately in his exuberant state he also then mouths off about The Girl’s absence and how she was at the fireworks last night. Sometimes its just best to stay out of other people’s dealings.
Soon lunch arrives and with it I have the breaded chicken in parmesan dish. This is definitely one of my favourite being a large serving, one that is more satisfying than a number of the other dishes on the menu.
In the afternoon I eventually give up on the charade of even attempting to work. What kind of example do I set to my colleagues? Together the lady and I spend the remainder of the day counting down the hours as an air deflation rules proceedings. At one point I find myself online looking at original artwork pieces by Adrian Tomine and Peter Bagge that are for sale. Some of the smaller/cheaper items actually prove affordable (even pages of HATE comic). If only I had walls to put them on. Walls, now that truly is a pathetic goal to be aiming for.
Just after 4.50PM our boss says we head off and we make dust exiting. With the head start I manage to catch the 5.38PM train that cuts out Shenfield and Chelmsford and hurtles home at a speedier pace. This is a glorious and spacious ride, a rare treat/jewel in the commuting curmudgeon.
Eventually as the train closes in on Colchester at 6.22PM I receive two text messages at the same time. The first is Mark telling me how he is in a Starbucks reading Henry Miller sat between two girls. My response to this is a resounding “meh” as I consider just how much I would like to be in Starbucks right now partaking in some kind of social activity. Why didn’t he get in touch earlier?
The second text however proves more infuriating as it turns out to be some random abuse coming in from my boss who I envisage remained behind at work to get business drunk. It reads: “I heard you may have been out on Clapham Common watching the fireworks and drinking beer!! Explain? Should I really bother with Ghana?” Initially it makes no sense until I realise that it was not aimed at me but The Girl. At first I hope (pray) it was sent to me by accident but knowing his group texts I suspect that we will have all got the pleasure. The reality is that I imagine in the process of staying back for drinks the heavy metal manager has once more opened his big mouth about last night and wound my boss up about things.
As my eyes roll and my head lumps I just come to the conclusion that everyone in my life right now is fucking mad, fucking bananas.
When the train pulls into Colchester I am listening to an old Baker And Kelly episode on my iPhone freely and genuinely smiling. At this point I look and spot Nine Finger Keeper who acknowledges me (first) before I hand him a distracted “hello” that probably fails to serve me well in its delivery. My reputation there remains in tatters, if only there was an audience that was interested.