Monday 16 November 2009
It is incredibly dark outside today. Then shortly after I leave the rain begins belting down. Welcome to the week.
Today I wake up with a dulling headache, something I fear that will make me suffer. Despite taking some pills for it it is not going anywhere.
Soon on autopilot I find myself at the station awaiting a train under the edge the cover so not to get drowned in the rain. I hunch over with the new set of extras surrounding me, the most notable of which is the John Stapleton lookalike. He had a coat that looks straight out of Arthur Daly’s tacky wardrobe but the rest of him is perfectly constructed, his hair looks almost sprayed on. For four years I have held silent contempt for this guy.
As the train flies towards London when we reach Ingatestone I notice that there is a light flickering on the Selecta vending machine on the platform. From one angle it looks as if it is speaking Knight Rider style. Really more though it is representative of how the flickering resembles where this day is going as all remains gloomy and the sun is failing to emerge. More or less we may as well be heading to work in the middle of the night.
Later the train beaches at Manor Park. What kind of hell hole is this place? Delays is what the rain brings, without fail.
Eventually as we near Liverpool Street the female Information Jimmy apologises for the lateness of the train saying that it is due to “it being stuck behind another slowing moving train.” This is no excuse, this is not acceptable.
On the tube I find myself playing the distance game with some lady I can at the other end of the carriage. As we look at each other seemingly thinking we have spotted something good it is yet for the reality of proceedings to hit. Well I guess I have shaved and done my hair today so that I might look good in the distance blurred. No doubt though the closer we would get, the lower the apparent attraction would get. Later at Kings Cross a Swapna lookalike boards but with smarts she gives me the cold bum.
As I emerge from St Johns Wood now back overground walking along Loudoun Road I am able to spot the exact point in the sky where the grey rain clouds end and the bright blue skies begin. This I guess is the magic of St Johns Wood and why so many celebrities and wealthy types choose to live here.
Despite the hold ups of the morning I manage to get into work on time and healthily while The Girl continues to phone and text me reporting her latest progress and developments wrestling with the roads leading from Clapham and her lateness. I could care less. She then sends the message “If anyone asks can u just saz” to me six times. Is it her or her car that has experienced a breakdown?
Eventually and annoyingly it turns out to be yet another flat day with plenty of effort but only minimal progress. These days lead to frustration.
My day picks up when Chris (Baldwin) gets in touch and asks my advice on his accounts. Sounds like he is doing a bit of cash in hand moonlighting or something. Later Racton also gets in touch filling me in on the latest falling out between comedian friends, both personal and professional. It sounds like a horrible situation from which no one will emerge beneficial.
From here unfortunately the remainder of the morning is spent croaking with backache. For lunch again I have parmesan breaded chicken with linguini. There is nothing on our menu that will not make a person feel like a blob.
Tonight The Girl is going horse riding (that was a quick recovery) and before leaving work she decides to get changed for it which only serves to stink out the office. I always thought she was a chav not a bumpkin. What’s the deal with accountants and horse riding? All thoughts turn back to Horsey Pants at Butt Road who seemed to love her horse more than any human being. Weird.
By the time 5.30PM comes around I find I have only scratched the surface on my self set tasks today. With this knowledge I head home feeling slightly sheepish but also feel let off as no pressure appears to be getting applied at this time.
The tube to Liverpool Street tonight proves sluggish and disheartening. It is tough to judge who looks most unimpressed by this: me or the Keith Barron lookalike. Eventually as a result of the shoddy fucking service I wind up on the 6.30PM train to Norwich. I don’t know why the ten minute difference between this train and the 6.20PM means so much to me but it just does.
On the train tonight there is a man sat to my right watching an episode from season five of The Wire. Damn I wish my iPhone wasn’t cracked and I could watch videos on the train too.
When I get home it is to post and a leaflet from the courier telling me that they have tried to deliver a package. Amazon are currently employing/using rubbish couriers and it turns out that the package has been left with number 14, the flat directly beneath me in our block. I didn’t even realise that there was somebody living in it now. As I head down to collect the package when the door opens it is some skanky looking woman straight from a Bukowski binge behind it. When I take the package (a book) from her she seems to be laughing at me. Was she drunk?
The answer to this question soon gets answered as the evening proceeds to involve their flat playing bad music very loudly all night. Where the fuck have these people suddenly come from? After eight years of peace and quiet I now appear to have noisy neighbours.
With no work tomorrow (it being my bad fortune day) I endeavour to write well into the night but it is tough in the face of such distractions coming from downstairs. At the worst point in proceedings I pop my head out of my door to hear just what they goons are listening to. It turns out to be “Stay” by Shakespear’s Sister. What is it about middle aged people when listening to music drunk? This is how careers such as Coldplay’s are able to thrive, maintain and survive. By touching so many nerves with the most basic of language these people are able to suddenly feel whole and fulfilled, to feel that their experience is not alone and as a result has been worthwhile if it is in the same key as the chart toppers.
Against the apparent odds I write well into the night and as I do so Newsnight plays out in the background on which tonight is an interview with Gil Scott-Heron who is pushing his new record (that I later discover isn’t even finished yet). His publisher is hawking his work hard now predicting some kind of career resurgence along the lines of Johnny Cash’s late reinvention. Could be good, could be awful.
Eventually I head to bed as it nears midnight and with it I need/require something to watch to fall asleep to. Today my copy of Nixon on DVD arrived so I pick it up realising for the first time that it is over three hours long. Undaunted I begin watching it but knowing of Nixon as I do (mostly via Hunter S Thompson) having Hannibal Lector playing him really fails to convince me that anything of this is/was remotely true. Unsurprisingly I fall asleep about ten minutes into proceedings.