Wednesday, 9 December 2009

Wednesday 9 December 2009

Dream: I am discussing Billy Childish with someone, expounding his merits in the face of doubt.

Surprisingly despite the Jimmy Leg of last night I wake up fine this morning, not feeling tired or suffering from my cold in the slightest.  The miracles that can happen.

As I leave our apartment block this morning it is to the sight of our front door having been left wide open all night.  My fucking annoying neighbours, they don’t give a flying fuck.

When I get to the station car park I spot the SUV from last night that had left its lights on.  Someone’s gonna have to call somebody later on.  Sinisterly my natural reaction is to chuckle as I find such vehicles truly odious and obnoxious, unnecessary to the highest degree whose ownership I consider pure arrogance.  Yes I want one.

On the platform today the two whining shit ladies from yesterday trundle up behind me again.  Today I am brave enough to turn around and sneak a peak at them.  One of them looks like a skeleton.  Christ, I would be complaining too.

Later as the train stops at Witham the Laptop Couple board with Mr Laptop deciding to sit next to me.  I have never heard them speak to each other but I suspect that they have voices like Stephen Hawking.  I look over at the screen of the guy and he is typing something headed the “Toppersfield Parish Meeting.”  This means nothing to me other than they may be religious and community busy bodies.  To his credit though he doesn’t begin nudging me in the side today until we reach Stratford.

On the ride I listen to the As It Occurs To Me podcast and the skit where Richard Herring submits the word “cumpkins” on a dream episode of Countdown makes me laugh out loud on the train for the first time in ages causing much blushing and embarrassment in the process.  And that is just Mr Laptop.

When the train eventually gets to Liverpool Street our arrival doesn’t appear to register with Mr Laptop who seems to be still struggling on the first page of his Toppersfield piece.  Angrily I get up and try to shuffle past him because my life IS worth living despite apparently being a religious man ironically he appears to take offence at my movements.  Forgive me.

London fucking smells again today.  I don’t what they do and I don’t know what happens while I am away but something fucking rank goes down when it gets dark sometimes it seems.

At Farringdon some fucking medical students on rag week board the tube and hit my carriage begging with a bucket.  Depressed commuters drop coins into their bucket giving them money they do not deserve for a cause that is not strictly or necessarily explained.  I however mug them off with ignorance pretending not to hear them over the sounds of my iPhone.  I win.  Damn though when the lad started shouting I thought we were in for the treat of being joined by a nutter on the train.

By the time the tube reaches Baker Street London still stinks to me today.  Actually considering my history with Baker Street this is one of the areas of London more likely to smell bad to me.

I appear to witness some kind of human condition incident on the Jubilee Line portion of my tube ride.  While I wait at Baker Street a lady on the cusp of her middle ages holds back from boarding but when she eventually gets on and takes her seat some guy that was previously just standing on the carriage acknowledges her and sits himself down next to her.  At first she chooses to ignore his advances while he dotes over her before eventually telling him to shush before she looks up and points out me observing this letting off a rye smile.  The guy is acting like a pathetic lovelorn puppy of a man so I come to the conclusion that they are either having an affair or he is some kind of dopey stalker in the throes of mania on the way to eventually raping and murdering her.  The guy is a real trick expressing mannerisms I would rather die before exhibiting.

The circus continues as we all exit the train at St Johns Wood but as I stand on the escalator leaving the station I suddenly discover somebody is standing on the step directly behind me.  Ordinarily this is the domain of the pickpocket but when I turn round to investigate it is the trick guy stood with his back to me (rubbing against me) looking down at the seemingly reluctant apple of his eye (his poor victim).  Why and how the hell have I suddenly got involved in this shit?  With my personal space being invaded I begin kicking backwards like a buckaroo mule, not that this registers with the dickhead floating up the stairs on his love cloud.  He really is not the Dongslayer.  Why does do people choose to rub their love shit in my face?  No wonder I am sour at the world, especially couples.

Less than an hour later I then find everyone in my office crowded around my PC (the only one with speakers) as we all watch a Youtube clip of Ukraine’s Got Talent and the sand lady, a woman doing finger painting in a trough of sand of old war time images.  I don’t dispute the lady’s talent and that even if I tried I couldn’t do anything as amazing as this but I do find it uncomfortable having to be part of everyone in agreement at her greatness.  The Ukrainians get a genuine artist on their showing and we get SuBo and Diversity.  Perhaps we don’t know everything after all.

Beyond this moment its pretty much as per with another day of doing November accounts groundwork.

At lunchtime I wind up speaking to Carol from the studio on the phone as she asks me how to deal with a royalties suspense account at her publishing company.  Generally it sounds a pretty normal historical account (liability) to me, it is just clumsily named.  It is awesome to speak to her again and as ever I begin fishing for gossip about the studio which now sounds a completely different place to when I was there now over two years ago.  We hatch plans for next week’s muted meet up as it turns out that another of our friends there has been redundant also.

Tonight I am half supposed to be heading to Millwall with Stevo to see them polish off Staines in their FA Cup replay but I really don’t feel up to it being still tattered with flu.  Thankfully though he doesn’t bother to phone or get in touch and I don’t chase things up.

By the end of the day though I leave work actually feeling the best I have done in a long while.  Oh well, I guess an early night is good for the recuperation whereas freezing at football would have only crippled me.

The hunger hits me on the train home again tonight and with it the diabetes fear returns.  Once back in Colchester I pop into Asda where I buy some Relentless and a few other things for the weekend ahead.  I also buy a tray of Chinese chicken wings, my treat when feeling low.

Once home I heat up the chicken wings in the microwave for eight minutes before consuming them, always questioning whether they are fully cooked or not.  Tonight I endeavour to do some writing but with my fingers covered in sauce this is a tricky task. 

Eventually Millwall beat Staines 4-0 which following the 3-0 loss to Hartlepool at the weekend suggests that this is officially something of a bipolar football season.

Soon after the food I fall tired heading to bed just before 9PM watching something on TV that quickly sends me to sleep.

No comments:

Post a Comment