Tuesday 19 January 2010
For an extended period this morning I lay in bed awaiting the buzz of my alarm. It feels as if it takes an eternity for finally sound, which itself feels like a countdown to something inevitably horrible. Is this really the best of mental attitudes to exhibit when entering into a new day?
I feel flat this morning, devoid of energy or hope. I’m still weighing up the ratios of the benefits of having heading out and up this past weekend. Such considerations can only ever be regarded as nonsense, what would have I done or accomplished otherwise? Fool.
Returning to routine as per normal the train is late in getting to Liverpool Street station this morning. Well done National Express, its nice to see some consistency in your incompetence and general shit service and contempt for your end users. At this point in time I am now wondering if National Express would like to forego this conceit and concept of publishing timetables and officially change to running a train service at their leisure, at the times when they fancy it. In other words operating much in the same style as a divorced drunk using a Spork.
Once finally up in London my fortune fails to improve any as my luck is not much better when it comes to the tubes which also keep me waiting fifteen minutes on the platform.
For a third day running I spot the Bellalike with her big nose and cup of Costa coffee. Later when eventually on a tube a mini crush ensues at Kings Cross as the tall guy standing in the carriage reading Slaughterhouse Five doesn’t actually bother to move and get out of the way. Is he Billy Pilgrim himself? I sense he fucking thinks so. Shortly afterwards he gets in the way at Euston Square as well. There really is no place for this man to be.
As I stand in the carriage crush I begin to get philosophical about proceedings before I suddenly realise that I am in fact getting short of breath. A mild panic grips me for the first time in months on public transport as travel fever stings my hopes. I need to be off this train fast.
The only good thing that actually comes of this delayed train today is my spotting the Parminder Nagra lookalike. It feels like months since I last saw her. It’s a good look.
Eventually I slope into work wondering what it is I have laying ahead of me today. Thankfully it is ultimately nothing too bad. As I briefly tell the angry boss about my weekend and how people in Manchester “talk funny” he hands me a cup of coffee, which usually tends to be a good indicator for the day ahead. Later the when the posh boss comes in he informs me that my boss won’t be in today, which additionally removes an element of pressure.
Unfortunately with this I relax and speak too soon as the consultant then trots in which fails to allow the easy day getting back into work that I was hoping for. As ever he fires a couple of grilling questions at me, some of which I am able to answer and others I once more find myself fumbling over in response.
All in all though I end up having a productive day making genuine progress on the December accounts, more than I was hoping or expecting for.
For lunch I hit the salmon option in the mentality that it is the least unhealthy item on our (staff) menu.
In the end the day plays out healthily and swiftly as for once I am able to head home having felt like I’ve accomplished a lot.
On cue I manage to board the 6.20PM to Norwich as the journey pans out in a nondescript fashion without drama.
Tonight on BBC1 is Manchester City v Manchester United in the semi final of the reserves cup (also known as the Carling Cup). As the game plays out in the background I endeavour to write experiencing modest success, primarily on the Facebook Cull and already flagging world cup blog.
On TV and in Manchester, City run out 2-1 winners as Tevez gets a brace to cancel out Giggs’ equalizer. Talk about stick it to your former employer; this man is turncoat of the biggest degree. Is his expression of smug or is he just plain ugly?
Elsewhere tonight Newswipe begins its second series on BBC4 but annoyingly I fall asleep before it ends, which is not a reflection on the show, more the affect that Manchester at the weekend has had on me.
In the end I go to bed as a piercing pain hits me in my chest. Am I having a heart attack?