Monday 27 July 2009

8.30 and I awaken from weird dreams of music festivals being like working in an office. These things should be removed from my mind.

Thank god I am not at work today, I think I have had enough of the straight life, of dragging my arse out of bed at 6AM every morning and not getting home until past 8PM. This is no life; I’ve got better things to do. Maybe like Bill Hicks said I should sit at home all day, get stoned and learn the sitar – do something productive with my time.

Today my mission is to get a suit for my cousin’s wedding next weekend. I was supposed to do this on Friday but instead I was dragged into work because these days I am becoming a wee bit too important.

The prospect of getting measured up and fitted for a suit is something I can only imagine will equate to ritual humiliation. A couple of years ago (four years ago) I would wear a suit to work every day but off the back of London and now 18 months of working in a restaurant those old suits no longer fit me. They’re probably tatty too.

As you can imagine I have little gusto for this trip/chore so instead I get into other more interesting tasks to get up to on my day off.

Outside the weather is bleak. The drizzle is coming down and the sunburning glow of Saturday now appears long gone. I really don’t want to leave the house today.

Early on I get into writing. I avoid Jeremy Kyle at all costs and try to focus on being productive. The best thing I could probably do with this flat at this time would be to tidy it but the problem there lies in too much ownership and not enough space/room to accommodate my belongings. Take that you Socialist fucks, I own stuff! All property is theft and goods purchased at cut prices.

Also I begin looking on my hard drive for old DJ Gringo tracks and I come across nine that have all been corrupted and ruined when that god awful computer repair shop on Crouch Street failed to recover my hard drive a couple of years ago. The problem wasn’t even with my hard drive though; I seem to remember it being, as ever, the graphics card. How on earth did those fuckwits manage to spazz my files in the process? Computer people hey, useless cunts them all.

Inevitably after my first bout of writing I wind up watching something I have downloaded and at this time it is more episodes of the second season of In Treatment and the fourth episode (episode 16) with April. I can’t believe how emotional about this show and particularly this patient.

Eventually I head out in the afternoon and wind up in Moss Bros. As I walk through the store I get a smile from a woman working in the store and thinks begin to look up. Unfortunately however as I get fitted for a suit my fears are realised as the young guy measuring me is like a subtle version of The Fast Show “suits you” tailors. When I tell him it is for this weekend he acts as if I have asked him if I can sleep with his mother. He hands me some trousers he says “do you want to go in the left or right changing room?” as if this matters. Is this some vague reference to how my cock sits? This is what makes me nervous.

With trousers safely and comfortably on he measures my chest for the suit. He reckons I have a 50-inch chest. Fuck me those are UFC/WWF proportions but ultimately it is better to have a jacket that is too big rather than too small.

Quickly the fitting is over and having felt royally patronised in a smarmy manner I exit living to fight another day and now with a suit in place for the wedding on Saturday. Mission accomplished.

Briefly I walk around Colchester town for a while and it feels desolate and dull as ever. If I didn’t have to work so hard for a living I could take this but I want more fruits for my labours. Living here does indeed feel like something of a compromise.

I head back to my parents and nab some dinner before heading home in the evening.

There isn’t much more to my existence on this day.