Wednesday 22 July 2009

Today I wake up tired. Thankfully the sun has returned, which helps a little.

Against what is expected it is a very quiet morning by all accounts. The roads are subdued and traffic is minimal. As I pass the field of grazing cows they seem uninterested in my existence and such is the theme of the day and where it will fit in history.

On the platform at Colchester North Station it is the usual suspects all tensely awaiting our giant chariot to das capital. Everyone seems to have a scowl today and I just feel that I can take each and everyone one of them even though I am operating off the back of just four and a half hours. Last night I saw Morrissey so today I am in touch with my touchy feeling aggressive side. This is cool.

It’s a very quiet morning in general which seems oddly complimented by my feeling very sweaty and smelly today.

The train gets in at 8AM and it is truly shocking for it to be on time for once in a blue moon. Also again with the train arriving those few minutes earlier once more it is noticeable what a difference it makes to the tube platform and how quiet it is in comparison to usual. Unfortunately when the next tube to Watford arrives as I board it smells of piss.

After a nondescript remainder of a journey I find myself the first in at work this morning. Enjoy the silence while it lasts.

On Twitter at the moment one of the rolling topics is “lame claims to fame” to which I jump in two footed as I have plenty of rubbish music anecdotes. Unfortunately my first example/instance is how I once walked in on Trevor Horn having a piss at the studio when he didn’t lock the door behind him one day. When I add, “I saw his Buggles” by the time I reach work his daughter is commenting on my post. This comes coupled with Nikki making her recurring comment of “watch your feet with all those names you’re dropping” seemingly unable/capable to sense the humour in the pathetic posts. With her being the mutual friend of myself and my American Friend, ultimately she is not the person with the most rosy of outlooks on life.

Arrival at work is to two emails from the consultant and one from the outsource guy that has made a mess of the new company. Eventually I face them but not before bracing myself for hassle and anger.

As it turns out the plan is to move back into our normal office on Friday and like a fool, despite having the day booked off to hire a suit, I offer to come in.

For lunch I have penne with merguez. The usual cavalier sign and indication that I don’t really care today.

In the early afternoon the consultant makes some barbed comments towards me as he requests I do three months (the first quarter) on the new company ahead of the head office/subsidiaries costs for the June accounts of the existing company. I pick up the new company accounts but the VAT rate still fixed on it at 17.5% my confidence in the figures and content is not great. This doubt is subsequently realised when the opening figures on the main intercompany accounts do not match.

To start the first quarter of these accounts (Apr 09 to June 09) at this time is bloody ridiculous. The consultant’s man (the outsource guy and other Chuckle Brother) has made an absolute balls up and poor excuse of a job on the accounts. The period to March 09 really really needs looking at before we can even contemplate starting a new financial year. Part of me suspects the consultant realises this and if by rushing things he is able to create even more work by once more going back over old stuff that is wrong he can no only further sink his claws into the figures/accounts but he can also run up a tidy and lengthy bill/invoice with it. This guy, he knows what he’s doing.

In addition to this he is also asking me to fax over copy bank statements to his phone number. By this point I am all but convinced he is fucking me about on purpose.

Towards the end of the day our boss offers to let us go early not realising the apparent urgency of the requests made of me by the consultant. Nonplussed I take the opportunity to leave early.

As I change tube lines at Baker Street I see Parrot Face from Baker Street. She doesn’t acknowledge me but probably didn’t see me anyway. I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. That said any time I see one of those Stepford accountants its gonna serve to bring me down.

Ultimately I actually find myself feeling pretty low as I head home tonight. This reservation is realised when I jump aboard a 6PM Norwich train and straight onto a cattle truck scenario. When did National Express begin taking its cues from India?

Standing up I watch an episode of In Treatment on my iPhone followed by an episode of Tim And Eric Awesome Show and finally the Chunklet recording of The Jesus Lizard show from Nashville. God bless you Chunklet.

As the train approaches Colchester two minutes from the station the heavens open up creating a horrible drenched walk to Balkerne Heights.

When I step through the door of my parents’ apartment I find myself met with the eternal and inevitable question: “is it raining?” It is fucking obvious that it is. At least the dog is happy to see me.

I remain at the olds until 8PM when I head home in an effort to squeeze in some writing.

Against all odds I manage to get the Andy Nice album review done and uploaded so at least there is some productivity to proceedings.

Happy with that accomplished I dig out a present for Holland Park (a Nick Broomfield documentary) and begin to head towards bed and tomorrow.

Big Brother is dull this evening with Siavash now hitting on Noirin as Marcus appears to be reaching the acceptance phase/part of “denial, anger, acceptance.”

As the night passes 10PM I am still drinking Relentless, which is a pretty kamikaze gesture, but my twitching legs are not matched by a twitching brain so with productivity now spent I pack in for the night and hit the sack.