Friday 21 August 2009

Welcome to my last day of being 32 years old. Its been a slice.

I didn’t bother to set me alarm clock last night and now this morning I can barely be bothered to pull myself out of bed. This is the week that the Essex cricket team comes to Colchester and I really wanted to go this year but did I have the time to make arrangements for it? Nope.

I have decided all blame for this sudden downturn of events is once more the result of the Brazilian/Mexican (and now Albanian apparently) chef at work dumping his big gobbed dark cloud onto proceedings. Can’t he just fuck off back to the cardboard box in the shanty town he acts as if he grew up in? Gracios Elton. This man is one of the reasons why people now vote for the BNP.

As I pass through Balkerne Heights this morning I fully see what is angering my old man about the complex. Just driving to the car park vehicles are littered everywhere, parked anywhere they want and often obstructing the unnecessarily heavy speed bumps that were put in which I swear the residents have had to pay for although I have always been told otherwise.

After a nondescript journey to Liverpool Street as ever the fucking train pulls in fashionably late.

While I struggle to get to the tube platform I find myself stuck behind some twatting couple bogged down with luggage but still holding hands all the same. When I finally get on the tube all I can smell is the putrid stink of some kind of fried food, possibly being consumed. When I look up it is in the hand (hand of God) of some Maradona lookalike who is scoffing from a BK bag. Maybe it is the real Diego given the notoriety of his diet in recent years and belly that goes with. When we exchange glances I half expect him to offer me an autograph.

I’m piss off to fuck today and my way of letting people know is by listening to “1000 Hurts” on full volume. If anyone challenges me over this I’ll probably wimp out and turn it down and reach (comply) with apology but in the meantime IT IS ON!

I proclaim today that I am in a shitty fucking mood but muse whether it will be internal or external. In other words will I be sulking or moaning. Is it still acting immature if you are able to acknowledge that your actions are childish? Fortunately I am the easiest person in the world to bring round so it doesn’t last long, not least when the lady gets into work and I finally have someone to talk to and make things begin to feel better.

Last night I dreamt that Bobby was a much bigger dog and then the lady tells me how she had a dream about the coffee machine and making our daily morning cup.

When The Girl eventually comes in (late) I am in the middle of a painful telephone conversation with the consultant. I acknowledge her with a wave in the hope that today will not be a continuation of the way that yesterday ended. Fortunately it does not prove so and after a little walking on eggshells in the early part we are soon once more cool again and a nice/fun atmosphere returns to the office. This is office politics in full affect.

I get little done today; the phonecalls from the consultant come in erratically and feel as if they are barking up the wrong tree, taking things in the wrong direction. He has a couple of nags about areas that are a low concern. Does he actually know what he is doing?

For lunch I have breaded parmesan chicken with flat (pad?) noodles. It’s a good plate.

The rest of the day flies by as I wrestle with yet another method of accounting for the wages. It sure is fiddly.

Towards the end of the day my boss phones from Mallorca and he sounds in great spirits, ready for next week. Family holidays can generally go either way for any family I guess.

5PM arrives and we waste no time in getting away, heading home and beginning the weekend. Eat our dust.

I’m not very happy today. I think/suspect I secretly desire a birthday fanfare that is not forthcoming. Deep down I want to be the centre of attention and would really like it for somebody to make a fuss over me.

Today I am thinking too much of absent friends. Events such as birthdays and new years sadly annually serve to highlight how my social groups and friends are dwindling and right now I am feeling particularly vulnerable and sensitive. I ceased complaining to people about this years ago when I realised nobody was listening. Instead I now keep it all inside were it slowly ferments into cancer.

At the end of proceedings I get to Liverpool Street in time to catch the 5.30PM Norwich train but luckily I quickly remember that it doesn’t actually stop at Colchester. What the fuck is the point of such a train?

Instead I catch the 5.38PM Clacton train that doesn’t stop at Chelmsford which generally ensures it is a quiet journey without any of that rabble. Partway into the journey Nina begins texting me regarding the Big Brother eviction this evening at which point I realise that the guy sat opposite me playing on his laptop looks like Marcus from the show, if he ditched his chops and mullet. Spooky.

I get back to Colchester well before 7PM which is a rare treat for me and as I pop into the olds’ the reaction of the dog towards me is only lukewarm. What did I do?

When I finally get home to Bohm Grove I am shattered. I would like to write but the wind has been royally knocked from these sails.

I manage to watch an episode of 30 Rock in an effort not to go to bed before 9PM, as is my instinct this evening.

The last evening/night of my 32nd year is a beautiful one. This would be a good time to check out. Tomorrow I will awaken one year older but I fear not one year smarter. Mistakes that were made in my 32nd year will no doubt be repeated in my 33rd also as life still remains and mystery to me, one shrouded in pain and sadness that never quite catches up with or goes.

Eventually I fall asleep during Big Brother. When I re-awaken Bea has been evicted from the house and it would appear she sees no wrong in her actions. This means she doesn’t realise she is crackers.

I stop being 32.