Friday 30 October 2009
Dream: I’m in a church hall with a combination of friends and family including my parents. There is a wedding dinner vibe to proceedings but in fact we are there to watch the Pixies.
Yet another day this week I awaken with a cursed headache.
Arriving at the station car park this morning I manage to get a hot spot. As I leave the car I mutter under my breath “total win” which I think some woman hears me say which prompts her to give me a funny look.
I have no heart for work today. Yesterday was a drag and the set of accounts that I sent over to the consultant last night were incomplete and rubbish in my opinion. Now because I haven’t been afforded the time to do things properly one director is showing drawings of £80K and another £25K. I think when they eventually notice/see this they will give me time to do things properly.
Again I catch the 6.59AM train and I am shocked at just how quickly it gets to Witham, seemingly in barely ten minutes. That’s what happened when you are able to cut out Marks Tey and Kelvedon.
Eventually the train pulls into Liverpool Street without fanfare or beaching and suddenly I think I may have a new preferred morning train.
At the tube platform there is an insane Gibby Haynes lookalike. Sadly Tom does not appear up for Lookalike Poker today. Shame as this guy represents a total winning hand.
With the addition of the Russ Meyer box set and various other DVDs from last night it begins to bother me as to when I will actually find time to watch any of these. It suddenly occurs to me that these are my provisions. Whereas in cold war years people would stock up their cupboards with tinned goods in the event of future unemployment, I am stocking my cupboards with things to entertain me. This is pathetic.
As the tube pulls into Kings Cross Gibby gets off along with the reality that I will never see him again.
When I arrive into work it is into another day of tension. These aren’t great times to be with this company. As I check my emails there is thankfully nothing from the consultant but surprisingly there is one from Szesze which it would appear was sent at 2AM this morning. It breaks my heart to read it as she refers to me as “long lost” and she says “suddenly I have you on my mind.” She’s a really nice person but we just do not have anything in common. With nice memories in mind I send her a friendly response that in reality has the same content as probably my previous five emails to her.
Happily the early tension soon subsides and eventually things become more relaxed. With that in mind I am very ready for the weekend.
On Radio One today they are celebrating 75 years of Maida Vale Studios and obviously with that comes many memories of the place flooding back to me. I managed to get there three times with Hirameka and they were always exciting and privileged moments.
For lunch we have a feast as skewers of spicy chicken and little fishcake balls left over from a party last night are sent up on top of our generic lunch orders. Coming on top of our standard lunch, which today for me is burger and chips (my Friday treat), just as a curtail on our menu options is being enforced we are actually eating better than ever. These things.
Today I concentrate on the VAT return, struggling to cope with the new system on Sage I haven’t quite got to grips with. As time is of the essence yet again this quarter I find myself rushing and stumbling through the program, producing reports that are not necessarily 100% correct or indeed satisfactory in my mind. Elsewhere though the others just want timely figures that are relatively realistic. This is quite the contrast against that anal fuck Moriarty who would wet her pants over the most ridiculous of imperfections at Baker Street. She had accountancy OCD without both feet planted in reality.
After work I get roped into almost two and a half hours of business drunk. I just wanted to go home and write tonight. That said it does lend the opportunity to air some queries on the current state of the nation at the company.
Things get funny when my boss accuses the restaurant manager (the Heavy Metal Manager) of referring to some children with customers as “little cunts.” I miss the actual comment itself but find his language and terminology quite believable and as a result my boss’s gripe does hold some weight on the face of it. The manager however vehemently denies this to the end which later causes my boss to whisper some criticism to me aimed in the manager’s direction. Again it is justified.
I benefit tonight from not indulging in drinking; I think I only go three drinks strong while my boss polishes one off after the other.
As I head home at 7.15PM I feel emotionally cold tonight. More so than usual I just want to go home and curl up with somebody.
On the tube while stopping at Kings Cross a modern day Rain Man boards the carriage. He talks to himself, he stomps his feet and he spasms. Thankfully promptly he gets off at Farringdon. Fun times lay ahead in the part of the city tonight. Perhaps he works for The Guardian.
Eventually I end up on the 8PM Norwich train and it is a fucking joke, full of cunting families getting in the way and tourists who don’t appear to know that they’re born. Half the seats have booked tags/tickets on them but sit empty. Who the fuck books a seat on the train? It is not a plane! Tightwads and freaks book seats on trains, weirdoes with no money or social conscience. This is truly the half term express. Why do I have to put up with this shit? I pay £4600 for my train ticket and probably out earn these cuckolded milquetoast wet bastard fathers of these prick families. Sir, life has defeated and beaten you.
As I stand trying to pretend to being elsewhere in the most obnoxious and antisocial gesture at my disposal I scour my iPhone for the loudest and most obnoxious tracks with view to drowning out the whining fuck kids and their equally tiresome parents. Shellac on full volume appears to serve this purpose and work well for me. Punk rock!
When I finally get home it is truly a relief to be back amongst the living (albeit I’m the only one there). From here Friday night pans out devoid of excitement with unfortunately Miranda Hart as host of Have I Got News For You being the highlight.
I pass out.
Dream: I’m in a church hall with a combination of friends and family including my parents. There is a wedding dinner vibe to proceedings but in fact we are there to watch the Pixies.
Yet another day this week I awaken with a cursed headache.
Arriving at the station car park this morning I manage to get a hot spot. As I leave the car I mutter under my breath “total win” which I think some woman hears me say which prompts her to give me a funny look.
I have no heart for work today. Yesterday was a drag and the set of accounts that I sent over to the consultant last night were incomplete and rubbish in my opinion. Now because I haven’t been afforded the time to do things properly one director is showing drawings of £80K and another £25K. I think when they eventually notice/see this they will give me time to do things properly.
Again I catch the 6.59AM train and I am shocked at just how quickly it gets to Witham, seemingly in barely ten minutes. That’s what happened when you are able to cut out Marks Tey and Kelvedon.
Eventually the train pulls into Liverpool Street without fanfare or beaching and suddenly I think I may have a new preferred morning train.
At the tube platform there is an insane Gibby Haynes lookalike. Sadly Tom does not appear up for Lookalike Poker today. Shame as this guy represents a total winning hand.
With the addition of the Russ Meyer box set and various other DVDs from last night it begins to bother me as to when I will actually find time to watch any of these. It suddenly occurs to me that these are my provisions. Whereas in cold war years people would stock up their cupboards with tinned goods in the event of future unemployment, I am stocking my cupboards with things to entertain me. This is pathetic.
As the tube pulls into Kings Cross Gibby gets off along with the reality that I will never see him again.
When I arrive into work it is into another day of tension. These aren’t great times to be with this company. As I check my emails there is thankfully nothing from the consultant but surprisingly there is one from Szesze which it would appear was sent at 2AM this morning. It breaks my heart to read it as she refers to me as “long lost” and she says “suddenly I have you on my mind.” She’s a really nice person but we just do not have anything in common. With nice memories in mind I send her a friendly response that in reality has the same content as probably my previous five emails to her.
Happily the early tension soon subsides and eventually things become more relaxed. With that in mind I am very ready for the weekend.
On Radio One today they are celebrating 75 years of Maida Vale Studios and obviously with that comes many memories of the place flooding back to me. I managed to get there three times with Hirameka and they were always exciting and privileged moments.
For lunch we have a feast as skewers of spicy chicken and little fishcake balls left over from a party last night are sent up on top of our generic lunch orders. Coming on top of our standard lunch, which today for me is burger and chips (my Friday treat), just as a curtail on our menu options is being enforced we are actually eating better than ever. These things.
Today I concentrate on the VAT return, struggling to cope with the new system on Sage I haven’t quite got to grips with. As time is of the essence yet again this quarter I find myself rushing and stumbling through the program, producing reports that are not necessarily 100% correct or indeed satisfactory in my mind. Elsewhere though the others just want timely figures that are relatively realistic. This is quite the contrast against that anal fuck Moriarty who would wet her pants over the most ridiculous of imperfections at Baker Street. She had accountancy OCD without both feet planted in reality.
After work I get roped into almost two and a half hours of business drunk. I just wanted to go home and write tonight. That said it does lend the opportunity to air some queries on the current state of the nation at the company.
Things get funny when my boss accuses the restaurant manager (the Heavy Metal Manager) of referring to some children with customers as “little cunts.” I miss the actual comment itself but find his language and terminology quite believable and as a result my boss’s gripe does hold some weight on the face of it. The manager however vehemently denies this to the end which later causes my boss to whisper some criticism to me aimed in the manager’s direction. Again it is justified.
I benefit tonight from not indulging in drinking; I think I only go three drinks strong while my boss polishes one off after the other.
As I head home at 7.15PM I feel emotionally cold tonight. More so than usual I just want to go home and curl up with somebody.
On the tube while stopping at Kings Cross a modern day Rain Man boards the carriage. He talks to himself, he stomps his feet and he spasms. Thankfully promptly he gets off at Farringdon. Fun times lay ahead in the part of the city tonight. Perhaps he works for The Guardian.
Eventually I end up on the 8PM Norwich train and it is a fucking joke, full of cunting families getting in the way and tourists who don’t appear to know that they’re born. Half the seats have booked tags/tickets on them but sit empty. Who the fuck books a seat on the train? It is not a plane! Tightwads and freaks book seats on trains, weirdoes with no money or social conscience. This is truly the half term express. Why do I have to put up with this shit? I pay £4600 for my train ticket and probably out earn these cuckolded milquetoast wet bastard fathers of these prick families. Sir, life has defeated and beaten you.
As I stand trying to pretend to being elsewhere in the most obnoxious and antisocial gesture at my disposal I scour my iPhone for the loudest and most obnoxious tracks with view to drowning out the whining fuck kids and their equally tiresome parents. Shellac on full volume appears to serve this purpose and work well for me. Punk rock!
When I finally get home it is truly a relief to be back amongst the living (albeit I’m the only one there). From here Friday night pans out devoid of excitement with unfortunately Miranda Hart as host of Have I Got News For You being the highlight.
I pass out.
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