Wednesday, November 15, 2006

AM: I wake up at 4AM longing for more sleep. Voila though, technically that leaves me with an opening in my diary of a further two hours sleep. I endeavour this appointment and I guess I probably do clock a couple more hours sleep.

I arrive at the station this morning only to discover my platform has been closed off. Wha’ happened, did somebody die? Part of me dies on this platform every morning (ha ha). So the switch from platform 4 to platform 3 only serves to play havoc with my Monk-esqe OCD.

I end up sitting in a completely different part of the train this morning, surrounded by completely different co-commuters (or “mutters” as I now like to refer to some of the female passengers now). OK, I must admit the “new” lady sitting opposite me this morning was relatively normal, it was the ill-informed girl/lady that sat down next to here. At what point was she cruelly covertly mocked by being told that the “Cassandra from Only Fools And Horses gone ugly” look is a good look? Who cut her fucking hair, Stevie Wonder’s blind mate? And then to increase my fun on the train this morning, some fat bird with four chins decides to squeeze in the middle between me and some other fat bloke. Oh the joy of when she pulled out her diary and “accidentally” kept repeatedly nudging me in the side when she turned the pages. That said, it did give me an opportunity to look over her shoulder and read the trash – I think there was the one person in Essex with a life less interesting than mine.

By the end of the journey (and several iPodded awful Brian Jonestown Massacre tracks later) I suddenly notice in the reflection of the train window the pretty round faced girl looking back at me. With her moon face and impressive eyes, she could almost be the female equivalent of yours truly. I attempt to batter my eyes enough to capture her attention (and her heart) but she obviously has better taste and lashings of common sense although I do notice by the time we pull into Liverpool Street that she has a read face. The train isn’t overly warm this morning so did I (ego speaking now) actually make somebody pretty blush with my subtle ESP? I turn and look at my own reflection in the window: no fucking way minger boy.

I board the my tube in Liverpool Street with some newbie getting on in the most lacklustre fashion. I find myself kicking at his heals, gently prodding him aboard before the tube doors close on me and chop my head off. I stand uncomfortably (as is always the way) and I notice that this morning I have caught the train with the large Lady Vengeance lookalike. Her expression is always so sad, like she is mere seconds from bursting into tears. Likewise however she has the Lady Vengeance/Geum-Ja element of danger (even though she appears to sit next to her mum everyday until mummy gets off at Holborn). So now it is my turn/opportunity to blush.

It is Wednesday, so like a fool I do my weekly purchase of the NME. Still buying this rag, at my age, this must make me one wrung short of being a nonce these days. Each week I buy the magazine, realise 99% of the acts featured are rehashes of stuff I have already seen and yet I still thank the editor for the privilege of letting me buy the latest issue. My concentration span however is disrupted as I watch the little motherfucker kids wrestling to get into the Notting Hill WH Smith (“two at a time”). Was I that much of a thug at that age? Of course not, I was well behaved, polite, nice and fucking terrified of authority (ha ha – yeah, a WH Smith employee on minimal wage will always be some kind figure of authority to me). I check my pockets to see whether they have thieved me. Surely however these little thug cunts and their families should have been priced out of the Kensington area? Or so the media and their house price specialists would have me believe. The kids do generally look olive though, “on benefits are we lads?”

A sure sign this morning that I am feeling sorry for myself is acknowledged when I treat myself to a pack of Tesco triple choc cookies that aren’t even on promotion. My days of being a fat cunt once again are surely just around the corner.

I also find myself perusing Myspace for Japanese girls. Maido?

PM: after a relatively sane and productive morning, with my best friend at work being the shredder, lunch arrives finding me not really all that hungry (tasty tasty cookies). I still head out, I need fresh air (or as fresh as air gets in London). Once more I hurdle doddery old fucker after doddery old fucker to get to my goal: Tesco. As I step through the security bars the store seems next to empty, was there just a fire or a robbery here? Not really hungry, I’m not really full of enthusiasm for lunch nor food today and especially food that costs more than a £1 and is to at least a small extent healthy. After perusing tat I find myself tempted by thai mix (the new Bombay mix?) but then I notice on Christmas promotion: Walkers Sensations. These are rich man’s crisps and in store at toofer (2 for 1). I join want appears to be the shortest queue, despite having the lairy fat lass that looks blind serving. Bad decision Gram, firstly the latest doddery old fucker is insistent on packing his own groceries (much to the chagrine of fat lass) and then when it comes to paying five minutes later, he barely seems able to function around cash cards and technology. He types in his pin number at snail’s pace, allowing me to get full view of his sacred four figures. My anger towards him tempts me to almost stalk and rob him. I however am a nice guy and not a cunt and instead I just push him out of the way when I pay for my crisps in a matter of seconds and leave the store.

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