Tuesday, August 04, 2009

Tuesday 4 August 2009

I wake this morning with a stinking headache and dry throat. The tooth still aches but for now it is manageable.

There were fever dreams last night. When I awoke in the middle of the night seemingly having lost my DVD player remote it came with some kind of weird exaggerated panic as if it had dropped out of my room into another vortex. Or flown out of the window. As a result I found myself unable to relax and sleep until it was found.

The walk to the station is another struggle this morning. As I wheeze the entire journey and process, chances that I will make it to Friday are beginning to look slim.

Arrival at the station is to the sight of an ambulance with flashing lights. I do not see any drama connected/attached to the vehicle though. Maybe someone called ahead in case it was required for me.

The platform (or rather “our” section of it) is bare this morning. Once more I manage to snag “my seat” and soon I find myself sat opposite a lookalike of Alf from Home And Away, which is a disturbing sight at the best of times.

Today is a new day and another listen to “Wowee Zowee.”

At Shenfield the creepy Barry Humphries/Andy Warhol hybrid boards and again soon he is nose deep into his Harry Potter book. I bet he ain’t the demographic JK Rowling was aiming for when she spewed out the drivel. Really though, how long is it taking him to read a fucking children’s book?

The train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.05AM – I guess yesterdays on time performance was to be a short-lived gesture of competence.

Once through the herds at the station when I get to the tube platform at Liverpool Street is again eerily deserted this morning. The Metropolitan Line is out it seems which can only equate to my getting to work being delayed today.

When I eventually board a tube I find myself sat opposite a Roy Cropper lookalike. Then the vacant looking lady sat next to him pulls out her Harry Potter book and I begin to scream internally. There is no hope.

Ahead of time I stagger into work and as a reward for arriving first I flip the radio to XFM. I deserve this.

Today turns out to be a tense day as the boss and The Girl are somewhat at odds with each other even though in actuality he doesn’t even clock this tension. No bark, no bite.

Unhindered by the exterior I make great progress on the new company until I discover what a mess the outsource guy made of the bank reconciliation. I have been doing this shit over thirteen years now and I have once seen this method used when doing a bank reconciliation. In others it is so far beyond wrong its not even funny. He appears to have reinvented the wheel. Or at least tried to.

For lunch I have potato soup with a few extras. It’s bland.

During lunch as I put up my DJ Gram “I Hate My Job” set write up I revisit my blogging dismissal and find myself re-reading the letters which Butt Road used to fit me up like a kipper. It still makes for uneasy reading/writing in the cold light of day, almost five years after the event. These scars will never heal.

The afternoon sails out OK without any casualties until the boss starts on some head office cost analysis late in the day that is required for the bank. Eventually I wind up staying 20 minutes late, which serves to depress me as my teeth ache and I just want to go home and brush them out of agony.

Once out of the office, out of the building I rush to St Johns Wood station. As I change lines at Baker Street I see James board the same tube as me. Luckily he walks off into the distance so I don’t need to bother with him (exhibit nice nice) although it does mean we now have a moment of awkwardness lined up for Liverpool Street when we get off the tube. Fortunately when this time comes he appears to run off to his train home meaning to his credit he appears to be putting more effort into avoiding him than me him. Is this really what it has come to though, people running away from me in order to avoid me? What is the protocol these days for dealing with ex-work colleagues?

In the end I wind up on the 6.30PM train to Norwich where I find myself surrounded by an annoying cunting family. Then I notice to my right some blonde lady reading a Harry Potter book. Are these books now government issue to keep the mass populous fucking stupid?

Soon to compound my annoyance the train beaches just outside of Shenfield and with my teethache (plural) and leaving work late depression it all serves to flatten my evening. Are these fucks still striking next Thursday and Friday? Looks like they’ve started early. Later just outside of Colchester, after I have already got up out of my seat, the train again beaches metres away from the station platform, which puts the finishing touches into destroying my soul. God hates me.

At this point a guy that looks like Dwight from the American Office begins acknowledging and reciprocating my disgust at the train service. In him I could have had an ally for descent but looking at him I want no part of this guy and nobody would listen to him or anything he would have to say anyway.

The walk home to my car is tough and by the top of the hill I am finding it hard to breath. That’s not very encouraging.

Once back at Balkerne Heights I hang at the olds for a while terrorising the dog when suddenly VH-1 has the Top 100 One Hit Wonders Of The 80s hosted by Judah Friedlander. I totally get suckered into the show with so many great songs and amusingly a number of half credible UK bands that actually had careers (Haircut 100, Big Country etc). Its great fun watching Thomas Dolby and amusing to see one of Australia’s biggest ever acts in Midnight Oil be dismissed as a one hit wonder. I hold my breath and wait for The Buggles to turn up but before I can get too far in the show (five hours and counting) mother strong arms me into turning the TV over to her soaps.

I get home at 9PM for tonight’s Big Brother and also manage some writing in the process. Finally I get my book description done for its inclusion on Marceline’s Asking For Trouble website.

My night ends watching this week’s You Have Been Watching with a gyrating Reginald D. Hunter who always slays on these shows. I have to see him live before it is too late (which I fear/suspect it already may me). Charlie Brooker does another great show.

Then I fall asleep.

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