Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Wednesday 12 August 2009

Wednesday has the most comfortable awakening that I have experienced in many a day. After the paranoia of last night’s bug attack I resume business as usual without having been eating to death by the killer insect although when I do think about it the itching resumes.

Today is the deadline for the first quarter accounts of/for the new company. By the end of play yesterday I was best part there so today looks and feels optimistic. There is a breeze in the air, which with it brings a freshness and the capacity to actually breathe again. This I should be able to capitalise on.

Calm morning.

The walk to the station is a breeze. The dull skies threaten rain but fortunately fail to deliver as these threats aren’t realised before I get on the train. Such is life.

On the train some skank tourist steals “my seat” this morning. I could take this as a bad sign/indicator for the direction of my day if I so desired.

The weird woman that looks like how I would imagine Kim Deal’s mum to look stares at me on the train today. Can I help her?

Eventually the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.03AM eternally and reliably late. As I hit the tube platform there is some announcement going around about disruptions on the Metropolitan Line but the lady making the announcements has a strong African accent and unfortunately I cannot understand her. It would appear neither can the numerous people surrounding/crowding her. It’s a loss for common sense, you need to have a clear orator when rocking Information Jimmy. Apparently the problem is at Kings Cross. The problem is always at Kings Cross.

Unhindered I board the first train that arrives at which point I find the gang from 7/7 sat around me. Seemingly unable to activate their rucksacks on a non-moving train shortly they scarper off the train much to my relief. Maybe I was wrong about those guys. I’m gonna miss them.

Eventually the tube gets moving but almost immediately upon leaving Liverpool Street it beaches outside the station. Suddenly I notice how warm and stifling the tube is this morning and how there feels like a distinct lack of air within the carriage. I feel like hyperventilating but there plainly isn’t enough air to service it.

Something strange happens today when I begin listening to “Harmacy” by Sebadoh – a number of females look at me and smile. Are the luscious tones of Lou Barlow having the affect on me that I find myself feeling tender and able to smile? Is this form of emoh the way forward for me? This has never happened before in four plus years of commuting in London.

It is a frustrating day at work to say the least. As soon as one thing is put right I find another thing wrong on the new company accounts, the figures put together by the outsource guy.

I stagger through to lunchtime when I have jumbo king prawns and couscous even though it is evident the dish just needs a little sauce. I come away from the dish with the conclusion that I don’t really like couscous.

My mood significantly droops in the afternoon. As more errors transpire on the accounts I depress further, not least with the big demoraliser that the outsource guy hasn’t bothered to set up the holding company of the new group on Sage. Suddenly head office costs turn into finger in the air stuff.

Late in the afternoon my iPhone rings and it is my missing neighbour asking to borrow my stepladder this weekend. I comply. When I tell him I’ll probably not be around as I’ll be in Cambridge he responds “what at the folk festival?” Why is it that every fucking thing he says to me winds me up?

By the time home time arrives I feel beat after almost falling asleep at the wheel (in my chair). I manage to get some accounts sent off to the consultant but they’re not satisfactory to me so most likely they won’t be satisfactory for anyone else. Oh well, we’ll see.

At this point it is now subtly pelting down and the walk to St Johns Wood station is a slightly wet one. This is bleak.

For the entire duration of the tube journey I have to stand all the way to Liverpool Street. This is guaranteed to put me in a shit fucking mood. Then again this I hope is what will keep me awake.

In the end I get the 6.20PM train and it’s all about familiar faces. When I see the red faced Adnams man (Angry Adnams) I begin, as ever, to quake slightly. Here’s hoping we don’t get a repeat of the Kelvedon incident.

Shortly after his arrival the loud annoying black beast woman with the double sized arse and Dom Joly phone etiquette decides to sit opposite me. I try to pretend I didn’t see her but I fail.

For the longest time nobody takes up the empty window seat next to me but eventually it happens and as I stand up to let them in I notice Epiphany Girl sat a few rows down. This officially spooks me.

During the journey once it becomes evident to me that I desperately need some time off. I have no work play balance anymore, almost everything I do now is work and this is not a state I am conditioned for.

It would appear that I am not the only person on the train feeling tired this evening as the woman sat next to Angry Adnams appears to have passed out and her snores now proceed to drown out my iPhone. While pouring himself another plastic cup of his favourite brew Angry Adnams gives her the kind of glare that suggests he just wants to kill.

By the time I am back in Essex the sun is out and subsequently my walk back to is more comfortable than expected.

Back at my parents’ crib we watch Holland v England on TV but there is no point to this match. Holland score twice through defensive errors and for both goals John Terry stands on the line allowing it to go past as if he were as hollow as his skull would suggest. Fortunately for England Defoe comes on at halftime and energises his mediocre talent into two goals scoring twice to end the game at 2-2.

Later when I knock over an unopened can of Dr Pepper foolishly when I eventually open it I forget to open it over a safe surface and predictably it fizzes and goes everywhere when I open it including my crotch. As I do this I swear my father witnesses this and probably just thinks to himself: “my son the idiot.” I hold the can in my lap to prevent it going on the carpet creating a horrible mess out of my Gap trousers. When I return to watching the football mum notices the wet patch and earnestly enquires “did you spill your drink or piss yourself?”

Dad tells me today that he has spoken to the Terry Sutton guy who says that dad is no longer a director of the tin pot residents company and that Companies House has in fact made a mistake. A quick look on the Companies House website shows that dad’s resignation just went through two days ago on Monday despite him actually resigning back in June.

Not longer afterwards I head home for Big Brother which tonight is a bigger pull for me than the football. It’s mainly to be voyeuristic and see which depths of hell Freddie has been taken to today.

Tonight I fall asleep during Ugly Betty only to be awakened by Teachers. Damn where are these actors these days, they were super talented. Despite their talent though soon I fall back to sleep.

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