Wednesday, September 02, 2009

Wednesday 2 September 2009

For yet another day running I wake up with a hellish headache. This without doubt is due to the Alli pills. Now whether this is down to the fact I take them last thing at night and it’s tied into dehydration (the hangover concept) is another thing.

When I emerge into the day it is to the sight of my TV having been left on all night and now the horrific sight of The Hoobs is what greets me on this migrained morning.

Soon however I am up and running but it’s not at full efficiency. Almost as soon as I am driving down Layer Road it occurs to me that I have left my set of restaurant keys in my other trousers (the wrong trousers).

Today is a “Fun House” day. The Black Keys thoroughly served me well yesterday but now its time for something with real balls. As I reach the station and stand at the platform in full glory internally rocking out to The Stooges I look across the platform to see the Iggy Pop Swiftcover insurance advert and suddenly all this (faux) rebellion begins to feel redundant and once again my mindset is reduced, rendered and returned to feeling like a fraud. What kind of cunt advertises insurance for a living?

At least I get “my seat” on the train this morning. Sitting opposite is a decent Demi Moore lookalike, albeit one with a subtle ‘tache and stuck up demeanour.

Today when the train beaches outside Liverpool Street on target to being its usual late we actually get an announcement and an apology from Information Jimmy over the PA. This is quite out of character from National Express to accept any blame.

Predictably the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.06AM at which point I brace myself to deal with my now non-working Travelcard. Thankfully it has suddenly decided to start working again and now the day appears to be starting to go my way.

As I board the tube to St Johns Wood via Baker Street it suddenly begins to dawn on me that my headache has not gone away. Dark times. Fortunately when I catch a reflection of myself in the mirror it is a good one – the beard does not look stupid after all, with it the jowls are hidden and my head and hair are the right shape with view to my alpha male aspirations.

Upon arrival at St Johns Wood as I trot out of the station I notice a free newspaper called the Kaballah Times. Has that hoopla really gone so mainstream? I guess I am just too poor to be affected by it.

Walking down Loudoun Road this morning I see a Richard Dreyfus lookalike walking a West Highland Terrier. His pace and posture reminds me a lot of my dad and I smile them. When the guy notices me looking over he responds with a smile of his own and suddenly the day begins to feel a bit more civilised and social.

Today is one of those annoying days where we sit preparing for a visit from the consultant. Ordinarily within seconds of the guy coming in he was turned everything upside down and royally made a pain in the arse of himself. And today is no exception as with his visit due for 3PM I spend the morning rushing through some clean up work in preparation to hand him a very good draft/set of accounts when he arrives.

After a busy morning the guy moves the fucking goalposts when he arrives at 1PM while we are having lunch. We say “good afternoon” to him through shit eating grins as he begins immediately firing requests in my direction oblivious to the fact that I am halfway through lunch.

Justin is down in London today and with it we make vague arrangements to meet up. Suddenly however as the consultant royally drags his arse this suddenly begins to not look plausible. As work gets dragged out I find myself stuck in a three way meeting that I am not actually participating in.

Eventually I get out at 6.40PM and with it I am subtly steaming, fucking pissed off at how this evening has impended in and ruined my plans. Just because other people do not have things on or to do it does not mean I don’t.

By this point I have already apologised to Justin and called things off but this really is not acceptable.

As I ride the tube over to Liverpool Street at Great Portland Street is see that drippy fucking singer from The Cribs at the station having plainly been to the BBC for something or other. He looks as dumb in real life as he does on TV. What is the fucking deal with that band? They are terrible and yet they are popular. Oh well, I guess that is the way of circa: now.

Strange people always inhabit the first trains back to Colchester post rush-hour. These are the cheap seats taken up by antisocial types, the ones happy to work late because they have no one to go home to. I had best take precautions now otherwise I may become a fully paid up member of this squad. The skull faced mini-she sat opposite me on the tube this evening stuck making forced involuntary head spasms much like a Gerry Anderson puppet/character is very much of this breed.

From here I stagger home miserable onto a train onto Colchester running with fumes.

Once home I pass out to some shit TV or other.

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