Besides the fact that nobody knows how to drive, the main thing I notice when tootling up and down the A23 between Crawley and Hove is just how many vans, trucks, and lorries there are with the high vis striping on the back of them, and the infamous words ‘Highway Maintenance’. They are everywhere, always moving, going somewhere. But the question is where? Whenever you pass large sections of roads on ‘major’ roadworks, they are never to be seen there doing something, all that can be seen are tons of cones. And every minor road you travel down, from windy country lanes to speed bump afflicted side streets are full of holes. So the next question is, just what the fuck are all these highway maintenance vehicles doing, and where ethe fuck are they all going to at all times of the day and night, because there is absolutely no evidence of them doing any maintaining of any highways, all they do is drive around badly, being fucking menaces on the highways.
When I do make it to work it seems we are plagued by fuckwits in their four rings of the apocalypse cars who think that no entry signs don’t apply to them, and one-way systems are only advisory.
Inside the building, which becomes a more soul sucking shithole every day I am there, it is just a case of being plagued by more morons. Those who think banana skins and wet paper towels are recyclable, but somehow cardboard boxes are general rubbish. And the ones who have spoilt little shit syndrome who just dump their mugs in the sink for someone else to deal with. This despite the fact there is a dishwasher available to load up, or if full that the thirty seconds it might take to clean up after themselves will cause them to have a fucking aneurism.
And every day I’m in the office I become more convinced that the much-heralded revamp of the office space was actually designed by a drunken toddler using a buggy version of AutoCAD 95. The obvious routes to well used places, such as the kitchen or toilets are blocked by randomly position pieces of office furniture laid out at jaunty angles in a desperate bid to seem cool. Only for there to be wide open spaces in areas where no one would ever walk through and are totally unused. They’ve tried to be trendy and ended up with the worst of all worlds, making it difficult for staff to get from a to b without having to invade others personal space to get past the miniscule gap between desks.
On Saturday morning when I opened the curtains it was bright sunshine, yet an hour later by the time I’m walking there it is throwing it down with rain. Which as I sat in my usual window seat in Maccy D’s watching the world go by having my breakfast there is very little world to watch going by. It would seem anyone with any sense is hiding from the rain, which judging by the soaked appearance of my rucksack would be the right thing to do. At least the new raincoat works well though.
It is mornings like this upon which I really miss Debenhams being open. Not because I’d want to buy anything (although a browse through the Mantaray stuff might happen), no but because it meant I could get most of the way from Maccy Ds to the library without getting soaked.
There are always a couple of old guys in the library early on a Saturday morning on the computes. I’ve never realised what rude cunts they were until this morning. Shouting at a librarian because the West Sussex Times wasn’t in its place on the papers’ carousel. When they did find a copy for the bloke it was the previous week’s copy. When it was found by the librarian the bloke snatched it off her without a word of thanks, had it for thirty seconds at the computer and then went back to the desk and threw it across at her.
I wonder as I write these notes how long it will be before I get around to typing up publishing this. I have a few pieces dating from July and August which may well have been typed up now, but still haven’t been published, and I’ve got pages of stuff which needs typing up.
That seems to be part of a much wider malaise. The only thing that gets done at the moment is anything to do with the football such as match reports, they are usually written, typed up and published within a couple of hours. The football appears to be my main current obsession at the moment. Enthusiasm for anything else in life is next to nothing. I’m not really writing anything else. I’m going through the motions where camera club is concerned. I don’t really want to go anywhere or do anything and I’m forcing myself to do things just to stop me curling up into a ball and atrophying. I’m sure I’m probably driving Helen around the bend with the apathy.
I’ve got my next (and last scheduled) set of eye injections on Monday, but it seems as if I can’t help sabotaging myself. The absolute sugar free route has slipped, bread items are regular, and calorie control is a bit lacking. I know it’s not helping with anything, but it is like I can’t stop shooting myself in the feet. Just such a twat.
Random thoughts. I heard someone going on about being a ninja master. Not long ago that would have been a Japanese martial arts specialist, yet nowadays it’s more likely to be some muppet who thinks they’re a bit useful with a fucking air fryer.
On the train there is an announcement ‘if you have got bags on seats, please take them off,’ and I now have visions of some old Yorkshire bloke turning and saying to his missis, “you best get up then love.”
The train filled up massively at Kettering as if there was some mass migration going on. I never thought Kettering was that bad to be honest.
It always seems there is a large group of twenty-something blokes on any Friday train journey, off to get pissed somewhere and they’ve started on the cans already. They’ve always full of shite, talking bollocks, but why do they always all seem to have identikit black Helly Hansen duffel bags?
The woman making the announcements has the air of someone who’s never used a microphone before in their life, veering between ear splitting screeches and whispers, and speech more stilted than a Caribbean resort’s beach huts.
On the way back it shows how much I’m on the edge of losing it all the time, going ballistic at people getting onto the train before we’d had a chance to get off, shouting and screaming and swearing at them. It’s deeply ironic just how angrily impolite I get about moaning at others for being impolite.
It’s only taken just over a week since I started writing this before it goes to print. Best to do it before there is an all-day work team meeting.
I failed, and that was as horrific as expected, I don’t think I can deal with people anymore, it’s too overwhelming, and certainly in the morning session it was all I could do not to burst into tears. Lunch was mainly sandwiches, which in my current frame of mind wasn’t going to do me any favours, far too many of them eaten, but they made the afternoon more bearable, but that doesn’t stop me being a twat for eating so many.