And lo the holiday was over. It was Monday. The day of work. The day of Workie Scum to shine. Or rather, keep quiet. It was deadline day. And his better sense told him to stay out of the way.
It had to come at some point, fucking London transport. There, I said it. I went there all right? After not getting too much sleep last night, a result of picking up some green, going for a few pints and then a few hours after the pub smoking what was left of the green; I decided to get the bus. 'Insert coins, choose ticket,' read the instructions. After putting in three pounds and not getting a single ticket out, I was a little bit irked. The only solution I reasoned, was to get an Oyster card from the station across the road. With three pounds for the card plus the credit I put on it, I was about ten pounds down and I hadn't even got on a bus yet!
The stupid ticket machine and trip to the tube station caused me to rock up to the bus stop once more at about 9.50am. 'Don't be late or we'll wet your chair.' I remembered from the instructing email from Joanna, the Editorial Assistant. Bollocks, I thought, dressed slightly like a homeless person (not the best fancy dress I've ever come up with) and considering a day spent with a wet arse or spent on my feet. '13 minutes,' was the claimed time of journey given by London Transport. At about 10.30am I got into the office. 'Nice fancy dress,' laughed Joanna. Good job I didn't stick the dress on, I thought. And took comfort in my dry, but slightly wonky office chair.
The day was spent doing remedial tasks. I've made a lot of tea and coffee. Perhaps by the end of the week I'll manage to remember who wants what. Perhaps by the end of the week I'll have more interesting tasks at hand.