Saturday already. Another work week gone, and bugger all to show for it apart from the bags under my eyes and some Thornton's chocolate money I bought yesterday.
Thursday was a NIGHTMARE on the trains. We trundled into Waterloo almost 40 minutes late yesterday morning due to a breakdown in Hersham.
After the first twenty minutes of painfully slow progress I rather felt like having a breakdown myself.
Instead, I did that terribly British thing of looking at my watch in an obvious manner and making a face implying that the freedom of the Western world was at stake if I didn't get to my destination on time. When we finally got to Waterloo I decided that as it was already late, I might as well saunter to the office in the sunshine, enjoying the views, rather than trying to fight my way through the Tube system.
I met up with a former colleague from my old job for lunch, which was very pleasant. We had a sandwich in Pret a Manger on Victoria Street while we caught up on each other's news, and it was very cheering. My stroll back to the office took me past Thornton's, hence the chocolate coin impulse buy.
Thursday evening was glorious, so I decided to walk back to the station. Earlier in the week I took the Tube. Oh. My. God. What a mistake. It was hideous. Hot, smelly, windy, filthy and smelling of a mixture of chips, filth, tunnels and people who have been sweating all day long. Ugh.
So, I left work at the usual time, and strolled across Westminster to Waterloo, only having to fight down the urge to pound people into the pavement a couple of times, several fewer than usual. Progress. Fucking tourists though. Bastards.
Special mention goes to the idiot hot-dog vendor who positioned his vile reeking wagon of filthy slimy glistening oleaginous "sausages" at the top of the steps leading up to Westminster Bridge, thus guaranteeing a huge congestion pinch point. Bastard.
I caught the train in plenty of time, found a decent seat, arranged my goods and chattels and buried myself in my trashy historical romance* for the duration. All was tranquil. The air conditioning was working, a treat after the appalling rail-guided sauna I travelled home in on Tuesday. It was all going terribly well.
Until we got to Andover, where they announced that due to an unspecified "problem" with the front three coaches, everyone who planned to continue their journey beyond Salisbury had to move to the back three coaches. Joy.
There was a mad stampede down the train, with a lot of grumbling and muttering** as everyone tried to find seats and spaces for bags etc. Everyone ended up settled but disgruntled. I was lucky enough to be in a coach with a family of screaming children.
Nice and relaxing.
I turned up my music and thought happy thoughts about how soon I would be in my nice comfy air-conditioned car, leaving the railway station faaaaaar behind. That seemed to work until Salisbury.
Aah, Salisbury. Normally I have a lot of time for you, and your gorgeous if intermittently appropriate architecture. Today, however, I am looking at you with narrowed eyes and dark thoughts in my heart. Why? Because the world's most ignorant man lives there.
Sorry, but he has blighted our love. This is why.
He was sitting on the opposite side of the aisle to me, faffing about with his laptop and sweating unattractively***. As the train neared Salisbury station he packed all his stuff away into a big square shoulder bag thing. He stood up, put the bag over his shoulder, then swung it round wildly, not bothering to look first.
It hit me.
On the arm, hard. Hard enough to bruise it, in fact. Look, a bruise.
Normally, I try to be considerate and make allowances for very stupid people. On Thursday I didn't. Instead of simply ignoring it and turning the other cheek, I said "CHRIST!" in a very loud voice, making him, and the bloke opposite me jump visibly.
He looked round in horror, and muttered "Sorry" as he stood there waiting for the queue of people to move towards the door. I was not in the best of moods, one way and another, so rather than graciously accepting his somewhat grudging apology, I said "Twat" in an undervoice. Which he heard. His ears went red and he scurried away.
I was half hoping he'd try to make something of it so I could stand up, loom over him and use my extensive and varied vocabulary till he cried. I think I may need to take up yoga or something.
The bloke opposite me was laughing, trying not to, his shoulders shaking as he read the paper. Heh.
When the train finally stopped at my station I had to carefully step over the recumbent body of a small child which was sprawled in the aisle, exhausted after the 40-minute tantrum it had been throwing.
God it was good to get home.
Fucking South West Trains. Sort it out. Ban idiots and make everyone use deodorant before they get onto the train. And issue the guards with elephant tranquillizers in case any children start kicking off. How hard can it be, for heaven's sake? Cuh.
Other news: The tickets for the End of the Road festival have turned up! Hurrah! We're going to see (among others) Steve Earle and the Fleet Foxes. In a beautiful garden. With parrots. Can't wait.
Other, other news: Get well soon to my lovely Eldest Niece who is in hospital, having tried to break up a fight between a cat and a dog, and spent over two hours having surgery on her hands as a result. Poor soul. I'd have hit them both with a fucking shovel.
The animals, not my niece. She doesn't often warrant a shovelling.
*Georgette Heyer, my guilty pleasure
**mostly from me
***I notice these things