Restoration

This week I have been back at work. I have been out for just over 4 weeks, and it felt very odd going back up to London. The journey was ok though, I listened to the excellent Chris and Thomas on my iPhone on the way up, and slept, and looked out of the window and played solitaire.

I started walking from Waterloo, but by the time I got to Westminster I had lost my enthusiasm and hopped on the Tube the rest of the way.

In the time I've been away, we have moved back down to the first floor (Second Floor, American readers...the one up the stairs from the Ground floor. There's a clue in the name.) The new accommodation is cramped, noisy, hot and lacking in storage space. Just like the place I left last year then. Fan-tas-tic.

Everyone hates it, there is nowhere to put anything (paperless office my arse) and the coffee machine is nowhere to be found.

I don't actually drink coffee very much but it is still distressing to see colleagues wandering around the floorplate forlornly, mugs in hand, whimpering sadly as they go through caffeine withdrawal.

On my boss' advice I phoned up the departmental counsellor, who kindly agreed to see me that afternoon. That was tough. She was very kind though, and helpful, and gave me leaflets on Coping With Shite* and I am going back to see her next week. If it helps, I'm all for it.

I fell asleep on the train and slept all the way home, waking up in a panic in Salisbury wondering if I'd missed my stop and was halfway to Exeter.

I have worked at home today and yesterday and am back into London tomorrow. Work have been marvellous, but my God they must be tired of me by now. I feel like every week has provided a new, freakishly horrible, drama to disrupt life and add to the huge hot bale of stress I am now carrying around on the back of my neck. Which is nice.

Other news: The cleaning team came on Friday and did a good job. They were apologising as they left that they hadn't got round to doing the ironing, but to be fair they had slaved over the vile filth in the kitchen and bathroom, both of which were left spotless.

One of them said to me "Once we get on top of the place we'll have time to do some extra jobs." This got me thinking of stuff to ask them to do**. Excellent. I have come up with a few ideas, but more would be nice. Suggestions welcomed, obviously.

In fact, I felt so guilty at the thought of them having to tackle the appalling mountain of WithaY ironing that I spent an hour and a half yesterday evening doing a load of it, whilst watching reruns of "How Clean Is Your House". Some people really do live like pigs.

There was a couple who were repeatedly described as "former London high-fliers" who now run a farm in Kent. They both looked like leftover hippies, and their house was ankle deep in shit. Literally. The floors (and they were carpeted floors at that) were encrusted with mud, hair and dung. Lovely. Even their bedroom floor. And these were allegedly intelligent people. Fuckwits.

I was outraged, which is a good state of mind to be ironing in.

The weather today has taken a turn for the Apocalyptic. High winds, driving rain and the constant sound of squealing tyres and blaring car horns all combine for a relaxing background ambiance as I try to read the 450 emails in my work inbox.

Ah well. Could be worse. And when it is, I will let you know.


*I think. I'd need to look at it again to confirm the title

**Top of the list is repainting the dog shed, followed by chopping kindling, then clearing out the garage. I'm not sure our contract covers that, I'll need to check.

The Crying Game

Gawd it's hot. I'm sitting here with a hand-held fan, trying to waft myself to some semblance of coolness in between typing. It's not working, surprisingly.

I was given this particular fan by a lovely mate when we went to her wedding in Gibraltar a couple of years ago, and found it again recently. It's one of those pretty ones with pictures of flamenco dancers on it, and it smells nice when I waft it, possibly of exotic unguents and oils from the East.

Bloody useless for cooling me down though.

I need a punkah wallah. But not like the one in "It Ain't Half Hot Mum". Google it and be astounded, American readers! You'll be glad you did....British television at its zenith. Or do I mean nadir?

Anyway.

Or, and I much prefer this idea, a huge semi-naked muscly oiled bloke with an ostrich feather fan to stand behind me and waft*.

I went out earlier to run a few errands and just walking across town** made me sweat like a really unattractive sweaty thing.

One of my errands involved popping into the library to use their 10p-a-go photocopier. As the sweet lady librarian struggled with the catastrophic paper jam which my 10p single copy caused, I stood by, idly looking around the rest of the library.

And what luck! The Town Crier was there, running an afternoon workshop, one presumes called: "Town Crying: It's Not Just Bellowing."

A small group of people were sitting attentively around a table, on which a selection of be-furred tricorn hats and large brass bells were set out. As I watched, one of the elderly attendees tentatively jingled a Town Crying Bell, then looked tremendously pleased with herself.

My photocopy was eventually rescued from the bowels of the machine, and as I walked out of the library I heard the Town Crier telling the group "Yes, I have all my hats custom-made." Excellent.





*Mr WithaY has already said no. Bah.

**Ha

Guilty pleasure

Oh yes, I know what I was going to say.

Has anyone else seen the repeats of Space 1999 that are being run in the evenings on one of the freebie satellite channels? I have become completely hooked.

Everything about it makes me laugh. The risible "all jiggle about at the same time" acting.

The flares and anorak-based costumes.

The implausible romantic leads, who all either look like your old geography teacher, or like Dutch porn stars.

The bizarre, more holes than a Swiss cheese, plots.

But the point where I realised I was hooked was last week when Brian Blessed was in it. With truly astonishing makeup and a cape that he swirled villainously.

God it was great.

He had blue stripes in his beard and got to cackle and shout a lot. More than usual I mean.

Ah, I avoided the show as a teenager because it was lame and cheap and British*. And now, those are the very reasons I like it.


*And it wasn't Star Trek. And this was pre Next Generation, mind.