Serious vs. Normal

Blimey I'm tired.  Yes, yes.  I know it's Saturday morning, and the sun is out, and the birds are tweeting cheerfully.  I should be bursting forth into the world with a spring in my step and a song on my lips.  But really.  No.  Just no. 

I wish I had a dazzling array of adventures to relate, explanations for being so exhausted, but I've got nothing.  NOTHING.  It's all down to work, boringly.  And train fuckwittery, so nothing new there. 

As a result of me being asked to help out with a couple of short term projects, I had to change my working pattern, and go up to London for 3 days in a row.  I hate doing that.  My working week is usually 2 days in London, a day working at home, another day in London, then the final day at home.  I can cope with that reasonably well, although by the end of the second day in London I am washed out.  Having to get up at 5.45, do my usual 3 hour commute to the office, do some pretty intensive stuff all day long, then travel 3 hours home, only to get up and do it again for 3 days in a row was a stretch. 

Things weren't helped by the massive - yes I mean MASSIVE - fuck up on the trains on Wednesday night.  I got to Waterloo in time to hop onto the 1750 train, which usually gets me home by 8pm, all being well.

All was not well.

On arrival at the bustling concourse* I was stopped in my tracks by the sight of hundreds, possibly thousands, hell, maybe a million people, all standing transfixed like zombies, staring up at the array of screens.  Usually the screens are populated with information about which train is going where and when, all that stuff. Wednesday night, however, was different.  Only three of the boards were populated, and they showed local trains.  The other dozen or so were ominously blank. 

The little teeny TV screen in the middle of the board had a scrolling message, running in an endless, heartbreaking loop.

"Anyone who wishes to travel to the West of England, please take the first train to Basingstoke and change there."

Well arse biscuits.

I ran** onto the platform where the Basingstoke train was parked, and then walked along the entire length of the platform, agog at the number of people who had crammed themselves into the train.  It looked like those pictures of the Tokyo Underground, where guards with peaked caps and big hands force everyone in so the doors will close.  I decided not to try and wedge myself in, rather to wait for the next train and hopefully find a bit more space.

There was another train waiting on a different platform, far less crowded, so I hopped aboard and found a place to stand.  All the seats were full, but there was a fair bit of standing room.  Plus the train had air conditioning which was working intermittently, so it wasn't all bad.

Well, that trip to Basingstoke seemed to take weeks.  We trundled along at a casual pace, stopping frequently, I assume at signals, although it may have been the driver simply wishing to admire the view.  Every now and again the guard's voice crackled through the intercom, apologising profusely for the disruption to everyone's journeys.

At one point he explained that the reason for all the chaos was "a serious fatality at Surbiton."  I am sorry to say, readers, that this provoked an unseemly outbreak of laughter in the carriage as everyone tried to understand how a serious fatality differed from a normal fatality.

At length, we made it to Basingstoke, and the train terminated.  Everyone got off, and milled about on the platform, peering anxiously up at the information screens.  These were not informative.

An announcement told us to go to Platform Two, where a train to Exeter was waiting.  Hurrah!  The mob surged across the platform, down the stairs, along the tunnel, UP the stairs and onto Platform Two.  There was indeed a train, but it was going back to London.  A few people got on, then hastily off again.

The electronic board told us that the train was going to Exeter, but we didn't believe it.  Sure enough, after a few minutes it headed off, towards London. 

A chap next to me sighed, and said sadly "When I was a child, my grandad used to tell me if I was naughty I'd be sent to Basingstoke.  And here I am."

We agreed that he must have been very naughty that day.

It got quite pally, all of us standing there on the platform in the sun, watching wasps buzzing about in the roof.  Announcements kept scrolling along the electronic board, bearing no relation to either the time, or the number of trains coming and going.  After another lengthy delay, someone told us over the loudspeaker that the Exeter train was on Platform FOUR, and would be leaving shortly.

Once more the mob surged down the stairs, along the tunnel and back up the stairs.  Everyone, as if choreographed, clambered aboard the train and wedged themselves in. 

I got home by about 9.15, having left the office just after 5, in time to have supper, watch half a TV programme, and then crash out so I could get up at 5.45 and do it all again the next day.

Did I mention that I am leaving my job next month?

Other news:  Following the appalling tie-dye debacle, I bought some new bedlinen on the Internet.  It's lovely, and needs no half-arsed titivation from me. 

Yesterday I had my first ever singing lesson.  Apparently I have a two and a half octave range, but I have no idea if this is average, more than average, less than average, or what.  Anyway, the teacher seemed to think I sounded ok, and I am going back next week for another lesson.  I want to learn how to breathe properly, so that if and when I ever get round to performing in public I can get through a few songs without singing myself hoarse or running out of puff. 





*I'm trying my hand at travel guide writing.  I'll be unemployed soon, I need to get some money somehow.
**Artistic license

Recovering

I have discovered the bus, of late.  It's much easier than the Tube and MUCH cheaper than a taxi.  And, also, I can hop off and walk the remainder of the way to the office down Victoria Street, which is helping to keep my ankle on the road to recovery.

So, yeah, the ankle.  I went to see the doctor about it a week ago, as it was still swollen and tender, much like an unpleasant fleshy grapefruit.  Also, when I went downstairs first thing in the morning, stabbing pains assailed me, making me stop in my tracks and shout "Ow! Fuck it!"

Not a great start to the day.

So.  back to the doctor I waddled.  He was very nice, poked my foot, commented on how swollen it was compared to my non-mutant foot, and told me to get some physiotherapy.  I had the choice of waiting for a referral to an NHS physio (free but probably several weeks wait) or paying for a private session that I could have very soon (ooo-er matron).  I went private. 

The phyiso told me that I have severely damaged two of the three main ankle ligaments, although not the one she was expecting to be damaged, also the ligaments that go across the front of my foot, out to the toes.  That explains all the bruising and swelling of that bit of my foot, then.  She's shown me some exercise to do that will help to break up the scar tissue on my ligaments (ugh), build up the "wasted" muscles on one bit of my calf (ewww) and improve bloodflow to the "inflamed joint"  (ack). 

Oh, and she rubbed gel on my foot and did ultrasound.  That's like normal sound, but for SUPERHEROES.  She has strapped me up with gaffer tape (or the medical equivalent) to encourage me to walk around more.  I might post photos if I can work out how to take some at a non-terrifying angle.

Anyway, it's all mending and I am not limping any more.  The physio showed me how not to, and I have told everyone at work that if they see me doing it, they are to tell me off.

So far, so good.

Other news:  I've had a FANTASTIC idea for a film.  It's about a group of people in transit in a confined space, unable to get out or away, with a terrifying, venomous creature (or creatures) in there with them.  The working title is "Wasps on a Bus!", and I think Samuel L Jackson ought to be involved.

Someone is sitting in this office eating what smells like reheated cat food. Possibly liver and rabbit flavour.

There are about 40 people sharing the space, and now we're all sharing the smell of whatever is being enjoyed by one of them for lunch. Nice.

I am not having a good day. It started quite well, with an early arrival at work, a clear run here thanks to the school holidays and a distinct lack of tractors on the road, but it's been sliding downwards since about 11am. Ah well.

Off to the gym after I finish this afternoon which will make me feel better.

Talking of tractors, I was stuck behind an old one last night, trundling along the little road into our village. It was raining hard so I was content to sit behind it, not being in a particular rush. Another, much newer, much bigger tractor approached in the opposite direction. The lane is narrow, so I watched developments with interest. The drivers engaged in a mock duel with their tractors, pushing each other into the hedges, and making "aiiiieeee" gestures at each other. I thought it was funny.

Bugger. Now there's was bloody wasp flying round my head. Having long hair is all very well but if a wasp gets tangled in it you're in trouble.

Gah. I wish I was somewhere else.

One thing that made me laugh last week, which came to mind again today.

My Mum told me how she took one of my nephews to church one Sunday, and afterwards they sat having a chat.

Young nephew (aged about 4): Did God make me?
Grandma: Yes, he made you.
YN: And did he make rabbits?
G: Yes, rabbits too.
YN: And Squirrels?
G: Yes, and squirrels.
(Pause)
YN: Did he knit them?

I love that image, God sitting knitting squirrels. "Damn, run out of red wool....ahh, got lots of grey, I'll use that instead."

Oh, I know what recently occurred to me. Of all the blogs I read, I think I'm the only person who doesn't have a creative job. Everyone else does cool stuff - publishing, advertising, psychology....I do crappy office stuff. Sigh.

No wonder none of the cool kids want to be my friend. Heh.