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Monday, September 27, 2004
The elevator stank of anti-persperant and perfume, fabric conditioner and the shoe polish. I stumbled forward as it began its ascent and inadvertently inhaled a lungful of shampoo.
I hated this part of Monday mornings most. Getting up to puke away the last of the alcohol, brush teeth, scrape the tongue, gargle as deep down the back of my throat, then shower off the smell of cigarettes. Dressing in clothes that had been carefully wrapped in plastic to keep way the stink of nicotine. Waiting on a clean street for a clean bus to take me to another clean street. And then the elevator. The worst moment. There must be others in here with the same hell of a hangover who had gone through the same disguise process this morning, but none of us would acknowledge even if our eyes met. God, we are all hypocrites.
I couldn't face it any more. A the third floor, I pushed my way through the taint of dry cleaning and crispness of ironing. ' Be safe and remember to read your Bible,' the lift sang out as I left. What was so wrong with 'Have a nice day'?
OK, so it would be walking up twelve flights of stairs, but at least I'd be alone and when I got to my office, at least I'd have a valid reason if I threw up. I looked for the 'Remember Your Body Is A Temple' sign and headed for the stairs.
Heaving for breath, I finally reached my office. 'Temple. Body. Mine.', I panted at Edie the office supervisor. She frowned slightly, then realising she was being critical of me when I was properly observing care of the Lord's property, she produced the big smile and continued: 'Don't worry, we waited for you before we started morning prayers. We have a full office congregation today. Everyone will be there. Well, except for the temp Lorraine. She's a Jew, you know. But she has a license, so that's OK'.
Shit.
Time to face God, yet again.
1:24 AM
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Thank you, folks. I've been besieged with suggestions for a password so I can re-start this blog. From Mr Larry James of no fixed abode, Georgia, there was the recommendation that I used the word 'doofus' - and I thought was very kind of him. A Mrs Freedlander of Edinburgh, Scotland, advised me to use the password 'Lackwitted' - which was obvious, I thought, but still a friendly gesture. Serenity Moonflower of California (Hollywood, I believe) told me I should say 'peace' every time I logged in. 'Peace' to you Ms Moonflower, also. However, it's still been to no avail, as I can't access this blog and start writing anything of consequence.
As a possible inducement to better password suggestions, I may be prevailed upon to start using this forum to publish sections of my heavyweight novel. Well, perhaps not. Not heavyweight, that is. Anyway, keep those password suggestions coming (and similar cliches) and we'll see what we can do.
11:11 PM
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
I've still not been able to discover the password to my own blog here. You really have no idea how frustrating it is. I've spent hours trying to come up with the various permutations that might allow me to contribute to this blog - and all to no avail. How can I publish words of wisdom that no one will read anyway, unless I can access my own blog? I really need help here. Anyone ANYONE reading this please contact me with suggestions as to a password that would help me get back into my blog so I can write something interesting instead of wasting my days watching Big Brother. Your sugestions will be an act of intellectual charity folks. Possibly tax-deductable, but more likely rewarded with angel wings by St Peter. C'mon, boys and girls, let's all contribute possible passwords and get this blog back on track.
2:13 AM
Saturday, June 12, 2004
Now, surpringly enough, I managed to lose this blog for a time. Then I discovered it again - but forgot my username. And then, when I had gone through every single permutation of nicknames I've used in the past elsewhere on the interweb, I remembered that I considered this important enough to create a new nickname. And oh sweet joy of creativity, I'd created a new password for it as well. Not that any of this is important to you, I know. Because absolutely no-one reads this anyway. Hell, if I didn't do a preview of the page before posting it, I'd not read it either. Obviously, I've still not found the pasword to the page, otherwise I'd be posting something interesting that even if no-one read it, would still remain an unmined jewel buried in some deep stratum of the interweb. It'd never glisten atractively in the full light of day; it would never be polished; it would never serve to ornament the intellectual processes of a passing academic lovely. But it would still exist.
However, as I can't find the password to access this page, I'll just have to hope stray hacker with a sense of whimsy, breaks the fiendish codes of BlogSpot and takes better care of the page than I have.
11:18 PM
Thursday, April 17, 2003
The subtle joys of clarity. Have spent the last week trying to recover my health and get into work to earn a living and maintain my client base. So I've been hobbling into various offices and attempting to present a professional demeanour in the face of stray rises in temperature, occaisional shivers and frequent moments of staring into space wondering where the hell I was. Clients seem to be happy, though, they are offering me more work. I just wish I didn't have to spend my days crawing out of bed, stumbling into work, wincing my way home, falling asleep on the sofa and then making my way to bed to get some proper rest.
What a lovely little exercise in self-pity this exercise in writing is turning into. Feel free to slap me at any point.
(And on that happy confluence of hypochondria and masochism, I think my freshly laundered bedclothes are calling to me. Oh! The one thing that pneumonia has to recommend it is that you seriously have to keep on washing the sweat out of your sheets and duvet. I probably carry the faint scent of detergent and fabric conditioner with me wherever I go these days. Saves on after shave, I suppose.)
12:08 AM
Tuesday, April 08, 2003
Still suffering the after-effects of the pneumonia. Been feverish and raving for the last couple of days, Writing this is a nice exercise in coherent thinking. Sod all to say, of course. But I'm just enjoying typing. But I'm back on the eagle method of tough typing now: I circle the keyboard three times and swoop down on the bit of the keyboard that I think is right. Was told today that I am going to get paid for work I did in January. Bills wil be paid. woo-hoo and other exclamations of joy. I have been watching the war in progress and want to say so many things but I don't know if I saw and heard what I think I heard and saw or were they just fever dreams? I want chicken soup and a clear mind again.
1:58 AM
Wednesday, April 02, 2003
Missed breakfast this morning because I had to dash in to work at one of my clients. It's now 5pm and I'm staring out across the Thames from the ninth floor of the magazine and writing this because I've cleared all the work currently available. It's at moments like that when you face the eternal dilemma: do you tell your line manager you're looking for more work, or do you try to look busy while counting down the minutes to being set free? (Hint: there are 45 minutes before I burst through the office's exit humming the theme to Born Free.)
The weather in London has been strange this week, sunshine and crispy loveliness at the begining, then wet and miserable and windy. I've been watching the clouds skittering across the London skyline and trying to predict what they will do. Open their slimy little hearts over my house where the roof needs fixing, or continue onwards to France and do their worst over a nation we're supposed to hate (according to some tabloid newspapers). Apparently the war graves of British soldiers have been desecrated in France with graffiti extolling the British to dig up their dead and re-bury them our own soil. The callers to the local radio station were in high dudgeon at the perfidious froggies and all they stand for. The occasional French caller to the station insisted this was obviously the work of North African Islamic fanatics in France and the lone Scot spent time making it clear that the French only don't like the English so he was sure the gaffiti didn't apply to any Scots in the graveyard. I'm sure if I could be bothered to give some thought ot it, I could find far better reasons to hate the French than a bit of silly scribbling in a cemetery. But the silly scribblers in our dear darling Press are totally convinced this is the last straw with the French. I blame the failing education system myself. Quite clearly the 'journalists' on those papers have missed out on a thousand years of Anglo-French antagonism. Hate the French for pate de foie gras, eating horses or the word entrepreneur, perhaps, but because of vandalism? No, we just clean the graffiti off and get on with life.
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The bailiff was a very pleasant fellow last Monday. He was relatively new at bailiffing and didn't know the ropes, so I had to explain things to him. He even made the cardinal mistake of accepting a cuip of tea and looked quite shocked when I explained to him that while I would never do something as nasty as spitting in his cup, I'm quite sure others would. I will probably have paid off the bill before christmas, but if I haven't, I think I'll add him to my christmas card list and buy him a flask so he can make his own tea for safety's sake.
4:34 PM
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