Another Standard Day
Well, I suppose you’ve guessed I’m only here coz I’m angry about something, and do you know what? You guessed right.
Last night I was stood in the car park outside Comet watching the radiator in my car, my ‘new’ radiator, spewing forth engine coolant. it’s a pain in the arse, but I figured I’d shout at the bloke in the garage, get it fixed wand just get the bus to work for a day. Simple? This is me remember.
I ring up work this morning to let them know there is a slight chance that I may be 10 mins late whilst I drop my car off. The garage then decides to open at 10.15, at which point I decide I’m gonna have to take the morning off. I get round the garage to find the owners dad is there and he tells me that the owner, the one who does all the work, did my work, has just had keyhole surgery and isn’t gonna be in till sometime next week at the earliest. Brilliant. I’m polite, smiley face, and get the bus.
Or that was the plan. I get the bus stop and wait for the bus, three every hour don’t you know. Not today of course, obviously because I need to get one. There is a crash on the bridge. Excellent. After 45 mins not one bus has come through, so I get the first bus to Widnes because its easier to get to Warrington from there. I get there and see a bus with ’Warrington’ on the front. I ask are you going straight there or are you going to Runcorn first? You see this big red thing you’re driving, which you drive every day through the most populous town in the borough in which you work? Could you, perchance, be driving through there on this journey? ‘No’ he replies. Following which he promptly spends an hour driving around Runcorn, including a trip past the bus stop at which I was stood at over an hour ago (at which point I’m almost sobbing) and making me an hour late at work. I only escaped being given a bollocking through being laughed at by my bosses.
The journey home was relatively tame, including my becoming reacquainted with Nation of Ulysses. How could I ignore them so?
Sorry, I forgot the drunk shouting, ’I swear to god, I’m gonna fucking knife him’ at me.
I decided to have a pint and read my book at the Waterloo after the bus to relax, which was nice, and then decided, for reasons best known for myself, that I would do the same at the New Dev. I don’t think the printed word has extended that far. The Waterloo has risked going so far as to get menus and everything, but I suspect the New Dev clientele still order their Pork Scratchings through basic, but descriptive, wall paintings. And there was an overpowering smell of vomit. I was stared at like a toy on Christmas morning, treated like Fletcher Christian when he arrived at Pitcairn Island. Except without the sex. Or the adulation. Or anything at all pleasant. After as many darting of eyes as it takes to drink a pint of Guinness I decided I would be better off at home.
Love to you all
Paul
PS Did I mention that in the course of writing this an Eastern European prostitute knocked at my door
Last night I was stood in the car park outside Comet watching the radiator in my car, my ‘new’ radiator, spewing forth engine coolant. it’s a pain in the arse, but I figured I’d shout at the bloke in the garage, get it fixed wand just get the bus to work for a day. Simple? This is me remember.
I ring up work this morning to let them know there is a slight chance that I may be 10 mins late whilst I drop my car off. The garage then decides to open at 10.15, at which point I decide I’m gonna have to take the morning off. I get round the garage to find the owners dad is there and he tells me that the owner, the one who does all the work, did my work, has just had keyhole surgery and isn’t gonna be in till sometime next week at the earliest. Brilliant. I’m polite, smiley face, and get the bus.
Or that was the plan. I get the bus stop and wait for the bus, three every hour don’t you know. Not today of course, obviously because I need to get one. There is a crash on the bridge. Excellent. After 45 mins not one bus has come through, so I get the first bus to Widnes because its easier to get to Warrington from there. I get there and see a bus with ’Warrington’ on the front. I ask are you going straight there or are you going to Runcorn first? You see this big red thing you’re driving, which you drive every day through the most populous town in the borough in which you work? Could you, perchance, be driving through there on this journey? ‘No’ he replies. Following which he promptly spends an hour driving around Runcorn, including a trip past the bus stop at which I was stood at over an hour ago (at which point I’m almost sobbing) and making me an hour late at work. I only escaped being given a bollocking through being laughed at by my bosses.
The journey home was relatively tame, including my becoming reacquainted with Nation of Ulysses. How could I ignore them so?
Sorry, I forgot the drunk shouting, ’I swear to god, I’m gonna fucking knife him’ at me.
I decided to have a pint and read my book at the Waterloo after the bus to relax, which was nice, and then decided, for reasons best known for myself, that I would do the same at the New Dev. I don’t think the printed word has extended that far. The Waterloo has risked going so far as to get menus and everything, but I suspect the New Dev clientele still order their Pork Scratchings through basic, but descriptive, wall paintings. And there was an overpowering smell of vomit. I was stared at like a toy on Christmas morning, treated like Fletcher Christian when he arrived at Pitcairn Island. Except without the sex. Or the adulation. Or anything at all pleasant. After as many darting of eyes as it takes to drink a pint of Guinness I decided I would be better off at home.
Love to you all
Paul
PS Did I mention that in the course of writing this an Eastern European prostitute knocked at my door