Boredom in the rush hour

The bus was stationary, and I glanced across the road at an equally inert coach facing the other way.

There they were: 38 people seated in twos with a driver and portly guide at the front; the latter commentating into a microphone as her audience looked on.

Disengaged, half asleep, blindly staring out of the window; their tired eyes seemed to rest upon nothing and no one as the commuters around them moved with the purpose of the rush hour, while the historic landmarks of the city stood still where they have done for hundreds of years.

Unspeaking - save for two at the back pointing at a map - each person had the passive posture of someone who had nothing to do that day but listen and wait for the next thing to appear.

We sat there on our separate sides of the road, a bus of locals on one side, a coach of tourists on the other, and I looked at the passengers one by one and thought:

God, you look so bored.

I watched them, momentarily distracted from the dull feeling in my chest, the half-conceived thoughts and feelings in my head, the ideas that would never even see paper, let alone fruition, and the minutiae of life that confines itself to one solitary hour at the beginning of the day and another at the end.

And I wondered, as the bus pulled away and I prepared to join the flow of people on the pavement, if any of them had looked at me and thought exactly the same thing.

Dig if you will a picture... of the last five days chez moi

Think back to the last time you didn’t have a television in your house.

And for the smug Billies about to scroll down and press publish on their “actually, I haven’t had one for years and I quite like it. Anyway, got iPlayer for the snooker, innit” comment, please think back to the last time you didn’t have the internet, either.

Now, I think I’m right in saying that this situation alone will put most of my techy, culture-savvy readers back to circa 1995. But if you, by some stretch of the imagination, have neither of these things in 2012 and enjoy a spot of conversation in your silent abode instead (there’s no radio either, before you start on the joys of Radio 4’s evening schedule), kindly think back to the last time you had no TV, internet, radio or chit-chat over the kitchen table.

In fact, put the sources of any usual conversation abroad. Lets say Spain. Or Cuba. Also, remove any cats, dogs or parrots from the equation.

(Quiet in here, isn’t it?)

Oh! I forgot to mention. You’re single, without a flicker of interest from any corner, so don’t go imagining any spontaneous “hey you, watcha doin? i’m bored :)) xxxxxxxx” text messages will be arriving any time soon.

Actually, you’re right. Something’s missing from this picture.

Can we add in some rain? Make it the constant, dreary, near-torrential stuff that puts paid to any form of socialising after work, because not only are you watching the pennies anyway, but it's windy and cold, so all anyone wants to do is go home and watch the Apprentice instead.

And don’t go on Twitter via your phone! Your phone is a nightmare anyway, but you can't even resort to that now. No, no. Because everyone’s talking about the TV programmes you’re not watching – and that’s really annoying.

So there you ha… wait. I almost forgot the knee. The knee! You also have a gammy knee which has chosen this very week to take on all the characteristics of a particularly rickety elderly person and send lots of fun pain whizzing around whenever you try and bend it, for no apparent reason.

Blimey. Don’t forget the knee. That hurts.

Tell you what. Go to work. Come home. Cook your dinner (it's pasta, again). Read a book, have a bath. Take some pain killers. Go to bed. Listen to sirens. Fall asleep.

Sounds nice, doesn’t it? It is!

Now wake up and repeat this process again the next day. And the next. And the next.

I know what you’re thinking. “Is it the weekend yet?”

No. There are still 24 hours to go until the working week meanders to its spectacularly quiet, slightly soggy conclusion.

But soon it will be Friday, and your housemate will be back from holiday.

Then, and only then, may you permeate the silence and join in with a rousing chorus of “HIYA! You’re back! Woo! Shall we get the internet sorted and buy a telly? Yeah. I’ll get the wine in."

And not a moment too soon.

Why I will never be a spy, a best selling author, a zoo keeper, or actually ever get anything done.

Sometimes, you can be sitting in front of the TV when a thought suddenly hits you.

Instead of sitting here watching crap-yet-strangely-watchable TV, you should be doing something else. 

Not washing up, or making tomorrow's Tupperware offering of pasta and ready made sauce with some token bits of courgette. Not painting the old school desk that's been sitting in the cupboard under the stairs for a month now waiting for you to sand off the words "WANKER" and "NICK WOZ ERE 82" and make it look nice (I haven't even bought the paint yet), but something else. Something important.

You wonder: could this be that that eureka moment where people go "Cor blimey, that's it!" and immediately start penning their first bestseller, or begin charting their long lost family members, or book that life changing trip across the world?

And is it really happening to me during an episode of Don't Tell The Bride?

With this little sudden impetus inside me, I waste no time. I start thinking about what I could do to leave a little mark on the world.

Like writing a book - that's what English graduates do, innit? We aspire to be novelists, right before we realise it's all a bit long and become journalists (or bloggers) instead.

Then I realise that my attention span tends to falter around the 600 word mark, and I don't really want to write a book. Because quite frankly, the world has enough sob stories about boys written by girls with English degrees.

It's then I recall an advert that caught my eye in the morning's Metro.

MI5 NEEDS YOU 

it said.

And low and behold, they have a position which, with some amount of career shifting and wishful thinking, I could probably, maybe do. So I put the wheels in motion to become a spy, and breeze through the first stage of the application:

Name:
Date of birth:
Are you definitely British:

And having passed that, I'm onto the next stage; whizzing through the online tests and giving serious thought to which close family member or partner I would confide in about my application, and whether I'd still be able to have a blog if I was in the secret service, when...

So that's out.

Failing a career as an award winning author or a spy, perhaps I just need an extra curricular hobby.

I know! I like penguins. And dogs. And WHALES. I could volunteer at the zoo!

Alright, alright. Maybe not with the animals, then. But surely I could do something equally useful, save the world's animals through administration and filing?

Oh.

And by this point, to be honest, the flash of inspiration is beginning to dwindle. 

Sound familiar? Come on, rouse me with a chorus of "We all do it".

It's not that the ideas aren't there, it's not that the enthusiasm is lacking: my 'to do' list is as long as my leg (not that my legs are particularly long, but still). It's the fact that when you sit down to put all these little ideas into practice, they often, for whatever reason, just don't seem so achievable any more.

Barriers pop up, whether it's money or work or lack of skills. There's so much I want to do, but sometimes I wonder how I'll ever get round to doing any of it.

I suppose this is why people decide to run marathons. 

Ooh, now there's a...

Nah. Sod that. 

This morning, I woke up in a strange bed in Archway.

It wasn't meant to happen. But the problem with living in the London suburbs is that the last tube to my neck of the woods leaves at about 11:50pm. That means leaving the Spitalfields bar you're in at presicely the same time your 6th glass of wine gets consumed and the words "WOO! Where we going next?" start doing the rounds.

I get all complicit after a few glasses of wine. The words "it's ok! Stay at mine!" override the fact that I'll be sleeping with my contact lenses in, having a battery-less phone the next day and coming to work unbrushed, unwashed and unsober in yesterday's clothes the next morning.

It also means my alcohol consumption automatically triples, because another three hours are added on to the night. And I'm not half as responsible about downing three glasses of water and a Berocca before passing out as I would be at home. As I slipped into a spare bed at god knows what time, shouting "yeaaaaah no probleemmooo" in response to my host's instructions on how to lock his house, where to leave the keys and directions to the tube station, I suddenly remembered that without a phone battery, there is no early morning alarm.

Luckily my mental clock prodded me wide awake at 7ish, as it always bloody does after a night on the lash, and I miraculously found the tube station (well, found a bus to the station with a mental shouty woman on it who kept kicking the doors, but that's Archway for ya folks) and got to work early, with an hour to spare until my hangover kicked in.

Which it did. With a vengeance. In the middle of a meeting. At which point I grabbed my (dead) phone, looked all panic-striken at the (blank) screen, declared "Excuse me, I have to take this" and darted out of the office, before sprinting to the nearest toilet for a tactical chunder.

Sometimes, needs must.

All this serves to remind me that

1) I can't party like I used to
2) But given the means (or a mates house), I'll have a go

and thirdly, that my now confirmed move out of Suburbia and into the hallowed grounds of Zone One - Central London, will probably be the best, most convinient hangover cure I ever make. It's happening on the 7th January.

In short, I'm moving out. And I can't bloody wait.

Distracted

All week I've been working from home, knocking my way through a spreadsheet. The aim is to splatter 150 words of colour onto a list of ideas that would probably be misconstrued as a threat to any teenager who chanced upon it.

Once I get down to business, once I've dribbled orange juice down my front and sprinkled toast crumbs on my laptop, once I've blogged and twittered and BBC News-ed; once the TV's turned off and the kitchen's been tidied and I've remembered to have a shower, brush my teeth, and do something with my hair (all of which I forgot to do yesterday); once I've got dressed in the sort of clothes you reserve for hangovers, scoured the fridge for the strange smell within, investigated the freezer's ongoing hum and booked a pilates class for next Tuesday;

once I've checked my watch and seen it's lunchtime, cooked sausages, eaten them, stacked the plate on top of the others, decided it looks messy and washed them all up; once I've sat down and opened Excel, opened Word and opened Google and typed in the next place on the list...

...once I've done all that, and started feeling overwhelmed by the task ahead because I'm hopelessly behind schedule and attempting to sound all clever about places I've never visited, once I've realised that I have the attention span of a toad, something that isn't helped by the ongoing rumble of music and radio presenters, interspersed by hourly bursts announcing the 1, 2, 3, and 4 o'clock news from the flat upstairs, or is it downstairs? Once I've put an ear to the floor to find out, stomped back and forth, thrown a pen at the ceiling just in case, then retreated to the bedroom only to find the sound stops minutes later, forcing me to relocate back to the kitchen table,

Then, and only then, do I start actually doing the work.

...before stopping to blog about it.

This, my friends, is a problem. 

Free weekend? Awaahooo! Let's rave!

This is the first weekend in a while that I've had to suit myself.

Monsieur Boy, whose idea of fun is putting on a wetsuit thicker than walrus hide and wading out into freezing cold water on a fibreglass board, couldn't understand why I didn't want to join him on the south west coast this weekend. I had, after all, made a fair effort to get the hang of surfing in Australia and New Zealand for precisely that reason. I didn't want to be all lame by stating the girly obvious "It's too cooolld", so I opted for flattery instead. "But you are so good! And I am so bad. I will only hold you back!". And that seemed to work, so off he went.

I should explain that bar the whole being apart for five months while I hooplah round the world thing, the Boy and I do tend to spend a fair bit of time together. After work, weekends, any time going, really. The fact is, I'm still revelling in having a boyfriend who actually wants to see me. It's like, shit the bed, who knew one of those actually existed?

That said, I am conscious of becoming one of those Girls I Hate, i.e. the ones who go out for a few drinks, then rush off somewhere because their Bloody Boyfriend is meeting them. You know, they say "Sorry, I'm seeing My Bloody Boyfriend that night. And that one. And the next." or "Yeah, I'm coming out. Can my Bloody Boyfriend come too?" everytime you suggest raucus drinks. And generally, if denied, they proceed to spend the night texting their Bloody Boyfriend anyway, who has probably orchestrated a bloody night out in the bloody bar next door.

It's no real surprise when people bow out early and take the less spontaneous approach to nights out once they're in a relationship. A fondness for drunken all-nighters tends to dribble slowly into nights in front of the TV at around the same time you start answering your text messages with "We" instead of "I". Although I'm proud to say I'm not at critical marching point just yet. And as far as my relationship is concerned, there's no need to feel guilty about getting in from a rave at 7am if the purpose of said rave was to mark your one year anniversary.

So this weekend, with Boy in Surf and Jo in London, I had the perfect opportunity to go out with friends, stay out all night, and swan about sans-man. Gallivant with those I gallivanted with before "feeling tired" actually stopped me going on a night out.

Which is exactly why at 10pm on a Saturday night, I'm sitting on the only part of my bed not covered in clothing / bags / mess, with a belly full of Chinese take away, watching an irritating, unfunny man do silly voices and laugh at his own jokes on TV and googling 'pilates class in north west London'.

In conclusion, boy or no boy, relationship or single, I think when it comes down to it...

...I'm probably just...a little bit... lazy.

Continuing to live the dream, ish.

Today, I was sitting in my room with the Boyfriend. There we sat, working our way through each series of Entourage, when eventually the daily question of

"What do you want to do today?"

came up. That was followed by the familiar answer of,

"Dunno."

Without dogs to walk (the Mother has returned from her Northern trip, thus relieving me of those particular duties), or money to spend (a trip to the cinema last night took care of that. Odeon, you thieving bastards) and crucially, without jobs, one might say that we were at two, rather lazy, loose ends.

So I took him home. We separated with good intentions. "I shall work on my CV!" we cried in unison, "Then we can get jobs!"

Instead, I drove home and ate pita bread with hummus. Then I went on Twitter. Then I remembered my CV was on my old laptop, brought that downstairs, realised that it's a huge, clunky machine which still makes the most infuriating, random clicking sound for no reason I can fathom, other than to piss me right off, and shut the lid.

Back on my trusty pint sized netbook, void of anything remotely useful unless masochistic beach photos are your bag, I began a futile job search. Futile because not only was I lacking a CV, but I didn't actually know what job I was looking for anyway. What with banning myself from getting a cosy admin job and everything, I've inadvertantly left myself rather few options.

"Let's start at the beginning" thought I, "imagine perfect job and work backwards from there". After a few minutes, it became clear that my perfect job was sitting in front of my laptop eating pita bread, writing the odd 140 character message and fielding phone calls from equally bored, yet employed, friends.

Either that, or doing what I've just been doing for the last eight months. Travelling, spending money on everything and nothing, occasionally writing about it. Ideally, getting paid.

Then I realised that actually, it's not that I can't think of a perfect job, or even a job that I'd put up with to earn a crust. Because travelling hasn't given me a magical career solution, it's just reminded me that you can live a bloody brilliant life when you don't have to work. Or perhaps, that you can be quite happy working in a less than wonderful job, as long as afterwards, you can have a beer in the sun.

So, in conclusion: Now I'm back in nice expensive London, one wonders what the upside to working here actually is.

Which, unfortunately, is really a bit of a problem. You know, because I'm in London and in need of a job, and have banned myself from the only one I'm actually qualified to do.

Luckily I have solved all these problems and more by getting a new phone (HTC Wildfire, arriving tomorrow), agreeing to help paint the Boy's bedroom and arranging various lunch dates for the coming week.

Procrastination for the nation. Yeaaaah.

I have got stuff to DO, YOU KNOW.

Today, I wait.

I wait for my external hard drive to be delivered by the Home Delivery Network. Apparently they tried to deliver yesterday, but I was out so they left a note. I called their automated number and arranged with the robot woman for it to be delivered today.

Today is quite a general term in the grand scheme of days though, isn't it?

As in, today could mean 8:32am, 2:37pm or 5:16pm. Which is fine if you're an agoraphobic, but not so good if you've got dogs.

For example. This is The Dogs after their walk:



Nice and quiet aren't they? Aww, look how they sleep in the sun. But before this can happen, the blonde does this guilt inducing squeaky yawn, like 'Owwwwwwwww' and the other one bounces around bringing you stuff. Specifically, pears from the garden. He's loving the pears at the moment. He carries them so that the stalk sticks out of his mouth. It's all quite sweet for a few minutes, but then they both start yawning and squeaking and making noises, not quite barks, but noises like nagging children make when they're being forced to walk around Marks and Spencer's clothing department. They're bored. They want to go out.

But if I leave the house, the Home Delivery Network might turn up. Then they'll bugger off again and I'll have to do this all again on Monday. It's seemingly impossible for them to even give an indication of whether it'll be morning, afternoon or evening.

Aha! I know, I shall go out, but leave a note tucked in the letter box. One that scares of potential burglars whilst being informative at the same time and stressing how much I neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed that package. Today.



I needn't have bothered. There'll be no treasure hunt today. It's now nearly 3 o'clock, I've walked the dogs, applied for a job, painted my toenails...and it hasn't arrived.

Grrrr.

Bored.

And I spelt 'burglars' wrong. :(

Oh - I think a lump of my brain just disintergrated and fell onto the floor.

My job and the majority of the people I work with bore me to the point of tears.

I seem to have become the resident 'tech expert' at the Little School of Horrors. This is because I can successfully insert an image into a word document and move it around, and put photos from a camera onto the computer. I now answer to the regular call of "JO??? WHERE'S JO?? JOOOOO??? Ask Jo. She'll know"

Which is fine, nay, mildly flattering. I know my way around a computer, can do things quickly and am clearly all down with the kids n that when it comes to all this newfangled internet stuff. The fact that people recognise this and see me as a port of call when things go wrong makes me feel like I have some purpose other than being a skinny, biscuit eating, paperwork driven donkey with an enviable selection of stationary.

Thing is, people take the piss. When you've shown someone how to do something ten times yet they still can't grasp the concept, or when they don't even want to know how to do it because you can - they're either not listening or can't be bothered to learn. This, coming from teachers who spend all day telling kids "there's no such word as can't" strikes me as fairly hypocritical.

I try not to be rude. I don't like being rude, but when they don't even attempt something before calling you, or, as someone did this afternoon, thrust their phone and a USB cable into your hand so that you can put (your Kings of Leon) music onto it because "you'll know how" and refuse to listen to how they might go about doing it themselves - I start getting annoyed. Software these days usually has very straightforward instructions because every man and their 3 year old has a mobile phone, so everyone aged 3-303 has to be given a shot at using its functions. If they've had a go, but genuinely can't get their head around it - then fine, gissa shout. Otherwise, seriously, tell someone who cares.

I have had a mindnumbingly boring day, brightened only by the 30 seconds it took to eat a pancake. Frustration kicked in at 8:30am, and I'm not even a donkey any more. Just a donk.

Ladies and gentlemen, please. Paste your anecdotes, youtube videos, poems, jokes, one word summaries of your day, life stories, photos of your one pawed cat, or (preferably) alternative words for 'vagina' in the box below.

I am so BORED and only you (and possibly some more pancakes, with sugar and lemon) can turn this day around.

Correct usage of a white board.

Ahhh, the first day back at work after half term, which started with the requisite hour and a half spent in traffic trying (ironically) to avoid more traffic on the M1. What could be worse than that? Errr...How about an empty biscuit tin.

As a note went up on the staff room white board asking everyone to pay their termly money, out of which tea, coffee and biscuits would be bought, I was put in charge of the collection. Because that's the kind of important thing an Admin Assistant is charged with. "Here, hey you with your degree and masters with distinction, keep hold of this envelope, will you? Don't lose it!". After a couple of hours, one of the teaching assistants went off on her usual Monday shopping trip, list in hand, and the money gathered so far in my carefully sealed envelope. Remember folks, this is tea, coffee and biscuit money.

Two hours later and Colonel Thicky returns, with £14 worth of tea and coffee. An outraged cry goes up in the staff room. Where are the biscuits? "Oh, I didn't know I was meant to get biscuits!"...Great, so you spent the whole lot on tea? Tea and coffee? Four packs of tea? Reaallyyy? What good is tea and coffee with nothing to dunk in it?

My day had been so boring that I'd been counting down the minutes until that sweet, biscuity goodness was in my mouth - and now my dreams were shattered. The money gathered so far was gone, spent, dilapidated, on 400 tea bags. We needed more money, and we needed it fast. I had a biscuity hole that no fruit bowl could fill (celery sticks, that's what she brought back as well. Celery sticks! Amateur). There was only one thing for it: whiteboard annotation.



Teachers can't live for the here and now though. They're all about the future. Which is why a few minutes later, my presently unhappy stick-ish Jo was joined by me in 20 years, post-biscuits and considerably rounder, accompanied by yet another chorus of "I was your size once!"

Yawn. Sunshine, your problems go way deeper than biscuits, let me tell you.

Sohohohohoho

Having recently declared my need to "party on down", "get on it" and "tit about like we used to", last night four single ladies (including my PIB - Partner in Breakup - a friend whose relationship and employment demise echoes mine) braved the cold and headed out into the West End to put plans into practice. It's all too easy to succumb to the warmth and comfort of a friend's house at this time of year, and although I'm never one to turn down a night in front of the telly with a glass of wine and a pizza, there's only so many 'girlie nights in' a girl can take before cabin fever sets in.

Fantastic, I thought, as we wondered in to a quiet bar off Oxford Street, grabbed a table and a bottle of wine and got chatting. It was a mixed crowd; a few couples here and there, but we were the only group of girls. Even better, I mused, as the bar began to fill up with groups of good looking men. That's nice, I pondered, seeing blokes arriving and meeting other lone drinkers on the surrounding tables.

It took four London born and bred girls longer than it should have done to put two and two together: the perfectly shaped eyebrows of those around us and our close proximity to Old Compton Street, the heart of London's gay scene. Bah.

So we embraced the Soho charm, wormed our way into a club, then after a few tequilas (etc) the two of us still able to function decided to head to Camden. I am reliably informed that my PIB threw up on the night bus home (and again this morning), that another of our party woke up at 11:30am in her own bed but fully clothed down to the shoes, and that I stayed in bed until 5:30pm this evening and have yet to get dressed.

A successful evening all round, in my book.

The following people DO NOT know it's christmas time:

Not that I was expecting to hear from him or anything, I totally wasn't - but it feels strange to be sans boyfriend this Christmas. Not that we spent Christmas together ever, or New Year come to think of it, it's just that weird feeling of no contact again. Getting a card from his parents was nice, although it highlighted the fact that I'd heard nothing from him. As they say..."that's probably a good thing", like everything else.

Oh, and Christmas cheer was definitely in the air on the road next to the doctor's surgery on the 24th, as I nipped in to pick up a prescription and, finding no space in the surgery's stamp sized car park, left my car on the adjacent road. There was indeed someone watching over me, a 21st century yonder star if you will, in the shape of a parking warden who slapped a £50 fine on my windscreen while I was gone. The timings noted on the slip? From 10:56 to: 10:58. Bastards.

My internet is not Christmas friendly. I know this because I've spent 6 hours over the last 2 days watching Gavin and Stacey from start to finish (actually, it's probably more like 10 hours given my internet connection up here. Have to watch it in 5 minute blasts, let it load up a bit, then press play...pause...load up, play etc). iPlayer is refusing to play ball 2 episodes short of the Christmas special - but anyway I think it's probably time I left the house before I start speaking welsh and greeting people with "Al-rite Stace, what's occurin?".

So I'm going to the pub, which will probably close at the thoroughly ungodly hour of 10:30, or something.

Toot toot!

I think I missed a day

Friday was a little bit crazy.

Crazy in the way that it didn't seem that crazy at the time, but the next day you wake up, blearly eyed with a full face of make up and unbrushed teeth - thinking "What the hellllll went on last night..."

Vodka. Cocktails. Gin. That's what went on. And lots of it.

A few people including myself were leaving, and it was also Office Hotty's birthday so the full team were out in force; first stop our local cocktail bar where it was 2 for 1 during happy hour. Office Hotty and his graduate friends defied the "eating's cheating" rule by popping off for dinner, but not before the birthday boy came over and asked for my phone number so he could "find out where we all are later". Ahem. The rest of us toddled off to another Camden haunt to continue the send offs and well, this is where things get a bit blurry.

It seemed perfectly normal to be receiving phone calls from Office Hotty asking where we all were, even more normal when he arrived and we stood chatting at the bar for ages. Normal when it reached 12am and, realising that some people were putting their coats on to leave for last trains, that we stood and carried on talking. Then with the clock ticking past 1am, I put my coat on and he did too, and again it seemed like a normal progression. Normal when half hearted attempts were made to get into a closing Camden Town station for trains that had already left, and normal when we wondered down the road aimlessly and then sat at the bus stop and continued to chat.

(About what, I'm not too sure. I think we established I was single. And that he was not.)

After 20 minutes or so I told him to get going, knowing he had a girlfriend waiting for him and a journey to South London to get to her. We hugged, chatted some more, hugged again. My bus came, and I drifted the rest of the way home in a cab.

Me: At baker street waiting for a cab. How u getting on? Thanks for waiting x
Him: Also in a cab! Bus to Elephant and Castle wasn't running. Could get pricey! Waiting wasn't a problem. Quite the opposite in fact. xx

I woke up on Saturday with the most god almightly hangover, equal if not worse than THIS ONE. Yeah, true story. Luckily I could stay in bed all day, which I did. Then I was sick at around 5pm, again at 6pm, cancelled my plans for that evening and went to bed at half 8. Seriously, whatever it was that went down the night before had culminated in the hangover to trump all hangovers.

And on to today. I woke up thinking it was Saturday. Didn't park on certain roads because the restrictions were no parking 9-6pm Monday - Saturday. Then paid for my parking ticket at the shops this afternoon even though on a Sunday, it's free. Was completely baffled as to why most of the shops were shut. Annoyed, even. I just could not work it out.

All in all, this has been a very strange old weekend. A big, blurry, hungover, wipe out of a weekend. What was Friday night about? I don't know. How did I feel so awful when I'd drunk no more than I usually would? I'm not sure.

Good fun, though.

Time to self indulge

Today I took the day off work. I decided yesterday after another quiet day in the office that someone else could answer the 5 calls I'll probably receive today, and the girls were happy to help out. These are the nicest people I've ever worked with. Tuesday one of them made the disasterous mistake of asking how I was, at which I promptly burst into tears. Later, another of the girls came over with a pot of flowers for my desk to cheer me up. It worked.

I feel like I've hardly had any time to myself this week, no time to let everything sink in. The mornings are the hardest when I wake up, usually after a dream involving him, and I slowly remember what's happened and that it's 7am and I have to get up - double trouble. Being at work surrounded by people I can have a laugh with has made me feel normal, but I just kept feeling like I need just a day to think things through on my own and react how I want, without worrying about having puffy eyes the next day or someone in the house or at work catching me being unhappy and trying to rectify it.

So last night I got in from work, watched Eastenders and then ran a bath with bubbles, candles, dimmed lights, a glass of wine and a gripping but easy to read book I'd picked up from a Camden charity shop earlier in the day. I went to bed early and slept through, waking up as usual at 7am, read some more, then going back to sleep until later on.

Today Facebook tells me that I've been tagged in photos he's put up. It's partly the memories these things evoke that makes me sad; the holidays, the nights out with friends, and partly the fact that I know there are other photos from the same set that he's left out, ones of me and him. I cry and a few minutes later, almost on cue, my phone rings with someone checking I'm ok.

Living at home, with a full time job and attentive friends, it's easy to forget that I need to have time to myself. Today I'm going to indulge myself so that I can have a good weekend and start next week afresh, get into my head that my life doesn't depend on someone elses any more.

But seeing as it's 1:15pm now, I should probably get up and get dressed. I'm single, not a student.

;-)

Cold

I've been trying to think of inventive, entertaining and witty ways to tell you about my cold.

Unfortunately for you, this is all I can come up with.

I have a cold.

I'm tired, snotty and would rather be at home in bed.

My grand plan was to come in, check emails etc, then upon realising I am not needed, go home from work early and not come in tomorrow (my boss is away for the next two weeks anyway) but the minute I left my house this morning, I realised that I'd forgotten my keys.

For the last two minutes I've been prodding and twisting the blue squishy wrist rest in front of my keyboard, contemplating what the blue thing's made of.

Oh yeah. Last night I spotted Nicky Hambleton-Jones off the Channel 4 programme 10 Years Younger on South Bank. She walks funny. But then I walk funny too, my heels got trapped in the gaps between the slabs on Waterloo Bridge 3 times then twice again in the cobbles once I got to the other side. I'd like to blame the pavement or my choice of high heels, but I think I'll just blame Fearne Cotton for that and my cold, because I haven't blamed her for much lately.

Oh wait, hang on.....yep, I think I just bored myself.

I'm definitely more tired and bored than when I started this post about 45 mins ago.

I'll go now.