A Day In The Life

Been a bit slack on the blogging front recently, haven't I?

Not that any of you bastards bother to read it anyway - yes, you lot. Slacker than a slack man's slack bits (i.e. Lord Loafer's slack bits) you are. I don't know why I bother!

Well, part of the reason I have been slack is trying to decide what I should blog about.

Do I tell you my entire life story (to date), or do I invent a story line where I tell you about my new job as an erotic film maker? It would be all booze, birds, orgies and steamed-up camera lens. Do you like the sound of that? Porntastic, you say. Exactly, I reply.

Or else... I could try and tell you about the mundane, the everyday. Me, Lord Loafy, telling it how it is, here in North London - maybe adding the odd additional fictional element to either spice it up or make it funnier.

Well, I can try can't I? Yes, and fail miserably too, no doubt.

For example, this is what actually happened yesterday - I was bored and in a shouty sort of mood, fed up with 'working' from the boxroom. I went to the job centre and closed my claim. In the evening, still plagued by the shouty bad mood, I went for a jog and - despite aching limbs - felt a lot better by the time I had finished.

Here is my slightly enhanced version, if you are interested:

My early morning mood was set off by a enticing dream of an alternative life living with a French bird who liked it up her all the time, and was not helped, upon waking, by the sight of my family.

Thankfully, they left the house on time and with the minimum of fuss - they could tell it was going to be one of those days for me so left me to it.

Me and the cat had the place to ourselves. I thought I would be productive that morning, I really tried... for about 10mins.

The only things I was productive at was making music on the PC, oogling photos of nude women and 'knocking one out' (no, not knocking a woman out).

After that, my mood turned progressively more sour as self-hate kicked in with earnest.

Then, I read an article about Sudan, the tenth largest nation in the world and the latest commercial property hotspot apparently. I imagined one of my erstwhile colleagues undertaking a business trip there, researching the market. They would be sweltering in 40 degrees while observing the sights, the sounds, the smells of Africa. There would be meals out on expenses, a fancy hotel to stay in, a swim in the pool at the end of the day, while prostitutes propped up the bar.

I was insanely jealous. I wanted to experience all that, I wanted the sleep-deprivation, the adrenalin rush, the blood-vessel bursting levels of stress once more. All I had was mind-numbing boredom, loneliness and self-hate - as well as a farting cat.

After my lunch of soup and bread, I cycled over to the job centre on a bike that is so old and heavy it makes a Penny Farthing look like the latest piece of must-have kit. The ever-so-scary woman behind the counter calls me over, "Your claim has been closed," were her words of greeting, "you failed to attend an interview last week."

"Fuck you," I wanted to reply, but didn't. "I couldn't, my children were ill," I said. That was a lie, I just couldn't be bothered with the palava of claiming anymore. "I have registered myself as self-employed," I continued. That bit was true at least. Not sure what I was going to do though, apart from shout at a farting cat for several hours a day.

"So you are closing your claim. Good luck," she said, with as much sympathy as an executioner has when addressing a condemned man.

"Fuck you," I wanted to reply, but didn't.

I cycled home at a furious pace, realising my wife was due back soon and I hadn't tided up the breakfast things or watered the plants - my two main jobs that day.

Later, I finally did do some work, trying to put a website together. Html and php are difficult to understand though (more difficult to understand than French birds that like it up them all the time anyway), and that made my mood even worse.

I spoke to brother about it, he said, "Work it out for yourself."

To calm myself down I went for a run. The air was hot and humid, it could almost have been Sudan for a moment. I felt I was dying on my feet. I kept going, though, uphill, on the flat, on the downhill. I think for half the time I was running I was unable to draw breath. It was a flipping heroic effort on my part.

Somehow I made it home. I stopped running and after a cold beer I felt absolutely fantastic. So fantastic, in fact, that I was nice to the wife and kids.

Actually, that version is not enhanced, it's the truth.