At last, I have one of those immovable deadlines - it's almost like being in a real job again.
Sort of shit but exciting at the same time, a bit like having an exciting shit. (I'm sure you have had one of those in your time, they're GREEEEEEEAAT! as the tiger from the Frosties ad used to say.)
Sort of shit but exciting at the same time, a bit like having an exciting shit. (I'm sure you have had one of those in your time, they're GREEEEEEEAAT! as the tiger from the Frosties ad used to say.)
No?
Only me then.
Thankfully, this is a job that is free from any contact with London Underground - so commuting is a breeze (today my underpants are of the blue and white variety if you are interested - same as yesterday and the day before... eek!!!).
I have ranted on about London Underground in the past and I don't intend to do the same again - not good for the old hypertension according to Dr Makeyoubetter.
Suffice to say that there is a Tube strike at the moment which for some reason is causing me to grin a lot. I'm like a Cheshire Cat on uppers.
I have ranted on about London Underground in the past and I don't intend to do the same again - not good for the old hypertension according to Dr Makeyoubetter.
Suffice to say that there is a Tube strike at the moment which for some reason is causing me to grin a lot. I'm like a Cheshire Cat on uppers.
You poor, poor bastards.
You poor, poor commuters.
I've got myself some serious schaudenfreude here!
Here is your morning:
You are stressed when you wake up, knowing it's going to be hell on the streets today. You know the tube station you normally hate but today love with all of your heart will be gated and shut.
The tube strike couldn't have come at a worse time. A very exacting but important Middle-Eastern client who is always extremely punctual is in town and wants a 9am meeting with you.
You leave the car at home because there is total gridlock. Instead you queue at 7.30am for a bus that fails to turn up, or when it does it's the wrong bus, and anyway there is no room left for you to get on even if it was the right bus.
The people on the bus are smug, they have seats, they will get to work on time. They laugh at the people stuck outside. They laugh at you.
You poor, poor commuters.
I've got myself some serious schaudenfreude here!
Here is your morning:
You are stressed when you wake up, knowing it's going to be hell on the streets today. You know the tube station you normally hate but today love with all of your heart will be gated and shut.
The tube strike couldn't have come at a worse time. A very exacting but important Middle-Eastern client who is always extremely punctual is in town and wants a 9am meeting with you.
You leave the car at home because there is total gridlock. Instead you queue at 7.30am for a bus that fails to turn up, or when it does it's the wrong bus, and anyway there is no room left for you to get on even if it was the right bus.
The people on the bus are smug, they have seats, they will get to work on time. They laugh at the people stuck outside. They laugh at you.
You grit your teeth, so hard that one of them breaks. It's agony and blood spurts from your mouth onto your white shirt. You look like something out of a Quentin Tarrantino movie - there's claret everywhere.
The people on the bus look at you and laugh some more. One of them laughs so much they wet themselves, so everyone on the bus turns and laughs at them instead.
The bus disappears and there is no other in sight. You resort to walking with a handkerchief covering your mouth, just when those big nasty rainclouds appear. As the umbrellas go up around you, some guy in a suit inadvertently jabs the corner of his ridiculously large umbrella - more a mobile gazebo than anything else - into your eye. He moves on, dragged down the street by the tide of humanity, whereas you are left with blood and gore gushing from your eye.
You panic and half-swallow your handkerchief. You are now badly injured. You stagger, partially blinded and fighting for breath, through a sea of uncaring grey people living uncaring grey lives.
As the oxygen deprivation to your brain kicks in in earnest you realise that your 9am meeting is starting in less than 5mins time and you still have 10 miles to travel to your office. Your client is unlikely to be impressed. Just before the lack of oxygen to your brain - caused by the swallowed handkerchief - brings about the coma you will slip into for the next eight years you pull out your blackberry to type your letter of resignation.
The people on the bus look at you and laugh some more. One of them laughs so much they wet themselves, so everyone on the bus turns and laughs at them instead.
The bus disappears and there is no other in sight. You resort to walking with a handkerchief covering your mouth, just when those big nasty rainclouds appear. As the umbrellas go up around you, some guy in a suit inadvertently jabs the corner of his ridiculously large umbrella - more a mobile gazebo than anything else - into your eye. He moves on, dragged down the street by the tide of humanity, whereas you are left with blood and gore gushing from your eye.
You panic and half-swallow your handkerchief. You are now badly injured. You stagger, partially blinded and fighting for breath, through a sea of uncaring grey people living uncaring grey lives.
As the oxygen deprivation to your brain kicks in in earnest you realise that your 9am meeting is starting in less than 5mins time and you still have 10 miles to travel to your office. Your client is unlikely to be impressed. Just before the lack of oxygen to your brain - caused by the swallowed handkerchief - brings about the coma you will slip into for the next eight years you pull out your blackberry to type your letter of resignation.
And here is my morning:
Relaxed.
Stressfree.
I've just been round the shops.
Met someone for coffee.
The gym later maybe.
Or the cinema.
Can't decide.
The sun's out.
Maybe I'll just hang out in the garden for a bit.
Have a swim or a beer.
Still got the deadline though.
You know, one of those immovable deadlines.
OH SHIT!!!!
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