Mass misunderstanding of stuff which has no actual relation to my job means my working week has become hell on wheels this week.
If you're in London on Thursday night, why not come along too?
The more the merrier, and what's more, you can laugh at me when I get plastered on one drink because I'm so stressed out.
The Autoblography Farewell to London - VI
Put your hands up.
Put your hands up.
The Autoblography Farewell to London - V
There was more dancing.
... and some gesticulating.
The Autoblography Farewell to London - IV
The Autoblography Farewell to London - III
There was a covers band.
There was dancing.
The Autoblography Farewell to London - II
The Autoblography Farewell to London - I
It was a day of Beer.
It was a day of sticky floors.
It was a day to celebrate and to wish well.
... and all I had was my camera phone to commemorate the occasion.
So these blurry photos will have to do.
"You didn't tell us it was your birthday..." Oooh! You've got the fuck-me shoes on again. Pub. Cider, Guinness, Vodka Lime & Soda, White Wine, Red Wine, Jack Daniels & Diet Coke (not all for me). Cider, 2 x Guinness, VL&S, White Wine, JD&DC. Oh, just stay for another one, go on. Festival Toilets. "Your tits are bouncing". Last orders. Locked in. Almost last tube. "But the alarm will go off..." White van. Sleep, glorious sleep. Coffee. Pancakes with butter and golden syrup. So many open houses, so little time. SLR + Slide Film = very brave. Liverpool St Station. Oooh! Lush!. "Wow, it really does gherk". "Arse, it's closed" (doh! wrong day). "Ewww! Spitalfields didn't look that ugly last time I was here". Empty market + box of lightbulbs + camera = yay!. Too wet for cameras. Too wet for people. Drink? "You're right, the walk is all wrong". No rain + pretty light = photogenic gherkage. Noodles@Angle. Ready-brek glow. Tati in Borders? Yay! Tati + Finzi. "I'm not sleepy". "Zzzzzzz". Alternative gherking. Smoked salmon, Philadelphia, lemon & pepper. West Wing Season 1 episodes 12 and 13. New bed! Sturdy bed. Bargain. Paint colours. Bangers 'n sweet potato & carrot mash. SausageFire! No fire. Oops. How to barbecue in an oven. Secret plan to fight inflation. Lush massage. The sleep of the baby log. Morning, Monday. New Green & Blacks flavours! Spiced chai latte. Smile.
Notes from a small commuter
To: People who get on trains and then stop just inside the doors, when there's acres of space and half a dozen people also trying to get on the train behind them.
Message: MOVE INSIDE THE FUCKING TRAIN, YOU SELFISH TWUNT!
Newsflash: This is London. Personal space means that nobody is physically standing on you.
If you are such a delicate flower that you feel you require a gap of at least three feet between you and the nearest other person in all directions, find another method of getting to your undoubtedly dull office job.
Do not, I repeat, do not, give me an evil look when I exhale in exasperation and nudge you forward gently, thus ensuring that I, and several other people behind me also manage to get on the train, and thus, to our respective places of employment. I was remarkably restrained in not punching you in the kidneys. Do it again and I might not be.
To: The suited and booted bloke in the lift in the tube station yesterday morning
Message: You are in a lift with, at a rough count, 20 other people.
You are not in the privacy of your own home.
You are also not invisible.
It might do to remember this fact when you're excavating the contents of your nasal passages, surveying them thoughfully and then flicking the offending snotters off your fingers.
To: The LU staff member who heard my fairy footsteps coming along the corridor and held the lift for me.
Message: Thank you. You are undoubtedly a prince amongst men.
To: The staff at a major mainline station/LU interchange
Message: I had in my hand a piece of paper, entitling you to the princely sum of £952, for which I would like to be given an annual travelcard entitling me to travel both from my local mainline station, and/to anywhere I please, so long as it is within zone 3.
You however, preferred to play a game of passenger tennis, bouncing me between the mainline and underground ticket offices, each side telling me they could not provide me with the travelcard I required.
I know you have a boring, shitty job. I can understand that. My job is boring and shitty sometimes too.
Yes, my request was not for the standard day/weekly travelcard, however, I would have thought that the opportunity to do something different would be a welcome one. It appears I was mistaken.
Co-incidentally, my local train station had no problem issuing said travelcard to me. They rock.
From London Bridge to Hungerford Bridge in nearly five hours.
From perfect afternoon through perfect sunset to perfect night.