Lifeboats

Apparently the world is heating up. There's no snow in the Alps, Kew Garden's bushes are blossoming again, thinking it’s Spring, (it stresses them out apparently) and a US Senator from one of the Dakotas is critically ill. If he dies we say goodbye to what Green policies were prepared to come out of corporate America.

The thing is, I don't care. Not today. A few years ago these things would make me angry. But as you get older the world gets smaller and you learn to keep the important things never more than an arms reach away. Only tonight they're not in arms reach. Instead they hurt and live just beyond the world you can get to. I can see them in my head but can't find a way through the glass to fix it all. It’s a helpless feeling and at the same time I feel like a coward.

And on these nights that seem like the world is ending there is always an episode of ER on late night TV; God-like story lines about the beautiful people pretending to struggle. Well, the beautiful people are right here on ground level too and there's no pretending. So you do all you can and drink yourself tired so you'll go to sleep. You hope that all that crap about tomorrow being better is true. Turn over and go to sleep. It'll be better tomorrow, and you won't hate everything so much.

No Winners

Mission to Maidstone. How I hate these trips. They seem to go slow and travelling there and back is a slow painful ride that never seems as quick as the Transport website promises. Something adds to the misery. Today will be no exception.

It feels like detention. Working when you should be at home, warm, doing Sunday stuff with people far more love worthy than a room full of poker players. But alas, this is what we signed on for all those months ago, 12 actually. A year ago yesterday I started my first day on the job. It happened to involve a flight to Las Vegas and a week at Bellagio. Not a bad first day.

But it's a cold Sunday in Kent today. A semi-final heat for a place in the European Open Final, and a race against time to get a train back at a humane hour. The odds are against me. They always are. I take them on anyway and wonder why I disappointed at the end. Give up on the evening. It will all be in Maidstone. Get used to that and nevermind.

Hunting the Magic

With a spear and dynamite if necessary. The night bus, with the first fizz of a cold brewing in my head. Lemsip, from Tooting Bec's best non-corner corner shop. There's no cure, but that doesn't stop us from pretending these things will work and work fast. But the bus was on time. No wait. Get home, put all your clothes on and turning the heating up full blast.

Of course, I don't know how the heating works. But my clothes are all in ready reach. It's good to look after yourself, apparently. And keeping warm falls under that. You only ever know this when the right time has passed, but you promise to learn next time. Then you get busy forgetting that.

So the night bus. Two oldish men sat at the front, slightly drunk, named Rob and George. They spoke loudly, made requests of the driver and were pretty much well loved by everyone at their end of the bus. Particularly two younger drunks, who had earlier looked worried about there being no ketchup at home.

Further down the usual lovers were standing close, holding onto the rail tightly, but each other tighter. And opposite them, a young woman sending a text to a man containing the words 'You' and 'Wonderful' and 'Night'. There should be this kind of slush on a bus home. Right minds thinking right things, that the only important thing in the world was right now.

It could all be gibberish of course, and most of it probably is. And it will all be forgotten soon enough. But we'll promise to learn next time. That things can be nice. Even if not for long. And sooner or later it will come round again.

How to get a seat by yourself

I'm back. Seems like a while. A mixture of last minute typing to reach 50,000 words, a few days of coming down from that, then a trip to Maidstone for two days, including an overnight stop I hadn't planned and a late finish last night. Was that it? Yes, that's just about it.

Nightbus home again tonight. It seemed ordinary until I sat down and noticed the woman in the seat in front was reading 'Porn for Obese people'. The magazine might not have been called that. In fact it wasn't necessary a porn mag, just an article about obese porn inside. But whatever it was it put me off my granola bar.

But yes. Home again. It was cold out. Colder still with my new haircut which said goodbye to long haired insulation and hello short cropped pneumonia.

But where was I? A busy week won't stop being busy until tomorrow afternoon sometime. Three articles in four days of varying quality. Sometimes that's how it goes. More tomorrow.

Race to the Finish

November 29th. I have 34 hours to write 6,500 words to have the 50,000 needed to claim I've written a book in a month. It's a bad book, no mistake about that, but it must be done. So a wild cavalier ride for the next day and a half is plan plan. Yes, that plan has flaws too but hell, the only way is forward. Allez Tonto!

Yeah, those flaws. Work is one, and Toddy is an all-nighter to do coverage of an event at Gutshot. So that's tonight out. Then there's an ordinary work day tomorrow, leaving several careful hours in between to write like a fucker and get the job done. It will be close.

But, as instructed, there could be champagne at the end. Time to focus. Be professional. Or at least act it.

Night Shift Magic

The walk home. No wait, I mean the taxi home. As I turned onto Tooting Bec Road I figured walking would be the only option at 2am. No buses, that much was certain, and taxis are few. But a man was standing outside the taxi office and as he turned to look at me he waved. I looked behind me, no point waving if there was someone behind me, but there was no one. I waved back.

The last taxi driver in Tooting was on his way home. "I saw you coming and know you're a regular. I thought you might need a taxi." He needed no directions, just the five minute drive and a four minute chat about the weather. I tipped big. I got home, and he set off to his.

Come in Control

Three days in Tooting Bec, now back here. With the crickets.

A long day. So, a taxi home. It's Sunday after all and no one in the transport department is going to waste their budget on 1am buses when half of the town has spent the day praying for their sins, and the other half committing the sins the other half were praying for.

So to the taxi office. Some nights go better than others. Tonight not so good. The 'Controller' was in his booth watching TV. He saw me, and went back to the screen behind him. I tapped my feet, coughed politely, then not so politely, rang the bell and knocked on his window. Aha, that got him. So it was he who put up the advert 'Controller wanted - No experience necessary.'

I'd never seen tonight's driver before, and I never want to see his like again. He was big. He had a hat on, and his car was five minutes walk away. In the car things were no better. He sat low and the rear view mirror was angled to give no rear view. What's more he wore a cap on the side of his head with the peak blocking all views left. It was an odd look, like he'd been slapped around the back of the head by a parent and was too defiant to adjust the fit. He also fell asleep at the lights.

But nevermind. I'm 40,000 words in to a 50,000 word novel. This week will be busy, with an article needed for Tuesday as well that I might have to sell to my editor. Not to mention normal work. We're into Monday. Hold on.