7 June 2015 (Sunday) - After the Night Shifts

With another night shift done I made my way home. In years gone by I used to grumble about the night work. Nowadays I think I prefer the night work to the day work. Being on my own for most of the shift, the job itself is more varied, and I can work at my own pace and in my own way. And being a longer shift (than the day shifts) I actually do less of them.
I *could* have listened to the radio as I drove home, but I'd had the radio on all night. What with documentaries about the failings of the Labour party, a play based on the Barchester Chronicles, pretentious quizzes, even more pretentious drivel about poetry, dull reports from the Moscow correspondent and opinionated ranting about healthy eating (to say nothing of the shipping forecast and the farmers' round-up) I think it fair to say I'd had enough of the radio.
Instead I listened to the random music I had stored on my phone. Sparks, Queen, the Dickies, ELO, Kate Bush, B.A. Robertson, quality stuff (!)

I came home expecting to have to navigate around road closures; last week I'd seen notices that the main road through Ashford was going to be closed. The council had advertised a phone number from which to get information about the road closure. I'd rung it, and been asked to leave a phone number on which they could get back to me with directions. They hadn't.
I drove home rather hoping that diversions would be signposted. They weren't. The road wasn't closed at all, but the signs saying it *would* be closed were still in place. I wonder what all that was about.

Once home I thought I'd get a little shut-eye. I woke at mid day to find I was cuddling my dog like he was a teddy bear and to find that "er indoors TM" had gone to Bluewater with her posse. I had my breakfast for lunch and then thought I might take "Furry Face TM" for a walk.
We did our usual circuit of Bowens Field, Viccie Park and Co-op field. As we walked into the park I got a fit of the giggles. There was a gaggle of schoolgirls (aged about twelve I suppose) loitering as young girls do. One of them had her arms crossed under her not insubstantial bosom and was using her crossed arms to wield her chest to its best effect. A yound lad (also aged about twelve) came up on his scooter and stopped about three feet away from her. He blatently looked her up and down, gave a very piercing wolf-whistle and loudly announced "Nice tits".
We walked away just as the fist fight started.

There were lots more children and teenagers in the park; all running riot as they do. As well as using the "F" word a lot, they seem to now have a new insult. Apparently calling someone a "fannywhacker" is fighting talk. Once lives and learns.

With our walk done I spent an hour or so working on my next presentation to the astro club. An as-yet unnamed talk (provisionally designated as "Why Comets Are Crap") it explores the various reasons why comets are crap. I thought I'd better get on with it; circumstances might necessitate it's being ready earlier than planned.
I didn't get as much done as I was hoping; a hot day added to being post night shift had taken its toll. I went back to bed for another couple of hours until "er indoors TM" came home and boiled up a rather good bit of scoff which we devoured whilst watching "Thunderbirds". She then had a little lie-down and my piss boiled somewhat...

In years gone by my nutty neighbour would listen at the wall for hours on end. He'd give the fact away by often stopping me in the street and giving me his opinion on whatever we'd been discussing the night before. If ever I had a difference of opinion with "Daddies Little Angel TM" (it happened occassionally - would you beleive it) he would call out the social workers because he found raised voices to be distressing.
He spent an hour or so this evening shrieking at his wife who is (apparently) only still with him because she's too proud to go back to Japan.
This happens all the time. I once called out the emergency psychiatrist (they actually exist) to come see him. I was told that although he was highly stressed he wasn't actually clinically insane.
Sometimes I wonder if we might revisit that diagnosis.

Time to wake "er indoors TM" - we're off to the airport to collect "My Boy TM".

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