Another frankly dreadful night. I spent much of the night
hanging off the edge of te bed with only six inches of bed space, and when I
did manage to nod off I was having nightmares about taking a cousin to
afternoon tea; said cousin demanding to have an “earl grey latte ya fukker”.
I made toast, watched an episode of “Catastrope” and
had a look at the Internet. I sent out birthday wishes to my nephew’s four
Facebook accounts, reported some adverts for prostitutes to the Facebook Feds (Community
Standards, eh?), and got ready for work.
Having completely forgotten to make myself a sarnie I went
to work via the petrol station. I could fill up the car and get scran too. I
waited to pay for an inordinately long time; the chap in the queue in front of
me would seem to have been some long-distance driver who had driven hundreds of
miles overnight and was quite clearly desperately lonely. He just wanted
someone to talk to. And as he jabbered on at the po-faced harridan behind the
till so the queue grew and grew. He must have been desperate for company - the
woman behind the till at Sainsburys in the mornings isn't someone I'd want to
exchange pleasantries with. She scares me.
I set off up the motorway. As I drove I was conscious of
the car behind me getting closer and closer. Far too close. When it got to
about six feet behind I pulled over a lane and it just kept coming forward. As
it pulled level so I saw the woman behind the steering wheel was engrossed in
her mobile phone. I beeped the hooter; she looked up in surprise as she found
herself overtaking on the inside, gave me the V-sign and sped off.
I should really have squealed
her up, shouldn't I? But I soon forgot her car's registration number.
As I drove the pundits on the radio were talking about the recently released
inflation figures. The government was saying that the lowest
inflation rate for three years was a vindication of their policies; the
opposition were claiming that it was nothing to do with government policy.
Surely any decent independent economist would be able to say which was right?
Or so you might think. According to the experts that were wheeled on, this
would not be the case. Economic theory is something of a dark art; akin to
betting on the horses. There are apparently as many economic theories as there
are experts to expound them. It would seem that economists are on a par with
weather forecasters; they have a go, but no one really expects very much from
them.
Again I realised I picked the wrong career.
I got to work and did my bit. Not being the only one in the
place made for a much easier shift than the one I had the last time I was
there. But there's no denying that I spent far too long looking out of the
window and a not-rainy day wishing I'd gone into work yesterday and been home
today when I could have done stuff at home.
I wonder what the weather forecast is for tomorrow?
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