Tuesday start

Here we are then, back in work after the bank holiday. The last bank holiday until Christmas, too. Boo hiss. I feel quite refreshed for once. I think I have had three consecutive good nights’ sleep and it’s worked wonders. (Although apparently on Saturday night I snored so bad that Furtle tried to smother me in the duvet. I slept through that unperturbed, so I’m told). She got no sleep that night and stayed at home to rest and fight off her cold while I went to wallabok’s birthday do in South Cambridgeshire.

The fresh air clearly did me good and the night away did Furtle good. Last night I again slept well and my snoring, I am told had reverted to acceptable levels. Oddly enough, the catarrh is more annoying now than it was this morning. I have scarfed back an antihistamine to try and torpedo it. We’ll see.

A long weekend away seems to have done odd things to the PC at work. I do not have my regular profile downloaded from the intranet, which means that the PC insists on installing all applications from scratch when I launch them and I have to make do with the tatty XP on sand wallpaper instead of the natty Ninth Doctor Emergency Hologram I am used to. With luck it will be all back to normal tomorrow.

I am still hoping to be able to post something in the next few days to just_writing, but although I know what I want to write, the words don’t seem to want to come in a form I am happy with. The feel and atmosphere isn’t right and I’m only a page in. There’s not much point trying to cajole people if I can’t keep up with my own schedule, is there?

I seem to have been meals on wheels for the insect population of South Cambs, too. I have a number of impressive bites. It itches, my dears, it itches...

Tuesday start

Here we are then, back in work after the bank holiday. The last bank holiday until Christmas, too. Boo hiss. I feel quite refreshed for once. I think I have had three consecutive good nights’ sleep and it’s worked wonders. (Although apparently on Saturday night I snored so bad that Furtle tried to smother me in the duvet. I slept through that unperturbed, so I’m told). She got no sleep that night and stayed at home to rest and fight off her cold while I went to wallabok’s birthday do in South Cambridgeshire.

The fresh air clearly did me good and the night away did Furtle good. Last night I again slept well and my snoring, I am told had reverted to acceptable levels. Oddly enough, the catarrh is more annoying now than it was this morning. I have scarfed back an antihistamine to try and torpedo it. We’ll see.

A long weekend away seems to have done odd things to the PC at work. I do not have my regular profile downloaded from the intranet, which means that the PC insists on installing all applications from scratch when I launch them and I have to make do with the tatty XP on sand wallpaper instead of the natty Ninth Doctor Emergency Hologram I am used to. With luck it will be all back to normal tomorrow.

I am still hoping to be able to post something in the next few days to just_writing, but although I know what I want to write, the words don’t seem to want to come in a form I am happy with. The feel and atmosphere isn’t right and I’m only a page in. There’s not much point trying to cajole people if I can’t keep up with my own schedule, is there?

I seem to have been meals on wheels for the insect population of South Cambs, too. I have a number of impressive bites. It itches, my dears, it itches...

Judging a book by its cover

You shouldn't judge people or things by appearances, I believe. But I shall anyway.

There was a woman on the tube north tonight. Affluent, well-dressed and middle aged. She was, I suspect, a tube novice. She was clutching a single trip ticket (the most expensive way of traveling on the tube) and staring at anybody and everybody with a mixture of disgust, disdain and possibly horror. She was forced to stand for a couple of stops, holding on to a rail; she looked as she might physically implode through the sheer unpleasantness of it all. When she finally managed to sit down, it was on a fold down chair (not the most comfortable in the carriage) and she ensured that she sat as far from the bloke next to her (a perfectly respectable looking chap in a business suit) as she could without falling off and whenever we pulled into a station she clutched her rucksack (!) as if each person who passed her was about to snatch it and run.

I suspect from the look on her face that someone farted, but it can be hard to tell.

Full points for her exit manoeuvre on reaching East Finchley. I swear she managed to stand up and slink through the moving crowd without even her clothes touching someone.

I bet in the next few days those clothes, suitably pressed and laundered, will find themselves offered to a charity shop and the donor will dine out for months to come, regaling her comrades with tales of the day she went underground.

Judging a book by its cover

You shouldn't judge people or things by appearances, I believe. But I shall anyway.

There was a woman on the tube north tonight. Affluent, well-dressed and middle aged. She was, I suspect, a tube novice. She was clutching a single trip ticket (the most expensive way of traveling on the tube) and staring at anybody and everybody with a mixture of disgust, disdain and possibly horror. She was forced to stand for a couple of stops, holding on to a rail; she looked as she might physically implode through the sheer unpleasantness of it all. When she finally managed to sit down, it was on a fold down chair (not the most comfortable in the carriage) and she ensured that she sat as far from the bloke next to her (a perfectly respectable looking chap in a business suit) as she could without falling off and whenever we pulled into a station she clutched her rucksack (!) as if each person who passed her was about to snatch it and run.

I suspect from the look on her face that someone farted, but it can be hard to tell.

Full points for her exit manoeuvre on reaching East Finchley. I swear she managed to stand up and slink through the moving crowd without even her clothes touching someone.

I bet in the next few days those clothes, suitably pressed and laundered, will find themselves offered to a charity shop and the donor will dine out for months to come, regaling her comrades with tales of the day she went underground.