Day from Hell yesterday. It actually looked, on paper, like it would be a cracker and I was quite looking forward to it.
As a freelance writer, with a wildly varying income, a day job is necessary to support She Who Is Never Wrong and The Spawn and so it was that I found myself in London. Hanger Lane, specifically, to meet a client and secure a rather juicy order for the firm I sell stuff for.
The client in question is a marvelous auld feller with an acerbic take on the world and its inhabitants and I enjoy his company a great deal. He’s in his early 60′s and, not unusually among Sikhs from Punjab, I’ve found, is a bit of an unreconstructed Stalinist. His politics and world view, generally, though, are shot through with wry humour, a determination not to take the world and its associated calamities too seriously, all underpinned by a generosity of spirit, sadly, all too rarely found in the these post-Thatcherite times.
A day in London on business isn’t usually anyone’s idea of fun but I enjoy lengthy drives, not least because the ‘phone has to be switched off and the solitude, peace and quiet of an extended drive usually results in at least one solution to a thorny, work-related problem presenting itself.
As I park at Stanmore and take the tube everywhere I also get plenty of prep time and usually arrive at meetings relaxed, well prepared and quietly confident of handling anything that might occur. The return journey is usually devoted to my current read or chilling out to some ‘bangin’ tunes’, as the kids say, courtesy of Mr. I. Pod ( Yesterday’s musical indulgence, if you’re interested, was intended to be Saxon’s ‘Unleash The Beast’ album. Terrific stuff and good to see Biff and the boys well and truly back on form) before commencing the 2 hr drive home, back up the M1, in a calm, stress-free manner.
As the meeting was scheduled for late morning I didn’t even have to face the down-side of a pre-dawn start but, as I’ve found to my cost, countless times over the years, when the Man Upstairs decides to piss on ones chips he does so with gusto.
The problems started on arrival at Stanmore. Bloody car park was full and, therefore, closed. So onwards and down the hill to the, much more expensive, pay-and-display site hidden behind Lidl, necessitating an uphill walk back toward the tube station. As anyone who knows me will tell you, walking is, in my view, the Devils work and should only be undertaken after all other options have been thoroughly exhausted and usually not even then. After all, there are few things so important that they can’t be simply cancelled until a more civilized means of conveyance presents itself.
So, by now sailing close to the wind, time wise, I hurried up the hill and, when I’d reached the point where no cover from the elements was within easy reach, He decided to unleash the Monsoon from Hell. Thanks. I made the tube with seconds to spare, breathless, sweaty and smelling like next door’s dog. And so it had started…
The problems continued to mount with a ‘short’ delay, en route, due to oxygen in the atmosphere or leaves on the surrounding trees, I forget which. Said ‘short delay’ lasted an hour and half, involved a change of tube, doubling back to North Acton and then £20 on a taxi to arrive three quarters of an hour late. I’m pissed off by now and still breathless, still sweaty and still smelling like a damp dog.
The meeting, you’ll be stunned to discover, was not good. My client had undergone a triple heart bypass before Christmas and, consequently, my order, reasonably enough, was the least of the poor mans worries. “Next financial Year, for sure” he assured me and while he is man of his word and it’s as good as in the bag it presented me with the small matter of finding a replacement £30K to plug my budget this financial year. Sigh.
Back at Hanger Lane tube station yet more delays had occurred, due this time, I was told excitedly, by a shifty eyed, pasty faced youth in a hoody and baseball cap, to some unfortunate soul losing the will to live and depositing himself upon the track. “Know how you feel, pal” I muttered gloomily as, right on cue, That Spiteful Bastard Upstairs gleefully unleashed a second mini Tsunami, thoughtfully ensuring that my Eau De Wet Dog would last long enough to transfer successfully to the cars upholstery on arrival at Stanmore.
Once on the tube I discovered that Mr. I. Pod, no doubt in protest at what had rapidly morphed into the Day From Hell, resolutely refused to provide sufficient distraction from the mono-browed loon manically working an accordion scant inches from my face, while his traveling companion/minder, a 6 foot something lummox, menacingly rattled a plastic cup of coppers at me. As seasoned tube users will know the correct etiquette in these circumstances is to avoid eye contact and feign unawareness. A few seconds is usually all it takes for these arse aches to get the message and move on to some other poor sap. Given my day so far, though, my usual good manners vanished like a Tory MP’s trousers on a publicly funded junket to Thailand. “Tell you what, pal” I snarled “If you can do me ‘The Ace of Spades’, with the guitar solo, I’ll bung you a tenner. If not, get that cup out of my face and piss OFF!”
A little further along I got up to offer my seat to an old lady with a walking stick only to watch it being snatched by some track suited, horse faced bint braying manically into a mobile ‘phone. I glared at her pointedly until she raised her middle digit and turned her back. That, I’m afraid, was it. The Red Mist, never very far away at the best of times, descended in waves of flaming scarlet. Very deliberately I leaned over, removed the phone from her hand, cut the call and tossed it back into her lap. For a few seconds she was rendered speechless as she stared uncomprehendingly at me. I seized the initiative and pointed out I’d vacated the seat for the disabled old dear, clearly in pain and by now clutching desperately to one of the ceiling straps, therefore, I continued, I’d be grateful if she’d get up and let her have the seat. Any remaining faith I may have had in the intrinsic goodness of my fellow man evaporated in the face of the torrent of invective and abuse she unleashed in my direction. Admirably, you’ll no doubt agree, resisting the urge to grab her and physically deposit her fat ass on the floor of the carriage, I wondered instead if, given her lack of class, grace and basic human decency, she might be more at home on the Jeremy Kyle Show? This hit a nerve as her frenzy intensified but was nullified somewhat by the supportive and appreciative sniggers from several of my fellow commuters. The fat, foul mouthed harridan still didn’t move, of course, but another passenger got the hint and let the old lady sit down. A moral victory for the good guys, I think.
Changing at Bond Street I walked straight into a carriage filled with two American families which included about half a dozen spoiled, mouthy brats. Verily, my cup runneth over. They spent the ensuing fifteen minutes patronizingly slagging off London, The English and England generally, contrasting it unfavourably with the paradise of Milk and Honey that is the USA. As a Celt I would normally have no problem with this at all. In fact under most circumstances I’d be leading the charge in deriding our Sassenach neighbors but this was different. It’s Ok for us Scots, Welsh and Irish to slag off the English, after all, they’re our English, aren’t they? Bloody arrogant Yanks, on the other hand, strutting around the globe causing mayhem and death have no business at all slagging any other nation off. Not on my watch, sonny.
I waited for a suitable lull in their concerto of arrogance and, when it came, remarked smilingly, politely, that a recent documentary I’d seen stated Americans to be the most obese nation on the face of the earth. I continued that this had indeed surprised me but, after meeting the present company, could see that it had, perhaps, certain validity. To their stunned, over-fed faces I concluded by suggesting that perhaps easing off on the McDonalds breakfasts and pancakes might reap some positive physical benefits? For once The Man Upstairs gave me a break as the tube arrived at Stanmore and I hastily departed before retribution came my way. After all they were Yanks and, as my body has a certain amount of natural oil, a probable military invasion of my good self was surely only scant seconds away.
Too many hours later, after braving at least three of Dante’s Nine Circles of Hell (the carriage widening at Hemel Hempstead, the car park that is Junction 24 and the obligatory Polo driving woman serenely ambling along at sisxty in the outside lane) I finally arrived at The Zoo and braced myself for the madness that is life at Chez Paterson.
She Who Is Never Wrong is currently consumed by a quest to lift her already succesful photography business to the next level and the kitchen had been rejigged into a photographic studio, complete with halogen laps, odd looking umbrella thingies and all manner of strange looking accessories while The Spawn are press ganged, complainingly, into assuming the roles of models. Clearly taking ‘The Method’ approach, She Who Is Never Wrong has become slightly ‘artsy’ and has taken to wearing flowing scarves and other accoutrements of Bohemia. She isn’t yet addressing us all as “dahhhling” but it’s surely only a matter of time.
Faced with this I had only one objective: securing a decent measure of ten year old Laphroig, escaping unscathed and unphotographed and making it safely to the relative sanctity of bed. I yawned my apologies and hastily retired for the night. On waking at around 2.00am I noticed I was alone in bed so I stumbled downstairs to investigate, where I discovered She Who Is Never Wrong, trembling with excitement, with two thirds of The Spawn, huddled on the sofa.
“Bloody hell!” I exclaimed “what’s the matter?” thoughts of burglars, rapists and other unspeakable horrors racing through my mind.
“Did you feel it?” she barked
“Feel what?”
“The Earth! It, quite literally, moved!”
I smirked, although I couldn’t recall a single thing since I’d retired to bed, I’d clearly still Got It. Reading my mind she snapped, “No you pratt, I mean the earthquake. We’ve just had a bloody earthquake!”
Oh. Thanks to the anaesthetizing properties of Isaly’s finest I hadn’t noticed anything and had slept through it, blissfully unaware of, what I later learned, was a quake of 5.2 on the Richter Scale, the most intense on mainland UK for 25 years, apparently.
The Man Upstairs had clearly decided my day hadn’t contained enough sh*t and thought an earthquake, following his earlier Monsoon and Tsunami, would be just enough to tip me over the edge. Feeling strangely satisfied that I’d finally thwarted the twisted sods efforts to p*ss me off yet further I sauntered back to bed. It’s not much, admittedly, but after many years of marriage and a lifetime supporting Alloa Athletic, I have low expectations and I’ll take my little victories wherever I can get them. Tomorrow will no doubt bring famine, death, pestilence and plague but I reckon today ended a score draw. A point gained rather than two dropped, I prefer to think. Good night.