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Another Day in Quicksand

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Another Day In Quicksand

This morning, when I arrived at work I thought I was re-enacting a scene from The Omen. I had an ominous feeling and a slight shiver down my spine. I felt drawn and looked through the railings next to the office and there, beneath the trees was a Hound of Hades, Satan’s own lapdog. The very beast that leapt on me last week and covered my suit in mud, leading to a £15 dry cleaning bill and lack of suit for 2 days. It sat beneath a tree watching me, its demonic eyes locked on my clean apparel. I hurriedly checked the railings and was relieved to note that they went from wall to wall with no access for suit-soiling dogs. Bastard! It actually curled its lip at me. Emboldened by my position of safety, I grinned and flicked an unsociable gesture at it. The beast curled its lip again and then started to pace back and forth menacingly. Just in case I checked the fence again. Wall to wall and six feet high. Good. Good. I smiled again and the damned thing pelted off to the right, around the outside of our office. I smiled for a moment longer and then realised it would take it around ten seconds to skirt the building and hit me from behind. I ran into the building and hid nervously behind the door for a moment before heading to my desk

Last night as we were motoring towards 5pm and end of the day, the grey clouds built up around the office (notably behind the Grey McBoring). Chicken Boy and I theorised that we would have a few million gallons of water dropped on us on our journeys home. As it happens I got home without being rained on. I now believe that this is because the clouds stayed over McBoring’s person and he didn’t leave the office until after us. If you’ve read ‘So Long And Thanks For All The Fish’ by Douglas Adams, this is not a new idea. Perhaps McBoring is a Rain God and the clouds love him and want to be near him to cherish and water him. (Interesting side note – my speed typing somehow came out with the word ‘gimp’ there instead of ‘him’. Was Freud onto something?) This morning strengthened my theory. McBoring was not in this morning and the sky was a beautiful spring shade of blue with a few wispy clouds like airborne sheep. Hmmm.

On payday I shall be buying myself a new pair of work shoes. These don’t currently look so bad (unless you look real close) because they’ve had their bi-annual coat of polish and are once more black instead of a leprous grey/brown colour. The only problem is that the uppers and the soles are separating from each other. I’m pretty sure that they’re now only connected at the middle. They’re starting to make the same noises as flip-flops when I walk and if it’s rained recently, they will with water in a matter of nanoseconds. My main worry is that I will be walking down the road, lifting my foot up to take a step and leaving the sole of my shoe behind. I would buy new shoes today but for two things. Firstly: no money. It’s been an expensive month and it’s a week to payday. Secondly: I pretty much have to be forced to buy clothes of any variety. I hate shopping with the kind of passion I otherwise reserve for the Grey McBoring or the Fat Sack of Lard in our office. Perhaps tonight when I go to the tip to get rid of our trash, I’ll rummage in the bank of donated shoes for the poor and try and find two matching ones.

This morning I sent myself an email. This might strike people as odd, but when you have a memory like mine it helps to send yourself reminders (goldfish have been known to laugh at my legendary lack of memory – though half way through they forget why they’re laughing.) Anyway – I sent myself an email from my own personal web-based account to my own personal web-based account. On one computer. The appropriate screen came up to say that the mail had been sent. I then checked later when I needed to know what I’d asked myself to do, only to find that the mail had not arrived! It had to go from my outbox to my inbox. How far can that BE? Where had it gone? I investigated my sent items and there it was at the top of the list. Sent. To me. WTF? Then I noticed it. Items in the ‘Spam’ folder: 1. Could it be? Yes. My reminder mail. My email account is classing messages that it sends itself as spam. What in God’s name?

I’ve just looked back and my last mention of beds was on January 31st. For anyone who actually follows my drivel you may know the saga of the goddamn bed, but let me run a catch-up of the story since late January. In the last week of January, our bed died again. With a ‘crack’, it just gave up the ghost and expired in a heap. Within a few days we’d managed to take the bed back to the store and get a refund. We then went to another store and bought a slightly sturdier model. It wasn’t actually in stock, but they said it should be in seven days and the thing was a good quality one, so we were happy. We’d sleep on the mattress on the floor for a week. Needless to say, the week came and went with no word from the store. In the first week of February, we went back to the store to enquire. Mrs Moosehunter is considerably more forceful than I and she almost made the kid behind the desk cry. We were offered the display model but turned it down. Apart from the couple of marks on the frame, you never know who’s been jumping on it, wrenching it around to test it, dripping bodily fluids on it. No thanks. We’ll wait until it arrives. How long will it be? Two to three weeks says the kid. I’m too tired and depressed at the time to have apoplexy, so I shrug and let Mrs Moosehunter have it instead. He panics and says that he’ll try and get it in a week and will call us if he can’t. Guess what. It’s now two weeks later and still no call and still no bed. We’re rapidly approaching a month of sleeping on a mattress on the floor. Once we pass the month mark, I’m going to get myself a dirty, matted sheepdog, a sleeping bag covered in vomit and a cardboard sign that says “will do ANYTHING for food”. I am starting to feel like a vagrant.

Chicken Boy claimed this morning to be the ‘Left Hand of God’. When I challenged him on this, he explained that that was ‘God’s wanking hand’. I suspect the Gospels would have been considerably different if the devout followers in first century Judea had known that.

Another thing that crawled back into my mind about Edinburgh last weekend is this: Edinburgh is a lovely and picturesque city. The old city and the Royal Mile are architecturally superb. The new city across the valley that used to be a lake is almost as nice. At the top end of the Royal Mile is the impressive Castle; part fortress, part museum, but all impressive and all nice. At the far end is the area known as Canongate, once outside the city itself. This is a gorgeous area of 17th to 19th century buildings, with the Royal Palace and abbey of Holyroodhouse at the end and the extinct volcano known as Arthur’s Seat brooding over the whole scene. Doesn’t it sound picturesque? Idyllic even? And then there’s the Scottish Parliament building. Slap bang between Canongate, the Palace and Arthur’s Seat is a building that must had come from the diseased imagination of a terminally insane cocaine addict. I kid you not. Look it up on Google Image Search. But have a bucket nearby. This thing is an abomination that utterly destroys the tranquil beauty of its surroundings. I can’t even begin to describe it. You just have to look for yourself.

Just about run out of things to rant about now.

Post Script: A mysterious message from Mrs Moosehunter indicates that either our bed has arrived or the wrong bed has arrived or possibly just our new pillows have arrived. This is going to be an interesting phone call.

Incidentally, the title of the entry is the title of a track by In Flames that I played last night. It also sums up the way days here go.

Hasta Lasagne and Au Bergine.

Moosehunter.

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Written by SJAT

December 20, 2009 at 11:55 am

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