It's been quiet in my little part of the world. Head down, busy writing, busy working, busy trying to figure out whether spraying someone on the train with my deodorant would be considered assault - that kind of thing. (And the guy on the train was pretty rank. He smelt like a refugee from the Mines of Moria had shacked up with that cave troll, and made a baby, and it was on my train. And it hadn't been potty trained.)
Yesterday made up for it.
Yesterday going pear-shaped started around midnight, when the assignment I was working on evaporated as I started the last paragraph. I can swear in several languages, and I pretty much used all of them, treated Stacey to a non-stop litany of curses as I lurched up and down the passage, shaking my fist at the ceiling. I'm STILL fuming about it.
I decided to have a bath. There was a spider in it, dancing around on thin, spindly legs like an elderly ballerina. I threatened it with death and went back to my room.
I was supposed to be heading out of town for the day on work stuff. I got to Kings Cross, got my ticket, got on the train, which for once was ready to board early.
I settled in, decided to read until the train left, yanked out the kindle, and crossed my legs, and promptly fell off the seat. This is what happens when you sit too close to the edge of a train seat with no arm rests.
I caught my elbow on the down and stripped about half an inch of skin off of it, which I didn't notice because I was rolling around on the floor, holding my elbow and making little squeaky noises. Since I hadn't let go of the kindle, I slapped myself on the ear with it.
After I picked myself up and sulkily sat down again, I checked my bag to make sure nothing had fallen out during my encounter with the train floor. I pulled the tickets out and checked them.
My stomach lurched.
I checked the address I was going to, and felt the prospects for the day nose-dive sadly into the tarmac in front of me.
Wrong city. I had tickets for the wrong city.
It isn't payday yet. I can't afford to buy new tickets because buying them on the day means the train company bends your credit card over a chair without the benefit of KY.
I texted my boss. No response.
I phoned the place I was going to and rescheduled for next week.
Texted my boss again. No response, which is not surprising since neither one of those texts has reached him as I write this. (With my luck, they'll beep through at around 3am on Sunday morning. That should make for a super start to my Monday.)
Then I headed into the office. Sitting down was painful due to large, strange shape bruise I now have on one of my buttocks, and every time I rested my elbow on my desk it screamed at me and called me names.
I can't talk about work, but suffice to say I've attempted to wipe yesterday from my memory banks. When I got home I re-wrote the assignment, realised that my right eye was swelling up (allergies. Yay!), and the left had a couple of burst veins. I looked demented.
My hair had decided to channel the Bride of Frankenstein, my elbow was stinging, and my butt was throbbing. And then I got dive-bombed by a daddy-long-legs, a flying ant, and a mosquito, in rapid succession.
Wednesday, I'm not talking to you anymore.
Yesterday made up for it.
Yesterday going pear-shaped started around midnight, when the assignment I was working on evaporated as I started the last paragraph. I can swear in several languages, and I pretty much used all of them, treated Stacey to a non-stop litany of curses as I lurched up and down the passage, shaking my fist at the ceiling. I'm STILL fuming about it.
I decided to have a bath. There was a spider in it, dancing around on thin, spindly legs like an elderly ballerina. I threatened it with death and went back to my room.
I was supposed to be heading out of town for the day on work stuff. I got to Kings Cross, got my ticket, got on the train, which for once was ready to board early.
I settled in, decided to read until the train left, yanked out the kindle, and crossed my legs, and promptly fell off the seat. This is what happens when you sit too close to the edge of a train seat with no arm rests.
I caught my elbow on the down and stripped about half an inch of skin off of it, which I didn't notice because I was rolling around on the floor, holding my elbow and making little squeaky noises. Since I hadn't let go of the kindle, I slapped myself on the ear with it.
After I picked myself up and sulkily sat down again, I checked my bag to make sure nothing had fallen out during my encounter with the train floor. I pulled the tickets out and checked them.
My stomach lurched.
I checked the address I was going to, and felt the prospects for the day nose-dive sadly into the tarmac in front of me.
Wrong city. I had tickets for the wrong city.
It isn't payday yet. I can't afford to buy new tickets because buying them on the day means the train company bends your credit card over a chair without the benefit of KY.
I texted my boss. No response.
I phoned the place I was going to and rescheduled for next week.
Texted my boss again. No response, which is not surprising since neither one of those texts has reached him as I write this. (With my luck, they'll beep through at around 3am on Sunday morning. That should make for a super start to my Monday.)
Then I headed into the office. Sitting down was painful due to large, strange shape bruise I now have on one of my buttocks, and every time I rested my elbow on my desk it screamed at me and called me names.
I can't talk about work, but suffice to say I've attempted to wipe yesterday from my memory banks. When I got home I re-wrote the assignment, realised that my right eye was swelling up (allergies. Yay!), and the left had a couple of burst veins. I looked demented.
My hair had decided to channel the Bride of Frankenstein, my elbow was stinging, and my butt was throbbing. And then I got dive-bombed by a daddy-long-legs, a flying ant, and a mosquito, in rapid succession.
Wednesday, I'm not talking to you anymore.
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