1752: Death to Shitty Roads

I may comically exaggerate my dislike of certain things at times, but for the most part these are nothing but exaggerations for (possible) comedic effect. There are very few things in this life that I genuinely hate.

But the motorway that runs along the south coast, connecting, among other places, the town where I live (Southampton) and the town where I work (Havant, just beyond Portsmouth), is one of those things I do hate. Oh, M27, how I loathe and detest you so. How I wish you weren’t so awful. How I wish I wasn’t obliged to drive on you every day since, despite your shittiness, you are the most efficient means for me to get from my home to my work.

The M27 isn’t an especially poorly maintained road or anything — although the patch around Southampton has a somewhat bumpy surface that serves as a convenient “you’re nearly home!” landmark for my return journey — but it clearly isn’t suitable for its purpose. It’s heavily used by commuters every morning and evening rush hour, and it clogs up pretty much every day for well over an hour in either direction. You can set your watch by the traffic reports on local radio saying day after day that the M27 is busy between Fareham and Southampton Airport, since it is literally every single (working) day.

It’s one of those roads that clogs up for seemingly no reason. “QUEUE AHEAD,” the overhead signs will warn, offering a somewhat optimistic recommended speed of first 60mph and then 40mph (which can be translated to 40 and 15-20 in real terms respectively) as the sea of brake lights illuminates ahead and the flow of traffic slows to a crawl. Everyone will proceed like this for a while, and then just as suddenly as it started, it will clear up and start moving again.

There is one part of this dreadful road where it’s possible to see how jams form; I think I mentioned it a few days ago, but while I’m complaining it bears mentioning again. For the most part, the M27 is a typical three-lane motorway in either direction, but for one single solitary mile just beyond Portsmouth, there’s a fourth lane added on the “fast” side, dubbed a “climbing lane”. This is inevitably used by BMW drivers to pull out aggressively, charge past everyone else and then get stuck when, just under a mile later, the lane disappears again, merging back into what was before (and immediately afterwards is again) the “fast” lane. Jams form as those screaming up the climbing lane shove back in to the main flow of traffic, with other cars moving aside in an attempt to get out of the way of these aggressive drivers. Everyone ends up squished against one another and a jam forms; it’s no coincidence that immediately after the end of the climbing lane, the flow of traffic gets back to normal.

The reason I’m whingeing about the M27 this evening is because it decided to be particularly annoying for my journey home. I was tired, I was hungry and I just wanted to get home and relax. But the M27 had other ideas, first throwing a broken-down lorry in the middle lane in the path of everyone, followed by not one, not two, not three but four separate accidents in the space of about five miles. The weather wasn’t even particularly bad; there were just four separate but nearby incidents of disastrous driving; one car with all its windows smashed in the central reservation; another that had obviously skidded off where the motorway and a slip road parted ways at a junction; another where one car had seemingly hit the back of another so hard that the front of the former was practically fused with the latter; and another that I didn’t see just ahead of where I pulled off to actually get home, gnashing my teeth by this point.

I haven’t yet figured out the optimum time to do the commute to and from work. I’m beginning to think it might actually be in the interests of my own sanity to get up ridiculously early and drive in before the rest of the horde hits the roads; that way, I’ll get to come home before the rest of the horde hits the roads on the way back. I’m tempted to try that tomorrow, but it does involve getting up horrendously early, something which I struggle with at the best of times; perhaps it will be worth it, though. We’ll see!

1750: Time Kompression

Once again, time has been proving itself to be somewhat fluid. I’ve only had a week off from work, but it feels like an eternity; it probably helps that I’ve done one hell of a lot of things in said week off — most notably going back and forth to Scotland, but also last night’s trip to London for Distant Worlds as well as a few other things — but this would seem to disprove the whole “time flies when you’re having fun” theory; I’ve certainly been having plenty of fun, but this week feels like it’s been an extremely long one.

I’m not complaining; it’s been nice to have what actually feels like a really long holiday when, in fact, I’ve only been away for a week. I feel quite rested and relaxed and, necessity of waking up at an ungodly hour for a commute that doesn’t suck all of the balls aside, pretty much ready to face the day tomorrow. I’m sure I’ll be back into the same old routine before long, but that’s not really a bad thing; routines are comfortable and familiar, and form the backbone to one’s existence. Routines mean that breaks like I’ve had this week feel all the more meaningful and enjoyable; times like this week are honest-to-goodness breaks when I don’t have to worry about anything and can just enjoy some legitimately completely free time.

This is something I never really got when I was working from home. Although most of the publications I worked for were perfectly happy for me to take a few days off here and there, it was sort of hard to justify doing so when I have a laptop and could work from literally anywhere there was an Internet connection. Indeed, on a number of occasions I found myself working hard well into the night when I should really have been relaxing and enjoying myself doing other things, but I was always keen to make a decent impression with the effort I made — that and, in the case of things I wrote regularly, such as my Japanese gaming column on USgamer, I didn’t want to let down my audience.

This is something I never really got when I was a teacher, either: you can’t just take a day (or week, or month) off here and there when you’re working as a teacher; you have to go by the holiday calendar the school follows. This makes things both restrictive and prohibitively expensive; school holidays are “primetime” season for travelling, tourist attractions and, indeed, pretty much everything, so the prices are jacked up accordingly. Not only that, it means that there’s just no letting up, even when you need a break for the sake of your health — mental, physical or both. Couple that with the guilt trip you get when you take a day off genuinely sick — you’re expected to provide a full day’s worth of lesson plans for cover teachers to use even if you’re on your deathbed — and the whole situation is just rather shitty all round.

So now I am pleased to enjoy my times of holiday, because they’re just that — time off. Nothing to worry about. No work I “should” be doing while I’m away; no “I’ll just check in on the office email”; no “I’ll just pen a quick article on that” — just rest and relaxation. Bliss.

1748: Have You Met Ted?

Finally watched the end of How I Met Your Mother tonight — I’d managed to remain completely unspoiled on exactly what happens in the final two episodes, although I knew that quite a few people were a bit cheesed off about it when it originally aired.

How do I feel? Well, I don’t necessarily feel that it was a bad ending as such, but it did feel like it was somewhat rushed.

Spoilers ahead, obviously.

As Ted’s kids point out in the final moments of the final episode, Ted’s ten-year long story about how he met their mother actually wasn’t about how he met their mother at all: instead, it was about all the other things that happened over the course of his life — events that happened to culminate in him meeting their mother Tracy, having children with her, marrying her and eventually having to say goodbye to her as illness took her from him and the world. (This latter aspect was glossed over disappointingly quickly; there was the potential for some gratuitous but nonetheless effective tearjerking here, and the show blew it somewhat — though in the process it only proved Ted’s kids’ point that the story really wasn’t about Tracy at all.)

In particular, it was a show about relationships. Not just the extremely rocky Ross and Rachel-style “will they, won’t they” nature of the relationship between Ted and Robin — which ultimately reached a somewhat hasty resolution in the very last moments of the last episode, but which nonetheless provided some closure on the overall story — but also the dynamics between the various elements of the whole group.

Marshall and Lily are presented as the most grounded members of the group; they’re already in a relationship when the show begins, and the other characters clearly look up to them as some sort of “gold standard” of what to strive for when seeking a successful relationship with another person. They’re far from perfect, though; they fight, they’re often unreasonable with one another and, in the last couple of seasons in particular, they keep things of such magnitude from one another that it puts the very foundation of their marriage at risk. They always manage to come through, though; ultimately, their role is to provide the stable basis for the rather more chaotic other members of the group.

Barney and Robin’s relationship was an interesting case. Barney falling in love with and eventually wanting to marry Robin was an abrupt about-face for the character, but it demonstrated a certain degree of personal growth on his part, and it was fun to see him struggling between his old life and his new, one-woman future as the final series depicted the last few hours before their wedding day. While their subsequent breakup and divorce in the final episodes acknowledged the fact that even the most fairy-tale of relationships don’t always last even a couple of years — believe me, I know that all too well from firsthand experience — it was a tad disappointing for this aspect, again, to be glossed over somewhat hastily.

As for Ted and Robin, the tension over whether or not they’d ever end up together formed the backbone of the show to a certain degree. While it all being wrapped up neatly with them coming together in the final moments — and, presumably, living happily ever after — was predictable and, to a certain degree, satisfying, I can’t help but find myself wishing that things had gone just a little bit differently.

The ending, I feel, would have been a lot more effective had we seen more of Tracy’s final moments. It’s abundantly clear that, although Ted loved Robin, he genuinely loved Tracy too, and even though she wasn’t directly involved in much of the overall story until towards the end — the fact his kids point out — the show generally did a good job of teasing a few tantalising pieces of information about her as it progressed — the yellow umbrella; the fact she was always out of sight for the longest time; the fact we never found out her name until the final episode. The show did a great job of building up their relationship, of making the audience feel that everything that had come before had somehow led Ted to this moment — Destiny, Fate, whatever you want to call it — and then squandered it somewhat with a throwaway comment about her getting sick, and Ted ending up with Robin.

I’m a sucker for a bittersweet, borderline tragic ending, but I feel it would have made a fitting end to the series; although ostensibly a “sitcom”, the show had more than its fair share of genuinely heartfelt, emotional moments, and the passing of Tracy at the end of the final episode would have proven a fitting finale — and perhaps a way of bringing “the gang” all back together in shared grief after they all go their separate ways following Robin and Barney’s doomed wedding.

Still, I didn’t write the show so it can’t be changed, and overall, despite my criticisms above, I enjoyed the whole thing pretty consistently. It’s definitely one of the strongest American comedies that has been on TV in the last few years; while I’m not sure it’ll ever quite occupy the same place in my heart as Friends does, I’m certainly glad I watched it, and I’m glad it managed to come to a conclusion, even if it wasn’t quite the one I would have gone for. It’s just a pity the two-part last episode felt so utterly rushed; while it’s not enough to spoil my memories of the show as a whole, I can understand why some people felt it was a letdown.

Onwards, though; I guess now it’s time to find a new show to watch!

1747: I Still Don’t Care

Just slightly over two years ago (really quite surprisingly close, now I look at the dates), I pondered the subject of how I Don’t Care about certain social issues.

That particular rant — kind of shocked how little things have changed in two years, to be honest — was inspired by the amount of time certain people spent pontificating on Twitter about how awful certain groups were towards other groups. Whether it was racism, sexism, ableism or any of the other bad -isms, there was always someone on hand to loudly denounce anyone who displayed one or more of these traits as The Worst Person Ever.

I’ve tended to find over the years that the more I find myself seeing the same things said over and over — and the more hyperbolic those things are — the less I’m inclined to care about them, until eventually you cross some sort of apathy event horizon and find yourself feeling completely and utterly unmoved by even the most tragic of human suffering. Desensitisation is very much a real thing — although I’ll qualify that at this stage by saying that I am by no means desensitised to things like violent imagery or things happening to those who are close to me and that I care about.

I was reminded of this feeling today when a friend got in touch and told me about some dude I’d never heard of supposedly sexually assaulting a whole bunch of people, the dodgy things he’d said on Facebook and the rather specific, creepy details that his alleged victims had said independently of one another. Now, I knew that I was probably supposed to feel outraged about this apparent miscarriage of justice, but the fact is, I just couldn’t bring myself to care even a little bit about it. I couldn’t bring myself to Google who this dude I’d never heard of was; I couldn’t bring myself to look at the news stories; it just didn’t matter to me.

And, you know what? I don’t actually think that’s necessarily a bad way to be thinking about things. While it would be nice if all the good people in the world could wave their respective magic wands and make all the bad people’s dicks fall off (where applicable), we all know that isn’t the way things work. And it’s all very well and good and probably morally admirable to get upset on other people’s behalf, but there are an awful lot of bad people out there and only so many hours in the day. I know I’d much rather be concentrating on my own life and the wellbeing of those immediately around me (in social, not necessarily geographical terms) than wasting time — yes, I do think it is a colossal waste of time — getting angry on behalf of people I’ve never met, will likely never meet and have absolutely no means of relating to, helping or indeed having any impact on the lives of whatsoever.

Why do I say this is a good thing? Doesn’t that make me some sort of woman/ethnic minority/disabled person-hating narcissist? Well, no, of course not — although a woman/ethnic minority/disabled person-hating narcissist would say that, wouldn’t they? The simple fact is this: very few people are real “heroes”. Very few of us have the power to make a true difference in the lives of people we’ve had absolutely no contact with whatsoever. And it’s not good for one’s mental health to continually get upset and angry on behalf of everyone who is wronged in the world. I’ve seen one friend go down that road, and frankly they became rather insufferable as a result. More than that, though, it seemed impossible for them to ever be happy, because there was always something new to get upset and angry about; they were perpetually in a state of anguish and fury, because there was no way to fix this broken world we live in. It was heartbreaking to see, and there was nothing I could do to help them.

Ultimately all most of us do is try to be the best people we can be to the people who do matter to each of us: family, friends and the acquaintances we come into contact with on a regular basis through work or other activities. If everyone simply tried to be a bit more excellent towards one another in their own social circles, the world would probably be a much more pleasant place overall.

Unfortunately some people simply appear to be hard-wired to be as un-excellent as possible to the people around them. And that’s not at all cool, but if you have nothing to do with those people, harsh as it may sound, they’re not your problem. They have to either recognise the problems they have themselves and do something about it, or the people who are close to them and care about them have to take action. You, as some random stranger on the Internet, have no influence, no power and, moreover, no real right to interfere with that person’s life. Concentrate on dealing with your own issues, because everyone’s got them to varying degrees, and if you’re one of the lucky few to be in a place of relative contentment? Enjoy it, for fuck’s sake; don’t go looking for trouble.

So, to sum up: I Still Don’t Care. And, I have to say, ditching social media has made it a whole lot easier to do just that. While my own issues mean that I’m still a way off feeling truly, completely 100% happy and content with my own life, I sure feel a lot closer to that ambition than I once was. And, should I ever reach it? I’m damn well going to enjoy every minute of it.

1744: Congratulations to Cat and John

It was the wedding of my friends Cat and John today up here in sunny Aberdeen, Scotland. It’s pretty rare to have a horrible wedding — though I’m sure they happen on occasion — but I am, unsurprisingly, pleased to report that it was a jolly nice day, with a pleasantly short ceremony (in which I did indeed read the shit out of the poem I’d been provided with, and was subsequently complimented by all manner of people I’d never met before throughout the rest of the day), a tasty meal that struck a good balance between being posh and actually being edible, and an enjoyable evening of ceilidh music and dancing. (I must confess to not having indulged in much of the dancing, primarily because I don’t really enjoy it but also because my trousers were at risk of falling down partway through Strip the Willow.)

Cat is one of my oldest friends that I’m actually still friends with. She was the first person I ever met at university, and something of a fixture in my life throughout the course of my undergraduate studies. We haven’t seen each other all that much for the last few years — primarily because she lives in a whole other country (yes, Scotland totally counts as being a whole other country) — but it was nice to see her today and it be pretty much like the intervening years simply hadn’t happened; the only difference was that she was wearing a big, impractical dress and had a different surname.

The fact I’m friends with Cat reminds me of one of my secret proudest moments. It may not sound much — particularly if you’re not someone who has suffered with social anxiety — but it was a big deal to me.

Let me explain.

Prior to starting university properly, I had signed up for a pre-term music course, during which I’d have the opportunity to play with members of the university symphony orchestra, as we indulged in some intensive rehearsal and study over the course of a single week, culminating in a performance of Shostakovich’s 5th symphony and Beethoven’s 7th symphony. I had never performed a full symphony before, and here I was preparing to perform two of them after just a week of rehearsal. It was challenging, but fun.

What was more challenging to me, though, was the prospect of meeting new people. I’d already established in my mind at secondary school that I wasn’t quite sure how to go about making new friends or meeting new people, so I was quite nervous about going to university. (I had also contemplated, as I’m sure many people had, making up a cool nickname for myself, but never quite had the guts to go through with lying to potential new friends about what “everyone calls me”.)

So it was that I found myself in the lift after the first day of the music course, heading up to the 15th floor of Stoneham Halls of Residence to get a bit of rest. Also in the lift with me was Cat — although I didn’t know who she was yet, aside from the fact that she was in the string section. As the doors closed, I decided that I was going to bite the bullet and actually try to make a new friend. So I introduced myself. And, as often happens when I take a social “risk” like this, I was surprised to discover that I didn’t die, wasn’t punched in the face and wasn’t showered with acid from my conversational partner inexplicably turning into a giant, acid-spitting snake-like creature. Instead, I found out the name of someone, got to know them a bit and had a ready-made excuse to escape when I reached the 15th floor. Ideal.

Over the early days at university, I came to know Cat quite well. Having grown up in a school where interests were divided quite sharply along gender lines — it was also the days before being a geek was “cool”, although the relatively recent introduction of Sony’s PlayStation meant that situation was changing — it was quite surprising to meet someone of the female persuasion who not only tolerated the presence of video games, but also appeared to be genuinely interested in them. We spent many an hour sitting in my room playing Final Fantasy VIII and Point Blank together — to date, I’m not sure I’d ever be able to name Rinoa anything but “Cat” — and we had a most enjoyable time getting through our music (well, English and music in my case) degrees together.

In short, she’s one of those friends that will almost certainly be a constant presence in my life for many years to come yet, and I’m really happy to see her so happy today. I wish her and John a long and happy life together, and that new life for them starts today.

Thanks for a great day, Mr and Mrs Cowe. Have a very happy life!

1743: Sleepless in Perth

Andie and I are having a few nights away from home as we head up to Scotland (and back) for my friend Cat’s wedding. Cat lives in Aberdeen, so it’s quite a trek from the south coast, but we’ve made very good progress today — we got up to Perth by mid-afternoon, leaving us just a couple of hours’ drive to do to get to Aberdeen tomorrow.

Tonight we’re staying in a Premier Inn in Perth. I’d always assumed that Premier Inns were cheap-and-cheerful affairs on a similar level to Travelodge’s grotty-but-convenient charms, but I’ve actually been very impressed so far. The room is really nice — the bed is big (if surprisingly high off the floor), there’s a chaise-longue for reclining on (or for allowing a third person to sleep in the room, should that become necessary), the TV is a nice big Samsung HDTV (and even has extra HDMI, composite, audio and USB inputs built into the wall so you can connect your own devices) and the bathroom is pleasantly shiny, albeit somewhat short on pinchable cosmetic goods and sporting a public toilet-style sheet-by-sheet bog roll dispenser rather than regular toilet rolls.

The restaurant is dubbed Thyme and is open to members of the public who aren’t staying in the hotel. Normally I’d question whether or not anyone would ever want to come to a hotel restaurant if they aren’t staying in the hotel, but after most of a day’s worth of driving, Andie and I decided we didn’t really want to go out in search of dinner, so we went to give it a go — and, you know what? It was actually really, really good. Like, surprisingly so; it wasn’t what I’d call “cheap” but it also wasn’t extortionate hotel prices and, more importantly, it was actually excellent quality food: Andie had a frighteningly gigantic burger while I had, I think, the best rack of ribs I’ve ever had. Not bad for a chain restaurant in a cheapo chain hotel.

It’s almost a shame we don’t have more time to spend just relaxing here, though thankfully we did arrive early enough to be able to just chill out for a few hours without feeling like we immediately need to go to bed. It’s always nice to get away from the daily grind and have a bit of a change of scenery now and then, even if you’re not really doing anything specific while you’re away from home.

Of course, tomorrow we are doing something specific — we’re celebrating my friend’s marriage after a couple of hours’ driving — but for tonight, at least, we can just relax and enjoy that holiday-esque feeling of being far away from home in a comfortable room in a strange city. So I’m off to go and do just that, and try not to think about the exceedingly long drive back we have waiting for us on Tuesday!

1740: It’s Not Friday

This week has been incredibly long. I mean, obviously it hasn’t been any longer than a week normally is (about a week) but it’s felt that way.

Most of this can be attributed to a couple of reasons: firstly, that the place where I usually park my car to go to work (about a 10 minute walk from the office) has been full all week and thus I’ve had to park about half an hour’s walk away instead — not a journey I particularly want to do in the dark of the evening — and secondly, I’ve been having to work an extra hour each day in order to make sure that I actually get suitably compensated (i.e. overtime) for the overnight shenanigans I participated in a few nights ago.

That extra hour makes quite a difference. It doesn’t sound like much, but then when I think about how tired and “I just want to go home”-ish I am at the end of a regular working day, then extend it by a not-insignificant proportion, it’s perhaps unsurprising that the trudge back to the car (almost inevitably in the wind and light drizzle at this time of year — not to mention the dark by the time I get out) is more depressing than any Walk of Shame I’ve ever done. (Not that I’ve done many, to be perfectly frank.)

Time is fluid; I’m utterly convinced of it. I’ve seen it this week, with that last hour seeming to last an eternity and the week, consequently, stretching on for far longer than it normally seems to. And this isn’t the first time I’ve observed it, either; the first time I ever observed this phenomenon was during a German lesson at secondary school where a friend and I happened to comment that German lessons seemed to last twice as long as any other lesson despite actually being the same length. (I set the countdown timer on my digital watch to make it look like time was actually going backwards, which got a good laugh, then got us put into detention for talking when we should have been quiet. Worth it.)

The old saying is, of course, “time flies when you’re having fun” and, frustratingly, it seems to be true. Do something fun and enjoyable and before you know it, it’s time to get up/go to bed/check out/go back to work/put the paddle away. Do something mind-numbingly tedious and time will slow to an almost-standstill. Do something fairly neutral — like, say, going to work — and you’ll find that time probably flows at its normal rate, but compared to the “fun” rate, it seems excruciatingly slow.

Anyway. Regardless of all that nonsense, there’s only one day left in this working week, and then a nice relaxing Saturday awaits. Following that, a solid day of driving up to Scotland awaits, which I’m not looking forward to at all, but the reason we’re going — my friend Cat’s wedding in Aberdeen on Monday — will be worth it. (Hopefully, anyway. I’m doing a reading. I will read the shit out of that poem, just you wait and see.)

For now, then, I think an early night ready to take on the week’s grand finale. What joy will Friday bring? Find out tomorrow, only on your favourite* directionless daily blog!

* Readers are free to find other sites their “favourite” if they wish.

1739: Birthday Cake

It’s my colleague’s birthday tomorrow. She’s bringing in cake — or, more likely, doughnuts, since most of our team is currently scattered far and wide (two of them on another site, one of them on holiday) — because That Is What’s Done Now.

Both she and I discussed this today, and neither of us were sure where this strange tradition came from — but tradition it seemingly is: when it’s your birthday, you are the one who has to bring cake in.

This seems completely counter-intuitive to me, particularly as birthdays are typically accompanied by people buying you a card and, if you’re actually liked by your colleagues and peers, a present or two as well. Is it that unreasonable for the one mourning the passage of another year to expect to be treated to a cake as well?

Apparently so. This is one of those traditions that has sprung up over the last few years and seemingly hasn’t been questioned by anyone. It’s not difficult to understand why: say “no,” you’re not bringing in cake for everyone, and you’re left looking like an asshole, even though, as previously mentioned, it should really be everyone else bringing in cake for you and you alone.

I’m just curious who the first person was to demand that someone celebrating a birthday should bring in cake for everyone. I wonder what response they got. I can only assume a positive one, leading to the situation we’re in now.

Of course, there’s probably another reason why this tradition keeps holding on: it’s actually quite nice to share things, and your birthday is a good opportunity to do so. You get to keep the cool presents for yourself, but cake is an easy means of making people like you, particularly if it’s some sort of awesome cake (or, indeed, box of doughnuts) and not, say, something boring like a fruit cake or a sponge without anything in or on it. (Not that there’s anything wrong with either of those things per se; a birthday is simply a good opportunity to show off your immaculate/questionable taste in cakes, so Mr Kipling just isn’t going to cut it here, Bucko.)

For the last few years, since I’ve been working from home, this hasn’t been an issue for me. Now I’m working in an office, however, it seems I’ll be expected to participate in this sort of silliness or risk being ostracised by my colleagues and peers. (That’s an exaggeration, of course; from what I know of my colleagues and peers they probably wouldn’t ostracise someone over something as petty as cake, though my immediate team does really like cake, so probably best to be safe anyway.)

Still, I won’t complain, because that means when other people’s birthdays roll around, I get free cake. And other people’s birthdays happen more often than my birthday. Which means more cake for everyone.

Oh. Oh. I think I see why this happens now.

1737: Some Days You Just Can’t Get Rid of a Bomb

I had the worst morning today. I say worst; at the time it was happening, it was already apparent to me that the unfortunate combination of mishaps that befell me were the stuff of farce, and looking back now it’s just faintly amusing. But at the time it was spectacularly irritating, and put me in a rather grouchy mood for much of the day.

Things started badly when I woke up at the ungodly hour I need to wake up to go to work and I had a horrible pain in my back that made it difficult to bend over (to put my socks on, pervert) or indeed to operate in a normal manner. After downing a couple of painkillers, the pain subsided a bit, so after a quick breakfast I took to the road, carefully avoiding the bin lorry that had decided the time I was leaving the house was the optimum time to park almost across our driveway.

Five minutes down the road — thankfully no further — I realised that I’d left my work ID badge at home, and I need that to get in and out of the building. Now, I know full well that a little grovelling at the security office would have probably secured me a temporary visitor’s badge to use for the day, but I’m still in that phase where I want to be seen to be doing things “right”, and so back I went to pick up my badge (the lanyard for which also had the key to my desk drawers on it, plus a nice pen). By the time I got out the door again, it was getting on for half an hour later than I’d normally leave for work, and I just knew that this meant I was probably going to hit the pointless, meaningless, seemingly causeless traffic jams that are on the motorway every single day of the working week.

Sure enough, the dear old M27 didn’t disappoint. Much of my journey was capped at about 40mph, often dipping below that, and I wasn’t able to get up any sort of decent speed until the stretch of the motorway where I was almost at work. Time was ticking on by now, however; fortunately, I have fairly flexible hours, so the concept of being “late” is a little more fluid than in many other places, but I was still rather later than I intended to be.

I pulled up at the lorry park where I typically park my car at the start of each working day and prepared to hand over my cash for the week’s parking — though I had noticed several huge containers blocking the small patch of concrete out the front where cars arriving a little later were typically shepherded. I had a sinking feeling.

“We’re full, buddy,” said Lorry Park Man — yes, there are people who really do say “buddy” out loud — and I knew there was no point arguing. Those who pay for weekly tickets were typically given priority over those paying on a daily basis, but I could see from a cursory glance around that there really wasn’t any room to put any more cars — not without putting them at risk from the lorries that the park was actually built for, anyway. I nodded, and Lorry Park Man shrugged apologetically at me, so it was time to go on a small adventure to find somewhere to park.

I eventually found somewhere about a mile up the road from where I work — the lorry park is already about 15 minutes walk, and this was quite a way further — but there was nothing for it; my only other option was to park right in the town centre and have an even longer walk to contend with. No thank you.

I eventually made it to work — still before 9am, pleasingly — and tried to get in my usual door with my ID card. The door was, of course, broken, and I wasn’t even surprised by this by this point, so I simply wandered down to the next one along and went in. Then I sat down at my desk, turned on my computer, fired up Outlook to check my email and was helpfully informed that the server was not responding.

The perfect start to a perfect day, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Thankfully things picked up a little from that point onwards — though I did nearly forget to retrieve my desk keys and had to come back and get them — but man. That was one hell of a lot of bad luck in one go. Hopefully that’ll be it for a little while now; let’s have the rest of the week go a little more smoothly, hmm?

1734: Working Week

I am glad to reach the end of this week — it’s been a long one, largely because of that overnighter I had to pull in the middle; an inconvenience which even having the whole day off yesterday hasn’t quite allowed me to recover completely from. I’m not as young as I once was, I guess.

While I shan’t talk about the job itself — it is generally inadvisable to talk too much about one’s current employer if one wishes to stay employed — I did want to just contemplate how this new chapter in my life is going so far. After all, there’s a significant number of changes here, and while many of my friends and peers have been living this sort of existence for years now — in many cases since the end of university — being in the position of having a “normal” job is still something that is relatively new to me.

I’m enjoying the experience, though. Sure, there are quiet and boring moments, but there’s also a feeling that I’m doing something vaguely useful, and more than that, it’s nice to be around actual real people, even if they’re all busy doing their own things for most of the day.

That, I think, is the thing I missed the most. As something of a self-professed recluse at the best of times, a year or two back I never would have thought that I’d be craving human contact, but towards the end of my time working from home, I was really starting to go just that little bit crazy without having other people around. Sure, I could walk to the shop, but interactions there are fleeting at best, and those who try to strike up conversations with strangers in convenience stores are generally regarded as being somewhat on the fringes of polite society. (Not that my own social anxiety would ever permit me to strike up a conversation with a stranger in a convenience store, anyway; the thought of it is mortifying.)

At work, though, it’s been a pleasure to slot in as part of an existing team. It feels like some people are still coming to realise that I exist, while others have accepted me immediately. I’m particularly grateful for the fact that my immediate team of peers are all extremely nice people that I enjoy spending time with; while our job certainly isn’t miserable or horrendously difficult or anything like that, we form the sort of group that can share both positive and negative experiences together and feel like we have a “bond” of sorts; a sense of camaraderie.

This is, as previously noted, somewhat different to anything I’ve experienced before. In teaching, things varied from being cliquey to “us vs. them”; in retail, there was a sharp divide between the floor staff and management; in the online press, I rarely saw the people I worked with face to face. Here, I see the people I work with — at least those on my immediate team, anyway — every day, and as part of a large company we’re just one part of a whole. It’s an interesting experience, and one that I’m gradually getting used to as the weeks tick by.

I’m pretty sure that I made the right choice to get here. In some respects I’m wishing I’d made it a little sooner.