Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Bit of a miserable bugger today

'What the hell is wrong with me?' I wonder to myself as I sit at the computer in work, strangely unable to leave my desk to go home. But inwardly I know. Since yesterday, almost two weeks on, this self-imposed ban has been getting to me.

When eventually I leave, the office is totally devoid of other humans, and I sigh a little self-pityingly to mine self.

'Everyone else has a life' I think, jabbing the button for the lift a little too angrily.

Bump into a colleague downstairs, who proceeds to have a lovely chat on her mobile to her son. 'Why don't I feel like having a kid, maybe that might help' I consider, as she chats away. From the doorway of Madigans, a dodgy pub on Abbey Street, a heavily pregnant woman stumbles, and I reconsider.

The bus takes ages, and then the driver is one of those deliriously bubbly types who knows everyone and must screech to a halt at regular junctures to shout 'What the fcck are you doing here, you Ccnt?!' in a jovial manner.

I'm getting sick of my cynacism at this stage, and endeavour to quiet my little rain-cloud of doom by reading the Village.

Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy the Village, it's probably my favourite Irish publication at the moment (not that that is much of a compliment, as I'm currently going through a sneer-fest of sorts towards Irish publications - but don't mind me, I'm not the worlds brightest on what should be considered an erudite recontre of topical world events, especially given my geographic dyslexia and general attention span of a dying flea, but I digress).

Anyway, even the Village is making me tired and bored of Ireland. Even the sun, which is streaming in the windows of the 19 bus, even the gang of teens down the back, who (surprisingly aren't smoking smack) are quoting witty quips in normal people (as opposed to skang) Dublin accents from one of my fav films Zoolander, serve to annoy me.

As I get closer to home, my mood deteriorates.

Before my bus-stop the (sappy) bus-driver really annoys me with his attempt to bunny-hop over the ramps and his overly enthusiastic taking of corners. I revolt by not saying 'thank you' - ha, bet you felt the burn driver.

At the bus-stop the woman ahead of me is deserving of derision due to her white coat with it's sort of patterned effect. I'm not quite why, as now that I think about it, it was a nice coat, but for some reason this is just the icing on the day I've had.

Inside the house, I flail around in a manner befitting Harry Enfield's Kevin character. I sit down, stand up, ring my friend, moan, sit down, read the Village, stand up, cook pasta, and wander aimlessly between kitchen and sitting-room.

Now I'll come clean. All the time I'm suffering from withdrawal symptoms.

But nothing will help. I smoke a cigarette and read the Review from last Saturday's Guardian, doesn't work. I flail some more. Still it stares at me, even when I'm not in the room. With it's big shiny glass paned face, it says 'Come on Aoife'. It tries to lull me in, saying 'you know we're better when we're hanging out together. I'll make you forget everything'.

I run screaming (silently - and not so much a run as a sort-of-walk-stagger, don't want to be too dramatic), and fumble about, eventually writing this rambling diatribe.

But I know it's down there. In the sitting-room. Willing me to turn it on. Heaven (or the TV guide) only knows what Property or Kids Acting Out or CSI programme is lurking inside to lull me into a soma-like dream.

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I am not a miserable bugger today but when I am its nice to know that I am not the only one. Usually am a miserable bugger though. its this job its driving me crazy
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