I am writing this in my friend Christopher's back bedroom. No, I haven't changed my guard, I am still resolutely two legs please, umpire. This is his office and is where I do most of my timewasting until I can afford to get my laptop fixed and some form of electrical communication piped into my own little house.
One of the most delightful things about this room is that it overlooks an infant school and its playground. That statement is, I am certain, enough to have MI5 dripping buckets of anticipatory sweat and I suspect that this particular internet connection will soon become even slower than it already is as every outgoing packet is Cravendaled (filtered for purity). I also suspect that anyone reading this will suffer guilt by association. My apologies, I have nothing to hide.
No, there is a school playground and it is full of laughing, singing and playing children and it is heartening as well as joyous to behold. Sadly, this is where I come over all Michael Douglas as William Foster-y again. Again. I live in a world where it is all but illegal to look at children. There are few sounds as evocative and sentimental as the sound of children playing; doubly so if you've been a parent and your children are, as mine, either absent and/or grown up. And as I pull back the lace curtain to catch a better glimpse I am aware that maybe I've been seen and sadly let the curtain fall back. Had I been seen I am sure that pound to a penny, I would have been immediately judged and judged totally incorrectly. However, what struck me in the brief seconds I watched them was that these children, running around in the fresh air with the few props available to them were inventive, clever and intuitive. They laughed and played, as generations of kids have done before them, with their wits and imagination completely unfettered. Pure unadulterated creativity. It was reassuring to see this as we have been led to believe that the last few generations of children we've produced have the imagination of paving slabs and capable of only marginally more mobility. If only they would stay full of this joy and wonder before we adults spoil them with our own fears. We coop up them up, supposedly - and in the face of overwhelming odds against them being harmed in any way - afraid for their liberty and safety yet it's that action that eventually ruins them and turns them into the sad, scary, moping adults we ask them to eventually avoid. Playgrounds and playing fields, fresh air and freedom. Get it while you still can.
With regard to the previous post and the general knobheadery prevailing in society, I was listening to the very funny comedian Miles Jupp the other evening on the digital wireless BBC No 7. His skit involved the story of how he once missed an EasyJet flight to Edinburgh from London even though he'd arrived on time. His booking confirmation letter said he had to arrive at least 30 minutes before departure. He arrived with a little over 30 minutes to spare only to find the check-in closed. When he complained he was told that latest check-in was now 45 minutes before departure at which point he showed the customer services idiot the letter. He was still within the alloted time. "That must have been written on old paper".
I am wondering whether the cocksock he spoke to was related to Carole (real name. Sue me) in the Crewe Jobcentre Plus, from whose desk I managed to walk away from at 4.25pm yesterday with my temper and upper limbs barely under control. Carole, you condescending and patronising arse-bitch from Hades, the people you deal with are at the end of their tethers; they have neither job nor money; they want to be treated with understanding, empathy and with a good deal of humility. In the normal run of things they wouldn't be anywhere near this end of Delamere Road. Moreover, they are jealous of you because you have a job. Do your job as though you value it and treat us as human beings, not as another notch towards your next target. The people you are processing used to pay taxes. Those taxes enabled you to have a job. Your job relies on the continued misfortune of others, be thankful.
Yes, I am angry.
This morning I went over to Sharon's at sparrowfart to see in the man who was fitting a dog flap in the back door. I don't do these jobs anymore. While I am fairly useful with my hands, I am a shit magnet and have a knack of turning a small job into an epic (I know, Carol, you got your house redecorated on the insurance). Anyway, it was not before time for while quite cheerful, poor Poppy currently has raging diarrhoea and has embarrassed herself several times over the last couple of days. There was another pool to wipe up this morning when I arrived and I was naturally, quite upset. More poo. Until, that is, I got home and found a letter from the Department of Work and Pensions telling me they were sending me a nice little cheque as they had forgotten to pay my Carer's Allowance bonus at Christmas. Considering Sharon and I parted company a few days after Christmas and I stopped officially "caring", this was something of a welcome and totally unexpected surprise. I think I'll blow it all on the lottery.