whatever became of fred the weatherman?

I was pleased I’d had to work on Saturday when I woke up this morning, because tomorrow should have been a day off. Sadly, the chief grumpy old man has hurt his back, so I am going in tomorrow to cover for him. I am disappointed, because I was looking forward to lounging on the sofa with the dog and watching This Morning. There is a phone-in tomorrow on the show, where viewers can vote for which of three celebrities they think a receptionist I work with should be made over in to. This receptionist friend of mine is going to the studio next week to become the celebrity who wins. She has no idea who the three celebrities are yet. It is very exciting. I am secretly hoping she will come back to work as Cher, when Cher used to have big hair and wear leotards.

I haven’t watched This Morning for years, but I have fond memories of skiving off school, catching a train to Liverpool, hanging out at Albert Dock and cheering on Fred the Weatherman as he boldly leapt from England to Ireland and back again on his gigantic floating map of the British Isles. Aparently This Morning isn’t filmed in Liverpool anymore. It is filmed in London. Fred the Weatherman is no longer on the show, and neither are Richard and Judy. All of this I learned this week, and was even more disappointed than when I found out I have to wake up early and go to work tomorrow. I feel incredibly old. I feel like skiving off work tomorrow to make me feel young again.

i’ll be a corpse in your bathtub

It has been a mixed week. I had been feeling non-specifically sad since returning from my best friend’s last week. Going back to work only made me feel worse, because work is a sad place to be at the moment. It has been like that for a while, and a lot of people have left, which has only made it more sad. I am planning to leave in two years time, but this week has been one of those weeks when two years seems like light years away.

I blame much of this non-specific sadness of mine on Philippe Petit. I haven’t been right since I went to see Man On Wire at the Light House the other week. It was a brilliant film, but it made me feel not imaginative or daring or French enough. I am not suggesting I want to walk a tightrope between the Twin Towers. That would be impossible, of course, in more ways than one, besides which it has already been done. I want to do something different, that’s all, for no reason, just because — something imaginative and daring, and preferably French. I haven’t thought of anything good so far, but I am working on it.

This week hasn’t been all bad. On Thursday night I went to my brilliantly-named friend’s house for supper (bangers and mash, roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding and cauliflower cheese, plus chocolate fudge cake and custard for dessert), and talked about knitting and Heroes a lot. Last night I watched some new episodes of Heroes while I unravelled and re-knitted a scarf. Today I went to look at some houses with my brother and his wife. I have a feeling I will feel much less non-specifically sad once I escape the one-woman stomping herd of screaming ‘asthmatic’ chain-smoking elephants that is my upstairs neighbour, with any luck in less than two years time.

i am not sure i want to believe

I have survived my first week back at work. I am getting used to being dizzy. Whenever I move, I feel a bit like I am on a boat. But I have stopped being seasick now, and am unfazed when a wall or the floor rushes at me, as they are wont to do if I move too suddenly or fast. It really is possible to get used to anything, given time.

My UFO friend and I went to Dudley after work on Wednesday. We sat in a pub called the Bostin Fittle for several hours. ‘Bostin Fittle’ is a brilliant name for a pub. I was hungry for the first time in weeks, and ate a great big spicy bean burger and chips. Then my friend and I went to the cinema to see the new X Files film. It was bad, but not as bad as I thought it might be. It was silly, but more than anything I thought it was sad. Mulder and Scully seemed old, tired, slow and depressed. Scully’s face didn’t look quite right in a (I’m guessing) plastic surgery kind of way, and Mulder’s was wider than before. He looked better with a beard. There were no aliens, but, predictably, there were bad Russians. Not so predictably, there was a Rottweiler body with a Staffordshire Bull Terrier head grafted on at the neck, which reminded me of my dog, sort of.

I am glad I went to see the film, mostly because now I have watched all nine seasons again plus both of the films, I feel ready to get on with the rest of my life, at long last. I’m not sure about wanting to believe, but there are a lot of other things I want to do. I want to finish reading The Manuscript Found in Saragossa. I want to knit an alien illusion scarf. I want to put together the next issue of The Elephant Returns. I want to hurry up and pass those exams so I can go back to Japan. I seem to want to do something new every day at the moment. I was watching the Olympics earlier, and decided I want to be a Chinese gymnast. Who knows, maybe a good shake is what my vestibular system needs.

a death in the afternoon

Yesterday was manual handling day at work, which is not nearly as exciting as it sounds. I am pleased to report that I was neither one of the two over-enthusiastic manual handlers who ripped their trousers at the crotch as they lowered themselves to pick up their load, suitably bent at their knees, of course, with legs spread unnaturally wide. One good thing about manual handling was that the course was held outside in the sunshine. Another was that it got us out of real work for the afternoon.

Not that I’m supposed to work in the afternoon (well, after two, anyway), but still. I left at about four. The trains were delayed because of a ‘fatality’ further up the line. The platform was crowded with people who were complaining amongst themselves about ‘selfishness’ and ‘disruption’ and so on. Apparently someone had jumped in front of a train. I wondered what might go through the mind of someone who chooses to jump in front of a train on a glorious summer afternoon. I couldn’t stop wondering about it all the way home. For one reason or other, I seem to be thinking about death a lot lately.

I got home just before six, had a bath, walked to the station again, and caught a train three quarters of the way back to work. I went out last night with some people from work, plus three people who have recently left. We went out for pizza. I manually handled an avocado, pine nut and spinach salad, cheese and tomato (sorry, Margherita) pizza, plus cheese cake with ice cream into my gaping maw. I was starving. It was about nine o’clock by the time our starters arrived. The three people who have left work recently didn’t seem much happier than the rest of us. I don’t know if that is a good or a bad thing. Apart from making this observation, I talked a lot of arse, and made a pact with someone not to eat any more crap at work.

My brother sent a text as I was on my way home again. My brother kept the dog company for most of yesterday. He texted to say he had just taken the dog back to my flat, because the dog seemed bored. The dog always seems bored. My brother also offered to pick me up from the station. I am usually stubborn about walking back from the station, especially after eating too much food, but I graciously accepted last night, because I’d had enough of walking to and from the station by then, and also because it was pouring with rain.

I curled up with the dog when I got home at around eleven thirty. The dog seemed pleased to see me and went to sleep with his head resting on my big fat pizza belly. I read Yuriko Takeda’s Fuji Diary for a little while. I stopped when I got to the part where her dog dies. That part gets me every time. I didn’t want to think about death any more last night, so I put the book down and went to sleep instead.

refrigerators revisited

I was kind of depressed this weekend, or maybe I really was, I don’t know. Something horrible happened at work last week. I tried to forget about it, but all I could think about all weekend was how much I wanted to not have to go back to that place ever again.

But I had to go back this morning, of course. When I got in, someone who’d been away asked me how last week was, and I burst into tears and ranted for a while. I felt a bit better after that. Today wasn’t too bad. I still want to leave, but it doesn’t feel quite as urgent any more. I walked out of my last job eight years ago after something similarly bad happened. I don’t regret it, but I am going to try to leave in a more controlled manner this time.

Anyway, I had a crap weekend, so I am giving myself a day off studying today.

*

One good thing happened last week, and that was getting paid. I ordered eight books from Japan on Wednesday, and they arrived today. I left work almost on time for once, with my rucksack satisfyingly laden with books. Rather than going straight home, I went to the Lighthouse to see Me, My Fridge & I, that exhibition I couldn’t get in to the other Saturday. I liked it. There was a portrait of each of the people who live on their own in their favourite room, plus photos of their kitchen and the inside of their fridge. There was also a transcript of their interview with the photographer. One of the questions the photographer always asked was whether these people ever did anything mad because they live on their own. There wasn’t anyone like me who acts out Waiting for Godot for the benefit of their dog and their cat, but there was someone who makes himself sneeze because he likes that sensation you get just beforehand. I think I know what he means. I wonder how he makes himself sneeze, though. Perhaps he snorts black pepper. I might have to try that some time.

Here are a few things I noticed about the photos. The people who seemed the happiest had the messiest kitchens and fridges. The one item of food that was in practically everyone’s fridge was yoghurt. The cat I live with appeared to be sitting on a shelf in someone called Jeremy’s kitchen. Jeremy’s kitchen was one of the messiest, and it was my favourite, I think. Apparently Jeremy often dances in there. There were dirty dishes everywhere in Jeremy’s little kitchen, an ironing board (he must have been ironing his trousers when the photographer turned up), and newspaper all over the floor. In his fridge, there was watercress, celery (I think), half a broccoli, a swede, eggs, at least two different types of Flora, courgettes, a bowl with something pink in (jelly?), loads of carrots, a few potatoes, and some kind of smoked fish from Sainsbury’s, possibly mackerel. There were also some onion peels. Jeremy was about the only person who didn’t have yoghurt in his fridge.

I spent almost an hour at the exhibition, reading the interviews and looking at the photos. Nobody else was in the gallery, but a man was talking very loudly on a phone in the box office next door, about something to do with films and the format they have to be submitted in, I didn’t really understand.

On my way home, I bumped into a receptionist from one of the places I worked for about six months when I first moved to the town, before I settled where I work now. The last time I bumped into her was the day the nightclub near the Lighthouse burnt down, which must be about two years ago, at least. I like this receptionist, and I stood around gossiping with her for almost another hour. We were so engrossed in our conversation, we didn’t notice we were standing on the tram line until we were almost run over by a tram.

Afterwards, I rushed home. The dog and the cat were looking out of the window together, waiting for me. There are books everywhere and my flat is a mess, but I am happy today. It’s been a good day.

one angry dwarf and 200 solemn faces

It was my turn to look after the emergency service again this afternoon. I wandered into the library on my way to the train station and looked for Ballboy in the music section. Thanks to Belle and Sebastian, I’ve been in the mood for listening to Ballboy since sometime last week, but I discovered last night that my CD of their first three EPs won’t play, for some reason. Ballboy is another Scottish band with inspired song titles, like ‘Donald in the Bushes with a Bag of Glue’, ‘Sex is Boring’, and ‘Essential Wear for Future Trips to Space’. But I couldn’t find Ballboy in the B section at the library, so I borrowed some Ben Folds Five and Frank Black instead.

The big, annual conference for sad people who do the same job as me has been on since last Wednesday, and when I was making my way to the bus stop after I got off the train, the streets were packed with overenthusiastic people in fluffy jumpers and corduroy trousers, with purple scrunchies in their hair and bright red rucksacks on their backs. I was just thinking how maybe working today was better than having to dive behind pot plants every five minutes to hide from unfortunate people I don’t want to speak to, when I saw three such people who were in my year at college heading straight at me. I had to think fast. There weren’t any pot plants, so I hid behind a statue instead. I don’t think they saw me. I couldn’t be bothered with anyone at college apart from my best friend, and these days I can be bothered even less to pretend to be friends with people I have nothing in common with, or nothing interesting in common with, anyway.

Whether it was because of the football or the Grand National, it was dead at work this afternoon, so for the most part I sat around upstairs talking to the others about karate and marshmallows, amongst other things. Deathly quiet is better than run off your feet, of course, but I prefer something in between, and I didn’t think this afternoon would ever end. Towards the end of the shift, I suddenly started to feel overwhelmingly tired and dizzy, and when I stood up because I finally had something to go and do downstairs, I felt about eight feet tall. I am five feet and three and a half inches tall, so eight feet felt like a long way up, and I thought I was going to be sick. This kind of thing happens to me from time to time, and more than anything else it makes me cross, because I feel cheated. If I wanted to feel like this I would get drunk. But I stopped drinking five years ago, so it doesn’t seem fair I should have to feel this way now.

I made it to six o’clock without falling over, thankfully. Back in town, I spotted the odd bright red rucksack, but there weren’t nearly as many about as before. Or maybe there were, but I didn’t see them. I couldn’t look up very often, because the hail that was pelting down from the sky hurt my face too much. My brother came and picked me up from the train station, so I didn’t have to walk all the way home. The dog and the cat both seemed more pleased to see me than usual. I suspect it was only because they were hungry, but I was touched, all the same. I like the dog, and even the cat, a lot more than I like most people, especially myself. I am less tired and dizzy now, but my fingers are buzzing. I am going to try my best to have a lie in tomorrow. I can’t remember the last time I had a lie in.

hang your head in shame and cry your life away

I have been listening to Belle and Sebastian’s EPs a lot this week. I have had their songs with pithy one-liners like ‘I was surprised, I was happy for a day in 1975’, and ‘There are people going hungry far away, they’ve got nothing on their plates, and you’re filling your fat face with every different kind of cake’, and ‘Stuart’s staying in and he thinks it’s a sin that he has to leave the house at all’ going round and round inside my head. It’s been that kind of week. I got in a fight with one of the punters at work on Monday. I snapped at one of the grumpy old men on Thursday. Today, I have been thinking bad thoughts about somebody else closer to home. Thinking bad thoughts about this person brought more Belle and Sebastian to mind, titles of their songs this time — ‘Judy is a Dickslap’, for instance, or ‘Take Your Carriage Clock and Shove It’. The person who I’ve been thinking bad thoughts about isn’t called Judy, but their name rhymes with Judy, or at least I can make it, sort of.

I am generally pretty good at keeping the bad thoughts I think about people to myself, and usually they don’t last for long. But on Monday and yesterday I didn’t manage to keep them to myself, and the bad thoughts I have been thinking today won’t go away. They won’t go away, but they are shifting, and now I am starting to think bad thoughts about myself. This is what always happens. I feel justified to begin with, but I wind up feeling guilty. Eventually, I feel guilty enough to apologize, but when I do people have either forgotten I was horrible in the first place, didn’t even notice, or they don’t know what I am talking about because I never actually said anything in so many words. Which only makes me feel worse. I don’t know why it makes me feel worse, exactly. It might have something to do with the fact that people are so nice about how horrible I am. I think I’d feel a bit better if people were horrible back.

Apart from that, this week has been okay. In between the bad thoughts, I have been reasonably content. I noticed the daffodils are out in the Cholera Pit today. I don’t think they were out yesterday, but they might have been. Also, I have lived in Britain for exactly twenty-three years today. We moved here from Japan on this day in 1985. I can’t remember what I was like in 1985. I was probably about the same as I am now, only smaller, and I had better eyesight back then.

brain fog, a bad day for caring, mason & dixon

I had to work this afternoon. My eyes opened at six but I felt all foggy in my head when I tried to get up, so I stayed in bed until eight. When I went outside with the dog it was foggy out there, too, and it was hard to know where the inside of my head ended and the real world began.

I work for a big charity and it so happened that the winter newsletter from head office came in the post this morning. On the front page was an even more sanctimonious than usual message to the masses from the Director General, or God, as she is better known, entitled ‘If Only…’ If only they understood, if only they cared, she evangelized. Oh, please. Why am I reading this? If only I didn’t have to go to work, I thought.

I fought my way through the heaving crowds to get there, and my shift began with a full scale riot in the waiting room. The punters started having a go at each other, and when they got bored of that they hurled abuse at us. I am convinced that there is something about Christmas that turns people into wankers. The first man I called in got angry with me because I couldn’t do everything he wanted me to do then and there. ‘I can’t come back in on Monday!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve got things to do! Don’t you realize it’s Christmas?’ I started to explain what the emergency service was for, but he didn’t want to know. ‘I thought you were supposed to care!’ he barked, and stormed out.

The thing is, when I think about it for a minute, the job I do is pretty cool. I have to admit that I like what I do. And in my own way, I really do care. But I feel stupid saying that. Caring to me isn’t something you tell people you do. It certainly isn’t a competition. I don’t think I care any more or less than the next person. Everyone cares — if they didn’t care about something, they wouldn’t get up in the morning. They probably wouldn’t even be alive. So when people accuse me of not caring or tell me I should care more, I get confused. I have given up trying to work out what they mean. If I thought too hard about it, I could well stop caring.

Anyway, I didn’t get away from work when I was supposed to, but eventually I did, and on the bus back into town I started reading Thomas Pynchon’s Mason & Dixon, which I bought yesterday thinking I needed a big story I could get lost in while the rest of the world is busy celebrating Christmas or fighting or whatever. So far, so good. After I got off the bus, as I wandered past the ice skaters and shuffled through all the drunk people at the German market towards the train station, in my head I finished writing a story I thought of last night. I might try writing it down for real tomorrow, if I care enough to get up, that is.