Beeped hello at the local racist as I drove past him walking his dog, or hobbling with his dog as he has a walking stick that he brandished aloft in response to my beep, only then I thought he could fall over, which I might remember for next time I beep him.
Our neighbours’ van for their co-owned business is still in the back lane. They must be at home, on a working day. They must be AT IT.
Then I see Crawcrook’s angriest tiler doing a paint job on Doreen’s iron fence. Maybe I should remind him to keep his temper, but conclude this might set him off. He is unstable after all. I choose to leave him be, and for that, I am grateful to my own better judgement.
Queue out the fucking door at the pie-shop, where I’d gone to get my ration plus some black pudding for the hounds, cos some old bat won’t stop nattering with the Womble-butcher, even then she forgets half her order so has to biddy back in ‘owwo wow wowo wow, biddy biddy biddy’ bollockery. What was the name of that helmet-headed robot off Buck Rogers, who is so alike Theresa May?
Point being, you’d think people circling the drain like this might spend their last days doing something better than pottering, not even pottering, faffing as if it’s a fine art. The end of the line is well and truly in sight, those buffers you see just ahead, you’re piling straight into them and it’s a one-sided collision, trust me, so all those incredible things you’ve put off, better get on it.
That said, maybe they’re all artists at heart and this semi-professional biddying/pottering/faffing is a prolonged piece of performance art.
Not that prolonged, mind. *ROFLCOPTER.
Just realised something else. I’ve got a load of work come in, editing, a bit of writing, an evening as an extra in Hartlepool, adds up to £1,200. Great. But this is averaged over weeks, months. It’s shit. I’m sick of being poor. I fucking hate being poor. Twelve years ago I was on, all things considered, over £40k – at the time. What the Hell did I spend it on? Where’s all my money gone? How the fuck do I get by now? Well shove it, frankly.
MISSION: I’m going to fuck off out of here and earn a stack doing great things. No biddy in a pie-shop will dare hold me up.