Simplicity

Simple things make me happy. Today I decided to remove my record player from its precarious position on wobbly floorboards. This involved a trip to two DIY shops.
 
First stop H*****e. On first appearances this shop appears well stocked, yet it is only a facade of shiny foolsgold. I approach the aisle of wall brackets and my heart sinks. These won't do at all, as a man I demand something more substantial, with cross bracing perhaps?
 
This shop is not for me. I know I have good DIY skills, the trouble occurs when I send the signals from my brain to my hands. I need to be treated seriously regardless of my (self diagnosed) learning difficulties. I need to go to a serious shop, one that sells big pieces of wood with enough power tools to keep the A-Team happy.
 
So I make my way to a DIY superstore, W****s. This is more like it. A ceiling so high you can see cloud formations, acres of wood and nuts and bolts and spanners.
Then the fear kicks in, I'm here to buy some brackets and fixings, however I'm surrounded by hairy men buying whole forests. How can I compete?
 
My panic recedes as I find the necessary goods, it only took 20 minutes. If I had asked it may have been quicker. But asking was not an option, asking is an admission of weakness, I couldn't show weakness amongst these hairy apes, my kin.
 
I return home carrying my purchases like the spoils of war or a dead stag, my mouth red with the blood of its succulent liver. I went into the world of the hairy beasts and I survived. Grrrrr.
 
Now to work. The wood I have selected for my shelf is a piece of kitchen worktop rescued from a skip. The problem's of putting up my shelf have just begun.
 
1- The wall is wonky.
I bodge my way through this one with a combination of brute force and swearing through gritted teeth, noble and endearing abilities.
 
2- My drill bit isn't long enough (a sad confession).
More brute force and chipped plaster.
 
3- I only have two hands
Sadly only more swearing could rectify this one.
 
Finally my work is complete. With trepidation I place my spirit level on the finished article.
 
I am victorious, gaze upon my triumph and weep. I have defied the gods of bad walls and cock eyed surfaces.
 
My turntable now sits on a shelf isolated from (most) vibration. I turn it on for the moment of truth, argh! it sounds f****ed up.
Oh bollocks, the stylus needs changing.

Fevered Imaginings

October the 20th 1889, the Thames estuary. The sea mist hung heavy on the land, the rising sun struggled to be seen. The gentle sound of oars the only noise beside the early morning squawking and chattering of the sea birds.

A small ruggedly built rowing boat appeared in view, expertly manoeuvred into one of the myriad creeks of the estuary marshes. The boat neared the rudely built landing stage. The hooded figure within threw me the rope, which I hastily knotted to a piling. I offered my hand to the figure, he declined and deftly climbed onto the walkway.

The figure stood little more than five foot tall, with the appearance of a stocky build. Though this was impossible to tell as the figure was clad in a hooded gown. Another aspect of this figure compelled me to revulsion, an odour emanated from the figure. It was an odour that led a mans instincts to tell him to flee, but I had to hold firm.

"Pluss shurr, coom viff me" the figure commanded in an unearthly tongue.
"Show yourself to me" I responded in what I hope was a composed manner.
The figures hood was removed. At this point all composure left me. The removal of the hood revealed an abomination against nature, for this figure was no man. The face was that of a nightmarish creature amphibian in nature. I drew my pistol and fired three times into what I hoped was its chest. The creature emitted a shriek primeval in its vileness, at this point it slipped into the brackish water of the estuary and was lost to this world.

Night Shift

A nauseating tube ride always proceeds my night shifts.
Travelling underground has always disturbed me, underground is the realm of half blind creatures not a place for men.

Even on Sunday night people fill the carriages, it always amazes me that so many people have something to do at all hours in this filthy city.

Soon my destination arrives have to be first out of the doors, first in the lift and first through the ticket barrier. I'm in no hurry to work, though pathetically these small victories boost my ego. I may not own my home or be driving a BMW but I sure as hell know how to come first on public transport.

Onwards to work for my lonesome night shift. I arrive to be hassled straight away by the residents of the hostel in which I work. "can I have a cup?", "I'm bored" etc.
Don't get me wrong I like helping people, but some of the residents seem to think they're living in the Hyde Park Hilton and I'm some kind of bellboy.

Come one AM and that hostel soon settles down for the night. This is now my time. I surf the net, I read a book, try to stay awake. Working alone at night can't be healthy especially as sleep deprivation does crazy things to your line of thought. Come four AM I'll start believing I've wasted my life and maybe I should become a monk.

Soon daylight appears and birds start to sing. London is revealed anew. Dawn is beautiful, the light has an otherworldly quality. Soon I must fight my way through the rush hour and collapse into the warm embrace of my bed.