(Lesbian) holiday fever

Thursday is my new favourite day of the week. The anticipation of Friday is one of the nicest feelings I experience during the week. By around Thursday lunchtime I’m positively tingling, the excitement buzzing like a swarm of wasps, at the prospect of the weekend to come. When my Thursday 5-a-side football team was conquering the Thursday night league the elation became almost unmanageable. Luckily for the work part of my life balance, we’ve slipped a few places, of late.

However, this Thursday is Maundy Thursday and Praise the Lord, it’s a half day for Government slaves such as me. That means courtesy of my new shift pattern, I’ll be out of the office at 11am, and in a car on the M3 heading for Kernow by early afternoon. Cue untold amounts of waspish hyperactivity inside my hive-like head. I’m starting to feel dizzy already. Thank you Jesus – I can’t wait…

…To get away from work for a few days. It’s definitely time for a holiday. That’s not to say that I don’t like work – I do, especially since I just moved desks and am still enjoying the novelty value my new position holds. But desk honeymoon aside, it’s been a while since I had a holiday of any kind. As a result I’m starting to view the much loved mundanity of my daily routine with a twinge of ennui rather than the preferred bushy-tailed excitement.

Par example. Last week I find myself getting a little tetchy with the buxom Afro Caribbean woman who works in the Strutton Ground branch of Eat, who looks at me strangely and smirks every time I ask for a Mocha Chiller between the months of October and March. Usually I chuckle and take it as a compliment – Mocha Chillers still taste the same, even if it is minus two degrees outside; It’s her that’s odd not me. If anything I’m helping my body’s homeostasis by imbibing things at the natural temperature for this time of the year.

Also, a couple of days ago I found myself getting unnaturally irritable with a human hairball on the tube. Generally, I’m less-than-tolerant of people with long hair on the tube – why do those loose strands always try to attach themselves to my coat? I can see them drifting towards me, even if the owner is motionless. What’s worse is when people do a shampoo advert style flick of the head in a bid to show you just how ‘worth it’ their hair is. ‘Fly-Away’ is the expression, I believe – well, I wish it would fly-away from where I’m standing…

Honestly, sometimes I feel like a statically-charged balloon that’s been rubbed against a pair football shorts at great speed – attracting hairs like a magnet hoovering up spilt iron filings.

Usually, I manage to contain my lack of tolerance for long hair, hissing under my breath with great subterfuge and internalising the rampaging fireball of fury that is burning like the Wickerman within. Unfortunately, this time I’m sure the loud tutting noise my brain spontaneously discharged, was clearly audible. It just slipped out, like an inopportune fart, and combined with the Look of Death I gave the poor lady, made sure my feelings were not so much being worn, as being given a full-scale advertising campaign on my sleeve. Oh, if only she hadn’t turned round to look for the source of that ‘tut’…

The only explanation I can suggest for this lack of tolerance is my dire need of a break from London. When otherwise innocuous people on the tube are making me almost as angry as do the smarmy money-grabbers on daytime BBC’s ‘Homes Under the Hammer’, holiday must be actioned ASAP.

And, while I’m on the subject of Homes Under the Hammer, I might just add one more little rant before I pack bags and hit the M3, along with every other run-down, overworked, stressed out Londoner and his dog. When I was off work with a sick-bug last week I found myself watching this ‘delightful’ programme. The tales of “Mr and Mrs X who were proudly adding a 39th property to their property portfolio” and “Mr Y who wasn’t sure if his wealth was closer to five or six-billion, but had just bought a disused factory in Shorediotch for a few million quid,” make my blood evaporate. Good for him, and for them. Now they can relax their fat balding asses safe in the knowledge that despite having no personality, taste or disposable income, they are wealthy. I’m sure they will sleep well on those firm mattresses of cash. Am I jealous? No. Am I taking unnatural amounts of umbridge with these property hoarding pigs? Probably, but then a bit of healthy passion for a cause is no bad thing. Read my letter to the Camden New Journal for my wider views on property pigs.

Ah, not even the classical music that’s played on an ad hoc basis at Charing Cross tube station in the mornings could soothe the prickly fury I have developed for this issue. It’s a lucky tramp that wakes up to Bach on a cold winter weekday morning…

Other things that are currently ‘wearing thin’ include the broken ‘exit’ door in the Tesco Metro on Trafalgar Square that I forget to avoid on an almost daily basis. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve slammed into it – and I’m still not sure who is receiving more damage – if the dramatic sound effects are any indicator of pending injury then the door is fucked, although more realistically I fear shoulder dislocation beckons.

There’s also the mechanical fault that seems to blight the left-side escalator at K-Town tube station when it’s not plaguing the one at Pimlico. I’m certainly not averse to running up escalators but walking down a static one always makes me feel a little uneasy. If it was to suddenly spring into action I’d be dead, or worse still, facially disfigured by the inevitable nose dive. Hence the need to pussyfoot down it like a ballerina, wasting valuable commuting time. Grrrr…and don’t even get me started on slow-moving people.

In fact, the only part of my daily weekday routine I don’t seem to be able to get sick of is incessantly listening to Paul Simon. Why is that? My near fanatical addiction to his music perplexes me as much as my irrational anxiety problem. I know it’s something to do with living in London but I doubt I’ll ever really understand why it is that being out of reach of the Northern Line makes me feel a bit panicky yet wandering around other random cities with no direct transport links to K-Town is fine.

Nor will I reconcile how I happily (and regularly) eat croissants from the open basket in the Trafalgar Square Tesco, knowing full well they have been fingered by numerous members of the public, not to mention the grubby-pawed Tesco staff, yet I religiously observe sell by dates, await Norovirus when I even hear the word mentioned and panic at the slightest hint of a stomach pain. Come and get me disease!

I remember with incredulity the time I pulled my stomach muscles after doing jumping header practice at football one Saturday – I sat and awaited with dread the inevitable food poisoning, which thankfully never came…

I even forgot to say, “Wow,” when I walked through St James’s Park this morning and caught sight of the view of Whitehall from the bridge at the Buckingham Palace end of the Park. It’s like something even Disney couldn’t make up. But no wow. Yes, I really do need a break from London…


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