Right... write, right?

So this is it, a notepad for getting back into writing, and noticing how fat (or unco-ordinated) my fingers are, as I mangle the keyboard, and have to correct myself every few words. A feeling not dissimilar to being back at school, but the ball breaker correcting me is neither teacher nor mother, but my own stupid head. Fucksticks. And what to write?

Well, it's been a strange old week. Not in the epic Jim Cameron way, but strange for me, in the only way it can be in real life. No action, whatsoever, certainly not. Not even a poorly contrieved plot about terminators/aliens/lies of the truest nature/sinking ships/aliens of the bluest nature, or any minute of 2 hours of blu-ray extras padding out out any of these ideologies. Even one instance of that would rock on a wholly gratificating, yet strangely hollow level. But no, and I digress. Must check the meaning of that word later.

So, left to my own devices for a few days or a week, things come a little unstuck. The girlfriend is away, I've the place to myself, and I've started actually thinking. Stupidly.

And it started so well, I went to see some friends for Easter weekend, some old comrades from the failed Uni experiment. A good old weekend of fine whiskeys (some fine single malt, and a few tasty genuine bourbons), metal (from blues to doom) and chatter (chatter). I'm not even particularly a massive fan of any of the above any more, but it was a good tonic to the daily life, where I am now. You know, the 'grown up' bit where you commit to a job/career/way of life after you burn out_

_Burn out_ That bit after your teens where you step back and go "Holy fuck, that was intense", where you reminisce about loving every minute, but can't actually remember a single minute, apart from the character arc of every role in Buffy and getting a really high score in Tony Hawks. Yes you do, don't leave me hangin'! Oh. _

Easy to get lost, I apologise. But there I was. Catching up on old times, hearing how great everyone's ( ' in the possesive- not ' meaning 'is', grammar fools) fucking job was and I was selling myself short the whole time. Someone's looking to get into Social Care and whatnot, and I'm mumbling about my job like it's nothing. Why do that, my job does the same thing they're on about, surely? I work for a company that offers a basic health check to prevent one of the biggest killers of the over 50's. Well, one of the biggest after hoodies and Johnny Foreigner, obviously. Oh, And the Winter. Brrrr.

Maybe I'm not the actual ultrasound tech pointing out the blocked artery, or even meeting them at all, but I'm the Man who finds and books the venue that they go to. Even if they are fine they won't suggest to their friends a basic scan unless I find somewhere nice. And under budget for the numbercrunchers. Crikers. An underpaid, marginally important job, no wonder I'm waiting for a medal!

So, rant all I like, we're getting nowhere here. A good enough weekend. Nay, a great weekend, despite better instincts, and then home.

Back to an empty flat, and that worked well for the first day and a bit, where I repaired, rested and indeed recuperated before going to work.

Day and a half of shaking from the DT's, and we're back in business. Well, after the sorry episode of falling asleep with the telly on in the bedroom, and being awoken to Channel 4's kid schedule at half six, or whenever it was. Trust me, after kicking in under the bed top-sheet that the girlfriend insisted on which was until then refused; which only acted as a bacofoil reflector of my sweaty nightmares, the last thing you want is to be woken up by the ghoulish sounds of a synthesiser, inane goo-goo noises and children laughing. Terrifying.

So, off to work again. Back to casual racism, stupid people making you feel more stupid (or stupider, whichever works) and a general air of recession-era defeatism. Work harder, no more money, blah blah, bleh.

Only had a short working week, but it was a longer one, working weak. Ha.