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Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head

raindrops

I don’t know if you have noticed but it has been raining a lot lately? Anyone? Anyone?

Well of course you have! And so have I. Notice is hardly the right word. More like constant drizzle peppered by exciting and dangerous bouts of Armageddon. Mixed with more hail and then odd mini-hurricane.

Getting to The Job That Never Lets Up has been challenging, to say the least. Today, for example, I got up at the un-Godly hour of 5am – this is necessary because a) Sussex is sinking therefore I have to drive uphill all the way and it takes longer b) Bob Crow has not yet been assassinated by the members of London TravelWatch so cannot be trusted not to call a wildcat strike over the lack of pork scratchings available in the staff vending machines and c) SouthEastern trains simply stop working if so much as a badger’s pube drops onto one of their tracks. Since I am at the somewhat rural end of the line, the badgers have no truck with “badger tunnels” under the railway and insist on dropping their trolleys and depilating their striped behinds wherever and whenever they like. So the trains don’t run. Cheers Brock!

Anyhoo….so got up, splashed water half-heartedly about my person, jumped in Keith (my Mini – named ‘cos he’s bang tidy) and headed up the A21 only to be blocked by a fallen tree somewhere around Bewl. A swift swerve off down the lanes and around the back of Goudhurst to score a crafty “in from the side” was a bold but ultimately fruitless move – the road was further blocked by the river splurging its entrails everywhere.

Finally got to Tonbridge via Aberdeen and the East Coast and managed to sling Keith into a handy passing ditch – marked out car park spaces having disappeared several weeks ago so one simply has to pick one’s chosen rut in the overpriced concrete and hope for the best. I kid you not. So I got on a train.

After a scuffle and a bit of a set to with the guard who wanted to evict me mid-eyeliner from First Class (entered stubbornly because I was buggered if I was going to stand all the way to London), we agreed that he was a Knobjockey with a capital K and I am quite clearly a menopausal old bat. After that, we actually got on quite well and ended up having quite a good chat ūüėĄ – El Guardiola loves gardening and doesn’t know what’s happened to respect and common courtesy these days. After what I called him in the heat of the eyeliner moment, frankly I have to agree.

Anyway – eventually got into work so that made me today’s super trooper – please send medal and gold star in the post! Settled down to the normal tense politics and inter-departmental strife and then – get a text “Don’t cum home!!!” from a well-meaning if slightly over-dramatic friend.

Eh? Who? What? Oh….I’ve still got half a biscuit left. These were the initial thoughts that limped across my tired brain. Then the fog cleared and I realised it could mean only one thing…trouble ont trains.

Several hours later, having established that yes, there is quite a bad storm going on in Ye Olde Sussex and yes, there are trees down on the main line and no, it probably won’t be sorted out by tonight or by 5AM tomorrow when this unhappy experience expects to repeat itself groundhog-stylie …. So….Here I am. In a cheap hotel. Alone and with only a stale Pret yoghurt for my tea.

One has to ask…is the Government aware of this hidden distress behind their inability to hire Joe the River Dredger? Granted my house is not knee deep in watery sewage but there are many forms of personal misery and this exhausting attempt to commute each day is one of them. Are the politicians aware of the families forcefully separated this evening by the economic need to turn up to work while the means to get there continues to erode daily? Have they ever had the “Late again Stratton!” eyebrow raise from their superior as I slope in still swapping my flatties for heels at just before 11am? The raise that says there’ll be no raise this year. Or bonus. Or family holidays therefore. The hidden cost of flooding.

Will it only be when Westminster itself and many sleepy members of the House of Lords are 6 inches deep in water with a coating of kebab fat on top that anyone will begin to act?

Who knows? I’m honestly too tired to think about it. I know there are many much much worse off than me and I do sympathise greatly – it must be terrible to see your assets and possessions slowly ruined by the creep of water but….come on people! This is me, for Chrissakes!! I don’t do struggle and difficulty – I only do comfort and ease. I’d be the first to evacuate to the nearest spa in any form of emergency. Especially if it looked like it might mess up my hair. Manning up in a crisis relies very much on personal coping limits. Mine are, admittedly, lower than the average.

All I know tonight is that staying in a hotel without the Man-Hog or the Mini-Pigs is dead boring. Abandoning Keith in a station furrow feels very wrong and I want to report myself to ChildLine for Mini-abuse. And eating stale yoghurt as my main meal of the day is utter pants.

Humph.

It Was Only Money…

 

A little something I wrote to amuse myself while the stock markets continue to play havoc with my working day!

Todd‚Äôs head shook in disbelief as he watched. Had it really taken so little time, so few seconds, for the numbers on-screen to bleed from the healthy blue lake of profit to the¬†sinkhole of dark, red despair that now reflected back at him? He reached a forefinger into his collar; tugging, loosening, desperately trying to dampen down his hysteria and regain rational thought as his mind struggled to accept that his entire portfolio – his whole net worth – had just sunk without trace in front of his eyes. His palms were clammy; beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. His hand fluttered uselessly over the keyboard: uncertain; unguided; unable to do anything to change the horror of what he was seeing. The nightmare, it seemed, had actually happened. The thing he feared most had¬†come to pass. He felt utterly helpless in the face of such brutal loss. His useless hand sank back to the desk and he in turn slumped back in his seat; his other hand covering his eyes, shutting out the blinking red disaster that was his life. His thoughts flashed ¬†wildly: what would he¬†tell Ruth ‚Äď his wife, his love? A forlorn and fleeting hope: was this some sort of computer glitch? Then epic dawning that there was no way out of this. No happy ending, no¬†golden retirement fund, no paid-off mortgage and¬†childrens’ trust funds. No well done back-patting and a sense of¬†smug self-satisfaction. He was forty nine, a father of two, and his financial world had collapsed. No home; no money; no security. Nothing. He’d bet the farm – including the parts he didn’t yet own – and had lost the lot.

He rose shakily from the chair, burdened by a ton of concrete failure strapped to his shoulders. Unnoticed by most, one assistant did pick up on his pallor, his hopeless demeanor and zombie-like stumble away from his desk. She glanced up at him as he passed, wondered vaguely if he was OK but then resumed her personal call, gum rotating slowly in her mouth as she languidly discussed the relative merits of heels over flats for her night out.

Todd‚Äôs slow progress sped to a faltering run. Bile rose within him in waves, propelling him forward and away from the cruel sea of red numbers he had just witnessed. He slammed out through the office door and into¬†a hexagonal hallway. Wooden portals to other firms stared¬†in blank indifference to¬†his entrance. He flew through the door directly opposite into an austere white bathroom where he only just made it to the cubicle on time ‚Äď throwing up and up, his stomach heaving and retching its sorry contents out in sympathy with his wretched situation. Snot and tears flowed in equal measure¬†down his face as he allowed the fear to overwhelm him at last and gave in to the sheer horror of it.

Slumped down beside the toilet, his chin smeared with his own vomit, he tried to stifle the painful sobs wrenched from within him. He knew it was over. He was finished. He was a useless, careless, reckless¬†bugger and he’d got his comeuppance. Serves him right. Arrogant arse, thinking he would be the one to get the golden goose. A¬†weird tingling down¬†his left arm matched a sudden crushing pain deep in his¬†chest; his breathing rapid, shallow. His jaw tightened and clenched. Something worse was happening, infinitely worse. His last thought before his over-stressed heart spasmed its last: It was¬†only money‚Ķ