Walk never-ending

 

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Wise words

“Well you know what they say, put five hundred monkeys in a room and they’ll come up with Shakespeare”

The guy chatting to his friend on the train, I don’t think he thought this one through

There’s a young man who lives down my road. I often see him on my way into work and one my walk home. On the odd occasion I’ve been walking that bit of road in the middle of the day, I’ve seen him then too. He walks with his head hung low, slowly plodding one foot then the other, up and down towards the station and back again. I figure he must live in the halfway house on my road and they kick him out during the day. I always want to talk to him because it seems like a lonely life, but since he’s staring down at the floor I can’t catch his eye.

Anyway, today he was sitting in front of a house, in the driveway, on his knees, facing the building. His head hung low as always. Just kneeling there, long enough for me to walk up the road and past him without moving. It was worrying.

Word of the day – Eremiomania – abnormal interest in stillness

Zombies again? Or something new?

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Found some writing on the pavement near where I live, written in (I hope) paint.

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Was wondering if this could tie into the zombie response vehicle and bone I came across a while ago. Is there something dangerous lurking out here on the edge of London? I tend to walk around listening to music, so if I need to hear them to find them, I’m probably missing them altogether. On the other hand, I’m not being fooled by the fake sounds.

Word of the day: Secretary – one who is privy to a secret

Wisdom, trolls and mud

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Now this is almost like a real inspirational poster, although I’d say exercise and doctors are also useful in the pursuit of health.

London today was soggy. It was ok, I have waterproofs, but the biggest problem was trying to not to destroy the squeaky cleanness of the messroom when I was coated in mud. And the toilets in the new block are too small, which means just getting past the concertina door meant I painted the wall with a layer of mud from my coat. Then I’d turn around to clean it up and decorate the other wall behind me. And everything I touched, from bog roll to door to sink taps became streaked with brown, I felt like a shitty Midas.

When we were getting ready to go home, Mike said to Dan, now you need to find an umbrella you can hold over me so I don’t get wet. I looked at him quizzically and he said,

‘You wouldn’t understand. It’s a man thing.’

Yes, he’s definitely trolling me.

Word of the day: limicolous – living in mud

It’s a man-thing

 

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Today I was in the kitchen with Dan and Mike walked in and began to excitedly punch him on the shoulder, saying, ‘Good night then, was it? Eh?’

And Dan started laughing as if they shared some exciting secret.

I’m nosy as all fuck, so I started whining, ‘What? What are you talking about?’ (I have an older brother, growing up I spent a lot of time left out, I don’t like it).

‘You’re not allowed to know. Me and Dan talk about things, secret things,’ said Mike, with that expression kids get when they’ve found something, but it’s theirs and they don’t want you to see it.

‘What things? Why don’t you tell me?’ I asked, because I have no real dignity.

‘Man things,’ said Mike smugly.

We all went outside and sat in our new bench area, but Mike hadn’t finished gloating, he wanted to make sure Jessica (who was sitting out there, happily smoking a cigarette) understood too.

‘See, you think that the communication ends at four when we all go home, but me and Dan, we carry on, that’s just the beginning.’

‘Carry on what?’ said Jessica, politely feigning interest.

‘Man things,’ said Mike, again, proudly.

‘Uh huh,’ said Jessica (she’s so much cooler than me)

‘But what are man things?’ I asked.

‘You know, manly,’ said Mike.

‘Tell me!’ I wailed.

‘Well, for a start we talk on WhatsApp,’ said Mike.

‘WhatsApp?’ I said, this wasn’t quite the wrestling-pigs-and-smashing-cars manly thing I’d imagined. ‘What about?’

‘We send each other selfies!’ said Mike.

‘Selfies,’ I repeat.

‘Yeah, Dan will tell me he’s going out, and then he’ll send me a picture of the shirt he’s wearing and ask me if it looks good.’

‘So you WhatsApp each other pictures of your outfits?’ I ask. ‘That’s your manly thing?’

‘And Mike sends me back pictures of his clothes too,’ added Dan, who’d been chuckling quite a bit, ‘look!’ and held up his phone that showed Mike in a flower patterned shirt and an inept duck face.

‘See?’ said Mike. ‘Man things!’

I think he may be trolling me.

Word of the day: phallocrat – one who assumes the naturality of male dominance

A.I. believes in me after all!

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Note: I’m taking that as a literal huge pig, and not a reference to my love of all foodstuffs fatty or sweet.

I was fairly sure it was Thursday today, all day my brain kept assuring me It’s Thursday, definitely not Monday, even though that would mean that three days had vanished. Could this be the time portal?

 “I dwell in possibility…”

Emily Dickinson 

Word of the day: Brobdingnagian – immense

Health and safety concern: eating

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I’m concerned that my inspirational quote generator may be a little sexist.

At work today, Mateo had sushi for lunch and left his chopsticks on the table in our new smoking area. Mike picked them up and began to play.

‘I’ve never used these before, is it difficult?’ he said, holding them like drumsticks and trying to pick up a small stone.

‘Well it is if you hold them like that,’ explained Jessica. Then she spent a patient half hour trying to show him how to hold them. He would get it, and shriek excitedly as the stone lifted, but within a few moments he seemed to lose the knack and would wail ‘My thumb keeps getting in the way! Why is my thumb in the way? Your thumb doesn’t get in the way!’ and then Jessica would start again.

The afternoon went as normal, I’m still hedgecutting. Trying, as we all do, to sneak a few topiaried animals into the more random, natural shapes that they want us to create.

When I got back to the yard, Mike was shoving one of our eleven-hundred litre industrial bins over lumpy concrete towards his van to empty the rubbish.

‘How ya doing?’ I asked. He gave me a tormented look and stopped shoving to hold up his hand.

‘I’ve got chopstick-finger!’ he wailed.

‘What?’ I asked as he waggled a digit in my face.

‘Chopstick finger! It hurts! From using it so much over lunch. I’m not doing that again. It’s dangerous!’

Consider yourself at home!

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I’m not sure how long we’ve been in our new messroom now, a few weeks? I could look back, but I’m lazy. Anyway, after making a show of conforming to what the managers want (sitting inside, not messing around with the furniture etc) we have started to decorate and adapt, to bend our environment to suit what we want – after all, that’s what gardeners are good at.

I nicked a chair that was in one of the gardens, left there by a resident, and moved it inside so I don’t have to sit on one that slowly tips me off. We found two benches abandoned and put them outside in the shade. We emptied out the tin shed of bikes and unused cleaning products and turned it into a smoking room for when it’s raining. Mateo fixed a broken table and we put that between the benches. We even put a few paving slabs down, and added some plants, tinsel and an umbrella for decoration. It looks great.

The only downside is now the managers like to come and sit with us. Never more than one at a time, I don’t think they like sitting with each other.

Word of the day: labtebricole – living in holes

“Sticks and stones can break my bones and I have my Swiss Army Knife if they hit me and if I kill them it will be self defense and I won’t go to prison.”
― Mark Haddon, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time