Another day another day closer to death. If life is so precious why do I waste so much of it asleep, driving in cars, managing unruly teenagers and sitting or dancing around to music? I’ll tell you why; because it’s an essential part of my life; of doing stuff; of simply moving around the world and interacting with people; It makes me feel alive.
I was at home last night after a shitter of a day at work. On paper it might look good; I was taking a group of teenagers out ice skating. Still recovering from my major operation on my eye I couldn’t risk being pushed over on the ice and cracking my head. Not that I took their thinly veiled threats of perpetrated violence seriously. I was just playing safe right?
Anyway, all was fine for the first hour then as they got more excited and more people came onto the ice confrontation was inevitable. After nipping a few potential confrontations in the bud and stopping the centre manager taking one of the teens “outside” it was all too much for management who eventually called the police. The young perpetrator and major instigator of the trouble, a particularly foulmouthed and abusive young man, but no more foul mouthed or abusive than the rest of them was whisked off in the car by me to be taken back to the centre. On the way back he could hardly contain his sniggering as we passed not one but two police cars heading for Gillingham Skate Rink.
I was saying, I was at home last night after a bit of a shitter of a day at work. It was mine and Clare’s anniversary. It had been three years to the day since we’d got together. Everything was fine. I was bit tired but not too bad. We were cooking some nice food and had a bottle of fizz on ice. Things were looking good. But as we were getting the meal together she went all “Clare” on me again.; this time over the jus I was going to do. I hadn’t responded quickly enough to her request to finish the sauce off to pour over our tuna steaks and she went a bit shouty on me saying I wasn’t putting enough energy into the anniversary celebrations because I was on the internet surfing FaceBook. It went on for a couple of minutes and I didn’t respond because if I do I end up in a much longer much more involved argument. I went in the kitchen and put a drop on white wine in the pan the scallops were cooking in and a knob of butter and the jus was finished; but not the frosty response of my silence. We ate in quiet, the nice vibe of evening lost, watching season two of Six Feet Under, which I’d already seen before but which her and Rosie were well into at the moment and exhibiting all the signs of severe box-set-itus. I was doing all this inbetween bouts knocking of confidence inspiring texts to an increasingly self questioning, insecure and doubtful friend who always calls me grumpy in his blogs.
This was the day I “locked” my self in my car. I awoke late and subsequently was running late for the rest of the morning. Outside it was coldand frosty. My car key wouldn’t open the car door. I tried the other one; nope. I tried the back door; yay! I climbed through and started the ignition and turned the rear window heater on then clambered back through out the back door. I wished my car heater worked. Scraping the windscreen and side windows I jumped back in through the rear of the car, shutting the door behind me. By the time I wanted to move off the windscreen had frosted up again. I couldn’t get out of the car; all the doors were firmly shut and I couldn’t open the back door from the inside. I rang Clare 3 times or more. No answer. Wish I’d finished that sauce of last night when she’d asked. After a real brief moment of panic, i sat there for a minute then I managed to get a tiny area of screen clear. It was through this tiny space I peered and drove, real slow, all the way to work. In the car park I had to ask one of the kids to open the rear door so I could get out and start the day. I was 10 minutes late.
Saturday night was a bit better. Had old Subsdancer Friendly Pete down, or is it up, from Tonbridge to play a well nice and decent set at the Smack for the tvcabbaged night. It was the usual affair of slurping Karen and Steve’s free booze till it came out of our ears and chatting to all opur chums who can be fucked to turn out and support us, then it was a quick blast in the car, driven i hasten to ask by a sober, designated driver called Clare (pre “jus-gate” here at the moment so still full of the joys of long term relationshipal comitment). Here it was good to see the old Subsdance lot K’ed off their collective tits as per usual but still, nevertheless, on good form and very talkative and sociable. A few hours of this and waiting for an 11 year old DJ Charlie to get the fucking fuck off the decks and please god don’t let him “3.15 at Haydock” another fucking old scratchy tune into another fucking old scratchy tune. He’s the only DJ i know who can have Djed for 7 or more years and not improve one tiny little bit. He’s what we in the trade call a “just one more DJ” when he’s on the the decks and a “blagging little cunt” when he’s trying to get on the decks. A fully fledged “punk” DJ by the age of 11.