I quite like my ridiculous life, only I could have a disaster after visiting a post office to collect an envelope, I wish I could make this stuff up and just live off comedy sketches.
So I had to go to Basildon, about an hour from my house to pick up tickets to the Champions League Final in Madrid, which if I even make it to now through the volcanic ash terror and BA cabin crew strikes will be even more of a miracle than winning the tickets in the first place (I haive decided to just ignore the news or any flight information, met office dater or watching the movie ‘Volcano’ Staring James Bond in the hope it will just go away like the responsible man I am).
I don’t like Basildon, it’s a bit like Holland, in that it’s very flat which to be fair is where the similarities end unless Holland has bad dreams. Nothing seems to go anywhere and its just full of roads which go to London, idiots trying to find them and the electricity pylons and tractor factories coupled with petty assault, its awful. I noticed in the Daily Telegraph recently that a new ‘Hollywood-Style’ sign had been erected at a cost of £400,000 shouting BASILDON in eight foot tall letters to the lucky drivers on the A130, presumably to warn them to turn around and get the hell out of there (it was actually built on a roundabout to cater for this use).
Anyway, an hour before leaving work on such a vital mission to the liquidity of my company I had the option to charge either my phone or my ipod for the two hour or so journey. I am sure I might have been able to do both, but I only have one free socket under my desk, the others are taken up by mystery plugs and I dare not pull one out, ever since watching Michael Burke on 999 in the early 1990’s I’ve been terrified of the destructive power of wiring so I choose not to tamper. Also I have no idea what they power and knowing my luck it would be somehow linked to my paycheque . After no consideration at all I chose the ipod, despite heading off to a destination I’d never been before with only hand-drawn directions. It’s not that I am a particularly bad illustrator, my grandfather was a town planner you know, but it left a lot to be desired and I made the basic error of forgetting to include road names hoping that there was in fact only one left turning, my one, in the whole horrid town.
In the end I actually didn’t get that lost and also discovered that my sun visor turns my car slightly when I move it, which is a bit of a worry but a new feature non-the-less, and I eventually arrived at DHL (the parcel place) on one of Basildon’s many bleak industrial estates and despite looking quite abandoned, there was another man waiting at the desk talking to the attendant about needing to wrap something big but not knowing where to buy tape, wrapping or it seemed anything at all needed to accomplish his request. He left to get something from his car, brushing past me as he walked, so I seized my chance handed my fake ID (I was posing as my brother to pick the tickets up as it was his order) to the chap and he left backstage somewhere to process the information.
So right then the other guy comes bounding back up to the front door, which had swung shut with this enormous industrial juicer, it was like something out of a kitchen or bar and he looks so awkward trying to carry this thing, like bloody Kramer from Seinfeld or something! So he’s outside banging on the door panting away trying to get my attention while also attempting to keep hold of the juicer and I walk up and he asks if I can help, so I open the door and wedge it open with the rubber stopper and then without warning he just plonks this massive juicer into my arms and the bloody thing is still FULL OF JUICE!! He just shoves it toward me and It goes ALL over my shirt.
‘Have you got it? Don’t drop it! It’s very valuable!’
So we struggle over to the counter and now I’ve got juice going all over me and he’s bumping into things sloshing it all out more over me. We put it on these scales and he looks at me and like dusts me down like that’s going to make a big difference and says,
‘Well that’s no good’
And I look at him with my now Orange shirt and he is totally dry and cool as day he just says,
‘Thing’s supposed to be empty, hey can you still send this?’ Completely ignoring me!
And I’m standing there just stunned, I think he thought maybe id not noticed as I didn’t say anything, just looked on, outraged, so he just leaves and says he has to get some more parts and would be back in ten minutes, just walks straight out! I had to go home and change, my good white shirt, ruined. Fortunately though I have another one so on returning to work several hours later I managed to avoid being asked ‘why have you changed’ so they don’t have to hear another embarrassing Richard life story which I’m sure are slowly and secretly effecting my career prospects!
So I had to go to Basildon, about an hour from my house to pick up tickets to the Champions League Final in Madrid, which if I even make it to now through the volcanic ash terror and BA cabin crew strikes will be even more of a miracle than winning the tickets in the first place (I haive decided to just ignore the news or any flight information, met office dater or watching the movie ‘Volcano’ Staring James Bond in the hope it will just go away like the responsible man I am).
I don’t like Basildon, it’s a bit like Holland, in that it’s very flat which to be fair is where the similarities end unless Holland has bad dreams. Nothing seems to go anywhere and its just full of roads which go to London, idiots trying to find them and the electricity pylons and tractor factories coupled with petty assault, its awful. I noticed in the Daily Telegraph recently that a new ‘Hollywood-Style’ sign had been erected at a cost of £400,000 shouting BASILDON in eight foot tall letters to the lucky drivers on the A130, presumably to warn them to turn around and get the hell out of there (it was actually built on a roundabout to cater for this use).
Anyway, an hour before leaving work on such a vital mission to the liquidity of my company I had the option to charge either my phone or my ipod for the two hour or so journey. I am sure I might have been able to do both, but I only have one free socket under my desk, the others are taken up by mystery plugs and I dare not pull one out, ever since watching Michael Burke on 999 in the early 1990’s I’ve been terrified of the destructive power of wiring so I choose not to tamper. Also I have no idea what they power and knowing my luck it would be somehow linked to my paycheque . After no consideration at all I chose the ipod, despite heading off to a destination I’d never been before with only hand-drawn directions. It’s not that I am a particularly bad illustrator, my grandfather was a town planner you know, but it left a lot to be desired and I made the basic error of forgetting to include road names hoping that there was in fact only one left turning, my one, in the whole horrid town.
In the end I actually didn’t get that lost and also discovered that my sun visor turns my car slightly when I move it, which is a bit of a worry but a new feature non-the-less, and I eventually arrived at DHL (the parcel place) on one of Basildon’s many bleak industrial estates and despite looking quite abandoned, there was another man waiting at the desk talking to the attendant about needing to wrap something big but not knowing where to buy tape, wrapping or it seemed anything at all needed to accomplish his request. He left to get something from his car, brushing past me as he walked, so I seized my chance handed my fake ID (I was posing as my brother to pick the tickets up as it was his order) to the chap and he left backstage somewhere to process the information.
So right then the other guy comes bounding back up to the front door, which had swung shut with this enormous industrial juicer, it was like something out of a kitchen or bar and he looks so awkward trying to carry this thing, like bloody Kramer from Seinfeld or something! So he’s outside banging on the door panting away trying to get my attention while also attempting to keep hold of the juicer and I walk up and he asks if I can help, so I open the door and wedge it open with the rubber stopper and then without warning he just plonks this massive juicer into my arms and the bloody thing is still FULL OF JUICE!! He just shoves it toward me and It goes ALL over my shirt.
‘Have you got it? Don’t drop it! It’s very valuable!’
So we struggle over to the counter and now I’ve got juice going all over me and he’s bumping into things sloshing it all out more over me. We put it on these scales and he looks at me and like dusts me down like that’s going to make a big difference and says,
‘Well that’s no good’
And I look at him with my now Orange shirt and he is totally dry and cool as day he just says,
‘Thing’s supposed to be empty, hey can you still send this?’ Completely ignoring me!
And I’m standing there just stunned, I think he thought maybe id not noticed as I didn’t say anything, just looked on, outraged, so he just leaves and says he has to get some more parts and would be back in ten minutes, just walks straight out! I had to go home and change, my good white shirt, ruined. Fortunately though I have another one so on returning to work several hours later I managed to avoid being asked ‘why have you changed’ so they don’t have to hear another embarrassing Richard life story which I’m sure are slowly and secretly effecting my career prospects!
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