Calm before the storm

man firing a machine gun into the skySitting, contemplating the fact that tomorrow I’ve got to rise from my pit at some ungodly hour to go and do some research. Dragged back to my old time employment on a freelance basis on the promise of much needed financial gain, to keep me able to afford takeaways across the weekend and constant supply of Cafe Nero.

Feel a bit grim about it. Seems harder than ever to put the sharp suit on and go into Hugh Grant mode, shaking hands and trying to build a rapport. Trying to find out what in hell’s going on here for the inevitable report down the line and making sure I come out of the building clutching the requisite pile of excel spreadsheets.

Ahh data, the new policy gold. All does not glitter in that department, but that, at this hour of the night, is certainly a subject for another day.

Yes, so slow fear. The usual unlikely possibility of experiencing some kind of breakdown in the day, bearing down upon me. Visions of smashing digital recorder on table before throwing a table over, kicking the shit out of a small pot plant before riding an office chair down the stairs. This probably will not happen. The reality is that I will sit in an office for much of the day, occasionally glimpsing out the window and thinking about getting through, and getting on with something better. Cracking jokes and riding the elevators, keeping a lid on madness, because lets face it, who really wants to see that? Certainly not me.

The last few weeks have seen a veritable slew of long-overdue reunions with old pals, drunken nights ended with passing out listening to Keb Mo, Jamie T and upon the purchase of a digital radio – Planet Rock. An amazing unceasing barrage of tunes with guitar solos, played by dudes with massive hair and quite possibly beards. Shouted conversations in bars with strangers and ever present prospect of doom, epiphany, destruction and elation. Exactly the right stuff for this blog.

Inevitably, several times I’ve wanted to write something and never quite got round to it. Running around firing the camera off like a strobe light and caught up in a frenzy of work. Trying to read more than Johnny Five from Short circuit and getting strangely scared about putting words on a page for all my writing energy spent tapping out corporate wisdom. Surely some of this must be leaving it’s mark? Something to show other than those dark circles under my eyes and the ability to type 100 plus words per minute?

Just time to find an image for this post, roll a final creation and settle back contemplating the week ahead. Mad welsh people staying in the house, so no rest there. Just the crazed melody of the Swansea dialect (familiar to some of the bolo contingent) and the sound of vodka being downed. Best to stay round the Crimpanort’s, caught amongst the ash and the bits of crisps. Tapping out this message on a clapped out silver laptop, nodding to the beat of the tv and the fuzz of static as it lurches in and out of tune.

Not a bad weekend by any means. No big scares and no harrowing drama. Sometimes that’s what you need. A chance to summon up a bit of reserve energy and go lurching off home, swigging lucozade for energy, oranges for health, weetabix for intestinal fortitude and cheese for encouraging incoherent dreams.

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