I listened for Sam’s snore, but he was silent, strangely for him. I wanted to wake him, but I didn’t. I wanted to talk to him, to make myself feel better, but it wouldn’t have made him feel good, I know that. So I didn’t. I felt fine, I just wanted to talk to him.
I think I was already feeling nervous, last night, before bed, earlier in the afternoon.
My feeling of nervousness seemed to happen as I got closer to returning to work for the week, as I got closer to Monday. Getting nervous around work seems to be happening since I took the summer off. There was a thing at work on Friday afternoon that I didn’t really get, understand, and just the slightest hint of not understanding seems to upset me, seems to take me off down that feeling useless spiral. Anything that possibly proves that I don’t know what I am doing, seems to take me right back to those feelings of incompetence that I have felt concerning work, that I have had in the last few years, thanks to you know where.
Perhaps, I need therapy? We all do... the group who got damaged by the black law firm. Bullying was its modis operandi, its corporate culture. It still is, I would imagine.
Oh, I know that sounds pathetic, but it is the only explanation I can come up with. The only truth I know. That is unless you want to go back to me as a 12 year old boy when I was tortured by my grade 6 teacher, Arthur Batson, a bitter, old, closet homosexual, I am sure, and my poisonous aunt, simultaneously. They both told me I would never amount to much. Old Batson because I was smarter than him and gave back as good as he gave and Aunty Olive because she was a horrible old woman.
It was dark and overcast as I drove to work today. The streets were clear, sparsely populated, unusually empty. I wondered if everyone had slept in being Monday morning, or if they had got to work early? It is funny how some mornings are completely different to other mornings, so different.
But the slow morning drivers... oh, groan, they were still with us.
There were morons around the Nicholson-Landridge street corner, banking up, banking up, too scared to venture forward. Hesitating, hesitating, even when it was their right of way. There was an idiot in a blue Tarago, who had her fingers up her snatch, clearly and not on the gear stick. "Get out of my way!"
And of course the bikes, being the new nazi road users - they never follow the road laws but they expect everyone else to follow them to the letter of the law. They are every where, like fleas, just getting in the way. I just want to flip my door open and take them out some days.
Victoria Street was practically deserted and I was able to sail out of it and around the side streets to Buckingham Street easily.
I resisted the urge to speed down Buckingham through the school crossing. The lollipop lady clung to her stop sign, seemingly nonchalant to my existence. I wondered if she recorded the number plates of the speeding drivers, as I passed through her crossing at 35 kph, reporting back to the vehicle Pollitt bureau? Dob in a speeder! You know they are putting everyone of our lives at risk! If we don't stop the speeding drivers we all will surely die! Think of the children. For goodness sake think of the children.
Ha ha, ho ho! Well, that is the plaintive cry that puts politicians in to office now a days.
Burnley Street was sparse, the grey still coloured each distant end, silvery and blurred in the distance, like Turner paintings, as I looked right and looked left, as I passed through as it was clear without bothering to stop at the stop sign.
Dear Jesus! said the good driving angels. Crossing themselves on my behalf.
So reckless.
Soooo reckless.
Ha ha, ho ho, nobody stops at stop signs, (even if I normally always do), I told myself, as I slid along... um... oh, I don't know the name of the street. The morning drive, not so much the speed but the fluidity of it, had taken away my anxiety. All you need is a little distraction, I guess.
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