End of The Week

It was cold again. The mornings have been cold all week. I’ve been wearing my trusty (cheap) black leather jacket. I wonder if it, actually, passes muster, or if people are secretly laughing behind their hands at me? No, it does. I'm being stupid, just because I got it cheap.

As I walk down, what would be called The Paris end of Fitzroy by a real estate agent tomorrow, I contemplate a casual wardrobe for a casual job that I might have. Ha, ha, anything, straws, clutching, for inspiration to go back into the lions den and get a permanent job.

The garden beds in The Fitzroy Gardens had just been top dressed with soil, or mulch, and they all looked so perfect as I walk passed. So much so that, not only do they catch my eye, they make me stop and look, as I head down the gentle incline from Albert Street. I took some photos, cursing yet again that my camera phone isn’t better.

I bought a pineapple muffin at Collins Place as I walked down Collins Street to work. I couldn’t help it, I knew I shouldn’t. The second morning in a row, too, bad Christian. Suddenly, I wanted it and I was navigating, as if despite myself in the direction of the muffin shop.

I was on time today. I thought I’d better. Smile. Blush. It is the least I could do. Jesus, I’ve got to worry about those things, I can’t be slack. Falling back into 9 to 5 is as easy as falling off a proverbial log. But, I’ve just got to remember that the bean counters are big on their 5 minutes. It is important, like something depends on it. Apparently, it means you are committed, or something? I dunno? I was never that good at those details. But, apparently, the world runs on them, that detail, tick, tick, tick.

You know, it is kind of nice to be back working. Casual clothes, walking distance, laid back company, what’s not to like. But it is more than that, it is gainful employment. It is something to do. It is people. It is new things. It is colour. It is movement. It is relief from the thought that I am wasting my life. Maybe, it s a cop out, a cave in, raising of the creative white flag… but, I’ll get back there, I promise, I promise no one more than I promise myself.

It is the end of the week. See. Easy. Friday. There you go.

I was meeting Sam after work, we were going to the Asian Grocer in Russell Street, to buy dinner. Shopping together on a Friday night. Cutesy, hh?

But (the girl I work with) had given my time sheet to the typically dopey HR chick to scan and email into (my company). She was dragging her feet and I had to wait for her to do it.

Tap, tap, tap.

How many times can I hurry her up, I think, after hurrying her up the first time? She sounded quite harassed when I pushed her. I stood in my office trying to look calm and relaxed?

Tap, tap, tap.

Your typical HR chick, all style and no substance, all talk and no action, all vacuous giggles and inclusiveness, but nothing underneath to back it up. All HR girls should be drowned at birth.

Finally she did it.

I had to push myself to say thank you. I dashed out the door.

I think it was raining as I headed down Russell Street to meet Sam. He had finished the shopping by the time I got there. He harrumphed. He had raised eyebrows and pursed lips.

“But, but, but…”

We walked home together.

It’s nice being back in the city though, meeting up with him after work again, like a real couple. Like a real couple. Smile. I’ll be suggesting we live together next.