66. Hello Again
An illusion of progress.
Been a long while since I wrote, I know. Not had a great deal to say. Apologies to the three people who read this shit.
Work’s been acceptable. Got into a solid rhythm now: Check emails, attend meetings, Boots meal deal for lunch, do actual work in the afternoon. Walk home (unless it’s pissing it down).
Didn’t want to bore you with it. Nobody needs another round of me staring at the fucking ceiling. Not been drinking. Not much, anyway. Until last night.
Had a long and brutal day of target forecasting, so texted Warwick to see if he was also in need of a cheeky beer after work.
He replied straight away: “Yes, I’m.”
Can you use a contraction there? Still trying to decide whether it’s technically allowed. You can’t end on “I’m.” Can you? Maybe context does the heavy lifting. “Yes, I’m” is shorthand for “Yes, I’m in need of a bevvie”.
Still looks wrong. A sentence that fell asleep halfway through itself. I thought about correcting him, but decided against it. We’re mates, not proofreaders.
We met at The King. I had a couple before he arrived. When he turned up, he looked tired but pleased to see me. We talked about work, football, and the news. Something about the trains. Nothing serious.
Between the second and third argument about crisps, he asked if I’d noticed those missing-dog posters around the flats. I said I had. Little white dog with the pink bow. Princess. Gorgeous.
“Sad, isn’t it?” he said.
I agreed. “Hope they find it. I love dogs, and I can prove it. Ready Salted is underrated.”
That shut him up, for a second. “Ready Salted isn’t a flavour. It’s a default setting,” he said. Absolute nonsense. We nearly came to blows over pickled onion Monster Munch. Beef is the better flavour, and I will die on that hill.
About four pints in, I mentioned I’d booked a holiday. A proper one, abroad. Cheap flight, a bit of sun, somewhere with a beach, and no emails.
He frowned. Said it was bad timing. I asked what he meant.
“You know how it is. Best not to disappear just now.”
I told him that was precisely why I needed a break. Fresh air, vitamin D, maybe a fling with a foreign barmaid. Nudge, nudge.
He didn’t laugh. Suggested we do a day trip instead. To Skegness! What the fuck. I said that sounded shit, but he reckoned it could do us both good. Will think about it. But I’m not paddling in the sea in fucking November.
We had another few. I stopped counting, but at some point, we ended up in a strip club. Must have been his idea, not usually my thing. It was grim. Smelt of bleach and regret.
The dancer had an unusual proposition. Said for a tenner, she’d stick a finger up her bum, for twenty she’d stick it up mine. It was the final offer I found most appealing: For thirty, she’d leave both bums alone.
I thought it was hilarious, but Warwick was stoic. He said he’d had enough and we should call it a night. I paid the tab, gave her the twenty quid.
He didn’t hang around outside, said “We’ll talk soon,” before shutting himself in a taxi. Sounded like one of my old teachers giving me a detention. He’s weird sometimes.
Decided to walk home, picked up a takeaway en route. Didn’t want to ruin my jeans with kebab juice, so kept it for when I got in. But then I passed out before eating it. It’s still in the wrapper on the counter, going to microwave it for breakfast.
Working from home today. Laptop’s open on the kitchen table. Outlook already pinged twice to remind me about the team stand-up at ten. Definitely a camera-off day. But I’ll smile anyway, because you can hear it.
I don’t think you can end a sentence with a contraction. That’s why it feels wrong.
Looked up the holiday booking this morning. Seven nights, breakfast included, near the beach. Warwick called it running away, but everyone needs something to look forward to.
I told Warwick I’d cancel it, but I haven’t.
That’s a contraction at the end of a sentence. That’s OK. Isn’t it?
It’s raining out. Looks cold. And someone’s stuck another missing-dog poster on the lamppost opposite. Starting to curl at the edges from the damp. Same photo, same pink bow.
Can’t deny it’s quieter here now, though. Peaceful.
Will spend the morning half-working, half-recovering. Might even run the hoover round later. There’s something to be said about hangovers when you’re working from home. No commute, no small talk. Just a laptop and the slow erosion of willpower.
Warwick said he’d text about the Skegness idea. Maybe he’s right. Sea air, slot machines, fish and chips, a day where nothing significant happens. Might even give me something to write about.
I’ll deal with that later. For now, I’ll eat my kebab, open Teams, nod in the right places, and pretend everything’s completely normal.
Because it is. Mostly.
previous: 65. Warwick’s Oopart
Been thinking of you lately, friend. Glad you're still kicking. Warwick might be a twat, though. Just sayin'.
Good friend.