Categories: ramblings
Date: 29 December 2008 13:21:47
Mmm, nice bed. Cosy.
Not quite sure what happened, but I overslept, and woke to the dulcet tones of the man on Radio 4 saying “it’s ten past eight.” This is not good. Ten past seven is good. Ten past seven means I make it to work on time. Ten past eight is bad and wrong because it means I get to work an hour late.
Never mind “Oh God, come to my aid, oh Lord, make haste to help me,” I went from horizontal to vertical in about 0.001 of a second, screaming all the way. It was rather like that opening scene in Four Weddings and a Funeral, but possibly with marginally less bad language.
Into shower, coffee (incidentally, I am indebted to the Rosaparents for buying me ground coffee for Christmas, or that just wouldn’t have happened), dressed, swap life’s essentials from bag I took away with me to normal handbag, Durham Light Infantry marching pace down to the station.
Get to station.
Travel card did not make it from bag to bag, and is, in fact, still back at Rosamundi Towers, and it cost eight pounds to buy a ticket.
And, of course, the queue is longer than a very long thing and moving like a geriatric tortoise with three legs.
Oh, and there’s severe delays on the Central Line, isn’t that nice? The Central Line is, de nature, the line I take to get to work.
[Insert Four Weddings and a Funeral interlude].
Get on other Tube line, half expecting it to catch fire or derail or just break.
Make it to work without further incident, whereupon I discover that my work security passes did not make it from bag to bag, either, and are, in fact, still back at Rosamundi Towers, keeping my travel card company.
Nice receptionist issues me temporary pass, and I finally make it to my desk, precisely one hour late.
I have just spent the best part of 10 minutes poking around on the TFL website, and completely failed to find out if I can claim back the £8 I’ve just spent. I shall harass a member of staff tomorrow.