A Day In The Life.
As I troll the blogosphere I occasionally come across an idea that interests me and inspires me to write. Which is half the joy of the whole blogging experience for me.
Such an article is to be found at My Mixed Company. Quiet simply someone writing about their every day experience, but in a stimulating way. As I said in my comment:
“I tend to wait for “interesting” things to blog about. I rarely blog about the mundaities of my life. Not that there is anything wrong in having a normal life.
I just assume that the ordinary aspects of my life were not inspiring enough. (New challenge then, once a month just post an ordinary day).”
Now it occurred to me that though my work-a-day life may not be the most inspiring. In fact I posted on another site, (lost the post in the massive of the blogosphere, Actually at Scary Ducks blog.) where asked what quote from which tune summed up my life I replied “My job is very boring, I’m an office clerk!” from “Echo Beach” by Martha and The Muffins.
I am often more interested in the little things people mention in their posts. As an Englishman there are certain social rules, certain attitudes, which we take for granted, but in differing cultures the same gesture may actually mean the exact opposite.
So from the point of view of, say, your average Bolivian Guinea Pig Swoggler, my trip to work on a bus every morning is actually quiet an amazing aspect of life, as, by comparison, the bus from La Paz to Cobija is only on a Thursday, and mine involves no Llamas.
I have to admit the following is probably an amalgam of the week but could easily happen in the one day.
Start: Friday sixteenth of June two thousand and six, zero six thirty hours in the morning.
I turn over, pick up the alarm clock and add another hour on the timer. I can afford to get up at eight because I can just sling on a shirt clean my teeth and leg it into town.
Restart: Friday sixteenth of June two thousand and six, zero eight hundred hours in the morning. Alarm goes off and a not too well rested body begrudgingly lifts from the bed to start the day again. It’s about this point I think to myself, as enjoyable drinking down the pub is perhaps it should be left to non-school days. Not Thursday night (and Wednesday, and Tuesday, and Monday, night).
It’s always a mystery how the ablution, dressing, feeding ritual; actually gets done in my house in the morning, but half an hour later I am “aspirin-ed” up, tea and toasted, dressed, and at the door. Sunglasses poised and ready to hit the streets. Much like the vampire hit by the first rays of dawn I collide with the day. Secure behind my shades I stumble almost painfully into daylight and head off down the road. Hoping the deodorant masks the smell of tobacco on my clothes from the night before. Un-ironed shirt, hole in my shoe, rip in the neck of my old rain coat, if there was ever a place to use the word shambolic, I would use it here. Not that I’m untidy, I wear a shirt, tie, and jacket. There’s just a particularly scrunched style I happen to wear them in.
Less of a problem on the way to work, more of a problem on the way home, I pass the pub. Vague memories of drinking, laughing, and winding up the barmaid, bring a grin to my face. Last night she scored a nightmare hat trick, my self and two friends all decided to convene for a little mid week drinking, so she achieved her three least favourite customers in the same bar at the same time, and Thursday was not a busy night. So she got all of our personal attention (much to her regret).
Philosophy for long life number one: Never run for a bus. (I saw it said on a cartoon about the world’s oldest man, forget the title but believe Mel Brooks did the voice). This is a policy I have held most of my life. It only puts the bus drivers in command, and this just goes to their heads. Unfortunately for me as I round the corner of the pub there is an only too inviting bus gliding round the roundabout and pulling up at the bus stop. I don’t even bother with the weight to acceleration calculations as I know for certain I would not make the bus. Which would put me in a particularly horrible state (sweaty, out of breath, and irritated) and would only make the day of some petty dictatorial fascist driving the bus. So I don’t bother, busses much like woman, there will always be another along in a minute or two (or in my case with women, another in about ten years).
I opt for the bus to work route. Thus tying myself to the decision. If I wait for the bus, the time passes the critical point at which I can comfortably make it into work walking, so I have to catch the bus or be even more later than usual (classic catch twenty two situation). The longer I wait for the bus the more I have to rely on the bus to get me to work. So the longer I have to wait. Not the best situation on this level of hangover.
My journey to work is measured by people I regularly pass on the way. I call these my markers. Certain people passed at certain places along the route mark whether I am early, on time, or, more usually, late. A couple of my mid journey markers pass as I await the bus, indicating I am very late. Luckily the bus ride is only minutes so I start to see my mid to later journey markers walking in the places I would usually pass them.
Time is a concept I have never quiet understood. My clocks at home each read differing times. So I have “Standard Kitchen Time”, “Front Room Meridian Time”, and “British Telecoms Time”. The alarm clock having a sliding scale of accuracy based on the fact I should replace the battery as and when I can no longer see the digits. “Front Room Meridian Time” being slightly faster than any other measurement (about five minutes) for the purpose of fooling me into a minor panic every morning and actually ensuring I leave the house on time. Even though I set the clock fast, and logically know it’s fast, I fall for the same trick every morning, and only tend to remember half way down my road. The majority of my appointments are run on “Celtic Mean Time”, basically “I made here didn’t I?”
The clock on Saint Paul’s on the way to work is another mystery. It tells me when I am going to arrive at work. It must be exactly faster than any other clock by the right amount of time it takes me to get to the council offices from the front of the church. The clock in Portsmouth Guild Hall is always five minutes fast so as I’m marching up the steps to the civic offices it proudly shows that I am five minutes late. I’m never really sure how early or late I am when I arrive, but at least I get there.
To be continued……………………………..
Such an article is to be found at My Mixed Company. Quiet simply someone writing about their every day experience, but in a stimulating way. As I said in my comment:
“I tend to wait for “interesting” things to blog about. I rarely blog about the mundaities of my life. Not that there is anything wrong in having a normal life.
I just assume that the ordinary aspects of my life were not inspiring enough. (New challenge then, once a month just post an ordinary day).”
Now it occurred to me that though my work-a-day life may not be the most inspiring. In fact I posted on another site, (lost the post in the massive of the blogosphere, Actually at Scary Ducks blog.) where asked what quote from which tune summed up my life I replied “My job is very boring, I’m an office clerk!” from “Echo Beach” by Martha and The Muffins.
I am often more interested in the little things people mention in their posts. As an Englishman there are certain social rules, certain attitudes, which we take for granted, but in differing cultures the same gesture may actually mean the exact opposite.
So from the point of view of, say, your average Bolivian Guinea Pig Swoggler, my trip to work on a bus every morning is actually quiet an amazing aspect of life, as, by comparison, the bus from La Paz to Cobija is only on a Thursday, and mine involves no Llamas.
I have to admit the following is probably an amalgam of the week but could easily happen in the one day.
Start: Friday sixteenth of June two thousand and six, zero six thirty hours in the morning.
I turn over, pick up the alarm clock and add another hour on the timer. I can afford to get up at eight because I can just sling on a shirt clean my teeth and leg it into town.
Restart: Friday sixteenth of June two thousand and six, zero eight hundred hours in the morning. Alarm goes off and a not too well rested body begrudgingly lifts from the bed to start the day again. It’s about this point I think to myself, as enjoyable drinking down the pub is perhaps it should be left to non-school days. Not Thursday night (and Wednesday, and Tuesday, and Monday, night).
It’s always a mystery how the ablution, dressing, feeding ritual; actually gets done in my house in the morning, but half an hour later I am “aspirin-ed” up, tea and toasted, dressed, and at the door. Sunglasses poised and ready to hit the streets. Much like the vampire hit by the first rays of dawn I collide with the day. Secure behind my shades I stumble almost painfully into daylight and head off down the road. Hoping the deodorant masks the smell of tobacco on my clothes from the night before. Un-ironed shirt, hole in my shoe, rip in the neck of my old rain coat, if there was ever a place to use the word shambolic, I would use it here. Not that I’m untidy, I wear a shirt, tie, and jacket. There’s just a particularly scrunched style I happen to wear them in.
Less of a problem on the way to work, more of a problem on the way home, I pass the pub. Vague memories of drinking, laughing, and winding up the barmaid, bring a grin to my face. Last night she scored a nightmare hat trick, my self and two friends all decided to convene for a little mid week drinking, so she achieved her three least favourite customers in the same bar at the same time, and Thursday was not a busy night. So she got all of our personal attention (much to her regret).
Philosophy for long life number one: Never run for a bus. (I saw it said on a cartoon about the world’s oldest man, forget the title but believe Mel Brooks did the voice). This is a policy I have held most of my life. It only puts the bus drivers in command, and this just goes to their heads. Unfortunately for me as I round the corner of the pub there is an only too inviting bus gliding round the roundabout and pulling up at the bus stop. I don’t even bother with the weight to acceleration calculations as I know for certain I would not make the bus. Which would put me in a particularly horrible state (sweaty, out of breath, and irritated) and would only make the day of some petty dictatorial fascist driving the bus. So I don’t bother, busses much like woman, there will always be another along in a minute or two (or in my case with women, another in about ten years).
I opt for the bus to work route. Thus tying myself to the decision. If I wait for the bus, the time passes the critical point at which I can comfortably make it into work walking, so I have to catch the bus or be even more later than usual (classic catch twenty two situation). The longer I wait for the bus the more I have to rely on the bus to get me to work. So the longer I have to wait. Not the best situation on this level of hangover.
My journey to work is measured by people I regularly pass on the way. I call these my markers. Certain people passed at certain places along the route mark whether I am early, on time, or, more usually, late. A couple of my mid journey markers pass as I await the bus, indicating I am very late. Luckily the bus ride is only minutes so I start to see my mid to later journey markers walking in the places I would usually pass them.
Time is a concept I have never quiet understood. My clocks at home each read differing times. So I have “Standard Kitchen Time”, “Front Room Meridian Time”, and “British Telecoms Time”. The alarm clock having a sliding scale of accuracy based on the fact I should replace the battery as and when I can no longer see the digits. “Front Room Meridian Time” being slightly faster than any other measurement (about five minutes) for the purpose of fooling me into a minor panic every morning and actually ensuring I leave the house on time. Even though I set the clock fast, and logically know it’s fast, I fall for the same trick every morning, and only tend to remember half way down my road. The majority of my appointments are run on “Celtic Mean Time”, basically “I made here didn’t I?”
The clock on Saint Paul’s on the way to work is another mystery. It tells me when I am going to arrive at work. It must be exactly faster than any other clock by the right amount of time it takes me to get to the council offices from the front of the church. The clock in Portsmouth Guild Hall is always five minutes fast so as I’m marching up the steps to the civic offices it proudly shows that I am five minutes late. I’m never really sure how early or late I am when I arrive, but at least I get there.
To be continued……………………………..
posted by meekon5 at 16:20
4 Comments:
'Front Room Meridian Time' I love it!
You need to get patent or copyright or something on that - it's brilliant.
Best I can do is 'Molassis Time' for the aeons spent at work.
Back to my self nailing crucifix again (the only true solution to that final nail problem)!
Thank you for linking me! See how involved a day can be once you break it down? Not so simple after all--or boring for that matter.
Lynn. thats exactly why I was inspired by your piece and wanted to try it for myself. As yu say when you do the same things every day you don't even realise how much you actually go through. I used your piece as source for my own "homework" The link was only good manners. :-)
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