According to the Daily Mail, Monday 21st January is “the day we feel at our lowest ebb.”
According to surveys we miss the summer, are skint after Christmas and New Year, and the lack of daylight makes us mopey and irritable.
It’s cold, dark and basically a bit crap out there.
So with this in mind I was determined to greet the day with a positive mindset and venture out the front door with a smile on my face and a new set of tunes on my MP3 player (The Beatles’ “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”…bliss!)
I was off sick all last week with what I thought was a busted knee, but turned out to be a build up of scar tissue following a snapped ligament in 2001 while dabbling in Kickboxing. Paid for some physio, had an x-ray and remained at home bored for 7 days. Today was the first day back…on the lowest, ebbiest day of the year.
Being a guy who works out doors for 4/5 of his daily shift, I planned ahead. Thermal long johns (sexy!), two pairs of socks (sexier!) and a thermal undershirt (sex on pecs!) I also had a bandana round my neck and a woolly hat plus two pairs of gloves. After getting all this on I waddled down to work only to see other guys coming out, bereft of anything work related in their hands.
“What you here for? It’s closed!”
As I’m “2nd Wave” (read: bloke who goes in at around to clear up what’s left) I had apparently missed the joyous announcement that the depot was shut due to bad weather.
Went in to prove I’d actually turned up and asked the million pound question:
“Can you like, text us or some shit like that?”
“You have to turn up!”
Some kind of yin and yang there I’m sure. I have to turn up to work, to be told I’m not required to work. Still, this was mainly a positive thing and as I live about 10 minutes slippery slide from work I just mooched home.
After pottering about for a couple of hours I ventured onto the landing and wondered for the 3rd time in as many days if my downstairs neighbour was having major bowel issues. The stench in the corridor was like a rock festival latrine. Didn’t like to knock in case he was dead on the toilet. Went further down and some bloke was out by the front door prising the lid off the sewage hatch.
I live above a shop. So my “front” door is the “back” door of the business. Problem is that it’s my only way in, and their “other” one.
“Is there a problem Mr Sewage Hatch man?”
“Yeah, those twats have put a load of tampax and sanitary wipes down the bog. The whole thing’s backed up and burst the pipes. Their basements full of sewage!”
Charming. Still, least it wasn’t my neighbour being a smelly bastard. I felt guilty for even thinking such a thing about him.
The drainage guy got a mate out with a lot of hoses and high pressure jets, who shoved them in the various tubes and drains, tutted and hummed a bit, got us to flush the toilets a few times, then declared the whole thing broken.
As all electricity meters for the entire property are in the shop basement I decided to do the “Human-Turd-Minefield, Hop, Skip & Jump” to the cupboard and get a reading, before the flood of effluence got too high.
The stench was minging, making my eyes water and there were cute little smears of shite on the floor near the pipes, with a vicious “drip, splat, drip” noise coming from them.
Me and the staff in this place don’t get on very well. They dumped a load of unwanted furniture in the alley a couple of months ago and when I tried to explain that the garbage men wouldn’t take it, they just got rude and obnoxious (but I did find out that the best way to upset a gobby feminist who won’t stop talking is to say “listen sweetheart…!”)
To be fair though, the final member of staff on duty (as they’d had the decency to close the shop so those requiring £30 wet trims and blow dries, didn’t have to inhale the pong of diahorrea) seemed embarrassed about the whole thing and promised to clean the backyard out with bleach once the drainage bloke had packed up. I went to take a photo of the work in progress, only for the hosepipe bloke to say as I opened the door:
“Close that mate, watch your face!!!”
Pulled it shut as he triggered the high pressure jet, and a lovely spray of water and poo flew up in the air like an angelic mist of unicorn tears.
Finally I went to input the meter readings to NPower online.
With E.On this then told you how much you owed immediately. Not with NPower.
So I phoned them up, go their irritating, voice-activated, robot tart and after inputting the correct sequence, spoke to an operator who told me my bill from 14th November to today would be £456.98 pence.
After a long pause I realised I’d fucked up due to being distracted by the eye watering stench of other people’s jobbies and had put Night reading in the Day section and vice versa. The lady switched them over and it still came to around £240 (which sucks, but not as much).