The alarm sounded at 0500 and I immediately regretted my decision to resume for work. Whilst I wasn’t feeling much in the way of pain and only a semblance of stiffness in the wrong places, the notion of returning for a twelve hour shift before having ten days off seemed a little too professional for my liking. I was out the house and in the car before I was awake enough to realise the foolishness of it all. For some reason the drivers heading into Birmingham seemed a little frustrated at my law abiding, not in a rush style of commute and practised manoeuvres you just wished a traffic cop had been on hand to witness so that my condemnation of their misdemeanour’s could be reflected in blue flashing lights. Sadly the thin blue line is spread far too thin at times.
The heated seat in my fickle Vauxhall was just reaching mmmmm setting as I rolled into the car park and I sat a moment revelling in the comfortable warmth before attempting the hill to work. There was little occurring as I got in, I tried to make myself comfortable by jamming my coat into the back of the chair and settled down to brief myself on the multitude of train service alterations. It wasn’t long before the question of my medication was brought to the fore and the long list of pharmaceuticals was sent off to the chemist on call to decide if I could actually stay at work. A nail biting forty five minutes later, I was allowed to stay on the proviso I didn’t drive any trains or work at heights. I pointed out we were on the eleventh floor but apparently this didn’t count. Dejected I sat back down and busied myself with the demands of the job, including dealing with a signaller who really wanted a row but only received “I hear what you say” to his annoyed statements. I think he got the picture but then screwed me for 8 minutes proving I am nothing but a worthless cog in a far bigger machine. Of course , as has been proven time and time again, you are only as good as your last decision and I have 254 weeks left at work.
Things were ticking along quite well until “sausagegate”, obviously not that “sausagegate” but a Birmingham version of. Controller R offered to do the breakfast order and feeling like something substantial I ordered a sausage and bacon baguette, no sauce. After a reasonable amount of time the hubub in the office signalled the arrival of the breakfast fare. A crisp white bag with the initials BS indelibly marked was presented to me and I eagerly removed 300mm of fresh perfectly baked baguette. However all wasn’t right, something about the feel in the hand, maybe the waft of the aroma lacked something, perhaps it was a sixth sense honed by five decades of purchasing the nation’s favourite breakfast treat. I investigated further and to my horror the B in my BS was missing. The opened baguette revealed 3/4 of a sausage and nothing else. It wasn’t even a decent sized sausage, a subject I feel ably qualified to discuss in this forum. There were gaps, some as large as 50mm between the fragments of meat, forlornly lost on a carpet of white . Disgusted I rearranged my bag and discarded the uette so that I could at least imagine I was tucking into a sandwich well filled, something I wouldn’t be after consumption. Even the excitement of a bus colliding with a set of barriers couldn’t raise my spirits and I believe it was at this point I decided to purchase a takeaway on the way home.
It is my step daughter’s birthday tomorrow, she will become one of those teenage things and so we are enjoying one last evening of peace before it all starts. I may have another glass of wine.