Shortly before leaving work this evening I called home to check if I should stop off in town. As far as I can tell, calling home is similar to playing russian roulette - the tone of the “Hello” usually tells you everything you need to know about the running battle that may have occurred throughout the day.
A chirpy “Hello” denotes all is well with the world. A sullen “Hello” could mean any of a number of horrors have been visited upon our household. Today was somewhere inbetween, and required a stop for food. Food for us, to be cooked after the children were in bed.
“What would you like?”
“You choose”
“Pizza!”
“I don’t mind. You choose”. That’s code for “I’d really rather not, but I really don’t care about much at all any more”.
The journey home was uneventful - even the supermarket was pleasantly empty. Recent trips have been blighted by mentally stopping myself from totally losing it in the middle of the vegetable isle while waiting for clueless old people to shuffle out of my way. It’s worth remarking that the town I live in has a special breed of old people - they are old people who think they have lots of money. As far as I can tell, this results in women with impressively bismarkesque hair-do’s, and tweed suited ex-city husbands, trailing along behind while wishing they were at the local golf club.
Think Marjorie Forbes Hamilton and Jeffrey DeVere in retirement.
The girl on the checkout tonight was strangely lovely. I say strangely because you never know what you’re going to get. The checkout person could have been a nosey old lady who judged you on your groceries. They could be a clueless young lad who’s more interested on hitting on the girl checking prices. Tonight I got a quiet, pretty girl who didn’t quite fit in. I’m guessing when she grows up, her bottle blonde, mascara laden colleagues will be green with envy.
My evening was unfolding like some kind of clockwork automaton. I could swear that as each task got completed - cycle to shop, lock bike, buy food, pay, unlock bike - I heard clunks, whirrs, and ticks governing the secret machinery concealed within everybody and behind everything.
It all fell apart as soon as I began daydreaming.
Do you ever experience autopilot? When you’re lost in your own thoughts, and your body carries on seemingly without any mental assistance from you? I do it a lot. I did it this evening while cycling through traffic on the way home.
I snapped out of the daydream as a higher level function kicked in. Higher level function perhaps isn’t the right term. Idiosyncratic and slightly deranged warning bell is probably a better description.
It wasn’t so much “ding-a-ling” as “CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!”.
I was approaching a footpath on my bike, and it caused me to suddenly realise what I was doing.
I. Can. Not. Ride. My. Bike. On. The. Path.
Imagine the scene - it’s dark, there are no pedestrians in sight for hundreds of yards, and I am approaching a footpath on a bike. I am wearing a helmet, reflective waterproofs, and my bike has powerful lights illuminating the street like the second sun of Krypton.
I got off and walked.
That’s right - my screwey head forced me to walk my bike through the cut-through footpath, even though nobody was in sight. As I trudged along, pushing the bike, I shook my head at my own Dudley Doorightiness.
Dib dib dib. Do your best.
Just to tip me over the edge into a full-on “should get out more” hang-up strewn rant fest, a girl then appeared cycling in the opposite direction along the footpath, with no lights, no helmet, and no high visibility clothing. A sanctimonious voice in my head started claiming the high ground.
I ranted “You should be wearing a bloody helmet!” in my head as she passed by.
The ridiculousness of my own snap judgement quickly became apparent, and I moved on to dodging dog shit from lazy ass owners who never clean up behind their four footed charges.
I’m turing into the Jack Nicholson character in “As Good as it Gets”. My main worry is that it’s already got as good as it’s going to get. I’m only going to become more annoyed, more angry, more bitter, and more idiosyncratic.