Wednesday, May 11, 2005

Daydream Believer 

“I see in your future,” cackled Mystic Stella, wafting a gnarled, witchy finger over her crystal organiser, “a handful of AIX upgrades in a far away data centre.”
“Oh goodie,” I replied. “When?”
“This weekend. Are you alright with that?”
Like a fool, I said yes. I really don’t want to, but the work has got to be done and the overtime will come in handy.

It’s rubbish being back at work. Nothing has changed.
I feel like I should be pushing on with the ‘what’s going on with the customers taking their business to Oswaldtwistle?’ storyline, but there’s no news to report.

This morning, creepy Keith poked his fat face round our door to say he feels like a nineteen year old but where can you get one at this time of day, etc. and made Ash feel uncomfortable in the process. Zippee told him to go fuck himself, which made the girls jump up and down with joy. All the ladies have crushes on Zippee. He oozes hug appeal and often makes them go Awww.

When Stella hasn’t been on the phone telling everybody how drunk she got at the weekend after Wigan got promoted, she’s been winding up the North End fans about the playoffs.

Neil, my former team leader, has taken to bumping blindly around the building in a virtual reality helmet, humming Born To Be Wild and making vroom noises. A badge sewn onto the left arm of his jacket reads “Bikers For Life.” Another on the right arm says “Mum”.

At every opportunity, Terry and Tabs have been holding hands.

Me? My thoughts are flower strewn, ocean storm, bayberry moon, fading into and out of focus, around and around, the last of the cherry blossom falling in the dying evening light.
I can’t stop daydreaming about that deer effortlessly leaping over the fence and vanishing into the cool darkness of the woods, like in Field Of Dreams where the baseball players disappear into the corn - I’m melting! I’m melting! - and Shoeless Joe invites James Earl Jones to join them.

“Hey Tim. Do you wanna come with us?”
“Come with you?”
“Out there.”
“What is out there?”
“Mud, mostly. And droppings. Come and find out.”
The air smells of pine. A pheasant cries out for his mate. Back in the house, people are laughing and drinking Smirnoff Ice.
“You gonna write about it?”
“You bet I’m gonna write about it,” I reply.
“You’re gonna write about it.”
“That’s what I do.”
“Far out.”

More of the same old same old then. I need a holiday.

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