This week has been particularly testing. Just the world making sure that I'm so close to cracking under the strain that the creaks and groans can be heard in France. Of course these are all ridiculous first-world problems which means I'm not only stressed, I'm guilt-ridden.
I'm currently serving two masters at work and each is convinced that their project is the most significant and requires the lion's share of my attention. I spend between seven and eight hours per day on each of them, 80% of that time working, 10% listening to them shouting down the phone, 5% drinking coffee, smoking and watching videos of owls and as of this week? 2% up to my waist in the air conditioning system, 1% swearing at the air conditioning and 1% retrieving sensitive glues and varnishes from the funeral home fridges next door. The remaining 1% is of course, reserved for dithering outside the funeral home fridges hoping that I've remembered which one isn't currently occupied. God forbid I choke on noxious fumes before I have time to succumb to heat stroke in this wretched basement. Still, this is England and there's a national holiday soon, rain is undoubtedly imminent. Nothing cheers the spirits more than damp bunting.
The Bank Manager called, alleged that he's been sending letters which I have ignored. Me? Ignore vital missives stamped URGENT in glaring red letters? Surely he has me confused with some other disorganized cretin who stuffs all mail - junk and otherwise - into a shoebox and keeps it under the bed. He gave me the first appointment of the day to intimidate me. Unfortunately by 9am I've already been awake for five hours and working for four so his little plot failed although he still succeeded in brow-beating me into switching joint accounts into solo ones. On the way out of the bank my lawyer called to let me know that he'd mailed hard copies of my freshly re-drafted will to me and that they have to be signed. So much bloody paperwork. I assumed there would be some, when someone dies things need to be changed, fine, no problem. But I've been awash in a sea of official letters, documents and forms for three months! None quite so impressive as those from the British embassy which were only surpassed in size and weight by the accompanying guide on how to fill them in.
This delightful day was rounded off by group therapy in which I was harangued by a fellow inmate and told to get a girlfriend. Again. Twice she's harassed me on this particular subject, perhaps she thinks if she shouts it at me often enough I'll eventually snap and accept the nearest woman (her)?
Other highlights of the week include a visit to the Society library; searched thoroughly, stripped of all electronic devices, pens, bags, coats etc and finally thrust, blinking and as naked as a mole rat into the hallowed halls and ushered into the waiting room. My book was delayed, it missed our appointment by thirty minutes, proving that even inanimate objects have more captivating social lives than myself. The accompanying notes to the social butterfly in question were delayed by an hour and a half, finally arriving on their own cart with an honour guard of dust bunnies. And they were in braille. The other copy has been misplaced. At this point it seemed rather as if the Universe was just taking the piss.
The silver lining to this rather thunderous cloud was the very appealing gentleman trying not to laugh at my misfortune in the library. His card is grey (happy medium between white: boring and black: pretentious) and reads Name, Nefarious Deeds. A card like that combined with a handlebar moustache? That deserves a call, surely. After all, how much worse can things get at this point?
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