I've been walking to work.
There you go, green lovers, that's got to be points to me, right?
And in the heady buzz of the early morning traffic, the haze over the town from Grace Way, the warm shafts of light slicing down through the trees, yadda yadda yadda... well, there are a few things that in a sleep deprived state have got my grumble.
First prize? Got to go to the highways agencies. Broken, buckled or uneven flagstones. Shouldn't I be able to navigate them? Yeah. And it's not their existence alone that irritates me, just when it impedes me. At 8 in the morning I'm not always as alert as I should be. A toe might slip an inch lower than I percieve it and suddenly wham! Somehow it has ruined the entire choreography of the rest of my body and I'm already descending from a 35 degree angle towards the floor. Nine times out of ten, it wakes me up and I manage to remain standing tall. But I'm annoyed for the one time in every ten that I stumble like an ape learning to straighten its legs, ending up sprawled in front of a passing cyclist on a bike he can fold up and put in his pocket. Oh, and the ten times out of ten that it hurts my Doc Martin-ed digits.
Rain. Either the torrential or the threat of. Anything else pretty much goes.
Drivers who don't understand what an indicator is for. Sure, I mean hey, why would I need to know where you're going to go? If you hit me with that ton lump of metal and plastic, the most it'll do is make you late for work. It's not like there's anything serious that could happen. Oh, wait, my body could rupture on impact and burst claret all over your bonnet and windshield. Hmmm. You've got a great big orange flashy thing on either side to avoid any confusion for me. Fucking use it. Or, if you choose not to use it, don't scream and leer at me as you race past inches from me because you don't know how to drive. Capiche?
Children. All of them. Well, okay, just the ones who throw things out of cars or wave incessantly, screaming while their head gets the tiniest but thrilling enough breeze to cause an accident in their pants.
Other walkers. I'm lumping people together here. Slow walkers, noisy walkers, people who insist on walking fifteen across in front of you, people who insist on walking fifteen across coming towards you (and proceed to stare at you in the hope you'll become a pillar of salt because, clearly, you're in the wrong when they bump into you. How dare you not be able to slip into intangibility for a moment?). Dog walkers who, when you smile at them or their cute, nobel or intimidating pet, eye you as you would said pet if it had your balls in its mouth and was frozen mid jaw close. Seriously, the've got the great big wolf descendant on a tiny rope. Why are they looking warily at everyone else? Woe betide you pet the interested and second most intelligent party in this situation. They can be very funny about these things. Above all, people who deliberately and blatantly stare anywhere not to meet your eyes with theirs. That might be shocking to those of you who know me as bristly, a stickler for a grumble and generally incapable of being sociable, but there it is. A smile, a good morning, even a nod would be nice.
Shin muscle, or lack thereof, and the murderous stiletto weilding gnomes that must inhabit your trouser legs. About ten minutes into a power walk, they're there. Leaping out like cocktail stick wielding ninjas, they throw themselves onto the ridiculously thin strip of muscle and don't let go. If there's an intelligent designer, seriously, they need to redraw the bluprints for legs.
There are more. I can't think of them now.
On a lighter note, I had a moment of nirvana today at work. I was surrounded by piles of Moleskin notebooks, address books, flip pads, the works. Honestly, if I had no human contact at work, no knowledge of time and no breaks, I would be happy just stacking these packets of paper pad perfection so long as I could get one free every week.
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