Tuesday, 2 May 2017


When my 45 minutes of complaining to my doctor had finished (a regular session of paying someone to listen to you really comes into its own when you feel like whining about work) I passed a person in the waiting room who looked really familiar. I couldn't place him though and I still haven't been able to, even though I have given the question a great deal of thought over the past 30 hours.

I am really annoyed. If you know who it was, you had better say. He was waiting to see the pathology nurse and he was holding a number two, as in he had the waiting room queue ticket no.2, not as in he had a specimen jar with a blob of shit inside. It was about a quarter to five yesterday. I can't work out if I recognised him from off the telly (unlikely, since I don't watch TV), or from him waiting tables somewhere that I eat eggs and coffee, or should I really know his name because he has been collecting his child from the same place I've been collecting mine from for many months now? He also looked quite similar to this bronze bust of a WWII pilot which is in the museum at work, same moustache and haircut, but somehow I don't think that's it.

Well, I have many other problems on the go. I mean why stop at just one? I am too tired to be restless, FOMO'ed etc. I did go for a fairly long ride on the afternoon of Leonard's birthday, ie Sunday, and intermittently I felt like there might be someone somewhere having some fun and if I only cruised around a bit longer I might even get to do the same. I was passing Captain Cook's Cottage when I suddenly thought, well, this is actually quite fun what I'm doing right now. I did not have long to ruminate upon this insight however as almost immediately I had to pay all of my attention to the nasty process of getting down Flinders St on a bicycle without getting skittled. I also have various problems with clothing now that the weather is getting colder, darker, and wetter. It's only Tuesday and I've already used up what passes for work-appropriate clothing. I could go and buy some clothes, but what happens is this: in the morning when I cross Lygon St I have to pass the Trenery shop, and the windows filled with dummies dressed so boringly that they make you want to chop off your own head. I really need to do some sewing, but without a reel of green thread I cannot, and I cannot procure a reel of green thread until the weekend, by which time I will be too knackered to either buy the thread or to thread it through my sewing machine.  On the good side, something about the way I washed my hair this morning has made it very soft and nice to touch, so I have been indulging my creepy tendencies all day by playing with it. You can see that I need to go to bed very very soon.

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