I
7:46am. Wednesday, 22nd January, 2025.
The midweek hump is upon us. Nevertheless, it will be plain sailing from here. Outside, there is a thin layer of fog which blankets the horizon and the musky scent of fallen rain pervades the air. It reminds me of George Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London. Of Victorian London. And my first thought whilst walking to work was, would I have enjoyed life more back then?
Forget the pestilence and the famine and the eviscerated prostitutes. What I mean is, back then, there was less distraction and more presentness. They had no screens or social media. They drank heavily, of course. Maybe dabbled in a little blackjack or opium. But still, they owned their minds if they chose to avoid said vices. Thieves didn’t lurk around every corner ready to snatch their senses whether they wanted it or not. Pickpockets did. Muggers too. Yet to only worry about material theft seems much less stressful than the mental theft we constantly suffer from today.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I would have died a much younger man from tuberculosis or cholera or some other insidious disease. But would those fewer years have been lived less anxiously? Sure, nowadays, we don’t have to worry so much about premature death. Yet there is a death of the mind that is becoming more startlingly apparent. You might call me crazy to think this way when I’m just about to start work. Fuck it. I would rather have these thoughts than be mentally numb.
An afterthought: Maybe I was being hypocritical with most of those statements. After all, I was typing the words on my smartphone rather than tuning out from screens through work.
II
9:25 and the day is moving fast.
I have emptied all the bins and hoovered some office rooms too.
I had a pleasant conversation with another fellow Danny. I found out he resides in Castleford but used to live in Wakefield. Wakefield is where I’m originally from, so I have strong opinions on the place. During our conversation, me and Danny realised we share the same views on both Wakefield and Castleford, i.e. they are both shitholes.
Anybody who has ever visited either place would agree. But if you aren’t from Wakefield, and I heard you say that, then it would cause me offence. Contrarily, if you have lived in Wakefield, then go ahead and insult it all you want. That once flourishing city has been transformed into a cesspit. The only reason I ever travel back there is to visit my dad. Other than that, I avoid it like the plague. And don’t get me started on Castleford; that is a different beast entirely. If ever I am unlucky enough to venture there again, my attire will consist of a hazmat suit and gas mask.
III
10:25 and every kitchen is sparkling.
Coffee stains are wiped from the tables, crumbs are hoovered up from the carpets, and the tiled floors are mopped with a bleach/water mix. I like the smell of bleach. I wonder how it tastes. Don’t judge me. Surely, we all have macabre thoughts like that? Anyway, it can’t taste any worse than the white cider I used to drink. That shit contained no apples and must have been pumped with chemical compounds not far from those of bleach. I often reminisce about those days when I’m slaving away in jobs I detest. Simpler times, when I cared about nothing other than finding the next fix. There were plenty of dark moments, but also many fond memories made. It is rare I do anything worth remembering any more. A few times a year, maybe. Back then though, every day was recordable… unless I blacked out, which happened more often than not. For nostalgia’s sake, one day I might buy a bottle of Frosty Jack’s again. A big three-litre bottle. Sit in a park. Down it. And see what memories it evokes.
IV
11:48, I’ll keep this entry short and sweet.
There is something beautiful about these final ten or fifteen minutes of a shift. Optimism is abundant. The world is your oyster. And, when the clock strikes home-time – carpe motherfucking diem.
Leave a Reply