Thursday, 21 March 2013

It Started With London, It Ended With Pissing In A Bucket. (As All The Best Posts Do).

London's awful, isn't it?

Well, OK, no. Not really. London is amazing. But there are definitely some elements of it that I detest. Numero uno - rush hour. I hate rush hour in London for two reasons. The first, unsurprisingly, is feeling like a baked bean in a tin that is being repeatedly shaken by an unrelenting two-year-old. Not that I don't enjoy engaging in accidental frotteurism, of course, because who doesn't love a stranger rubbing themselves up against them? I'd just like to have to option to disengage should I wish to. The second and most distressing reason is having to see, and occasionally inappropriately rub up against, people in expensive suits coming home from their successful jobs. These people never bothered me before, but over the years their age has gradually crept closer to mine, or mine to theirs - either way, one of these days, I am worried that I will bump into some degenerate imbecile from my secondary school and have to explain to them that, whilst they are in a top paid job that requires all of its employees to wear an expensive suit, I am still working in a farm shop and am on occasion required to turn up to work in a crocodile suit for Red Nose Day. (Don't get me wrong, getting to go to work in a crocodile suit absolutely made my week (I feel no need to embellish), but a person of higher esteem than myself may find this behaviour beneath them). It's not that I don't have the ability to find a better job, of course. I am full of that innovative spark that fancy employers are always looking for - only last week did I spend a significant amount of time thinking up hilarious names for future pets with my sister. For cats, we thought of David Meowie, Chairman Meow and Jean-Claw van Damme, for dogs, Virginia Woof and Alan Sation, for birds, Jack Quack, and for cows (we live in Yorkshire - we can't rule anything out), Moo Reed. I'm not going to lie and say these were all just thought up in one flash of inspiration - I've been sitting on Alan Sation for a good few years now, I'm just waiting for the right time to buy an alsation so I can use it. Surprisingly, that time has yet to present itself...

It's not just working 45 hour weeks that makes getting an alsation improbable, but also the fact that I cannot afford to buy and keep a large dog. Or a small dog, for that matter, even if I could keep it in my bag. I've recently begun to realise that, given that I am almost 23, I am way past the age of being able to cling on to my mum's social classification and I am actually now poor. I don't just mean that I don't have any money (which, incidentally, I don't), but I am classed as an actual poor person. A mere cog in the working class machine, scraping the barrel for beer money and bus fare.You know that scene in Say Anything when the dad is sat in the bath in his clothes, all wide eyes and bitten nails, dramatic music playing in the background because his credit card has been declined and he realises he's got no money? That's going to be me one day. Only I won't be sat in the bath, because I won't be able to afford one. I'll be sat on a deck chair in a 10ft by 10ft room that is only called the living room because it would seem incongruous to call it a walk-in wardrobe, which is what it more accurately resembles. If this were the olden days, I would be shivering in a one bedroom house (that I shared with my 7 kids and two other families), stealing loaves of bread from the market and pissing in a bucket in the garden.

2 comments:

Alun said...

at least your mum uses the bucket in a tent

Thinking outloud said...

F-ing hilarious! What happened to selling matchsticks and freezing to death in the street while watching the rich people sitting warm and cozy in their houses.