On Being An Arse, And A Bastard.

Yet again my intentions have been sidelined by my wandering and distracted mind.  I was full of the intention to write my tuppence worth on the whole Julian Assange saga, but then my own woman-related problems derailed my train  of thought.  And so, before I write anything of any substance on anything of real interest, I need to try and exorcise the demons that plague me.  Some hope!

I currently find myself in a rather depressing unrequited love triangle.  While I am forlornly trying to come to terms with the fact that the object of my desire does not feel the same way about me, I am also the object of another’s desire.  I am in the curious position of being both heartbreaker and heartbreakee.  And it is not a position I would recommend to anyone.  It is thoroughly unpleasant all round, let me tell you.

I had lunch today with the source of my romantic crucifixion.   It was quite possibly the least pleasant time I have ever had in her company in all the years I have known her.  Bless her, she tried her best to make me feel better, even buying me painkillers for my toothache, but nothing can soothe the dull ache of her loss.  She told me once that when I meet someone else I will forget her.  Which only makes me think that is what she thinks will happen when she meets someone else – I shall be forgotten.  Obviously, this thought does not cheer me much.  I am left with the certain knowledge that she is the one that got away, and I will live the rest of my life knowing that.  Knowing also, that the cause of the problems between us were largely of my  making, doesn’t help me feel better either.   You know, I used to have a half decent opinion of myself before this, now I am left thinking I’m a complete arse.

And I must be a complete arse.  Women like that do not fall from trees.   When I think of the opportunities I had, all I can do is shake my head sadly and say “John, you are an arse.”

And then there is the desire projected at me, from another lass.  But I am in no position to return it, my mind being elsewhere, with someone else.  Which likely makes me a bit of a bastard to her.

So I am an arse and a bastard.  Quite possibly the saddest and most despondent arse and bastard this side of Christendom.

Somebody cheer me up….

Trains, Pains, and Automobiles…

It appears that my poor little car is buggered.  The mechanic has suggested it might be worth the gamble of spending £70-£100 replacing the belt, but apparently it is quite common when a cambelt goes for further work to be required on valves and pistons, which could cost about £500 or more.  Considering that the car has just had a new exhaust fitted, and is probably only worth £500 or so anyway, I am disinclined to spend more money fixing the thing.  Money, this month in particular, is something I just do not have.

This creates for me a bit of a pain, namely with regard to getting to and from work.  Yesterday I got a lift to Newton Ferrers from a colleague.  On finishing my shift I decided to walk to Brixton, a stroll of about 4/5 miles, and then catch a bus.  The walk took a little over an hour, all uphill, and the bus cost me £3.90!

Today I am working in Ivybridge.  The first train direct from Plymouth was at 0809, arriving at 0824.  Sadly for me I had to be at work by 0730.  So this meant catching the 0625 train for Glasgow, and changing at Totnes for a connection which got me into Ivybridge for 0724.  A journey of just about an hour!  I finish at 4 tonight, so it is anyone’s guess what time I shall get home tonight….?

Wish me luck.  The rest of this month I am going to need it.

Life Blues – A Perspective.

It was my intention last night to write a drunken ranting blog post about the vagaries of my day, and about how nothing seems to be going right.  I was going to be cursing my luck, cursing the gods, cursing fate, and just cursing in general.  But something happened on the way home from the pub last night that made me think again.  I stopped and chatted to a homeless chap and remembered all my problems are not actually that bad when put into some perspective.

I was a wee bit drunk as I staggered home last night.  It had been a long day, or a “cunting shitfuck motherfucker of a day” as I had posted on Facebook earlier in the evening.  The primary problem was the car breaking down, and this was compounded by the fact it happened on the road between Totnes and Dartmouth, which is almost the middle of nowhere.  And of course I don’t have breakdown cover…

I was supposed to be in Dartmouth to do a job for a guy, and I had to phone him and ask if he would come and pick me up, and possibly help tow the car back to Plymouth.  He agreed to do that once I’d sorted his boiler.  By the time we got back to the car it was maybe 6 hours later, and the hazard lights, on all that time, had drained the battery.  This meant it would be difficult to break and steer while being towed.  Still, that didn’t turn out to be a problem as the steel tow cable snapped after about 100 yards!  I came back to Plymouth car-less last night, leaving my poor wee motor to be recovered today.  At the cost of £70.  God knows what it’s going to cost to fix the car.  Or even if it can be fixed.  One mate tentatively suggested it might be the cambelt, and it might be a scrappage job!  Eek!

I was already going to be on a very tight budget this month, so as you can imagine I was a little upset by these developments.  Hence my desire for a rare beer, and my intention to rant about it last night.

I bumped into ‘James’ outside the Spar on North Hill in Plymouth.  He was sitting huddled against a wall, looking cold, miserable, and hungry.  Before I went into the shop, I fished out the shrapnel from my pocket, and told him to get himself something to eat.  In a further act of drunken compassion, while in the shop I decided to buy him a hot sausage roll.  As I handed it to him outside the shop, he said “no thanks, I’m a vegetarian”.  Which just seemed to sum up how my day was going.  So I went back into the Spar and got him a cheese and tomato sandwich.

I sat with him for 10 minutes as he ate, hungrily.  James was from Plymouth, and he had been on the streets for at least ten years, since both his parents had died.  He indicated that he had been through some unpleasant experiences, and that possibly accounted for for what seemed to me his rather nervous and skittish appearance.  Or maybe he just wasn’t used to loud and slightly intoxicated Scotsmen being nice to him.  Who knows?

Anyway, I came away from this encounter cursing my luck a little less than I had been.   My luck is not as bad as James’.  Or of countless people like him.