Taking a few days off work among all the Bank Holidays, mainly to give the impression that I am actually taking a realistic amount of time off (which I'm not) and that I enjoy spending time at home (which I don't, but I would if nobody else was there).
So far my plan seems to be working, and things seem to be progressing better than Easter 2010, which started with what I suspect was a premeditated fight, and ended the same way a week later just when things had begun to cool down.
However, being at home all day has apparantly given me more scope to irritate and annoy, and I am now curious as to how I can continue to function when even the simple act of eating an evening meal provokes tears of jealousy and self-pity from a disgustingly overfed yet food-stealing child.
Actually, I'm looking forward to returning to work just on the offchance of getting something to eat....
Anyway, plenty more anecdotes where that came from, but this is sadly not the appropriate forum in which to air them.
And so to Bridlington, to assist in the moving of some office furniture. Called in at Boyes for something or other, which was nothing to do with me anyway. But it was nice to be see the stairwells again, as I haven't been in the building since it was Binns, the closest thing that town had to a department store.
(Well, I suppose it really was a department store, but as it only ever manages to do anything in a lackadaisical manner, it still seems odd to grant Bridlington the benefit of the doubt on anything except tawdry squalour).
Anyway, I always found the stairwells in that building particularly interesting, as they were (and still are) tiled in the a most gloriously orange manner. I remember many childhood visits to the cafe at the top of the building, where a glass of ice cold milk was always a welcome treat.
Also, the gents toilet on one of the stairwells was the first place where a scary adult man tried to touch my tiny infantile penis.
Details are rather hazy after all this time, but being a very polite child, I probably let him. What I do recall is the sheer gutwrenching terror of it all, and being rescued by a much nicer man who led me out to be reunited with my mother.
Which probably explains a lot, including my various ambivalent attitudes towards physical relations.
Ah, those Proustian stairwells of my youth!
