Die Hard and Boredom

Today was only half a day. Well, I suppose the day still had 24 hours and a bit which fits into a leap year now and then, but I meant work wise. Just as well as I wasn’t in the mood.

Moods and me are bad news. The work -  wrapping up this ‘thing’ for the museum - an idiot could do. I am not an idiot, despite most people saying the contrary. They are just contrarie fools as far as I am concerned.

So I do the usual stunt and switch from the North and South poles at an alarming rate in my head. I think it is called Bi-Polar. I decided to lament on all the bad things I have done in my life.

After 5 hours, I had covered maybe 5% and wasn’t feeling too good with myself. As the final whistle blew, I didn’t hear a thing as there is no whistle. All I had to do was clock the time on my watch when the little hand meets the big hand and you can see – it means it is daylight and twelve noon. Not high noon because that is always when cowboys arrive and try to shoot you. (Seen it, done it, got the bullet riddled T-shirt.)

Die Hard sat there awaiting his rider. Well it wasn’t exactly sitting. Who has ever heard of a bicycle sitting? Lying down…okay, pulling wheelies (impossible as it weighs close on half a ton), being a pain in the arse; yeah, bicycles can do that, but they do not sit around waiting to be taken for a ride.

I looked at this monster thing with a very nasty scowl on my face. I hate all forms of them. I have kept away from them for decades but my poor miserable existence at this present time dictates that we be bonded through my bum. It has a saddle, otherwise I would now be gaily writing. 

I have had enough with Die Hard’s nonsense. It still will not forgive me for the ‘accident’ with the half bottle of Metaxa, and flatly refuses to use its gears properly. I pointed at a container in the huge loading bay –

‘Listen you devil sperm, see that over there? It is a container for scrap metal. I don’t care that you belong to my boss and hate my guts. Any more nonsense and I will take an angle grinder, slice you up into little tubes, sell your wires to a hangman and turn your gear cogs into Ninja fighting stars.’

Die Hard acknowledged this input by promptly falling over, making its little bell chirp in arrogant defiance.

With the sun blazing gently down, I rode off into the sunset. Are you mad? Sunset was hours away and I didn’t want to be on this thing longer than necessary, so first stop was my local supermarket. It is on the way ‘home’ and I can spend half an hour wandering about wondering why I bothered - but it kills some time.

The flat could do with a bit of clean up. I am not in the mood. Rather sit in the sun with a book and a beer for a bit.