You know Those, right? Your mama said there'd be days like This. Everyone has had one of Those days -- the day where, for all your charm, wit, and hand-eye co-ordination, everything seems to go wrong. You spill your coffee, you put two different shoes on, you knock your head on the car-door, you burn your lunch, your reformat your flashdrive and discover that you accidentally deleted the 3rd-quarter analysis spreadsheets with it. You know, Those days.
Well, I'm having one of Those weeks.
Though not strictly this week, Friday last, I encountered the largest spider on the face of the planet, which set me up for several days'-worth of arachnophobia. Every night since, I've had nightmares involving unnaturally-gigantic spiders. Just last night, I dreamt I found a particularly dense spiderweb, similar to what a funnel-web spider would make, only it was inhabited by a wolf-spider the approximate size of both my hands.
Then, on Sunday (the official start of the week in the SMTWTFS format), I go to a coffee-shop and encounter a ghost from my past. I shan't discuss it in great detail, but, suffice it to say, I would have preferred arachnophobia at that very moment.
However, I can safely say that today, Wednesday, the 22nd of September, has been the worst day of the week thus far. First, after I woke up this morning, I was only half-conscious when I went to make a pot of coffee. I ended up dumping a quarter of a cup of coffee-grounds into the reservoir instead of the basket. The reservoir, still being wet from the cup of tea I made at midnight, was frightfully difficult to clean.
An hour ago, or thereabouts, I went to the petrol station, as my car was dangerously low on the explosive propulsion liquid. I put my credit card into the thing there and it didn't take. I tried it again, no luck. I went into the convenience store to see if they could programme in 20 quid of petrol onto the card. They said it was being declined in every case. Turns out I was sent a bill through the ever-so-reliable United States Postal Service by the credit card firm, which, of course, I never received. At any rate, I dusted off my backup card and used it to buy petrol. An activity that should have taken four to seven minutes to complete took twenty-eight minutes.
I was actually on my way to Thé Cup (a bistro with a piano in it, about which I have written in a past entry, like July-ish). I had intended to do a modicum of composing there whilst partaking in Earl Grey tea and a scone. Quite an inspiring place, really, Thé Cup -- their piano leaves a bit to be desired, but its post-industrial, hole-in-the-wall type environment is a jolly good place for new age composers to ply our trade...
...assuming one can get there...
I drive away from the petrol station and proceed to 48th Street, thence to Randolph. I turn north on 27th to approach the place at the only angle for parking. When I endeavour to shift lanes, I discover that a sodding great red pick-up truck, emblazoned with Nebraska Cornhusker football decals, has materialised out of thin air -- as though the Starship Enterprise, itself, has beamed this vehicle onto the road. I manage to avert certain disaster by speeding up enough to overtake (something which a nearby policeman looked twice at). Eventually, I find the second-to-last road to take me to Thé Cup -- I'm still trying to convince myself that I'll probably never encounter that same truck again (people who drive such large vehicles around here tend to have inferiority complexes and memberships in the National Rifle Association), I manage to miss the last road. I end up in the turning lane of a one-way street, with no hope of being able to double back on the route for several miles.
When I finally get back home (a task of great difficulty for all the road work going on around here), one of my crackhead neighbours attempts to run me down (either accidentally or intentionally) as I exit my car.
But, fear not, as This week is still young yet. I'm sure that something will happen between tomorrow and 2359 CST Saturday that will make today look an absolute picnic. A picnic in tall grass full of huge spiders, but a picnic nonetheless.
