morning because my kettle broke. I tied it in a plastic bag, chucked it in my wheelie bin and ordered a new one. I felt a slight twinge of guilt
over this. I’m sure there was a time when, if something broke, you’d take it back to the shop and ask them to mend it.
But where would I have taken that broken kettle? Did I pay for a guarantee when I bought it? Did I fill out the little warranty form in the box? Did I even keep the receipt? Would the men in
short-sleeved shirts in the electrical megastore look at me like I was bonkers if I showed them a broken kettle? I’ll never know because new ones were only £20 on Amazon. And even if
I’d had enough sleep the humiliation of begging for help in that aircraft hangar wouldn’t be worth £20. But at least I felt mildly guilty while chucking it in the bin.
That’s something.
I was in the office even before Jen, and I got on with the brochure as soon as I sat down. I was hoping to take some time out for lunch, but my computer rudely interrupted me just before eleven
to tell me it wanted to update its operating system. I foolishly clicked ‘accept’ and as a result I spent my only break of the day staring at a progress bar and willing it to speed
up.
My laptop obviously sensed weakness because it kept telling me I had to install ‘critical’ updates for all my other programmes. I clicked ‘Accept’ on everything and
agreed to the endless lists of terms and conditions. I had absolutely no idea what I was agreeing to, and I doubt anyone does. We’ll probably just be woken up one night by armed soldiers with
Apple logos on their uniforms, demanding that we hand over our first-born children as detailed in the iTunes small print.
At a quarter to five, I send the brochure copy through to Trevor and slumped forward on to my desk. While I was drifting off to sleep, Jez invited me to his party on Saturday. I was so tired I
told him I didn’t want to go, which was surprisingly mature of me.
I’m right, I shouldn’t go. The only reason I’d want to go would be to make another pathetic attempt with Jo. And now I’ve accepted that will never happen, I don’t
have to waste a night shouting over the top of dance music in some sweaty council flat. I can settle back in bed with a mug of cocoa and a Jane Austen novel and wait for the sweet release of death,
just as someone my age should.
W EDNESDAY 3 RD A PRIL
I had to go to a presentation about new media in a hotel in town today. It was unbelievably dull but I kept myself awake by imagining how I’d kill Trevor if I had an
unlimited amount of time and a full Black & Decker toolbox.
Jen came along too and she spent every coffee break introducing herself to people and commenting on what a great networking opportunity it was. You’re not supposed to admit you’re
networking. That’s like admitting you’re chatting them up.
She kept bringing people over to meet me, which I suppose was nice of her. I could always call them and beg them for work if Trevor gets me fired.
Jen gave me a lift home in her Land Rover afterwards, which was also nice of her.
‘Leave the car at home?’ she asked. I was so used to her sentences ending with an upswing that it took me a while to realize she was asking a question.
‘Oh, I er … don’t have a car.’
‘Really?’ asked Jen. ‘I thought you’d be one of those car men. Is it an environmental thing? I know this one’s a bit naughty, but it’s fab for
hills.’
‘Nope,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t drive a car if they invented one that farted out rainforests.’
‘So why don’t you have one?’ she asked.
‘It’s just … Don’t get me started on cars.’
‘Go on,’ said Jen.
‘Well, it’s the speed cameras and the fines and the congestion charges and the sleeping policemen and the “Baby on Board” stickers and the pigeon shit on your windscreen
and the pedestrians who veer out into the road without taking their eyes off their phones and
over this. I’m sure there was a time when, if something broke, you’d take it back to the shop and ask them to mend it.
But where would I have taken that broken kettle? Did I pay for a guarantee when I bought it? Did I fill out the little warranty form in the box? Did I even keep the receipt? Would the men in
short-sleeved shirts in the electrical megastore look at me like I was bonkers if I showed them a broken kettle? I’ll never know because new ones were only £20 on Amazon. And even if
I’d had enough sleep the humiliation of begging for help in that aircraft hangar wouldn’t be worth £20. But at least I felt mildly guilty while chucking it in the bin.
That’s something.
I was in the office even before Jen, and I got on with the brochure as soon as I sat down. I was hoping to take some time out for lunch, but my computer rudely interrupted me just before eleven
to tell me it wanted to update its operating system. I foolishly clicked ‘accept’ and as a result I spent my only break of the day staring at a progress bar and willing it to speed
up.
My laptop obviously sensed weakness because it kept telling me I had to install ‘critical’ updates for all my other programmes. I clicked ‘Accept’ on everything and
agreed to the endless lists of terms and conditions. I had absolutely no idea what I was agreeing to, and I doubt anyone does. We’ll probably just be woken up one night by armed soldiers with
Apple logos on their uniforms, demanding that we hand over our first-born children as detailed in the iTunes small print.
At a quarter to five, I send the brochure copy through to Trevor and slumped forward on to my desk. While I was drifting off to sleep, Jez invited me to his party on Saturday. I was so tired I
told him I didn’t want to go, which was surprisingly mature of me.
I’m right, I shouldn’t go. The only reason I’d want to go would be to make another pathetic attempt with Jo. And now I’ve accepted that will never happen, I don’t
have to waste a night shouting over the top of dance music in some sweaty council flat. I can settle back in bed with a mug of cocoa and a Jane Austen novel and wait for the sweet release of death,
just as someone my age should.
W EDNESDAY 3 RD A PRIL
I had to go to a presentation about new media in a hotel in town today. It was unbelievably dull but I kept myself awake by imagining how I’d kill Trevor if I had an
unlimited amount of time and a full Black & Decker toolbox.
Jen came along too and she spent every coffee break introducing herself to people and commenting on what a great networking opportunity it was. You’re not supposed to admit you’re
networking. That’s like admitting you’re chatting them up.
She kept bringing people over to meet me, which I suppose was nice of her. I could always call them and beg them for work if Trevor gets me fired.
Jen gave me a lift home in her Land Rover afterwards, which was also nice of her.
‘Leave the car at home?’ she asked. I was so used to her sentences ending with an upswing that it took me a while to realize she was asking a question.
‘Oh, I er … don’t have a car.’
‘Really?’ asked Jen. ‘I thought you’d be one of those car men. Is it an environmental thing? I know this one’s a bit naughty, but it’s fab for
hills.’
‘Nope,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t drive a car if they invented one that farted out rainforests.’
‘So why don’t you have one?’ she asked.
‘It’s just … Don’t get me started on cars.’
‘Go on,’ said Jen.
‘Well, it’s the speed cameras and the fines and the congestion charges and the sleeping policemen and the “Baby on Board” stickers and the pigeon shit on your windscreen
and the pedestrians who veer out into the road without taking their eyes off their phones and
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