Lost and Confused

This post may come over as a little distracted. In the last few days, I have been finding myself mostly lost, and short of trailing breadcrumbs to every destination, there seems no end to this extended state of nervous anxiety.

Monday was a directionless day as I lost myself and most of my mind attempting to crack the laptop replacement codex. But first I had to locate my new office which involved me riding past it once, and walking around it twice more. The cruel irony of the reduced circumstances, in which we cyclists find ourselves, is the front door of my working home is merely a waypoint on the continuing journey to the bike store.

And that’s just the start of it. The concept of lazy design takes its cues from a much washed and almost traction-less concrete floor, bike hooks so close together their capacity is reduced by half, a locker which is 2 inches shorter than a pair of suit trousers*, and a weary traipse up stairs and down an apathetic lift to arrive on the very same floor you left some hours ago.

The switching logistics of bike kit, clothes, locks, shoes and trousers is a burden I am already too weary to carry. A quick scan of the social lepers that make up the firmâ’s cyclists show they too are natily dressed in that much maligned sartorial garb of shirt, tie, waterproof socks and towel.

Eventually I found an unoccupied desk which took almost no time compared to finding the concealed entrance of the new building. I fully expected the security guard to welcome me in the style of Mr Ben’s shopkeeper after I’d accidentally stumbled through the door – whilst resting on what was clearly a wall.

Indiana Jones, eat your heart out. I have found the dread portal. But it really wasn’t worth the pain of the search.

Lunchtime rocked up about ten minutes later which sent me on an unfed voyage of non discovery. A phone call diverted me from retracing my earlier steps as I struck off in the vague direction of laptop replacement central. Phone call finished, I found myself fed into the snarling maw of High Holborn.

But not lost. Geographically disadvantaged certainly and genealogically incapable of asking for directions. It’s a man thing but pointless anyway in our fine capital, as the street demographic is 80{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} confused tourist and 20{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} fuck-you-I’m-far-too-busy Londoner.

I struck out in a hopeful direction. Then another direction. Then, finding myself back where I started, turned round three times, muttered a cursed incantation and stomped off confidently through a spiritually promising passage**. Which ended rather more physically in a dead end.

Driven on by hunger, bloody mindedness and a one man pincer attack on vaguely remembered landmarks, only 45 minutes later did my navigational prowess sweatily deposit me at the entrance to the correct building.

But with most of my lunch hour gone, it was disappointing to find the form of extreme tedium and length was not valid. Because I had failed to have it notarised and counter signed by God. An oversight which brought much mirth to the pocket of IT that believes it may be part of the Civil Service. Come the revolution, they’re right behind estate agents when the Ninja Badgers*** are unleashed.

I was back in London today and the experience was much the same, except with added rain and wind and absent minded murder attempts. I’m really not going to miss this place.

* even for old “Ditch Standing” Leigh.

** This is not a sexual reference. However much you’d like it to be.

*** Armed with the cutlery drawer of hurt. Sometimes you have to go all in with the full might of your armed forces.

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