This is perfect weather. Everyone is full of vitamin D. They’re striding around the pavements and parks, full of confidence, full of power. Just don’t let them get behind the wheel of a car. The roads today are full of little pocket Genghis Khans. One guy blankly waited for 4 vehicles to reverse in order for him to continue, when all he needed to do was pull in himself for a while. I called him “Your majesty” as he went through. Little arse.

I’ve worked a pretty long shift. I thought I was getting a lunch break but I ended up driving to Camden with a hot toasted sandwich in the glove compartment. Then I sat in the parking lot at Morrison’s eating it cold, constantly expecting the call to leave, for way too long. Then it was a late trip to Heathrow that turned out stressful. But more on that anon. First the weather.

I’ll go right out there and say it: with all this summer going on I’m finding it impossible not to have my head turned by the constant parade of beauty on the streets. Everyone looks great at the moment, especially you dear reader. Here am I with my pale and bleeding legs under the first shorts of the year and whatever T-shirt was on the top of the pile, and I’m walking past women of my age who probably have two kids and still almost make me go slam into a lamp post. Immaculate summer dresses and all that work in the gym plus vitamin D. I’ve got a six pack under here somewhere… I just need six months to find it. I’ve got to get back to that shit. Speaking objectively, it works.

But summer doesn’t just bring beauty. It brings rage. I picked up someone from Heathrow who had a shitload of camera equipment. “You better have a big vehicle,” she tells me as she comes through with a tank sized trolley of camera-boxes. “It’s an SUV” I reply. She goes silent. “We should be fine,” I venture, keeping the doubt from my voice.

While I’m trying to load it, she isn’t helping at all. Instead she’s taking endless photographs and repeating: “Call the production office. This is ridiculous. This always happens.” Personally I think that if she were to help and stop moaning, with goodwill and a bit of squishing we’d get it all in, and her too. But she wants this to fail because she has a point to make. I try my usual attitude of “Yes it’s not ideal but we can make it work.” But the problem is that, unlike me, she was expecting this to happen. And she wants to make a point so it doesn’t happen again. She ain’t gonna help. She’ll just take photos of me struggling. So I slice up my legs on her blimming cases, get it all in on her personal youtube Laurel and Hardy show, and put her trolley and some bags on the passenger seat. She’s making sure I know she’s tired. I take her downstairs and put her in a black cab. She inexplicably high fives me as she gets in the back. I return to the car and crawl back to London with too much kit. She’s probably right. I can’t see her fitting in this car as well. But I don’t like giving up. It’s not in my nature. And she gave up before we started which made it impossible.


The only photo I took today. At Biggin Hill at 9.15am. Before the day even started. No reason for it to be there. But it’s just shy of 3am now. I’m turning in.

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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