Moving about

“Oh look, it’s Stonehenge.”

One of our most ancient and internationally famous monuments bears about as much notice as a horse when you’re on a mission to get somewhere, but it’s nice how you get to catch it from the road.

A singer that I barely know is driving me to Yeovil. Enterprise have brought her a white jaguar. She hates it. She wants an SUV or a mini. “Get me behind that wheel,” I’m thinking. I don’t think I want this car for my own. It’s too generic, too low, too boring. But the engine kicks like a mule, and you barely feel it cornering, and I want to drive it.

Although to be frank I couldn’t drive to Yeovil after the day I’ve just had. I’m knackered. Droopy eyed.

“We’re getting too old for this shit,” was the quote from earlier in the day, out of Tristan. We were we in Bishop’s Stortford back then, pushing massive flats into a hot warehouse to be mothballed like The Arc of the Covenant at the end of “Raiders”.

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It feels like forever ago now, as the sunset burns sharp behind Stonehenge and the new driver curses her fast car.

In my plastic Tesco “overnight” bag I have the following: A toothbrush and toothpaste from Poundstretcher’s in Kentish Town. Two items. £2.39. “Stretching”. Two pairs of psychedelic pink pants and three pairs of socks – all the cheapest option in TK Maxx. Rachel’s father’s ratchet strap, which I didn’t exactly steal – extremely helpful on the van job it has been too. How kind of him to lend it to me. It has to come to Yeovil though as I had to meet the car in fecking Bromley and barely had time to get there after returning the Luton in Kentish Town. A spare shirt! Hooray. I won’t stink for tomorrow, and the day after there’s a bottle of Tom Ford that I bought at duty free on the way back from somewhere and lost almost immediately. I’d left it at Tristan and Tanya’s. Glad it showed up. Explains why Tristan smelt so familiar the other day. And a mobile phone charger. That’s it. I didn’t realise I would be going away for two nights. I hadn’t been checking my diary, which is the external harddrive for my brain where I keep all the practical stuff. And pictures of animals.


Today started so calmly. Me on my back, Pickle on my stomach, checking emails together to discover that the one I’ve been waiting for has landed. Then suddenly my French voisin and a man called Daryl are panicking loudly at my door and Anna comes into my room to tell me.

Daryl is an engineer. He’s locked everybody inside the block including himself, trying to fix the entryphone. The binman is waiting outside. He cannot understand why my French neighbour won’t give him her keys to pass to the binman through the letterbox. I can understand. He’s a man I’ve never met before in a boiler suit with visible panic energy, coming to your flat door at 8am saying “I need you to give me keys to give to the binman through the letterbox now quickly he won’t wait for long hurry up why are you looking at me like that?”

She’s worried he’s some kind of scammer. I reckon he’s legit so I follow him down with keys but the binman has got bored and left. He’s pissed off about it. “People are going to be leaving for work soon,” he tells me accusingly, as if I’m the one in a branded boilersuit that fucked the lock while the door was shut.

We shout at people through the letterbox a little while. Eventually someone accepts the key through the letterbox and opens it from the outside. He immediately takes the lock off entirely and fucks off. I shrug and go to work. Got a laptop to deliver, a van to unload and then I’ve got to be driven to Somerset by someone that hates their car… All in a day’s work. Early start tomorrow. Night night…

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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