I Crastinate like a Pro 

I hate my days off.

Up until a month ago my wife and I had the same days off work; Tuesdays and Wednesdays.  However, her shift changed and now she has the traditional Saturday and Sunday off.

To many,  the thought of having time off work without their significant other is a dream come true,  but there’s only so much I enjoy doing alone…and it’s getting really sore.

Now,  I hate to be sickly sweet here,  but my wife and I have an awesome marriage.  Spending time without her is like watching anything with the Kardashians in it; a pointless waste of time.  In addition,  Tuesday is the day I Skype my family back in England so my wife is missing out on that too.

I would love to say something hilariously sarcastic and biting about in-laws and how she’s dodged a bullet,  but alas…she really does love my family and vice versa.

I’m telling you, anyone looking in on our marriage from the outside is usually reaching for a bucket.

So,  today is Tuesday,  my wife left early for work,  and I Skyped my family at the normal prearranged times.  Due to the eight hour time difference,  the Skype calls are very early in the morning so,  historically (well,  for the last month at least),  I go back to sleep afterwards.  However,  instead of having a nap for a couple of hours,  I usually end up sleeping for ages and missing most of the day.

Either that or I end up down a YouTube rabbit hole and still end up doing none of the things I had planned to do.

Yet I always seem to end up sore.

This is all made worse by a fuzzy head usually brought on by oversleeping or concentrating on a screen without blinking.

Well,  today was going to be different.  Today I was going to do some washing [laundry],  tidy up,  go to the gym and get my hair cut. So today I set myself an alarm to only sleep for an hour.

Genius,  right?

Wrong.

Instead of only sleeping for an hour,  I decided to snooze button my way through four hours of sleep.

It’s become another typical Tuesday…or,  should I say ‘Snoozeday’? Huh?  Get it?  Snoozeday?  Anyone?

(holds up hand for a high five he will never get, and all that can be heard is the sound of crickets as a lone tumbleweed rolls by)

I don’t even have the time or the energy to get my hair cut.  This is an activity that involves me sitting down on the way to the Barber,  sitting down while they do all the work,  and then sitting down all the way home…and I still can’t be bothered.

Instead I’m slouched in bed,  looking at the clock and justifying to myself that I simply don’t have the time to do anything.

Well,  except write this post.

Priorities.

Now, where’s that box of tissues?

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Oxymorons

This morning, as I drove up to the gym, I noticed several cars circling the car park (parking lot) like sharks.

I soon realised they were looking for spaces that were as close to the gym entrance as possible. 

These people were actually trying to avoid having to walk too far. Now, I could understand this behaviour if it was raining or the zombie apocalypse was upon us, but this is Las Vegas; it’s nothing but sunshine and blue skies. 

It’s a hard life.

What makes it more ridiculous is the fact that I saw these pillocks 20 minutes later clocking up miles on the treadmill.

Still, at least these cretins didn’t get my space right by the entrance.

Result.

Pram sham

This morning at Victoria tube station there seemed to be a bottleneck forming at the top of the escalator. This is usually due to some penis who either has a massive suitcase with no understanding of how to steer it, or an inability to successfully step onto a moving staircase without counting in their head.

One, two, (step forward)

(Falls over)

But not this morning. No, this morning it was a woman with a pushchair.

I won’t lie, my initial thoughts were…

“Get the fuck out of the way you twat! We’re all trying to get to work! I mean who the fuck brings a child onto the underground at rush hour you massive wanker!?”

…but I soon realised that might be a little insensitive, so I didn’t say anything.

This poor struggling mother clearly had to travel at rush hour, otherwise why would she?  And it couldn’t have been easy pushing a small child around; navigating the escalators and trains with hoards of busy and ‘incredibly tolerant’ commuters rushing past her like a torrid river around a stupid fat rock.

She finally managed to count to three and merged with the moving staircase; shuffling to the right (and quite rightly so), to allow other commuters to walk past her on the left.  As I approached her I could see she was hunched over uncomfortably; desperately holding the pushchair and two massive bags in position as the escalator took us deeper into the bowels of London.

I felt for her, I really did. Poor cow.

I suddenly felt a wave of guilt come over me as I got closer to her.  Who was I to judge her for holding us all up? Who the fuck was I to get impatient because she had a pushchair with a small child in it?

Hang on…hold the fucking phone…

As I got level with her I noticed the ‘small child’ was in fact a boy of at least four years old! He was certainly too old and too tall to be pushed around by his mother.  I mean this literally of course; a lot of men are mentally pushed around by their mothers all their lives, or until the cyanide takes effect.

What the fuck is she doing pushing him around?   Lazy little shit.  I did wonder for a second if he was disabled, but he was using his perfectly healthy legs to turn around and talk to mummy; presumably to feed her a lump of sugar or whatever it is you give to a good horse.

Who’s a good horse?  Who’s a good horse?

It pisses me off that this little prick was being shuttled around when he had two perfectly good legs, just like the little two year old girl STOOD on the escalator with her dad a few feet in front.

It makes me so angry that some parents pander to their children a little too much at times. We spend the first year or so encouraging them to walk, so let the fuckers walk.

In India, as soon as children have competent motor skills they start making trainers, presumably for English kids who don’t walk in them.

pushchair