Running Late

Before arriving in the office this morning I paid a visit to the local barbers, and sat quietly while a nice lady called Mary, from Tipperary in Ireland cut my hair. After the requisite conversation about what might happen to my head in the next twenty minutes, we talked about cross channel ferries, airports, flights, visiting family, and all sorts of other things you end up talking about with anybody from Ireland. We also talked about how nice Dublin is, and how I really should go back and spend some proper time there.

At one point she tipped my head forwards, and my gaze fell on the small pile of hair gathering in my lap. I was kind of horrified. At this rate I’m going to have grey stripes down the side of my head like Doctor Strange within a year or two.

After thanking Mary for her sterling work and amusing conversation, money was exchanged, and I set off down to road to the bank.

I very rarely have cause to enter a high-street bank any more. It appears very few other people do either – because the entire branch seemed to be staffed by one man, standing at a lectern, adjacent to a row of meeting rooms.

I handed him my debit card, and explained that it didn’t seem to work. He pressed buttons, read things, murmured to himself, and frowned. I tried the card out on a machine opposite him. Apparently there was nothing wrong with the card – I had just forgotten my pin number. I figured this might be because the previous card fell in half over a year ago – and in that time my brain obviously started remembering other far more important things – you know, like what time to pick our youngest up, or what time football practice was, or where rugby training is this week, or where that birthday party is, or when that parents evening is.

I finally arrived at the office a little before 10am. I opened Outlook in the same manner people crack open attic covers in horror movies – peeking in at the horrors that might lurk with quite some trepidation. I live in constant fear of what might arrive in my work in-box next. I like to think of it as a healthy fear, but it really boils down to hoping the world will leave me alone.

Anyway. I better get on. If I look busy, I might hopefully be left alone.

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