Lolloping Hungover

Ohh. Woah. Bah. Urrp! Plod, plod, plod, CLANG dagadydagadydagady goes yet another gate on springs. I've always been quite good at finding jobs that can be done with a hangover. Even when I had the Proper Job, hangovers tended to feature; I remember once the Office Blokes dissing one of their number for having taken a day off sick with his hangover. I joined in the dissing, up until one of them said, 'and if YOU didn't come in with a hangover we'd never see you!' I resented this slight on my character and said so.
'No, I mean I admire you,' said the bloke, rather anxiously. 'You come in and do your work even when you can't get your eyes open.'

I consider that I am in fact, fairly ROCK, though less so as I get older, so the high-consumption nights are a lot fewer (and let's not go into last night, which involved lots of Aspalls, vigorous jumping about and, er, there may have been an indiscretion. But I can't quite remember. Well, I think I remember administering a kiss, but what I can't remember is whether the recipient was pleased or utterly appalled.)

But actually, leafleting is not a bad hangover cure. All that fresh air, and the undemanding rhythm of in the gate, up the path, open the letterbox, shove in the leaflet... slowly but steadily I start to feel more human. Even without having had the time or the money for one of these.

And there's definitely a couple of cans in the fridge for when I get home.

Territory and Time Passing

I've hopped about in the course of my life, so I have never been really, deeply, counter-evolutionarily obsessed with any particular geographic zone. It's nice to be comfortably familiar with where you live, of course - knowing where the bus stop or the station or the open-all-night shop is. That's good. Knowing the best pub/cafe/lovely view is, that's also pretty good.
But it changes. Right now, in what is current home territory, they are ripping our local park to bits.

Even though I know it's part of the Greater Improvement, and I love the idea of the river being brought back to the surface and all that, seeing the climbing frame and the slide smashed to buggery did make me feel a bit sad. (And necessitate quite a lot of bright brisk talking to Trainboy along the lines of Ending Is Better Than Mending and all that...)

But tonight I went to an old patch of mine, Tottenham Court Road. Where I used to roam fearlessly (and pissed) a few years back. And now they've knocked half of it down and redirected the rest, and I bumbled about in the road all buffeted and bemused and *touristy*. And *OLD* person up from the provinces.

Don't like it. The rest of the world should reset to MY default.

Weather and my wardrobe

Obviously, in a job like this, you are a lot more aware of the weather and have to be aware of the weather. I'm not long back home from an evening round (for Fatty the food-hating client) conducted in a swirling white hell, and having found out that the wonderful new rubbery things that are supposed to stop arse/pavement interface in cold weather do not actually fit over my wellies at all.
Still, over the last couple of years of streetwalking jobs, I have acquired various useful items, such as waterproof trousers that remind me I used to be a bit of a pervert (they are black and shiny and smell funny), lots of extra-thick socks, and last winter I purchased a trapper hat because I thought it might make me look vaguely steampunk as well as keeping my head warm.
Yeah, one of these.

Remembering the time I bought what I thought was a wonderfully stylish black PVC vintage raincoat at a festival and leapt about reckoning I was rocking a Cool Girl Secret Agent appearance, only to be told by Chopwimp that I 'look like Wicked Uncle Ernie out of Tommy' (I sold that coat for 10 times what I paid for it on Ebay, by the way, so who's looking wicked now?) I put the hat on and got the comment in myself: so much for steampunk, I am in fact channelling John McRirick.