Wednesday 11th March 2015

Tuesday

And what is this? Driving to the office in Ramsgate? A commute you say?

I have a carrier bag full of travel receipts and several thousand pounds on my company credit card. I was going to have to do some admin, I can't do that at home, I need a scanner and printer. Jools takes the train, quarter past six from Martin Mill, its just a short drive down the hill to the station. I go back home, have breakfast, make lunch and pack my work case. Not leaving too late, as otherwise I will get stuck in traffic, I leave just before seven, listen to the news headlines as I drive, but is all so depressing, so I switch it back off again

. The sun is shining from a clear blue sky, and it is a pleasure just to be out, enjoying the morning, even if it is just going to work. At the office, I had forgotten they are building an extension, for the extension! That may not make much sense to you, but its funny to me. Anyway, inside, there are no desks until the techs go offshore, and one of the boats breaks down, so the office is never really quiet, even less so when the builders start work at eight.

Turns out it was a wasted trip, I can't get the printer to work, for me the servers are all offline, so I allocate receipts to claims, but can't close the circle, it will have to do. It is hot now, the techs are laughing, playing music, the builders banging away, building stuff: it's their job. At half eleven, with the butty wagon having failed to make an appearance, I decide to drive home where it is quiet, and I can get a decent cup of coffee anyway.

Back home the feline welcoming committee is out in force, their food isn't fresh, or something. Bah! I say to them, they lay on their bellies and purr. Sweet cute little gits. I stroke them.

The day fades, I have more coffee, tea, biscuits, crisps. I am on a diet after all.

I have to go into town to pick Jools off the bus, but find the town at a standstill as in Calais workers have blockaded the port,a nd so there are massive queues in Dover. Which explains why Jools' bus trip home takes 90 minutes. I go to wait in the Rack of Ale, half an hour passes, I think of another pint, but Jools' smiling face round the door means I don't have to have another. We go via the old folks place, to fix the computer and to warn Dad about the queues as he's planning a booze cruise to France tomorrow. Maybe he will. Or not.

For dinner we have spare ribs and the last of the home made pasta salad. And the last of the cheesecake.

We are stuffed, and tired again. Where does the time go?