It was not a good morning, last Thursday. Oh it started off quite well - the way they do - lull you into that false sense of benign end-of-weekiness but at some stage the dagger will fall. And fall it did.
It started with a pleasant enough trundle to work, feeling myself lucky for scoring not only a Millennium train (with very lovely air conditioning) but also a seat all to myself on a sunny balmy morning that Autumn in Sydney does so very well. And, as is my wont, whilst sitting there feeling capital about my station this morning, I of course had to think of things that have been rather unlucky of late to balance the mood.
Tsk, that pesky parking fine that was stuck to my windscreen when trizzing home from Jason's rugby practice last weekend - the fine that I only saw while gunning up to 70 down South Dowling Street - the one that then blew off my windscreen into the green flora to the left kerb. Yes, yes. THAT was unlucky. Won't be so careless in future.
Having changed trains a Wynyard (is it just me or does this place look brighter or fresher or something? Is that a new coat of paint?) we trundled into North Sydney station and I was in pole position at the BEST door of the train - ready to launch myself towards the lovely shiny new escalators only 3 metres away before the general peasantry erupted. Speeding up those steps, I recall the stilted voxbox Cityrail announcer saying something about tickets being checked. Tee Hee, I thought, we'll see some red faces this morning, as I knowingly reached into my wallet to remove my weekly.
It wasn't there. What what! But... where... what? The cold dread came from the gut to the heart quicker than you can say "feeling capital" as I realised I had placed the ticket in my shirt pocket the day before (and this is even worse - I NEVER wear shirts with pockets - it is tasteless) - the ONE DAY I wear that shirt in un lune bleue.
Tail between my legs I approach the train security man (who had already spotted the ticketless symptoms), mumbling about my stupidity and I always buy a weekly and I can't believe this has happened... He listens, empathises, agrees it's madness, and rips me off a $200 fine notice. He mentions the appeal process (and hints a photocopy of my ticket plus fine faxed to the debt recovery office may get me off, but don't hold your breath (although I wish he held his - it was like gas from a bilge pump)). I grump off (the only red face of the morning, it would seem) to get a little fruit salad for breakfast. Oh irony, how you are a fickle beast.
Starving now, so I quickly grab my little fruit cocktail and put off a coffee until later. Slumping at my desk after the obligatory & awkward packed-lift chat (no, you don't care what I'm up to this weekend - just because we're forced to be so uncomfortably close that I can see your eyeshadow clots doesn't mean we need to breathe words on each other) I open my fruit cocktail to see I am not the first to enjoy it. Mr & Mrs Beetle seem to enjoying degustation this morning.
Torn between indignant rage and disgust, I fling the container in the bin (breaking the recycling code - oh I was on a rebellious ROLL I tell you) and stomp up to the kitchen (euphemistically labelled Level 6 café) to make myself a cup of tea and flick through the papers absentmindedly. I made the tea somewhat absentmindedly too, as on return to my desk my first sip was spat out in horror. I looked into the cup to see globs of curdled milk swimming around in the cup.
I look up as a door opens down the corridor and a head sticks out. "Aren't you coming to this meeting?"
Shit. What meeting?
"Yes - er - do I need anything?"
"I sent you the CV yesterday. I needed you to look at it first. We're interviewing in 5 minutes so you better be ready. And put a tie on"
