Week To View

So here I am again. Minus a belt, but plus an ASDA luxury all butter scone. More on that story later.

It’s a fortnight since the last time I was on this service, heading North once more. This time, however, it’s a lot lighter. The time is 7:30am, and the day is well and truly underway. Only the sky is grey, full of clouds, a little bit threatening and somewhat windy. Nevertheless, the fact that it’s lighter can only mean one thing: summer is on the way.

But that’s enough about the weather.

Life at the moment is not particularly busy, and yet it is. It’s in that unusual balance between me thinking I’m busy all the time and then realising I’m not. After all, anyone who can afford to spend 6 hours travelling is obviously not going any real work.

In my case, though, there is purpose to this journey. I’m expecting to be kept busy all weekend, but the nightmare that I was expecting has been averted. Two customers have deferred. The rest are still waiting, but I have a good feeling I can fit them all in comfortably and maybe even have a little time to relax.

I don’t really get much time to do that. When my housemate is around he puts me on edge a considerable amount. I’m not entirely sure why, but there’s just something about his demeanour and his general “So what’s the plan for today/this evening?” that stresses me out. Not everything has to have a grand plan. I usually have a rough idea of what I’m doing, but I don’t have micro-managed schedules. Well, I do sometimes, but invariably my motto is the less I tell other people, the better.

I don’t know why I’m like that. I don’t feel comfortable when people are interested in me. I think there’s an insecure part of me which believes that I’m not worth bothering over. But at the same time, I like to keep my activities private. I don’t like being quizzed on what I’m up to. It’s probably why I’ll never make a politician.

In recent days my thoughts have turned to distant lands. I’m getting that same tired old feeling again where I think about whether I should go back and do the US summer camp thing again. It kept me awake for over an hour the night before last. I so dearly want to go there and do it all again. But some things are so special because you can only do them once. I have a feeling that if I did it again I’d end up being depressed because I’d know it would be my last time, and that it might not live up to expectations.

Besides that, the major problem is obviously that I’m older now, 25 this year, not that I can do it this year, but if I did next year 26 is a little old to be going off on an early-life crisis. Some of my fellow counsellors were that kind of age, one was even 30, and the directors were all in their 30s. But still… it’s a young person’s game!

And worse, I can’t really afford to drop all my business for the sake of an American jolly, one that wouldn’t lead me to a new career. Unless by then I can afford to employ someone else. Hilarious.

Facing facts, it ain’t gonna happen.

Back to reality, arriving at Reading station has caused a great deal of consternation in the train, involving an endless stream of new passengers, discussing which seats are available, which are reserved, and where it would be appropriate to sit a dog.

There remains two bits of news. First, that I forgot to bring my belt. I don’t need it for these jeans, because they fit well. But the ones I’ve got packed do. I’ll have to borrow one off a brother. Any one will do.

And second, I’m having to be extremely careful about the way I sit. Don’t want to squash my bonus breakfast I’ve brought with me. Yes, that’s the ASDA fruit scone. Oh my. I’ve scheduled that in for Birmingham.

On we go, travelling forward this time.

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