It is Friday, and a familiar pattern is emerging. In the morning press, new sensations are rehashed in the tragic case of a British couple who's child disappeared in Portugal four months ago, and sharing the front pages, Prince Harry was late to meet his girlfriend at the airport.
Later on, in work, I remind Icksy of my request to leave work 15 minutes earlier so that I can catch a train that will get me home 1 1/2 hours earlier than my usual time. My contracted quitting time is 5.30pm which is actually an hour earlier than I usually can leave, so by having a 15 minute lunch on Friday, I will have worked 4 1/4 hours more than my contracted weekly hours and I figure that I'm not stealing anything if I can get away. Icksy, by the book as usual, goes to "check if its ok"with the office", gets distracted on the way, forgets to check and comes back to me at 5.15 with a new piece of work that he wants to start now. I remind him of my request and he has "a think" about it, grants me permission to leave (its now 5.25pm) and I race across Leeds to the station to try and catch the 5.38, only to find it has been delayed by 15 minutes.
On the way back to Hull, the train is delayed by another half hour because, Transpennine Express tell us, vandals have stolen signalling equipment outside of Selby. This delay puts me back on the same schedule as if I had'nt "bothered" Icksy at all. Passengers take advantage of the delay to open the doors, thus releasing the smell of the malfunctioning toilet.
On the ride home from Hull Station I stop at a local market to get lots of beer for the evening. As I'm in the line-up for the tills, a man walks in, and in a similar tone to someone ordering a pizza, says "Can someone call the Police, there's two lads beating Seven Shades out of eachother outside". I glance up and sure enough, outside, there's blood everywhere. Curiously for Britain (cellphone ownership at 58 million and rising), no-one seems to have a phone, and I really do'nt, so I figure it is now SEP (Someone Else's Problem).
In the early days of our return to the UK, I intervened in one such incident, unsuccessfully because the fighters just totally ignored me. I was quite insulted, as the adrenalin was pumping and the least I expected was to become innocently embroiled in the dispute, perhaps end up in hospital and make the papers as a "have-a-go-hero" but alas, the boys just kept punching past me, as if I was not there, until I had to walk away. Later, I realized that street fighting isso common in Hull ( this is a correction from my earlier claim as a friend has reminded me that there's very little street fighting in Heswall) that interference would be a clear breach of the Prime Directive, so now I just do what everyone else does, and try not to let it make me late for appointments.
I walk outside, replace my bike seat, lights and front wheel, unlock the frame, the back wheel, and the front forks, trying not to get blood on me, and manoeuvre past the pugilists, now with a considerable weight in my pack as the titanium locks, cycling cape, books, phone directory, notepad, pencils, wet weather gear and tub of peanut butter have been joined by four bottles of "Old Speckled Hen". A policeman strolling towards the fight scene, who I think I saw attending a streetfight earlier on in the week, stops me and reminds me to turn my lights on.
Nel has made a nice tea, but something has happened today that has really upset me, so I dive outside for a walk with the cats to calm down, and ponder the situation. I'm really upset because in work, Andy kept repeatedly calling me "Scouse", and I'm fed up with it.