yukka fukka

I’m not in the best of fucking moods.

I was forced to drive in this morning, as I was yesterday but for two entirely different reasons. The flat tyre on the bicycle required reparation; this was successfully undertaken at lunch. That morning I could’ve taken public transport into work and cycled back home but it was all wind and wee wee so I opted for the van from the outset and picked the bike up and brought it home.

Today, it’s all fucking wind and rain (it’s christing August) but I was genuinely intending to cycle, well I was last night until the plant pot exploded. If you read yesterdays babble you’ll have come across my cod-scientific explanation for the peculiar rodent-like sounds emitting from ‘behind’ my TV. I blamed the mirror glass cracking from heat. Last night during Tribe, I even explained the phenomenon to Myfwt, a glass expert incidentally, and despite looking bemused she didn’t throw up much objection, unlike Bruce Parry who was throwing his heels out of his chin at the time. In hindsight she probably wasn’t listening.

Anyway, later on Myfwt went off to powder her bean and I undertook the usual pre-bed ritual, clean up glasses, empty ashtrays, water plant…a simple task, all I have to do is fill a glass bulb attached to long tube with water and insert the tube into the soil, the plant then helps itself. The ready made hole in the soil has been in the same place for nearly two years but for some reason last night I couldn’t get the angle right so I shoved extra hard (this isn’t some sort of coded euphemism for anything by the way) and with an audible bang the plant pot separated in four different directions. A split second before it went, I heard the ‘rodent’ noise.

I’ve not re-potted my houseplant, a fucking enormous yukka, for 3 years. Despite its growing well in that time I just figured that the pot would simply limited its size, I wasn’t expecting the pressure of the pedantic roots to actually crack and break half an inch of fired pottery.

The upshot of all this crap was that I had to drive in this very morning in order to get a new fucking plant pot before my yukka decides to wander off on it’s own and take a bath. On my way to work I stopped off at Homebase, grabbed a white ceramic plant pot thing and some more potting soil and went on to work.

Feeling the glow off success following the completion of a necessary task I parked on the contentious gravel space in the front of the office, aware of my colleagues coming and goings, I made sure there was plenty of room for them to manoeuvre their vehicles (taking into account most motorist drive like cunts) and applied my handbrake. Suddenly my boss appeared waving his arms, ‘you can’t park there, you can’t park there’ he freaked. ‘No problem, I’ll move…’ I said, dead casual like.

It was a pointless operation, I was perfectly situated, moving to the other side of the lot wouldn’t make the blind bit of difference, no bother though. I switched on the engine and started to make up the angles for the manoeuvre. My boss remained on the lot, I could feel him glaring at me. Just as I was at the optimum angle to plant the van in the newly designated zone, I was informed by my boss that I wouldn’t be able to make it and to return to my original position. Of course I could’ve fucking made it, unless you’ve driven a white Transit you’ll be unaware of their incredible turning circle, they’re like black cabs. I objected briefly, by now returning to my original position was genuinely difficult… for fucks sake.

Ten fucking minutes it took getting it back to where it had been some 15 minutes earlier. Fantastic way to begin a miserable fucking Wednesday.

Let this run for a bit, let it run…