Quote of the week: "Why call work 'work'." That makes it sound strenuous when it really needn't. Why not call it 'money-pleasure generation'?"
I'm sitting in Victoria station waiting to go and see Lincoln, the new Spielberg film in a little village called Oxted of all places because I like the cinema there and I get free tickets. That's the main reason I go.
Since the last set of words I put together for this column, where I spoke of erectile dysfunction of all things I have come to two realisations. I hate snow in London and I'm sick the man who announces stuff at stations. It doesn't help anything. People don't listen, it is played to such average acoustics in the vast buildings stations are that no one could even hear it if they tried
anyway. There it is, rant over for this week.
Since last time jet-setting has been severely hindered, much like Transport For London, by the snow. But despite the hindrance, I soldiered on with my tennis rackets strapped to my feet in search of some culture in the cold to share with you all.
Due to the freeze thaw weathering that my fingers and toes had undergone from London's Ice Age, where absolutely everything froze and then turned into a slush puppy, I decided to book myself in for a manicure and pedicure; my first. I thought I should reward my hands and feet for functioning so magnificently despite the cold period.
So there I was, lying on this bed, listening to an out of date 'chilled' album on tiny speakers and yes, I was severely judging myself. As soon as the lady came to bathe my feet in what I can only describe as a foot vibrator, I found myself making excuses as to why I was there:
"My girlfriend was supposed to be here with me but she got held up at
work unfortunately. I wouldn't normally come to this sort of thing, it was supposed to be a sort of pre-Valentines occasion." To which there was an awkward silence, giggles amongst the entirely female caste of beauticians and the reply: "No need to make excuses Mr. Clarke, we get men coming for pedicures all the time." They had seen right through me. I felt like an impotent snail. Helpless and unable to make progress. I attempted to snigger along but no sound came out so I looked down at my iPhone and Googled 'What is the date of Valentines Day this year?'. I was utterly befuddled.
After my brief trip into the world of the modern man, I was back outside on the slushy ground but there was a difference. My hands were feeling like the buttocks of Cupid and my feet no longer felt as though they were touching the ground. I was in Back to the Future and on a hover board. It was quite remarkable. Men and Sci-Fi fans of the world, I address you. Be kind to your feet and hands and they may well do things you never thought they could. I felt like a Samsonite suitcase sitting next to a Louis Vuitton nap sack on an airport conveyor belt - Ready for a much more comfortable journey than anyone else.
Walking back to work with neatly preened hands and feet, my mind was thinking clearly. All of a sudden I thought, "Why call work 'work'." That makes it sound strenuous when it really needn't. Why not call it 'money-pleasure generation'? It makes perfect sense. If you do indeed derive pleasure from your work like I do then count this noun in, if not just call it money generation. Sounds way better.
Money generation complete, it was time to go to The Queens Club for the weekly instalment of a bizarre hobby of mine. Rackets; a sport for which I happened to be world ranked, 53 to be exact - more on this in the next instalment. Whilst waiting for the bus from Hampstead due to northern line delays, caused by snow on the underground - I know, didn't make much sense to me either - I was struck by ball of snow. In the face.
Having already felt like an impotent snail earlier in the day, I felt more like that of a slug now, that had just been seasoned with salt. Feeling like a sub par and rapidly eroding Phylum I chased after the ten year old lad, missing the bus, grabbed him by the coat and said: "You'll get knifed around here if you keep doing that! Find some friends or throw them at a wall!"
He went white as the snowball itself, whimpered and sprinted off. As a Hampstead kid he most likely had a double-barrelled name and the likelihood of him getting knifed in this area was probably on the same level as in Cheltenham Spa. Nonetheless I saved the day and prevented further snowball oppression for already stressed TFL users.
Keep on jet-setting, snowball oppressed or not.