Three Days
So, three days into my new (well, revived old) exercise regime and I'm exhausted and ready to fall asleep by 9pm. Hang on - let me first assure you that this is nothing to do with trying to lose weight - I am and remain an unrepentant fatty - but simply an attempt to regulate my increasingly erratic moodswings. I've got a sheet cut out of a newspaper, about "how to be happy" and one of the first things it says is about exercise - it's not so much that exercise is a natural anti-depressant, as that *not* exercising is like taking a regular depressant.
So up I get, at the crack of dawn, before it gets too hot, and hop on the machine to be stretched and exercised until I'm dripping with sweat. Is it working? Sort of. The episodes of intermittent rage have calmed down slightly, though honestly, this heat doesn't help.
What a stupid week to pick to try and work out an alternate route into work. I finally reached my limit with the 159 bus, after a journey that should take just under an hour stretched out to an hour and 40 minutes or so. So I splashed out and got a travelcard (£30, thank you, 3 times the £10 weekly spend on the bus) and took my chances with the overground and the Tube.
How on earth does anyone stand the Tube? I am convinced that the Tube at rush hour is a special circle of hell that office workers are damned to. I read in one of the free papers that temperatures on the Victoria line can reach 109 degrees Fahrenheit. That's like, Death Valley temperatures - except with roasting humidity factored in, as opposed to the clean, dry heat of the desert.
I can't exaggerate how packed Tube carriages get. And this is from someone who is used to riding the NYC Subway. Somehow the low ceilings and enclosed spaces of the Tube make it much, much worse. Drenched with other people's sweat, other people's bodies pressed into your most intimate spaces - how do people stand for this, day in, day out?
Three days, and I'm going back to the bus again. If I'm late for work, I'm late. I simply cannot take any more of this.
Oh, speaking of which, I just had my three month review at work. That's it, they're keeping me, I'm permanent, consigned to the cellulite mines of the cosmetic surgery industry for the rest of time. Actually, it was the briefest and easiest meeting I've ever had in my life. I sit opposite my boss, so we tend to just talk to one another over the tops of our monitors. "We're happy with you. Are you happy with us?" "Well, yeah." "Anything you want to talk about?" "If I did, you'd have known long before this." ::laughs:: "Yeah, you're not the sort to keep quiet about stuff. I kinda figured that."
See, this is the reason that I *like* my job. I have fantastic communication with my boss. If either of us have a problem, we raise it immediately, we get it sorted out. Oh, and we all run out and get ice cream or even beers in the middle of the afternoon on particularly hot days. I've never seen an IT department run so fast as the time the Mr. Whippy van came jangling down Harley Street. Perhaps the exercise is paying off; we all ran after the ice cream van, but it was me that actually caught it.
So up I get, at the crack of dawn, before it gets too hot, and hop on the machine to be stretched and exercised until I'm dripping with sweat. Is it working? Sort of. The episodes of intermittent rage have calmed down slightly, though honestly, this heat doesn't help.
What a stupid week to pick to try and work out an alternate route into work. I finally reached my limit with the 159 bus, after a journey that should take just under an hour stretched out to an hour and 40 minutes or so. So I splashed out and got a travelcard (£30, thank you, 3 times the £10 weekly spend on the bus) and took my chances with the overground and the Tube.
How on earth does anyone stand the Tube? I am convinced that the Tube at rush hour is a special circle of hell that office workers are damned to. I read in one of the free papers that temperatures on the Victoria line can reach 109 degrees Fahrenheit. That's like, Death Valley temperatures - except with roasting humidity factored in, as opposed to the clean, dry heat of the desert.
I can't exaggerate how packed Tube carriages get. And this is from someone who is used to riding the NYC Subway. Somehow the low ceilings and enclosed spaces of the Tube make it much, much worse. Drenched with other people's sweat, other people's bodies pressed into your most intimate spaces - how do people stand for this, day in, day out?
Three days, and I'm going back to the bus again. If I'm late for work, I'm late. I simply cannot take any more of this.
Oh, speaking of which, I just had my three month review at work. That's it, they're keeping me, I'm permanent, consigned to the cellulite mines of the cosmetic surgery industry for the rest of time. Actually, it was the briefest and easiest meeting I've ever had in my life. I sit opposite my boss, so we tend to just talk to one another over the tops of our monitors. "We're happy with you. Are you happy with us?" "Well, yeah." "Anything you want to talk about?" "If I did, you'd have known long before this." ::laughs:: "Yeah, you're not the sort to keep quiet about stuff. I kinda figured that."
See, this is the reason that I *like* my job. I have fantastic communication with my boss. If either of us have a problem, we raise it immediately, we get it sorted out. Oh, and we all run out and get ice cream or even beers in the middle of the afternoon on particularly hot days. I've never seen an IT department run so fast as the time the Mr. Whippy van came jangling down Harley Street. Perhaps the exercise is paying off; we all ran after the ice cream van, but it was me that actually caught it.
Labels: bus, commuting, london underground, train, tube, work
posted by Masonic Boom | 8:18 pm
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