“It’s only forever. Not long at all…”
My dad came over at the weekend and examined the train. Tut-tuttings and utterings such as, “That’s the worst hole I’ve ever seen,” issued forth. He then removed most of the wheels, took up a ruler and began drawing diagrams. Tomorrow he’s coming to take the whole shebang away and hopefully return it in working order, with the help of his brother and father. Between them, I doubt there’s anything they couldn’t build or fix.
My poverty has led me to take up the long-forgotten ritual of the shirt, the tie and the photocopier, by temping at the council planning department across the road. Far from being the soul-crushing experience I expected, it’s actually quite relaxing to spend eight hours a day worrying about nothing more significant than whether I remembered to stamp all six copies of a particular document.
Nonetheless, the heart palpitations and chest pains I’ve been experiencing on and off all year have got a little worse lately, but my doctor assures me it’s just stress and there’s nothing to worry about except worry itself. Is 95 minutes of film really worth all this?