Apropos of Nothing

Say, are you sick of the Toast Post yet? I know I am. I've been wanting to replace it for weeks now but have been too busy working to do much else.

You see, one of my sites is going live this week (that's project manager talk--try not to let your envy get the better of you) so I've been leaving the house at 5:30 in the morning and not getting back until late, leaving precious little time for cigars and beverages on the balcony, keeping up with "CSI" and, oh yes, updating my web site. I'm not looking for pity--although it is always appreciated--this is just part of life for a high-powered businessman like me (again, keep a check on that envy).

In all seriousness, I really don't mind the long hours; they are A) temporary, B) about to end and C) a fitting Ying to the 25 years of Civil Service Yang I enjoyed in the States. When asked about how working in England compares to working in the States, I always say that the culture shock of going from the US to the UK was nothing compared to the electric-chair jolt I received moving from the public sector into a privately owned business where, as Dan Aykroyd trenchantly observes in 'Ghostbusters,' "they expect results."

Working in the private sector does have its advantages: it’s gratifying to actually accomplish something from time to time and I am rarely set upon by cranky pub patrons accusing me of being over-paid and under-worked. (When this used to happen in the States, I always smiled and effused, "Why yes, I am paid a lot of money for doing next to nothing; don't you wish you had my job?")

The downside of productive employment, however, means the occasional stretch of days where my writing career (lucrative as it is) must languish in the background and scrambling for whatever free minutes it can find. Consequently, upon finding myself in the Guildford bus station with about 15 minute to spare before the number 63 arrives, I thought I'd fire up the AlphaSmart and free-type until I regurgitate enough words for a respectable Chronicle.

Strange to think that barely a month ago it was snowing and now we're into full summer. Spring lasted about 36 hours this year: one day we were complaining about the cold, the next day we went for a walk in the wood to see the bluebells and the day after that we started complaining about the heat. And boy, was it hot! High 70's and low 80's. (Yeah, but you try that without air conditioning. And besides, they use Celsius degrees over here and everyone knows they're hotter than Fahrenheit degrees.)

I'm happy to report today shows signs of cooling down, and none too soon as the heat makes the locals do some nutty things, such as forget their clothing.

You would be astounded at the amount of clothing normally placid British folks are willing to go without when it is hot. And allow me to quell that fresh spurt of envy by advising you it is not all creamy curves and pleasantly perky pomegranate breasts. Much of it is wobbly, white, hairy as a wild boar's backside and protruding over the horizontal belt-buckle of a man old enough to know better than to wear black socks and sandals with Bermuda shorts but is too old to care.

Some of those people are in the bus station here with me; it is not a pretty sight.

Another thing I get to see in the bus station is a new way to queue-jump, courtesy of the smoking ban. While the civilized, smoke-free Brits form an orderly queue, bevies of rowdy youths or couples with eastern European accents (or both) nip through the door for a quick fag just as (coincidentally) the bus arrives. Then they stub out their butts and are suddenly first in line. (The very fact that I notice such a thing, much less care, signifies I have been here too long.)

But I was already aware that I had become a veteran Englander by virtue of the fact that I'm here right now, without adult supervision. Time was, if I wandered out of sight in a strange town, you had to alert search and rescue, but I get around on my own fairly well these days, thank you very much.

Ah, here comes my bus. And wouldn't you know it, some skinny young blonde wearing a handkerchief for a halter-top and a pair of shorts barely wider than her belt just slipped out the door for a cigarette. I'm sure she deserves to be first on the bus ahead of all of us who have been patiently waiting. She must be dead on her feet after putting in such a hard day of shopping.

I would like to know what green grocer she visited, however; she has a lovely pair of pomegranates.