Walking to Work
For the past several days I have been walking to work, on account of snapping the crank on my bike in half. I would like to think my undiscovered superpowers were the cause (a co-worker somewhat reliably informs me that bicycle cranks are nigh on indestructible), but it's more likely to be related to leaving the bike out in the rain too often, and not oiling it often enough (read:ever).
The journey I follow while walking to work is something in the region of 3 miles in each direction. It takes about 45 minuteshalf through the town, and half through the countryside. While wandering along I havefilled my ears with the likes of Andy Ihnatko, Dan Benjamin, Jeff Jarvis, and various others. I had forgotten how much I liked Podcasts, and the journey has afforded the opportunity to lose myself in them for the first time in years.
You notice some pretty strange things while walking.
While cycling to work (I usually ride a mountain bike), you tend to be more concerned with life preservation than anything elseavoiding middle aged trophy wives driving children with names likeTabatha and Gilesto school in ridiculous 44 chromium bedecked armoured personnel carriers before heading off to yummy mummy brunches at the nearest over-priced coffee shops.
This morning I noticed road names. “Pound Lane”. I wondered if the people living along there have an unusually high pregnancy rate? Perhaps I just have a filthy mind. How about “Pike Close”as I read the sign, I started shouting “DON'T PANIC!, DON'T PANIC!” in my mind (you have to have grown up in the UK on a diet of the TV show “Dad's Army” to get that one).
While making my way across the country estate where the office resides, a female jogger passed me. It's worth noting that the estate is littered with wooden cabins”chalets”wherea small community live in a bizarrely secluded world, filled with gardeners, groundsmen, expensive cars that are never driven, and lots of country club lunches. The female jogger reeked of perfume as she passed me, and had perfect Farrah Fawcet hair and makeup. I thought for a moment I had walked through some kind of wormhole into the late 1970s. No doubt she was keeping in shape for brunch with the rest of the Stepford wives that secretly live in the glorified wooden sheds.
Anyway. Enough with ripping into random strangersthey are probably very nice people. Probably not, but I'd like to at leastthink they might be nice people. Now if you'll excuse me, my lunchtime is racing to and end, and I have an urgent calendar entry marked “headbutt desk repeatedly for several hours, thump the keyboard a bit, and walk off in frustration from time to time”.