Normality: The Return

Coming back to work is never the most pleasing of pleasures. I've been in France for a week subsisting on a diet of breakfast wine, and....more wine? Breakfast wine, but later? I'm confident there was wine. The people were excellent. They tell me that without Scotland there is no party.

They got this all screwed up.

No, Scotland. No party.

We stayed at a farmhouse in Nice. The last house at the top of the mountain. The pool was filled with bugs, and some water. The frogs were loud, yet inconspicuous. The Women's World Cup was a lot of fun. We went to the opera in Lyon courtesy of friendship being magic.

Now I'm back. Catch yourself on.

I wake up before my alarm, as always. It's the fear of it that wakes me every day, the sleep deterrent. I throw on one of the many available combinations of striped flares and floral shirts, brush my teeth and roll out. Standing at the bus stop, I get to thinking that I don't even like these flares anymore.

"Guess who's back?"

His blank stare suggests that my boss truly doesn't know. Or, is he even awake? He's got two young children, so he barely exists in a state of permanent half-sleep. I'll lead him through the excitement.

"....me. It's me. I'm back."

I slowly lower my sunglasses to see his eyes glaze over in a way that tells me he was hoping it would be the reveal of a far more interesting person.

"So, what have I missed?"

He turns away. I can't quite be certain, but I think he starts to whimper. I feel uneasy. The whimper turns to a sob. Now I'm back.

My co-supervisor can't be here today. She has better things to do. Something about a migraine. Sounds divine. I take my seat at the front, read through some emails, and prep for a busy day of catching up. It's time to open, so I switch on the phones and wait for that first call. Nothing happens.

Time passes.

Slowly.

I've missed this.

"Would you like seats in the stalls or grand circle?"
"No."

If you look closely at the options, you'll notice that this was not a yes or no question.

"I'm not sure you understand. We can offer you seats in the stalls, or the grand circle. Which would you prefer?"
"No. I want what I had before."
"Alright. Looking at your booking history, it seems you had seats in the grand. Is that what you'd like?"
"No. I want the upstairs."
"Cool. So that's the grand circle then."

I really have missed them. Any time I move my head, a rush of fluid in my skull makes it feel like the pressure will crush my brain. I do it a few times just to feel something.

After work, I meet that girl I've been seeing. Can't remember her name. She was there for that French wine. We walk home. I buy some jeans. They're slim fitting, and manage to both be slightly too big, yet noticeably too small at the same time. At some point in the evening, I make myself a White Russian.

I cancel the alarm a few minutes before it's due to go off. Not sure how long I've been staring at the ceiling. I kiss that girl on the cheek and stumble into some slim fit jeans. And, yes, a floral shirt. This bus is 3 minutes late. There's a baby on board clawing at its mother's eyeballs while screaming. How adorable. A notification that I'm tagged in a picture from France. Do you ever really recognise yourself in pictures? Do you look at a picture of yourself and say "that's me"? I don't. I can never remember being the person I see in pictures. The baby laughs as it tears some hair from its mother's head. This journey has taken 3 minutes longer than yesterday.

On arrival, I'm greeted by an Irishman and a tall, bald guy sitting at the front of the theatre. I had to fight my way through a swarm of youths blocking the entrance to get here, and this is how I'm repaid? My boss has distilled my basic personality traits (Is Irish. Is bald.) and split them between two separate people. They could be inferior clones if they weren't charming, and better than me in most ways. Am I the inferior clone? Usually.

My boss slept for three hours last night apparently. He's singing to himself. Sadly, but in a comically high voice. I stare at the picture of the stranger that hangs from a lanyard around my neck. When was I you?

They've congregated in front of the doors. I pretend I have work to do just so I can open the doors and tell them to move. I tilt my head to the side to feel that pressure again. The comforting vice of encroaching death. I switch on the phones and inspire the troops:

"Take the closed sign down. We're open."
"I don't wanna be open."
"It's OK, closed or open, it really makes no difference."

A customer sends an email about making a group booking to see the pantomime. I give her some information about our Christmas show. It's not a pantomime. We never do pantomimes.

"I know that. I've been coming to this theatre for years. What dates do you have available for the pantomime?"

I think about death a lot.

I suggest my bullet-proof marketing idea again. Every so often I mention it at meetings. We should have collectable cards featuring pictures of staff, and their key stats. We could include a pack with every ticket purchase. If you get the full set, you get a prize. Everyone thinks I'm joking. I think I was before.

Deebs
Sarcasm- 10
Hope- 0

I check that the phones are on. They are. I send some emails.

"I'm not sure if you're working today. If so, there's a package for you at the box office. If not, there's still a package for you at the box office."
"I am in. It's a dog bed. You don't mind if my dog joins us tomorrow, do you?"

Deebs
Sarcasm- 10
Hope- 10

I decide to write something. What was the last draft I had going?

"I refuse to die in a theatre. Shove me out the door as I take my last breath."

I went to Prague with that girl I like last year. One night, we talked about how I nearly got hit by a car because I was looking the wrong way crossing the road shortly after we arrived.

He died the way he lived- stupidly.
He died the way he lived- loudly cursing everyone.
He died the way he lived- against his will.

The phone rings. Caught off guard, I blurt out an involuntary "what the fuck?". When the call ends, he signs off with:
"Excellent.
 Thanks very much.
 Have a nice day.
 Stay safe."

The overkill in his attempts to end our brief interaction has mostly left me feeling threatened. Why wouldn't I be safe? What should I be looking out for?

He died the way he lived- confused.

One of the maintenance guys asked my age a while back. I told him I was thirty four.

"Fifty four?"
"Thirty four."
"Be serious."

I am being serious, Ivan.

"Be serious."
"Wait....which side of this surprises you? How old do you think I am?"

He left.

Sometimes, I think about a younger me. When I was that younger me, I had a fixation on the idea of meeting a future version of myself. What questions would I ask me? I suppose that one of the clearest signs of ageing is that I now imagine being the future version meeting the past model of myself.

Would I be happy with the answers I could give? No, turning 21 did not magically unlock a world of neon lit nightclubs where I would automatically feel at ease enough to go home with any woman who caught my interest. You should probably get some better haircuts while you still can. Stop wearing purple fleeces with neon green striped tracksuits. We're taller now, at least.

We live in Scotland now. It's actually kind of great.
We have really good friends, and we continue to meet cool people.
We might not always like our job, but it's interesting.
We hit the jackpot with our girlfriend.
There's a dog coming to work tomorrow.

Life's not bad.