Diary of a Grumpy Old Git (5 page)

But what are all the things I’ve always wanted to do? I’d quite like to order the fillet steak in Chez Gérard. I’ve not started on my
Sopranos
box set yet. And
the garden could do with some decking. That’s pretty much it. It’s not going to take a whole year, is it?

Who am I kidding? Of course I don’t want to get made redundant. It would be a disaster. I won’t even be able to keep up the payments on the ground-floor flat I moved into after the
separation from Sarah. I’ll be forced to traipse around the streets pushing my identical clothes in a trolley and telling passers-by that I could have been a contender in the world of
industrial brochure writing.

I’ve got to keep my job. I won’t get another one. I’ll beg if I need to. I’m not proud.

Cathy and Imran were panicking this morning about how this new boss was going to sack everyone. Jen must have overheard, because she sauntered over and said, ‘Don’t
worry, guys, you’ll get on fine with Josh.’

It turns out that Jen has known about this new boss all along, as he interviewed her for the job. So not only is this person called Josh, but he chose Jen over some other candidates. He heard
her speaking and he actually chose to be in the same building as her. This doesn’t bode well.

My blood didn’t really run cold, however, until Jen described him as ‘funky’. I can’t imagine any description that would have been more disturbing. She could have said he
was a keen collector of Nazi memorabilia or an avid badger baiter, and I’d have been less perturbed. I can take a lot of the horrendous things that life throws at me, but I’m not sure a
‘funky’ boss is one of them.

I must be losing my mind with stress because I apologized to a cyclist this morning. I swerved to avoid the carcass of a bizarre multi-limbed creature that turned out to be an
abandoned KFC value meal. This sent me right into the path of an overweight cyclist wearing a pink safety helmet. She slammed her brakes on and tutted loudly, and I muttered
‘sorry’.

Why? Why was I sorry that she nearly ran me over on the pavement?

I regained my senses and shouted, ‘Actually I’m not sorry at all. You’re supposed to be on the road. Just because what you’re doing is good for the planet doesn’t
give you the right to put everyone else at risk. You know what? Get a Land Rover and make the icecaps melt. It would be safer swimming to work than avoiding you bastards.’

The woman didn’t hang around to listen. She whizzed off, leaving me ranting into thin air like someone who sits in the park all day drinking Special Brew. Which I probably will be
soon.

In these times of crisis what I need is a serene, calm life. Instead, I get an endless parade of trivial frustrations. Today I got stuck behind an old lady at a cashpoint.
It’s not like I was expecting her to be quick, but the faffing went on so long that anyone’s blood would have gone on to an even simmer.

The first thing that pissed me off was her complete lack of preparation. You’d think that someone waiting in the queue for a cashpoint might go to the trouble of getting their card ready.
But this old bat actually waited until she read the screen before fishing around in her bag. What was she expecting it to ask her to do? Play ‘Axel F’ on the keypad?

The woman rooted through her purse and tried four different cash cards. At least, I’m assuming they were cash cards. They could have been library cards for all I know. After several
centuries of this, I leant forward and tapped her on the shoulder to let her know there was someone else in the queue. Then the old trout had the cheek to accuse me of trying to ‘steal her
PIN number’.

I told her that it probably wouldn’t be much use to me, as she certainly hadn’t managed to produce any cash with it in the last twenty minutes. And anyway, it’s called a
‘PIN’ not a ‘PIN number’. What you’re effectively saying there is ‘Personal Identification Number number’.

You know what I think? I think the old lady didn’t even want any cash. I think she just likes to queue. In the unlikely event that one of those cards ever produced cash, she’d be
straight down the bank to put it back in her account. And you can bet she’d wait until she got to the window before filling in the slip.

But I resolved to be more positive this year, didn’t I? So I should end on a good thing that happened.

Er … the bank didn’t charge me for using the cashpoint. I know this because they told me before returning my card. That was quite good, I suppose. Although I find it very suspicious
that banks feel the need to congratulate themselves every time they resist doing something evil. I resisted killing an old lady today, but you don’t catch me boasting about it.

We went down the pub for Steve’s leaving drinks tonight. I asked him if he had a new job yet, but he said he was taking early retirement, the utter bastard. Apparently,
he’s paid off the mortgage on both his houses, so now he can move into one and live off the rent of the other.

It doesn’t seem fair really. Just because he’s earned loads more money than me and invested it sensibly, he’s free to do as he pleases while I remain trapped in a room full of
idiots. Someone should give me enough money to retire. I wonder if there are any charities for gits.

Steve left quite soon and the rest of the night was a complete washout. I got trapped talking to Jen about her career ambitions, and I had to pretend I thought they were in some way worthwhile
so she wouldn’t grass me up to her funky mate Josh.

Another small victory today. I noticed that my chicken tikka masala ready-meal was past its use-by date. But guess what? I ate it anyway. This is something that would never have
happened under the Sarah regime. She obeyed use-by dates like they were commands from God, rather than approximate guidelines. She once got out of bed at five past midnight to throw away an iceberg
lettuce that had just passed its expiry date.

The moment I knew it was all over for us was when she said our marriage had passed its use-by date. If she’d put it any other way, I might have believed there was a way back. But not
that.