Pooterish day

Bleary morning. Dragging myself unwillingly to work. Left my flask of tea on the side so as the dire First Capital Connect trains have nothing onboard drank my first cup of tea at an unprecedented two and a half hours after getting up. A poor experience. Reading an MS by Mark Hill, a writer who I once worked with, who is living Portugal. Interesting book about him leaving London in the midst of a mid life crisis, with a broken heart and a drink problem, and his gradual recovery living in a small village in Portugal.

A series of small things got my day off to a slightly askew start: being shouted at not to use a lift I was walking into because it was for a paramedic in the office reception; an email from the people who are managing my property saying that someone had crowbarred the door knocker from my door in the Twitten and what was I going to do about it. And an irritating discussion with unhelpful colleagues: a collection of small Pooterish peeves. 

In a lull, I happened to be looking at the BBC news site, when news of Margaret Thatcher's death popped up. I loathed her while in power, but she was undeniably a major figure in British life. Didn't feel like joining in the lionisation nor the celebrations of her enemies. But then, outpourings of public emotion tend to alienate me, such as the, to me, mystifyingly disproportionate outpourings of emotion when Princess Diana died.

Lorraine had been working at home tonight, and lovely to get home to her. After the knife and forkwork of the weekend, a grilled fish and stirfried veggies and noodles. Then spoiled by gobbling the small easter eggs given to L and I by Maureen.