Misery

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The title of this blog post refers not to the Stephen King penned thriller of the same name, which was adapted into a film starring Kathy Bates and James Caan, for which Ms Bates won an Oscar.

That book/film was about a romantic fiction writer Paul Sheldon, who writes a series of  Victorian era bodice-rippers about a character called Misery Chastain. The tradition is that he goes to a hotel in Colorado to complete the first draft of each new book. He has just completed a draft of a non-Misery book – a gritty real life crime thriller, and decides to drive back to LA, rather than fly. There is a snowstorm. His car crashes. Luckily Nurse Annie Wilkes is on standby to rescue him, and to nurse him back to health. Annie is a bit touched in the head. In fact she’s his number one fan.

When she reads his just published Misery opus – his latest and last Misery novel ‘Misery’s Child’ she is less than impressed to see that Sheldon has killed the character off. What a dirty birdy Paul Sheldon is. Caca caca poopee doopee. That won’t do at all, at all.

No, the title of this blog post refers to my mood this morning.

I awoke and it was still dark. I am conscientious about making sure that I only get out of bed at the very last second possible. So the dark was ominous. It’s only mid November.

It was pouring rain. And cold. I departed and walked the twenty five minute journey to the bus-stop. The puddles en route were cavernous. By the time I arrived at my stop, my feet had been submerged on several ,in icy cold rain puddles, meaning they were cold, wet and squelchy.

I boarded the bus. I had left my travel card at home. And the surly driver had no change for a fiver. Of course he didn’t. I called down to my fellow travellers asking if anyone had change to swap. They looked at me like I was something crawling on the soles of their shoes. Finally the beardy guy with the tattooed leg (clearly not on display today)  obliged.

I sat down and stared out the mud splattered window. My neighbour had elbows which she seemed incapable of restraining. The third time they poked me. I threw her a look. She sighed as if I was the obstreperous one.

I pulled the vampire novel which I am currently reading, from the bowels of my stylish manbag and tuned out.

When I looked up next the rain had stopped. In its place was a sludgy, grey snow. Not the type that would translate into a beautiful winter wonderland. Rather the type whose icy tentacles would penetrate even the sturdiest of rain-jacket. Spreading its damp misery.

I disembarked at my regular stop. I marched  face first into the driving sleet.

I arrived at my desk to the news that the coffee machine was broken. But that the repair company had been called.

Some days are better left ignored. This morning was a morning for calling in sick.

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