An Introduction (of sorts)

I guess I should do something in the way of an introduction. It’s the right thing to do. Actually, I’ll start by telling you what I’m not going to tell you. I’m not going to tell you irrelevant things such as my name or my age or who I work for. That's classified information. I will say I work as a project manager in a relatively large company. That’s important because, from time to time, I will use the clueless morons I am ashamed to call co-workers as fodder for my posts.

What else you need to know about me:
1. I keep fit. I run, I ride, I go the gym, I train martial arts.
2. I have a dry, sardonic sense of humour.
3.I like lists.

And that’s all you need to know about me.

I will point out, too, that I’m not a health freak. No, my caffeine addiction sees to that. My Muse introduced me to the joys of drinking coffee out of a beer stein, as opposed to a regular coffee mug. Beer steins hold more, she said. She was right. I now down one-and-a-half steins of coffee before I head off to work. And have a regular mug when I finally drag my sorry butt into the office. People wonder why I’m so peppy of a morning.

Speaking of my office, right now I am split between two offices – my regular office in my firm’s main building, and my current project has a project office in town. When I’m in the project office, I’ll occasionally take public transport. I must confess, I don’t like public transport. In fact, I don’t like public anything, especially car parks & lavatories. I despise them because they both rely upon other people to act with courtesy, aim straight and not hit me. And as history has taught me, people cannot be relied upon to carry out those three simple niceties of life.

Back to my story. Generally, I despise public transport because, well, Le Comte has fairly high standards of personal grooming. Much higher, it would seem, than your average public transport patron. Take Thursday evening as case in point. I’d manage to finish early and caught the 17:19 from town. It was packed. People were fighting for space like a bunch of refugees from Weight Watchers fighting over the last fudge brownie. It was brutal to say the least. The end game was the good Comte sharing far too much skin time with a man (I assume it was…I think my next blog will be about androgynous people) who was unfamiliar with the concept of soap or water. Deodorant, it would seem, is optional with some people these days.

I wonder why people find their poor personal hygiene so acceptable? Does no one say anything? Can they not smell themselves, because, Lord knows I can. Is there a book out there: Hygiene: The French Way?

Anyway, if you’re the guy whose armpit I got stuck in, leave me a comment. As a memory jogger, I was the guy in the white shirt struggling to breathe for 22 minutes who stood on your foot on leaving the train and didn’t apologise, despite your yelp of pain.

p.s. I will post some photos soon. I have them somewhere. On my laptop at work. In one of the offices I frequent. I'm not quite sure. Is this how schizophrenia starts?