I got a temping job at a local Securicor depot in the mid 90s. It sucked major diseased balls. In fact I’d go as far as to say I’d put it in the top five most sucky jobs of all time(that’s right I’ve only ever had five jobs).
I got treated like some kind of BDSM work slave by a bunch of unpleasant menopausal women who worked on the phones there, one of whom took tremendous delight in cornering me while I tried to have a cigarette in peace. She would then proceed to violate my day, either by ramming explicit details of her latest gynecological examination down my throat, or by foisting naked photos of herself in her glory days upon me. Of course I could go on. But I won’t.
A precious part of my soul died in that place before I escaped. I think I lost it all that way. The ghostly diaspora of my soul wonders factory buildings, warehouses, ramshackle offices and corporate cube farms all over Britain. I must acquire a voodoo butterfly net and go get it back some time.
My manager at Securicor claimed to have served in the SAS. I know, I know, I know – it sounds like total BS. I initially had my doubts, but the photographs and information he shared with me, along with a deeply unsettling glint in his eye, finally made me a believer. As a temp being horribly exploited on minimum wage in a hell hole I couldn’t break out of, it was only a matter of time until I ended up in an ill-advised employment rights stand-off with him.
Well between that bag of snakes and the repugnant advances from the phone troglodytes, it didn’t take long for my old buddy OCD to make an appearance. It progressively started kicking seven shades of shit out of me on a daily basis until I was moved to go to the doctor and explain what was going on in hope of getting a diagnosis. I was so green back then and my idea of medicine was tragically naive. How was I to know the so-called doctor was really an incompetent pharma-pimp who would lie to me and use me to make commission off medical sales reps to inflate his already high salary? He led be down a few blind alleys before I figured it all out and decided to go it alone. And that’s another horror story for another Halloween.
By the way, never come off a strong SSRI cold. I truly thought I was gonna die there for a week or two after that. Violent electrified head buzzes the likes of which I’d never experienced before and haven’t since and hope I never will again.
Bludgeoning on through the daily grind of work with this added burden of madness to shoulder, I would always arrive home utterly destroyed with head and gut ache. I’d curl up on my bed cradling the bleeding mess where my intestines used to be; trying to nap; trying to uncoil; trying to recover enough so that I could salvage some of the evening for myself.
I bought my first CD player around that time. It was a really big deal to me. I could only afford tapes and tape players before that. Crowded House’s Woodface was one of the first CDs I bought.
I distinctly recall lying on my bed after work listening to Four Seasons in One Day, wondering what the unholy fuck was even wrong with me. Alas I’d have to wait another seventeen years for an answer to that, but in the meantime the lyrics of this song really held a mirror up to what was going on inside my mind.
Crowded House – Four Seasons in One Day: