A window to the world

Gordon has taken his jacket off! All hell must be breaking loose if Gordon's taking his jacket off. He's a quiet guy and usually he'll sit to my left, at his computer, working his way through his day, eating crisps, drinking pop and then maybe some nuts. All the while one thing is for certain - he will never take his jacket off. Not unlike me and my ties (I always wear a tie to work, much to some peoples' amusement).
Today, on turning up for work, I strode in to find the office stiflingly hot. The air conditioning had, once again, broken down. For around three hours we sat and worked before Gordon turned to me and murmured, as if in warning, "I think I'm going to take my jackat off". He then proceeded to get up off his seat and actually remove his thin bomber style jacket. You could sense the tension, almost hear the office gasp, most people straining to kept their eyes on their screens, trying not to give in to the urge of turning and staring and this once in a lifetime occurence.
Unfortunately, while everyone sweats, I'm shivering with the cold. One of the office's four small window's lies directly on my right hand side and with the window lying open to enable fellow workers to breath, the icey winter winds are blowing in through the blinds. Sitting next to one of the few windows in the office can have it's advantages such as admiring the sunshine fight through the clouds, watching the birds sweep majestically by under a clear blue sky, being able to tell within an instant the kind of weather which will be meeting us on our way out the office and diving up to see what the hell is causing the loud bangs and horns ringing out from the car parks and roads below.
It also has it's downfalls such as the afore mentioned winter breezes for the greater good of the office. Another is sitting at my desk for some moments sensing a general unease before suddenly realising there is someone standing over my shoulder gaping out the window. These colleagues come over to view the weather conditions, taking some time as if giving the news their eyes are telling them, plenty of time to travel up through their optic nerves. They'll then use this information to stand and stare, gaping, dumbstruck by the sheer beauty of the world outside whilst they decide what they want for lunch, whether it'll be Greggs for a greasy sausage roll, the local Spar or somewhere further afield. This is then followed by the inevitable question of whether to take the car. All the while I'm trying to get on with my work as the humming and hawing presence lingers over my shoulder.
The past four weeks or so were especially bad for this. Folk would come over and stand and stare out the window, as if it had been the first time they'd seen this strange weather condition commonly known to the rest of the world as falling snow. The guys who bring the silly little sports cars to work were great at these stares of dread. (Why pay a fortune for a car that is not capable of driving properly in certain conditions? We live in scotland for gawd sake?!)
I understand, of course. People stand and stare merely because of the view of the world outside. This framed panel in the wall is a sanity check, reminding them that there is life outside this stuffy office. That, come the end of the day, we shall rejoice, leaping out into the streets, being glad of it, going out into the world after earning our pittance to spread the good news. There is a life outside the daily toil of work and this glass square in the wall is a reminder of that! There's more to life than the smell of newsprint, computer screens and clunking tea machines that give you swamp water for soup. This window, by my side, is our salvation!
Plus, you can see the road to Greggs.

All good things...

This morning I said goodbye to the finest, truest friend of the past 7 years. My wee red Renault Clio. It stood on the dim garage floor looking lost and desolate with no where to go for the first time in it's ten year old life. The echoes of some watery drip was the only noise to be heard as I stood looking over it's tired frame once more. Arriving at the garage in the early morning I had already cleared out the few remaining contents inside the car and was now handing the registration form over to the mechanics who seemed to nod sympathetically, almost like understanding Funeral Directors.
Pathetic isn't it. Getting this depressed over a car. I for one never thought a small red road vehicle could make my so glum but there you have it. What a fabulous little car it was. Bought from an ex boss for the not unreasonable amount of two grand approximately seven years ago, I started driving the Clio about in Birmingham and the West Midlands when I worked down there. Including more than a few trips to various towns, cities and trips back north to Scotland, the Clio could hardly be stopped and very rarely let me down, the only money spent on tyres, MOTs and the odd service here and there. A great, reliable wee runabout it has served me well and done me proud. Only now, with a good amount of mileage run up, has it been cruelly forced off the road by a burst timing belt. I will miss it. My thanks go to all the folk in the work for all their consoling, advice and their lifts in the past few days. Gordon in his brother's car, Creamy Chicken John and his hand brake turns at bus stops and Linda M who has been especially helpful, going out of her way on two mornings already, to give me a lift to work, juggling babies, kids and mothers (not whilst driving thankfully). My Dad also allowed me to talk him into extending his usual route twice this week to take me to the garage. Chaz is now on the look out for a replacement vehicle, however, I know I'll never have a true replacement. No matter where my motoring life takes me in the future I shall always remember my Clio. Maybe I should take heed to the words of Winston Churchill:
“This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”
Or Tom Baker:
"It is the end, but the moment has been prepared for" (after which he was replaced by a far lesser model).