A freaky phone call, what's new?

So last night I had a call from a blocked number, now it has to be who I think it is, but their references to my name as "Thomas" and who would say it and why, not to mention that they named different people in my life from different aspects confuses me slightly. The evidence suggests it is just that ugly shelf-butted bitch, but something tells me whoever it was wants me to think that. It's bizarre and bares too much resemblance to something else, something I'll get to shortly.

Begin at the Middle

I feel like I'm documenting a tiny portion of my life, whilst at the same time writing to myself, like I want myself to understand and remember how I felt at certain time and what I felt was significant. It's best to begin at the middle, I'm 20 now and 11 is roughly around the middle. 2004 was a bizarre year, it was the beginning of an era I'd still like to believe I'd live in, but bizarre events preceded it.

Ok, so it was March, I was 12 and I was in a play. There's the context set. So anyway, I was at a rehearsal for Oliver Twist, and the children's rehearsal had just finished, but, because my mother was in the adult section of the play I had to stay behind and wait for her. I'd waited outside with all the other kid's who one by one were picked up sporadically, and then it was just me, alone in the car park, bored and waiting. Suddenly I heard my name called from a distance, I turned and gazed out of the car park and across the road where I saw a slightly plump woman gazing back at me. She called again,
"Thomas!"
No-one used my full name except for close family, and just who the hell was this woman anyway. I turned around to see if there was someone behind me she was calling, and assumed was just a very coincidental mistake.
"Thomas!"
Her eyes hadn't left me.
"Get inside Thomas!"
"Who, me?!"
 I was defiant with my words, confident she was mistaken.
"Yes you, who else?!"
What was going on, just who was this woman and why was she so desperate to tell me to go inside? It's not even as if I wasn't allowed to be outside. I turned around once more to see if there some vein chance of another Thomas being behind me, but to no avail. I turned back and she was gone. I looked at where she had been stood only moments before. How on earth did she run around that house and escape from view so quickly I thought to myself, it surely wasn't possible. I never did find out who she was, but it set the tone for the inexplicably bizarre feel to the year.

I don't even want one

Jobs are impossible to get these days, unless you're an idiot. A good CV gets you absolutely nowehere, but slap a load of trademark lines like these and jobs become readily available:
"I work well as part of a team"
"I'm skilled with my hands"
"I have no GCSE's"
"I love shelves"
Because it seems no-one wants to employ you if you have any aspirations of furthering your career because lets face it, shelves won't stack themselves. Who's skilled with their hands anyway? I'll tell you who, wankers. Wankers are skilled with their hands. And I don't even want a job, I need one, I mean who wants a job? I hate when people announce with great disappointment that their children "don't want a job". Of course they don't, we're only here for 70 odd years, no-one wants to waste 55 of those years working in some mundane, dead-end, soul destroying job. What will I do at the end of my life, sit and reminisce about the time I stacked that shelf in Sainsbury's, or the time I cleaned up that mess. If everyone's gotta do it, and it's paid on merit, sure, why not. But if it's barely enough to live on, and other's are paid more for something half as hard, nah.