So this is Christmas, and what have you done?

We were slovenly and unrestrained.
We gorged on food, guzzled on wine, and reveled in our company.
Outside, a strong wind lashed the landscape and rattled the hotel windows. Inside, we were warmed by the spice of wine and the comfort of family.
We huddled together at our round table, like behind wagons in a circle, sitting around the fire of conviviality, insulated against cold reality.
Christmas, a family time.
Although, after a bit, you do just want to zone out and watch some shitty Hollywood film on telly.

Spicy Sausage

"Spicy sausage," I said to the girl.
She came back with the hot-dog about 30 seconds later. She was quick, efficient and busy.
"Four pounds," she said.
I was at a stall in Winter Wonderland, in Hyde Park. There was a German theme. I’m not sure if she was German because we only exchanged four words. And she wasn't in lederhosen, say anything about being in Moscow by Christmas , or win on penalties either.
I ate my dog and watched families walk by.
Later that evening, as Sunday died, I thought back to that moment. I realised that those were the only two words that I had said all day. I speak three languages and I only said two words all day.
Spicy sausage.
Honestly, with my education, I could've picked two more exciting words to use. I should've said something like "bratwurst piquant" or "fiery frankfurter." Or I could have just said "quantum solace" because that sounds smart.

Central Line Blues

She was pushing into my back so I pushed back.
She pushed again so I said, "Excuse me, would you mind stop pushing."
She said, "Why don't you move in?"
I said, "I can't, this gentleman is in the way. Why don't you move in?" What I meant to say was, "What am I, a bloody hobbit?"
She looked at the small gap and pushed her way through. "Well, I can fit it." She almost looked pleased with herself, as much as one can be when one is squashed like a sardine in a hot, smelly tube carriage first thing in the morning.
"Good for you," I said. "And have a nice day." It's good to be polite.
She grumbled and turned her back on me. Then everyone ignored everyone again as we all swayed rudely into each other through the long tunnels under the city.
For a fleeting moment at least, two strangers made contact in this fragmentised society. Not good contact, granted, and, on reflection, another date opportunity shot to pieces.

She Was Picky Yet She Picked Me Which Didn't Make Sense

I met this girl on Saturday night.
We were talking, shooting the breeze. I bought her a drink. She had a great laugh. Her face sort of crinkled up in a very attractive way.
We talked about our jobs and what we did outside our jobs. We talked about relationships. She was single.
While she talked, I watched her face. She wasn't looking over my shoulder, she was looking at me. She was talking and listening and smiling at me.
She told me she was picky which was why she was single.
You can see the dilemma. It didn't make sense.
I didn't ask for her number.
You can see the dilemma.
You idiot.

Me, Me, Me

Dear John

What seemed so close was delusory.
You get back from time away to one of those emails you don't want to receive. A kiss-off note from Date Girl.
After all the talking and all the laughter, just another kick in the gut.
Oh well, it never would have lasted, she made spelling mistakes and her syntax was clumsy.

Don't Even Think Of Asking About The Toilets

“Hey, so how was your holiday in Guatemala?”
“Very good, thanks. It’s a fascinating country. The indigenous Maya people built vast cities around 2,000 years ago before falling into decline as first drought and then the Spanish conquistadors devastated their population. After independence, a succession of wars and CIA backed right-wing military dictatorships decimated the country even more, yet the Maya still survive to this day and have managed to keep their rich culture and traditions intact.”
“Oh, wow… Really… So, was it sunny?”

My Bad For Going Somewhere Different

"Hey, I hear you're off on holiday, where are you going?"
"Guatemala," I said.
"Oh, wow... Guatemala... That's like central or south America, right?"
"Yeah, somewhere there," I said.
"Great... Great... So what is there to see there?"
"I don't know."
"Oh... So why... ?"
"Why what?" I said.
"Why Guatemala?"
"Why not?"

That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore

“Why don’t you write something funny?” she said.
“Nothing funny has happened to me recently,” I replied.
“Enough with the doom and gloom, I demand you write something funny.” She was giving me a hard time. I've known her a long time so I let her.
"Something funny like what?" I asked.
"I don't know, just something funny..."
We sat there, nursing our coffees, and both tried to think of something funny.
The Richard Gere and gerbil joke popped into my head but I don't think it's what she meant.

Cogito Ergo Something

And Another Date

We were sitting at the back of a pub. There was a small theatre there, a proper theatre with seating and a stage. It was not much bigger than the front of the pub.
It was already late. The show was long over and we sitting on long red velvety seats. We had been talking for hours, talking and laughing. People came and went around us, came and went.
On the stage, was a large freestanding Christian cross and some roses taped to the wall. I don't know what the hell the play had been about but it must have been deep and pretentious, just my type. Then someone hung the cross on the wall, out of harm's way. The imagery was jarring.
I got scared that maybe I was in a play. I didn't want this show to end. I closed my eyes and opened them again. She was still there. We talked and laughed some more.
Then I leaned in and kissed her.

Another Date

They were cleaning up around us.
They put chairs on tables, swept up floors, dusted off surfaces. Some mingled around the bar area glaring at us.
We had lost track of time, talking and talking. We were the only table left, a little island of life in the darkening room. I hadn't really seen anybody else, hadn't noticed them come or go. She had me from pretty early on.
But we had to go, it was late and a school night after all. I walked her to a taxi.
Would you like to meet up again? Yes? Yes. Yes!
I don't remember how I got home.
Actually, I do remember, it was the N23 night bus, but it sounds better if you stop above.

How Soon Is Now?

Sometimes, it’s like you’ve forgotten something, like something off a ‘To do’ list. It’s just a minor nagging sensation and it goes away.
Other times, when you are out and about, in the street, or in a bar, you stand on your own and you look around, then it resounds like an ache, a feeling so profound you can barely move.
When others say it’s gonna happen, well, when exactly do they mean?

Friday They Were Let Go

Friday they were let go.
They were called into the little office one after the other and let go. They came out looking dazed, the whole world having changed in a few minutes.
Your desk, your laptop, your colleague sitting next to you… all these aren’t yours anymore. Your boring routine, your terrible commute, all your complaints about the stupid office… all these are taken away. Your salary, your pension, your plans… all swept away with a few sentences.
“I’m sorry, but…”
They came out looking dazed. I watched them.
Then my phone rang and I got on with my shitty day.
The coffee machine was out of order too.

Notes From The Credit Crunch

If I’m Creative At Work I Can Get Arrested

“I just wanted to be doing something which is for me,” said one woman, “not for my boss, or for a deadline, but for me.”
“And you?” asked the tutor to another.
“If I’m creative at work I can get arrested,” she said. “I’m an accountant, you see. So I’m here so that I can use my imagination.”
“I have lots of ideas for stories,” said a man sitting behind me, “I just don’t know how to start, how to go about writing them down…”
“Fine, fine,” said the tutor. “People come to writing classes for a variety of reasons.” She swept her long hair down one side of her neck. “And you?”
“Well, I have a character, and some themes,” I said, “but I think I’m lacking a plot, a structure, something to make it all hang together.”
“Yes, structure is important,” she said, “your story must have a point. Otherwise, why would anyone read it?”

A Goddamned Little Biscuit

I was having a shitty day.
I had to get out, get some air, so at lunch I walked down to the river.
I looked across the Thames. The tide was low, boats glided past, gulls bobbed on the waves. The sun was out but dark clouds descended on me. I thought how shitty everything was. I wondered why I bothered. In front of me, a little moored tug pull against its ropes. It pulled to and fro, to and fro, to and fro.
Walking back into the office, our receptionist offered me a biscuit. I smiled. How can you not be grateful when someone offers you a biscuit, a goddamned little biscuit...
I hate chocolate digestives but, still, the thought was there.

I Am Lasagne

Each one is like a little window. It’s like looking through the window of someone’s house, you get a snapshot of a stranger’s life. And then you have to try and picture yourself in that life. With that person.
It starts with smiling lonely faces. I click on one -brunette, blonde, red head- and I read. They tell me about themselves, what they are like, what they like, and what they like to do. It’s a list of ingredients, a photograph and a list of ingredients. A whole complex life packaged like it was a TV dinner. Mine is there too. I am Chicken Korma. I am Chilli Con Carne. I am Lasagne. Love me.
If you ever meet, if it ever reaches that stage, then you feel as if you are starting a book midway through. At this age, you are. You don’t know what’s come before, you just started on the chapter you are in. Everything is new, you have to understand this main character, this heroine, her motivations, how she reached this point. Then you must decide if you want to join her for the rest of her story.
Internet dating. It’s a bitch.

Date

Could I fall in love with you? This is what I was thinking as I sat opposite her yesterday. We were on a date. She had wavy auburn hair, big brown eyes and a shy smile. We were sitting in the sun, drinking coffee and she was telling me about her job. She taught music. I was also thinking that maybe I should’ve shaved.
As she talked, I examined her face. I looked for I don’t know what, something to hit me, butterflies, something. How long did it usually take?
I told her about me. I made her laugh, she had a nice laugh, coy then opening up. We ordered another drink. It was going okay, the date was going okay. We were talking easily and there were no awkward silences. We were strangers yet to passers-by we probably looked like a couple.
We talked about music. She waved her hands. She had tidy hands. I wondered what she made of me, if she felt anything, if I ticked any boxes. Maybe I should’ve shaved.
A beggar came by and asked for money. I shook my head and said, ‘Sorry.’ Then I thought that I must’ve looked heartless and uncaring. Stupid beggar.
And then it was time to go. We couldn’t spend all day looking for love, we had things to do.
It was nice to meet you. Yes, you too.
There was no shadow in our parting. I walked off and wondered about it all, about how difficult and complex it was. About how before my next date maybe I should shave.

The Girl With The Big Smile

She was petite and blonde. She had a big smile and I felt like protecting her.
I sat across from her on the bus. Two pints and a shared bottle of albarino (with a squiggle on the n) swirling around in my head. I was leaving the West End, heading back to safer ground, to my turf. I was leaving it to the youngsters and to the tourists, and they were welcome to it.
She had been at the bus stop and she didn't need protecting. She just looked so delicate and she had a big smile. Now she played with her iPod and looked out of the window.
At the bus stop she had been kissing a guy. It was a long kiss. She was on tip-toes. His arms were around her.
He watched her get on the bus. Now she played with her iPod and looked out of the window and thought of him.
She didn't need protecting but I felt like protecting what they had. In this crazy world it's one of the few true things left.
Unless he gives her herpes.

Water Cooler Talk Redux

All The Time In The World

We were sitting in the sun eating our sandwiches. I was sitting right in front of some church doors, blocking the way, stopping people from finding salvation.
"I envy you," he said, "I don't have any time."
I looked at the lunchtime crowd scattered around the church grounds, making the most of this rare appearance by the sun. There had probably been graves here at some point, now there were people eating Big Macs.
"I can't read a book, I can't watch a film, I can't rest for even a minute," he said.
I took a bite of my sandwich. The sun was strong.
"Don't get me wrong," he continued, "I love my wife and I love my kids. I just don't have any time, you know, you can do what you want..."
Oh, yes, I have time to think, lots of it. Time to think, to analyse, to dissect. Time to think about what I want.
"Yes, I'm very lucky," I said as I watched a family walk by.

Wobbly As Heck

I spoke to my grandmother today. She’s 90 odd and lives far away.
I asked her how she was.
She said, "I'm wobbly as heck."
Wobbly as heck.
That's a pretty good summary of just about everything.
Except maybe a mountain, or an elephant, or other really big solid things. Otherwise, I think it's a pretty good summary of just about everything.

My Mother Would Like A Moustache

‘My mother would like a moustache,’ said the girl. She was speaking in French and had braces on her teeth.
'Quoi? Pardon?’ I said.
‘My mother would like a moustache,’ she repeated. I looked back and could see her mother smiling from the doorway of the café.
Then I remembered that I was wearing a fake moustache. We were all wearing fake moustaches, all eleven of us, as we sat around the table drinking beer. One of us was also wearing a wig and a pink tutu. Given this, her question didn’t seem so bizarre after all. We gave her a packet of spare ‘taches and she went back to her mother to try them on.
We had descended on this sleepy French village to play boules. We had appeared like bandits out of the surrounding hills, all moustachioed up, to raid their petanque square and drink their beer. Soon we would move on, to eat good food, drink fine wine, and continue celebrating our friend’s upcoming marriage. Burial of the life of a young man they call stag celebrations in French. This young man I’ve known since I can remember anything, and I was here not to bury but to praise him. Love finally caught up with him and here he now was with a moustache, a wig and a tutu.
The girl reappeared with her mother; they were both now wearing moustaches. Her mother owned the café. We took photos and drank and laughed and cheered.

Water Cooler Talk

One Starving Child Can Really Spoil Your Whole Day

I had a bad day at work last week. A real bad day.
It was one of those days when your feet get knocked out from under you. When you question why you are there. When you wonder why you bother.
I was hunched over the desk, squinting into the glow of the monitor, typing numbers and letters into documents. I was pushing the rock up the mountain. The phone rang. It was my boss. He was calling from the other side of the Atlantic, he wanted to update me. Fifteen minutes later, I felt confused and beaten and empty. Somehow, I’d taken a big step backwards. The rock had rolled all the way to the bottom.
I sat there stunned. I’d been slapped in the face, punched in the stomach, kicked in the teeth. I sat there and wondered why I was sitting there. For what? For what?
On my way home, I bought a bottle. It was red and rough and obliging. I drank glassfuls and felt sorry for myself. I sank. One of the few things I had had turned on me. I sank lower.
I tried to distract myself, switched on the box, and then I saw the starving children. I saw the skin, the bones, the flies, the tears. And I couldn’t feel bad anymore. I had no right to. Another of the few things I had had been taken away.
Damn those starving children.

Finding God At The Bottom Of A Cappuccino

"There are miracles every night," he said.
I looked at the card.
"Last night, a woman in a wheelchair walked again," he said.
I looked at the card again. Every night from 7pm except Mondays. I guess even miracle makers need a night off.
"Really?" I said.
He was thin, well dressed and had a slight accent. He had sat down next to me, nursing an espresso, and talked about the weather, then about himself, then about god. I don't know why he picked me. I was drinking a cappuccino and looking out of the window, killing the Sunday afternoon. Maybe I looked lost, maybe I looked as if I needed saving.
"I don't believe," I said.
"You should come and see," he said. "There are miracles every night."
Except Mondays. There are no miracles on Mondays. There are no miracles most nights.
"Every one can believe what they want," I said and gave the card back. I finished my cappuccino, said goodbye and walked out into the sinful world.
I mean, Jesus, if God's trying to get me to believe he should at least send a hot nun.

Existentialist Speed Dating

Notting Hell

It was colourful and loud and crowded.
I pushed through but could barely see the parade. I caught glimpses of brightly coloured headgear and surreal cardboard beasts between bobbing heads and hands holding mobiles as cameras. Occasionally a lorry would go past blasting out music that shook the earth.
I turned away, walking over crushed beer cans and soiled paper plates, past smoky stalls selling curious foods, past lines of policemen in day-glow jackets.
I dived into a crowd blocking the road, it jumped up and down to the speakers, twisted and turned to the music. The air was a thick mix of sweat, alcohol and pot. Half way through I came face to face with a young guy blocking my way.
"Smile," he shouted and offered me his beer.
I declined and he grabbed me and we danced a waltz.
"Smile," he shouted. "It's carnival...."
You know, sometimes, you just need to let go. I grabbed his beer, took a swig, then I smiled and danced a jig.
I just hope I don't catch some spit transmitted disease like elephantitis or leprosy.

Camus on the Central Line

On the tube this morning, standing opposite me, was a guy reading Camus.
He was in a suit, no tie, and he was reading Camus.
I looked at him and thought: you tosser. You complete and utter numpty. Ooooo, I'm impressed, so you're a thinker. You tool.
Oh, look at me, I'm reading Camus. I soar above you, you Metro mesmerised morons. I don't just accept, I question, I challenge...
Yes, and you toss, because you are a tosser.
He was reading The Fall. At least it wasn't The Outsider, that would have been a statement. He should just wear a sandwich board next time.
I stared at him and he stared back. I moved and he moved. My reflection moved. Then when I stepped off the tube we merged back into one.
Tomorrow, I shall be reading The 15 Minutes Abs Workout Book.

Alex, This Isn't The Time

"Alex, this isn't the time..." she said.
I looked at her as she approached. Round face, short dark hair, elegant. She looked a picture.
"Alex, I don't want to talk about it right now," she said.
She walked quickly, urgently. I could imagine being at the end of that walk, the one waiting for her.
"Alex..." she said into her mobile, her voice failing.
Our eyes met briefly, hers were red and wet. She walked past, her perfume trailing her. She was gone, back to the one waiting for her.
I walked on, into my evening. Alex is a lucky guy and if I was him I would be very careful.

In Vino Veritas

It was a choice between the Cabernet Sauvignon and the Merlot.
The Cabernet said it was full-flavoured and reliable, good with roast or grilled meats as well as dishes with sauces.
The Merlot said it was soft and fruity, good with spicier dishes or more savoury foods.
I had been deciding between the bottles for a while and the shop assistant was beginning to look at me suspiciously. My basket was empty so it wasn't really a question of food. It was more a question of which would be the best companion for a Saturday night.
I picked the Merlot -forget Sideways- and took it home. Then I pulled up a chair next to the window and together we looked at the passing life. It was full of sound and fury, on its way to Mamma Mia! and curry houses and clubs. I couldn't figure it out, maybe I should've picked the Cabernet.

Full Metal Jacket Potato

Today I got into a fight in the sandwich shop.
He wandered in off the road, looked rough round the edges and his breath smelt of alcohol. He walked up to people and yelled at them.
I had had a bad morning, usual work stuff. Bad emails, bad phone calls, bad decisions. He walked up to me and yelled in my face. I yelled back. I looked into his eyes and yelled in his face. I let out out all my frustrations in his face.
People, who had been ignoring him, the elephant in the room, stopped and stared. The tills went silent.
He looked at me, confused, blinked a couple of times and staggered out.
I picked up a sandwich and went to pay. My hands trembled. The girl gave me a free chocolate bar.
Next time, I'll hit him and see if I get a free jacket potato.

Cogito ergo blog

So I wandered out at lunch and there was this lady singing opera on some church steps.
A small crowd gathered, people in suits, busy people, people like me. We stopped and listened to her. Her voice soared. It went high and then higher still. For a short while, she took us with her.
Afterwards, I went back to my office, plugged back in, logged back on. For the rest of the afternoon, I pushed the rock up the mountain.
On the way home, I thought about the soaring voice, I thought that I’d like to create beauty too. Create something. Every day pushing that rock up the mountain, every night distracting myself, and then just starting over.
I thought about it on the tube, thought about it as I walked around the Tesco, thought about it as I walked in the front door. Then I sat on the sofa and thought about it as I looked at my reflection amidst the laughing heads of some shitty TV show. I thought about creating something of worth on paper, on canvas, in clay, in melody… But I couldn’t think of anything except creating a blog about my lack of creativity.
QED