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.