Careering Off A Cliff

I’m in my notice period. One month.
I have time to ponder the next step.
This is a great opportunity. One not to be wasted. So I’m writing down some future career options to consider. This is what I have so far:
Child prodigy, stripper clown, angry poet, Dallas Cowboys quarterback, submarine commander, heroic astronaut, war poet, President of the United States, Hooters barmaid, cowboy, Han Solo, trapeze artist (Cirque du Soleil), garden ornament, guerilla poet, male model, women’s volleyball referee, vegetarian, revolutionary, dickhead, jazz fusion dancer, lute repairer, melancholic poet, boyfriend, husband, father, wine taster, sit down comedian, Olympic rower, aimless drifter, Next Big Thing, conjurer, MotoGP rider, Booker prize winner, Golf Sale sign holder, deconstructionist, alcoholic, Marxist poet, flâneur, drummer, incredible Hulk (post freak accident), skating dwarf in Snow White on Ice, Hollywood scriptwriter, cat walker, character in Simpsons...
This is good. This is exciting.

You Can Check-out Anytime You Like

‘It says you have already exited,’ she says.
‘But I haven’t. I’m still here,’ I reply.
I’m coming out of the Tube. The ticket barrier won’t let me exit. People behind me are huffing and puffing.
The assistant runs her Oyster card reader over my card again.
‘It says you have already exited,’ she repeats.
‘I’m trying to exit. It won’t let me.’
The machine won’t let me exit.
Christ, I hope this isn’t symbolic...

Today Is The First Day

I may sometimes give the impression but, let's be clear, I don't hate life.
I don't even hate my life.
What I hate is the shitty life I'm living at the moment.
I’ve done what I thought I should be doing. I’ve had the good job, the good flat, the good girlfriend. I’ve tried to be by being what I’m not. All I ended up was angry.
Worrying about work and bills and cholesterol isn’t a life. Life should be about rawness and discovery and exhilaration. We're animals, after all, not producer-consumer economic units.
So instead of just raging about it, instead of just writing stupid notes about it, I’ve decided to untangle myself and start over.
I quit.
That’s the first step.
Hmm... er... now what?

Reductio Ad Absurdum

This morning I woke up to go to work.
I go to work so that I receive a salary.
I need a salary so that I can pay for food and shelter.
I need food and shelter so that I am fit and healthy.
I need to be fit and healthy so that I can go to work.
The work that pays for me to be able to go to work.
The work that pays me a salary.
The salary that also pays for distraction.
The distraction that allows me to forget about work.
The work that pays for me to be able to forget it.
On closer inspection, removing work from the equation could really reduce my overheads...

Date

"Would you like another drink?" I asked.
We were on a date. She had dark eyes and a smoky voice.
It was going well. We were relaxed, chatting easily, laughing. And it was still only 8:30. Time for another drink, maybe a bite, maybe a coffee.
I was feeling positive. I was Mr Smooth... I was Mr Ladykiller... I was Mr Bombastic-Lover-Fantastic...
"No, I should get back really," she said. "I have some washing to do."
... I was Mr Casanova... I was Mr Irresis... Wait, did she say washing? W-a-s-h-i-n-g?
I searched for the glint in her eye, the smirk on her lips. But there was none. She had some washing to do.
What chance did love stand against such a foe?
We said goodbye. It was still only 8:30. I went to the pub and drank it all away.

I Am No Longer In Love With The Girl From The Chocolate Shop

I changed my mind.

On A Steel Horse I Ride

I'm on the motorbike and I'm motoring.
I'm burning up tarmac.
It's morning and I'm late. I'm late for a meeting and I can't be late.
Every second counts. I'm slaloming cars. Clipping wing mirrors. Jumping amber lights.
All you can see is my tail light disappearing.
I'm riding well. Alert, quick and smooth. I might make it.
I might make it if I don't run out of petrol.
I might make it if it doesn't sputter and die like it just has. If it doesn't kick back into life like it doesn't. If it doesn't leave me stranded on the side of the road like it does.
I'm on the motorbike and I'm not going anywhere.

Date

"You sound very posh," she said.
We were in a real boozer in Forest Hill. It wasn’t hard to sound posh.
My grip tightened around my pint. A comment like that is usually a full stop. There isn’t really anywhere to go after that.
"Really?" I said, trying not to sound like Boris Johnson.
I had started internet dating again. She had very blue eyes, wore a Star Wars top -in an ironic way- and then she had said that. It was supposed to be a fun pint, not a class war.
She wasn't exactly dropping any H’s herself but, as I said, there isn’t really anywhere to go after that.
On the train back into Central London, I looked at the faces of my fellow passengers. Like me, they looked sad and alone, and I thought, "Why am I here? Why isn’t there a first class?"

I Work Therefore I Am

The Angel In The North

"You look unhappy," she said to me, sitting down.
I pushed up the corners of my mouth with my hands. "Is this better?"
She was young and blond and pretty.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Ruth," she said. She laughed at this. She was drunk.
I was in a bar in Newcastle. It was carnage. It was like an army of stags meeting an army of hens. It was like Lord of the Rings dressed in Top Shop.
"Hello Ruth, I'm Se..." I let it float in the air as she stood up and walked off. She found a friend and started dancing.
I watched the carnage. I felt old and removed. She was young and blond and pretty.
Her loss.

The Smooth Surface Of Life

I was bored, surfing, and found this entry on Gumtree London:
“I do confess I feel so lonely ....I'm not asking for ever lasting love just a short time even to have someone hold me and not want to run away......I'm not even asking for someone to break down my walls...just enough time to make me feel a tiny bit warmer.........”
It was anonymous, not asking for anything, no details, just a note. It struck me. I read and re-read it.
Sometimes we put on a façade, a smooth surface, to cover up the turmoil within. Sometimes it’s easier to unburden on strangers than it is on friends. Sometimes I feel just like this person.
I thought about writing a response to him/her, but then I thought maybe he/she should just put on a jumper.

Who Dares Wins

I was having a coffee, reading in the newspaper about Simon Mann.
He had just been released from a jail in Equatorial Guinea. He was put in jail for trying to plot a coup d'etat, for raising a small troop of mercenaries and trying to overthrow the government there.
Mann went to Eton, Sandhurst, and then was in the SAS. He served in the Gulf War and went on to become a mercenary. Apparently, his father once captained the England cricket team.
He was jail for four years for raising a small army and trying to overthrow a ruling African government.
I sipped my coffee. I had just been charged 25 pence for an overdue library book. I find the charges at my local library pretty steep.

Great Expectations

"I'm not afraid of disappointing people," he said.
"It's expectation management," I said, "not disappointment management."
"No, it's disappointment. They are always disappointed."
The conversation was work related although I had the feeling he had widened it out.
"Well, just lower their expectations until even the worst news isn't disappointing," I said.
He stared blankly at me.
"You know," I continued, "just say that what they ask for is impossible and then when you do the smallest bit towards it they'll be happy."
"Really?"
"Sure." I didn't believe it but I thought the least I could do was get his hopes up.

The Comfort Zone

I'm sitting in an after hours work event. We've had the speech and the presentation and now the guest speaker comes on.
It's Sally Gunnell and she talks about how she won an Olympic gold medal. She's a good speaker. She keeps it short and general enough for it to be relevant to us men in suits.
'Do what you are good at,' she says, 'what you love.'
I shift in my seat. I'm wondering how many people in the room are doing what they love.
'Work at it,' she says, 'get out of your comfort zone.'
My comfort zone is sitting on the sofa in my underwear eating peanuts and watching Battlestar Galactica. But I don't think she means that, I think she means when you just tick over, when there is no risk, when you confuse boredom with security.
She passes around her gold medal. I hold it in my hand, entranced, an actual gold medal, a solid sign of achievement.
Maybe I should get out of my comfort zone. Maybe I could head south of the river, I hear there's more risk down there.

I'm In Love With The Girl From The Chocolate Shop

I walk past most days and often when I look through the window she is there.
Sometimes she is behind the till, but sometimes she is right at the window, dipping strawberries in chocolate. It's an upmarket chocolate shop, let's be clear; it's not a newsagent, it's not like she's selling Curly Wurlys.
The other day we made eye contact, through the window, there was no reaction on her part, there was no reason there should be, I'm just one of a million faces walking past. But fleetingly, her dark eyes locked on mine and I felt a chill.
Once upon a morning, coming out of the tube, I was walking behind a girl in the street who struck me by her style and confident walk. I lost her in the crowd then saw her again as we neared the shop and I thought, 'Of course, it's her' and, of course, it was her.
I should go in and buy something. I should go in and make conversation. I should... but the thing is that I don't really like chocolate. Maybe I could go in and ask for strawberries without chocolate. Maybe better to just leave it a while and play hard to get.

Altered States

So I'm back at work and straight into a series of meetings.
General anaesthesia is a state of unconsciousness, amnesia and analgesia induced in patients ahead of an operation.
And I'm finding it hard to switch back into work mode.
Analgesia is the absence of a sense of pain, although for a moment I thought the doctor was talking about an Arabic language news station.
As the meetings progress, my mind switches off.
There are different stages to anaesthesia as you slip more and more into unconsciousness.
As my mind switches off, my body relaxes and my mouth feels dry.
After the patient is unconscious and the body has relaxed then surgery can begin.
I sit back in my chair and let the discussions wash over me.
Anaesthesia concludes with a pain-free awakening in a monitored environment.
The meetings end and I stagger back to my desk. Boy, was that painful.

The Doors Of Perception

Some moments in life attract clarity.
In these moments, the daily clutter and distractions disappear leaving you to see things as they really are. You are suddenly able to see through the cosmetic and the trivial, through to the core, to the truth. These moments are rare, they typically occur at times of great anguish or joy. These moments let you see how fragile it all is, how precious it all is, and how insulated you normally are from your own life. They let you see, as Seneca said, that ‘the part you live of life is actually very small’…
I had one of these moments in hospital. I got scared about the operation and clarity hit me like a torch shone in my eyes. Fortunately there was a TV in the room so I could watch America’s Next Top Model and shake it off. But it was a close call, I mean life is hard enough without bloody clarity adding to the stress and anxieties that I already endure on a daily basis.

Not My Idea Of Fun

I’m back.
I’m not new or improved, I’m just patched up, ready to carry on for a while longer.
There are stitches inside my body. Sometimes it hurts when I move. Sometimes I bleed. I don’t know if the stitches are made of barbed wire but sometimes it feels like it.
So now I’m popping painkillers and thinking how unimportant so many many things are.
And, you know, the most painful part of it all -after all the sweat, the snot, the spit, and the blood- was that I had no one special to fucking hold my hand.
That’s a lie, the most painful part was the pain itself. Besides, maybe it’s better there was no one around to hear me screaming like a little girl.
Keep healthy.

A World Of Hurt

Dear Reader(s),

I've had a niggling pain that just won't go away so I'm going under the knife.
The doctor says it is routine so hopefully I won't be entering a world of hurt but, either way, I'll be off-line for a short while.
Thanks for reading. I've had fun writing this stuff and I hope you've enjoyed it too. There's not many of you but it seems you come back...
Feel free to leave any comments/suggestions/criticisms while I'm away and I'll pick 'em up when I'm back on my feet.

See you on the other side,
Sebastian

Boiling Frog Syndrome

I was thinking about the boiling frog anecdote the other day.
You know, that apocryphal story that if you drop a frog in boiling water it will jump out, but if you place it in cold water and then turn the heat up slowly it will float there until it boils to death.
I was thinking about the metaphor, about how one day you turn around and find a big pile of crap because you didn't notice it building up and you think Jesus, how did that crap happen? in the same way the frog might go Jesus, is it me or is it hot in here?
I was thinking that the crap is happening.
To be honest, the initial reason I thought about it was that I was in a bar and saw this hot French girl but that's just the way my mind works.

I Took A Canoe To The Pub

It was black all around and there were stars above and beneath us. It was like we were floating through space. I felt we could spin like a corkscrew and not notice, up was the same as down, down was the same as up...
I was in the countryside, visiting friends. There was a canal at the bottom of their garden and we had taken a canoe to go to the pub.
Coming back it was dark and quiet and the water was so still it was like glass. It was like a mirror reflecting the stars. We stopped joking, stopped talking, stopped breathing. We looked all around us: the canoe was simply surrounded by stars. It was as if we had somehow left the Earth and were now drifting through the galaxy.
We sat motionless, silent, lost in awe, lost in space...
Of course, the midges were out in force and we weren't that far from Woking but you get the picture.

Ask The Love Doctor

"I'm a romantic, you know," she said, "I want there to be real romance. I want to be adored."
I looked at her. We were old friends, we were catching up.
"It's awful," she continued, "I have boxes I need to tick. I know it's wrong... but is it so wrong?"
I took another mouthful of my starter.
She shook her head. "I know I can't have it all, I know I need to compromise. And he does make me happy. He does..."
I wanted to say something important, to give some opinion or some insight or just say that it would work out. I wanted to impart some of the knowledge and experience that I have gained about romance over my adult years.
"How are the fish cakes?" I asked.

I Use My Oyster Card For Guilt Trips

The bus stopped and I looked out of the window and saw this guy. He had a smug smile and was checking himself out in his reflection in a shop window. He checked his hair. Touched it here and there.
What a cock, I thought, what a vain cock. What a cocktastic cock of cocks.
But he had dwarfism. He was a dwarf. So I felt bad.
Shame on me for thinking that, I thought, I'm the cock. I can't criticise a dwarf. I mean his hair is the least of his troubles, I should be admiring his fortitude living in a society that venerates chimerical physical perfection.
But then I thought, Wait a minute, a cock is a cock, regardless of his condition. Or his race or religion or whatever. No excuse. No guilt trips.
He's a cock. He's a big cock even.
Then a girl turned up. They kissed. He just wanted to be smart for her.
I was such a cock.

Dipping A Toe In The Rivers Of Blood

'I can't believe you ask that,' he said, standing up. He was getting angry.
'Well, you're not answering the question,' I said.
He pointed at me, looking around the pub for support. 'How can you ask that? Just look at you...'
I wasn't sure what that meant but it sounded like it might get personal. And personal usually led to physical.
He was sitting at the next table. We had started talking. We talked about the news. Then he started talking about how They would overwhelm us, about how We were an island, about how Our culture was in danger...
'I just want to know what you think it means to be English,' I repeated.
'Well, what does it mean to be French?' he said in a loud voice.
I looked at him, confused. Images of Sophie Marceau swirled in my mind. Damn his rapier sharp polemic. 'What...? What has that to do with anything?'
'I can't believe you are asking that,' he said. 'Look at you...' He shook his head, gathered his things and stormed off. People watched him go.
I sat there, had another beer, got drunk. As an Englishman, I thought it was the least I could do.

On Love

Drip, drip, drip.
Sebastian watched the tap drip, the way the precious water trickled away lost. He thought it was like a metaphor for something big, something larger than himself. He listened to the gentle yet relentless rhythm of the droplets falling, gazing at them plunge like suicides on to the plate of dried pasta sauce.
Maybe it’s like love, he thought, putting on some Marigolds, maybe love is like a dripping tap.
He squirted some Fairy around the sink but didn’t turn on the tap just yet, not wanting to spoil the moment. This momentary momentous moment.
Drip, drip, drip.
He stood there in silent vigil, drinking in the instant, sensing it to his core. The floor chilled his feet through the holes in his socks. He would remember this night, the way it terrified and elated him.
Love is like a dripping tap, Sebastian meditated, although I’m not sure in what possible way.
He picked up a bowl dirty with dry Corn Flakes and started to scrub.

I Blame Blame Culture

Free Hugs For Cute Guys

I went to the Notting Hill Carnival yesterday.
I was in the area anyway so thought to myself Let's party!
There was a girl holding out a sign saying Free hugs for cute guys.
I walked past her. She didn't clock me.
Then I walked past the other way just to be sure. She still didn't clock me.
After circling her for 20 minutes I went home.
Shit carnival.

Today We Have Naming Of Parts

I was at a petrol station somewhere on the motorway back to Calais.
I was filling up on coffee having filled up the bike on petrol. It rested outside in the sun, its engine making the odd clicking sound as it cooled down. It was bored, it had dined finely on Alpine passes and now could only graze on dull autoroutes.
A woman walked by in flip-flops. There was something on the side of one foot. I looked more closely. It was a tattoo. It was a tattoo of the word Danielle.
I frowned. She had the name Danielle tattooed on the side of her foot. Her name? Her child's name? Her partner's name? Her foot's name? Did she have another name for her other foot?
Cursing the ghastliness of the moronic inferno that governs much of modern life, I hopped on the bike, fired it up, and took off down the motorway to be alone again with my thoughts.
One of them was maybe having a Suzuki Sebastian tattoo across my belly button.

Long Way Up

I'm focused.
I'm watching for the white line in the middle of the road. It snakes left, then right, disappears round a sharp bend, then stretches out straight to a vanishing point.
The bike and I are one. I'm part of it, part of the metal. We flip one way then the other, locked on the solid white line. My mind is blank. This is all there is. Life is far away. Here is just a thin strip of road, giant mountains either side.
I click down a gear, twist the throttle, the engine whines, and I scream as I accelerate forward, towards the vanishing point...
If my mother asks, I don't own a bike and this didn't happen.

I Took A Grasshopper To Work

I noticed him as I was riding around Marble Arch, he was hiding on the bike’s right mirror. I hadn’t seen him at first although he was bright green. He must have come from the public garden near where I park. Probably, like most youths, he was bored and just wanted some fun on a motorbike.
As we zoomed down Park Lane, I started talking to him. I called him Grasshopper; I became the Zen master old guy from Kung Fu. I said stuff like, “This is how one can travel without moving.”
Near Buckingham Palace, a Porsche cut me up. “Hang on,” I said twisting the throttle, tearing forward and slicing back past it. “Power is nothing without control, Grasshopper.”
We went round Trafalgar Square and along the Embankment. Grasshopper watched the Thames as I taught him about life. “There is no point in going fast in the wrong direction, Grasshopper.”
We rode into the City and parked up near Tower Bridge. “Keep well,” I said and left him there. I went to the office, pushed the rock up the mountain and forgot about him.
He was waiting for me when I came back. He was on the speedo now. “Grasshopper, at least tell me you visited the Gherkin?” He didn’t have a bowler hat or pinstripe so maybe he felt he would stick out. We rode home, seeing off all-comers.
Once parked, I coaxed him onto my glove and flicked him off into the bushes. “I have taught you everything I know, Grasshopper. Your future is now your own.”
I leave for France tomorrow on the bike, he can come with me but I’m not doing any translating.

Magnificent Desolation

Get up stand up...
So I'm sitting in a coffeeshop in Amsterdam but I'm not having a coffee.
I have the first floor to myself and I'm sitting on some cushion thing at an open window watching people walk by. There's a fish tank in the corner and a TV showing music videos but with the sound off. Inevitably, the soundtrack to all this is Bob Marley. It's all a bit cliche but what isn't these days.
It takes a few drags before it starts to hit but it hits.
One love...
I look at the fish. One has a huge poop dragging behind it. It's just swimming around with this unending poop coming out of whatever a fish arse is called. I find it repellent and magnetic at the same time and wonder if I could do it in the office.
I'm gonna be iron like a lion in zion...
Some young French hippies walk in and sit in the corner opposite me. I can tell they're French because they are speaking it. I can tell they are hippies because they look it. I don't want to sound presumptuous but unless Ralph Lauren has designed a range of hippy clothes for yuppies then I'm pretty sure that these guys are hippies. I discreetly check for a polo logo just to make sure.
No woman no cry...
The fish are beautiful. The music video is great. Marley is the best ever.
I look out of the window and it all coalesces, it all makes sense... The journey, the wrong turns, the right ones, they have all led me here to this point, this time and this place... and suddenly I think... where is this place again?

Can't See The Bush For The Forest

I'm talking to a guy at work. We're in the kitchen, making ourselves some tea.
He tells me a story.
He tells me how he went to watch a football match on TV in a strip club. Girls were taking their clothes off and twirling upside down on poles and he was watching Nottingham Forest play on the TV. He says that not many places show Forest games but that place does. So he was watching the game and Forest scored and, wait for it, he punched the air and yelled 'Fuck yeah!' just as a girl was bending over and spreading her beef curtains. He laughs and then asks if I want sugar in my tea.
I blink, then I laugh too. I laugh as a sign of bonding, a male thing, fuck yeah. Inside, I'm thinking that we must be wired differently, that although we share a same planet we live in a different universe.
I don't know what to say so I say, 'Yes, one please.'
Then I think about telling him that time I was at a Monet exhibition and saw a girl with her skirt caught in her knickers.

Notes From Underground

God, that's a short skirt.
It doesn't leave much to the imagination at all. (Not that I need imagination, I know what goes on up there... Not up there specifically, no, but in general... I mean I 've been there, you know... A while back, granted, but I've been there... In general, I mean... But not widely in general... Not general like that... Uh... I digress...)
It's a very short skirt. She's standing in front of me on the Tube. I'm reading my book but I'm not really reading my book. I have Superman x-ray eyes and I'm looking at her legs. They're great legs, toned and tanned. I'm not alone. Girls are looking at her legs too, their looks are approving, disapproving, jealous... Guys are looking at her legs and just thinking Aroooooba.
I mean, look at that skirt, it's tiny. If it was any shorter it would be a necklace.
She catches my stare. Quick, back to the book, focus. It's The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable, it's about how we can't plan for the unexpected because, well, it's, uh, unexpected. It's 300 pages about that. It's not really what I was expecting. Anyway, this particular chapter is all about... She's getting off. God, that's a short skirt.

I Think Therefore I Yam What I Yam

I'm looking at the painting.
I stand there a while and try and get it. I'm not sure I do.
Other people walk by. I don't know if they get it either but they don't seem to be trying very hard. They don't dawdle, they pass by as if on an escalator.
I'm trying. I focus on it. It's of Popeye. He's against a collage background with a big red inflatable lobster painted hanging above his head. It's by Jeff Koons, it's a small exhibition of his work. I guess it's about the usual stuff: consumerism and childhood and memories and... uh... big red inflatable lobsters.
Wait, maybe it's trying to say that... er.... um... consumerism is inflatably childish? No, I don't get it.
'Maybe art is the spinach,' Koons allegedly said.
Well, it's made me feel like some spinach and god knows that makes me art for a while afterwards... 

Arf arf.

And You're Back In The Room...

Look at me, I'm running full pelt down a hill.
I'm running like a mad man, shirtless and shoeless. Like a Tarzan, fluid, feral, and primal. My blood is pounding, my legs are burning, and it feels so good. It feels so free. Running, running, running. I can feel the sun all over me, blazing down through a perfect blue sky. And the grass is soft, cool with dew, bugs leaping out of the way at each foot fall. I'm euphoric, on a natural high, and I'm not getting tired. I can't stop, I won't stop, I just keep going. I feel like any moment I could take off and soar into the sky. Look at me fly...
"Sebastian, what do you think?"
"Well... Uh...." I say, blinking back into reality, looking around the room. "I think we need to clarify what the client's decision process is and identify the next steps..."
Look at me play with my tie.

Our Mission Statement Is To... Er... Um...

The Art Of War

I was tired. The day had been long.
I wasn't in the mood for a fight. I felt like Indiana Jones when the swordsman turns up and Indy just shoots him. I felt like that.
I looked him in the eye. He didn't blink. His earring glinted in the light.
Then I thought of Sun Tzu: 'The key to victory is not in defeating the enemy, but in defeating the enemy's strategy, therein lies their vulnerability.' I had to out-think him, it was my only chance.
"So just why won't you give me a refund?" I asked him again, holding up the shirt.

Date

This one I thought was a slam dunk, a sure thing, a dead cert.
I mean, she stayed for the whole evening. She smiled at my conversation, she laughed at my jokes, she played with her hair for Chrissakes.
This one didn't yawn.
We talked about literature and ideas and life. She was smart, had a great smile, looked a little bookish but in a sexy way.
She played with her hair. It was a sign, wasn't it? I've read those articles on body language, it was a sign of interest. She twirled a mesh in her hand, twirled and twirled. Christ, she was practically pregnant with my child.
But turns out that she didn't want to see me again.
I get that a lot. There is a growing number of women out there who don't want to see me again.
If it becomes a majority then I'll be nervous. If it becomes a unanimity then I'll be somewhat miffed.

My Self-Pity Isn't As Good As Yours

So I had an attack of self-pity the other night.
It happens sometimes when I have too much time on my hands and there's nothing to watch on television.
I was hit hard by an existential angst and looked out of the window thinking What's the point? What's the bloody point? Darkness and futility washed over me, interrupted but for a fleeting moment by a cute blonde in hot pants walking by.
I stood there, immobile, sapped of energy, broken, staring at my reflection. And, from that angle, my nose also looked unusually big. Everything seemed to be going wrong: health, work, love... Things just weren't panning out the way I thought they would... If, as a child, your plan is to grow up to be Flash Gordon then it's hardly surprising that things might not work out.
I looked outside and watched life go by, I couldn't figure it out, the sound and the fury of it all... Then, after a while, I got bored. It was still early and I can only feel meaninglessness for so long, especially on an empty stomach. So I went to Sainsbury's and bought some beers and a Be Good To Yourself Ham & Pineapple Pizza. I was going to buy some garlic bread but then I thought You have enough stodge already, what's the point?

Because You're Worth It

... and then you're sitting at some table talking to some girl and you can't remember how you got there and you can't focus because it's late and your head is a mess and she says something and laughs and you laugh too because it seems you should and you notice that she's wearing a lot of big rings and you think 'Jesus, that's a lot of metal' and it scares you and you're about to say this when she asks you where you are from and you say 'Spain' because you're bored and you take another gulp of your drink and then your friend turns up with another pint even though you've had enough and you tell him this and he shrugs and starts chatting up the girl with the scary rings and you look around the room at the people talking and laughing and flirting and you try to think about things but you can't which is good and tomorrow you'll wake up and go on as usual and rinse and repeat but for now you can keep it at bay and just sit here and drink beer and pretend to be Spanish and worry about the big rings and how the girl can even lift her hands because if you had that many rings you would have arms like Schwarzenegger and you think you should tell her this so you lean across and...

A Better Most Sad Moment

She was perfect.
We were on a date and she was perfect.
She was smart and attractive and made me want to do backflips across the room.
When she played with her hair I felt pain in my stomach.
She didn't want to see me again but, for an evening at least, I had that peek above the clouds, you know, up where it's so bright and warm and sometimes hard to breath.
It makes me sad but at the same time it's not really sad, it's not like anyone died, so it's a better sad.
The cow.

Look, It's Ethan Hawke

I pointed. "Look, it's Ethan Hawke."
"Who?"
"Ethan Hawke. The actor."
Blank look.
"You know, he was in those movies where he walked around with that girl."
"Which girl?"
"I can't remember her name. Anyway, it's him."
"Where?"
"He's gone now."
Blank look.
"I could tell you that he's still here," I said.
"Who?"
"Ethan Hawke. You don't recognise him, so I could tell you that he's still here. You won't know."
Blank look.
"That's him over there..."

Je T'Aime, Moi Non Plus

For Me, Denial Is Just A Bloody River In Africa

I think it was her smile. It was a great smile, natural, but perhaps just a little too big.
Or maybe it was her dress, you now, too revealing, too flash, all body hugging and that. Although the body it hugged I had no problem with, none at all.
We'd bumped into each other at the bar and started talking. It was easy talk, real easy, not hard work at all.
We talked for a while. She had blue eyes that I had difficulty not staring into. She flashed them at me one last time as she was leaving towards the end, when she looked kind of sad.
I didn't ask her for a number or anything. I'm thinking it was because of her smile, just a little too big. It certainly wasn't the fact that she had three young kids because, you know, that wouldn't deter me. No, I wouldn't be put off by that, not at all. So it must have been the smile. Or the dress. One of the two, anyway.

We Have to Stop Meeting Like This

We're sitting in a meeting and I'm watching their lips move.
They talk and nod and frown. It's important stuff.
One person leans forward and jabs the air with his pen. I look at his hair, it's a funny cut, I wonder if it's DIY.
Another disagrees with him. His hair is OK.
We need to stay focused someone says. There's a stain on his shirt, mayo I'm thinking, or maybe mustard.
The one with the funny hair goes on for a bit. I doodle in my notebook, I sketch a man being crushed by an anvil.
We finish up. Plans are made for a follow-up meeting next week. Some people will go home later and check their BlackBerries.
I go back to my desk, stare at my monitor. Thinking about it, it looked more like mustard.

Date

Yawn.
She apologised. She said it had been a long week.
It was Friday night and she was my date. She was French with long dark hair and a sexy laugh. We were on dessert and I was telling her about my time abroad. But I wasn’t banging on about it; in fact, I thought I was being both interesting and entertaining.
I let it pass. It happens. People get tired.
"How about you?" I asked. "Have you lived abroad much?" (The fact that she was currently living abroad had escaped me.)
She started to answer then yawned again. She apologised again.
"No problem," I said, "I have that effect on women."
She smiled. I’m not sure if she got it. I wasn’t sure if it was a gag or not, I had visions of her using the table cloth for a bedsheet.
When the third yawn came I asked for the bill.
Looking for some positives, I may not have been the man of her dreams but I certainly was the man of her sleep.

Me Love You Long Time

So I'm in Amsterdam on a business trip and I'm looking for dinner.
I'm following a canal. The street is narrow and cobbled but cyclists shoot past in both directions unflustered. I cross a bridge and look down at the water, ducks are curled up on boat covers, settling in for the night.
The canal runs in a loop towards the centre and the crowds start to pick up. Bar lights glow out of obscure corners.
Then the windows with red neon strips above them appear. The first one has its curtains closed. The second is open. I look, she looks back. She's in her underwear, standing proud, staring out at the street. She looks about twenty. She motions with her finger for me to come in. She starts to open the door. I feel awkward. I'm fully clothed and she's half naked and I feel awkward. I turn away. A group of young men behind me start to leer and cheer at her. My business day has ended, hers is just beginning.
I need an espresso, I'll just pop into that coffeeshop...

Life is Fatal

So I went to a walk-in clinic. I have a niggling pain I wanted checked out.
In short, I’ll live. In long, I’ll die one day, but not from this.
While I was there I saw a sign on the door. Mental health group meeting cancelled due to illness it said. But that’s the point, I thought, it should say Mental health group meeting on due to illness. Then I smiled to myself, pleased at my gag.
What a retard…

Next Stop: Hypocrisy... Mind The Gap

We were talking about dating, about how hard it is to meet people.
She said she hadn't expected to be where she is now, to be single at her age, it just wasn't a scenario that she had pictured.
She told me that she had tried internet dating too. She said she had been on some weird dates. She said she could write a book about it, all the stories, and that maybe she would.
I couldn't believe it, imagine the breach of trust, the invasion of privacy, writing about someone behind their back like that.
Who could do such a thing? Who?

The Inhumanity Of The Manatee

He was into manatees and they were going out.
He had an interest in them, she wasn't sure she even knew what one looked like. But they started going out and she liked him so she made an effort to like them.
Then they had a little ornamental manatee sitting in the living room. She put up with it. She put up with it because she liked him.
It sat there until they broke up.
When she left, she took the little ornamental manatee with her.
She took it because, although she still didn't like manatees, now she disliked him even more.
Go figure.

Date

She worked with crazy people so I thought maybe she was what I needed.
Those were her words, she was young and tough, she used them ironically, as a way of coping. She worked with bipolars, schizophrenics, sociopaths, and she was on a date with me.
Now, overall, I think I'm OK. Sure I get dark patches but, in fact, I often feel like the sanest person in the room. I watch the lunacy all around me on a daily basis and think that either I just don’t get it because I'm sane, or that I must be crazy because I’m the one who just doesn’t get it.
So I wanted to ask her about it, to get her view on things, to see what her take on it was.
I was planning my question when she turned to me and said, "I think I should date someone my own age."
I looked at her and thought Well that’s just crazy.

Nasty, Brutish and Short

Sex, Drugs & Sausage Roll

He was a work contact. We'd sit across executive maple tables and talk about synergies, being on the same page, and moving forward. We'd be two businessmen talking business. We'd talk about it as if it was life and death.
So he called me. We talked shop and then he said, "I'm playing tonight."
"Playing what?" I asked.
"Playing in my band. Do you wanna come?"
"Sure," I said.
It was rock. They played covers, classic rock covers, and the pub swayed. He sat behind his drums and played like no one was watching. He beat and sweated and let go. The beer belly, the deadlines, the washing up, they all disappeared. This was his escape, his way to get by.
I was envious.
Having said that, they did murder Smoke on the Water so maybe it would be better to just stick to the day job.

Champagne Supernova

She casually removed a champagne cork from her handbag.
"That's very rock 'n' roll," I said.
"Actually, it was just cava," she said.
"In that case, it's very pop music."
She looked at me. "Wow, I've fallen so fast from the sublime to the ridiculous."
She placed the cork on the table. All those dates and here, in the corner of some bland pub, hidden in a group of people, was someone who made me go Boom. We had talked about travel and work and writing. But we weren't interested in travel and work and writing, that wasn't what we really had been talking about.
"I don't get it," said her boyfriend, "why is it like pop music?"
I looked at her. She looked at him then down at her shoes. I looked away and chewed my lower lip.
From the the sublime to the ridiculous indeed. On the way home, I smashed my fist into a wall and wished a plague of locusts on his house.

The Big Smoke

It was bank holiday and I was alone and bored. I decided to go for a walk. I headed up to the park. It was breezy and the sun was trying to break through. People still sat on the grass, regardless, hopeful and determined. They read, they ate, they played football, they kissed.
I wandered over to Speakers' Corner. People gathered in little groups. Someone attacking Israel. Someone defending Israel. Someone pushing Jesus. Someone holding up a sign saying Don't Believe Anyone Including Me. I wanted to believe him but couldn't. Then I took a peek at Oxford Street but couldn't bring myself to walk it. It made me sad and angry.
I hopped on a bus, swept down Park Lane, around Buckingham Palace, past Victoria, and jumped off at the river. Big Ben struck three. I watched the surface of the Thames for a while, the boats, the ducks, the gulls. Then I wandered along, under the lazy Eye, past living statues and break dancers and busking musicians. To the South Bank where I perused the second hand book stalls. And where I watched skateboarders hop, jump and flip through the air, weightless, riding invisible currents.
I meandered. Charing Cross Bridge. Trafalgar Square (an Indian concert in full flow). Piccadilly Circus. A coffee and a muffin in Soho. Bus ride up to Camden Town. Beer near the canal. A friend came out. More beers. The top of the Hawley Arms. Feeling old. More beers. The clarity that comes from the fog...
Home.
Shit day.

Girl With A Pearl Earring In The Sandwich Shop

I only popped in for a sandwich. It was lunchtime. My stomach was gurgling.
I didn't see her until I went up to the counter.
Then they hit me. Her green eyes hit me. Green eyes framed in a face Vermeer couldn't have done justice to.
I think my jaw dropped. I couldn't speak.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
Rabbit in headlights. "Yes. Yes, uh, yes... I'll have a, uh, Mexican tuna in, uh, a granary bap, please."
How smooth is that? How bloody-James-Bond-smooth is that?
"And a Ribena," I added, because I'm the new Cary Grant.
Earth swallow me.

Date

We wandered over the park, talking.

The sun was up and not a lonely cloud in the sky.

We turned a corner and were dazzled by a display of flowers,

Next to the lake, near the trees, all swaying in the breeze.

I looked at her, I looked at the flowers, she was good company

But there was no spark, they out-sparkled her.

Later, at home on my sofa, I thought back to the park,

I remembered the bloom and smiled.

But my heart didn't with pleasure fill, bliss of solitude my arse.

Boom-De-Boom-Boom

She was walking down the street and turning heads.
She had long dark hair, wore a summer dress and had a distinctive gait. Actually, you know, gait is not the right word for it, not by a long shot. She had a way of walking that was just boom-de-boom-boom.
She was walking down the street and turning heads and going boom-de-boom-boom.
I watched the guys stare, I watched the girls stare, I think even the pigeons stopped and stared.
Then one of those street cleaning vehicles came along, you know, the little ones with the twirling brushes at the front. It came along sucking up cigarette butts and sweet wrappers. The driver saw the boom-de-boom-boom. He slowed up. He whistled to catch her attention.
He whistled at her because maybe, just maybe, she would turn, see him in his street cleaning vehicle and jump in and they would ride off down the street together, sucking up cigarette butts and sweet wrappers, and go boom-de-boom-boom into the sunset.
She didn't turn.
It's a shame because, you know, that would've been a great thing to write about.

It's All About Risk Management

"I didn't picture myself here," he said.
We were in a pub, it was a quick drink after work. But he wasn't talking about the venue, he had just turned 40, he was talking about the bigger picture.
"You know what I mean?" he continued, "I didn't think I'd be here, doing this."
"Where did you think you'd be?" I asked.
"I don't know, upper management, running my own company, a millionaire..."
"There's still time for you to do that."
"No, there isn't, not any more. And I have children, the most important thing now is making sure they are all right."
We stared at the table and drank our beers.
"What about you?" He said. "You don't have any kids, you can still take risks..."
"Yeah... Yeah, I can." I looked at my watch. "Sorry, I'd better go, I need to get to Tesco's before it closes."

Today, Nothing Happened

Date

I was sitting across the table from her. She had blue eyes and a shy smile.
"He just spilled his guts out on the table," she was telling me. "It was our first date and he just told me everything..."
It was our first date and she was telling me everything about her date with this guy. I felt like I was on a date with him.
He had told her about the problems in his previous relationships, about the problems in his family, about the problems with his job.
He had a lot of problems.
My problem was I didn't want to date him. And I wasn't sure if I wanted to date her either.
She had blue eyes and a shy smile but there were three of us in the relationship.

It Was Meant To Be

"It's not meant to be," she said.
"What isn't?" I asked.
"Internet dating. You know, it's forced, artificial..."
"So you prefer to bump into someone at the next table in a Starbucks, or in front of a painting at the Tate, or around the garden at a party? That's more real is it?"
"Yeah," she said.
"And how is that working out for you?"
She didn't answer.
"The fact that two people meet on-line doesn't make it any less real," I said. "Maybe it's just meant to be that they meet on-line."
She paused. "Well, you haven't met anyone on-line yet...?"
"Maybe it's not meant to be," I said.

Forging Pseudo-Medieval Poetry

So, I was in Tate Britain and there was a nuclear mushroom cloud made out of stainless steel pots and pans.
It was big, it was impressive, it was shiny.
Technically arresting, I wasn't sure what it meant or what it was supposed to mean and I didn't really care.
Round the corner there was a painting, The Death of Chatterton, I'd seen it before and it had held my attention then just as it did now.
A precocious talent, Chatterton wrote poetry and -even more arrestingly- he forged pseudo-medieval poetry.
Wait a minute, he forged pseudo-medieval poetry? That was never mentioned to me as a career option.
Chatterton committed suicide aged 17 rather than die of starvation so I guess forging pseudo-medieval poetry didn't pay much back then.
It probably still doesn't pay much today but, sitting at my Formica desk staring at Excel spreadsheets day in day out, it feels like something I should look into.

Stay Deep

A friend of mine was telling me story. It was about this girl he met long ago.
He was at college at the time and she was a visiting student. She came from America.
They met and they clicked; you know, they connected. They spent long hours talking about ideas and literature and life.
But they didn't get involved. She was going back home in a short while.
Before she left, she gave him a book. Inside she wrote Stay deep.
He kept the book. He graduated, got a job, got married, had children. The book stayed on his shelf.
Then it all went pear shaped and got ugly. He had to move out, start over, start again.
As he packed the book, he looked inside. The page had been ripped out. Go figure, he said.
I thought about it. Something he thought deep was superficial, and the superficial had been threatened by the deep. The page may have gone but the message stayed with him, stayed deep inside.
I told him it was a crap story.

Date

She was telling me about Chile.
We were sitting in a restaurant, alongside the canal. A candle flickered on the table.
She was telling me about her travels. She had been to a lot of places.
I watched her face in the candlelight.
She was telling me about Libya.
I won't deny I thought about it. After all, she was pretty, smart and interesting.
I thought about what it would be like to kiss her.
She was telling me about Cyprus.
But I couldn't see any travels with her. I just couldn't.
Damn it.
It was a shame. But, then again, she did talk a lot...

I Miss Her Touch

"I miss her touch," he said.
They had recently broken up. Or she had with him. He had started the conversation and she had ended it. He had asked if something was wrong and she had ended the whole thing.
"It was like electricity," he continued.
We were in a pub. We were talking it over. I was there to offer support or whatever the hell it was I could offer.
I looked at him. "I'm sorry..."
He stared at his pint. "It hurts," he said.
I traced the scratch in the tabletop with my finger and thought what a bloody minefield the whole thing was. We know we could get blown up but we still head out there because it makes us feel more alive.
We finished our pints and drank another round. Then another. We drank until we could forget everything for a little while.

They Don't Serve Madeleines In Pizza Express

"There are millions of women who would love to meet a guy like you," he said.
We were having lunch and he was having a go at me. We used to work together. He was upset that nothing had changed.
"You're in good shape for your age," he continued, "you have a good job, your own place, you have manners, you're smart and speak languages. Come on..."
I took a bite of my pizza. "Well, where are they?" I asked.
"They're all around. You're the difficult one. Just because they don't read Proust it doesn't mean you shouldn't give them a chance."
I had never mentioned Proust. I had just mentioned that I liked them smart. Smart and with an interest in books.
"I never mentioned Proust," I said.
"Whatever. You know what I mean."
"Well, where are they?"
"What about those girls over there?" He pointed to a group of three girls sitting a few tables away.
I looked across. "They're too young. And they're overly made up. They look like they are having trouble just reading the menu."
He spluttered.
"What?" I said.

You Say Scotoma, I Say Scatoma

"It's like scotoma," he said, "you know, blind spots."
"Ah," I said.
"Sometimes you can be fixated on just what you want to see, not the whole picture."
He wasn't talking about me about me in particular -it was a work meeting- he was talking about people in their jobs. Although it could apply to just about any situation.
"And not to be confused with scatoma," I said, "you know, when you have backed up feces in your rectum." I laughed. I laughed because imagine getting the two confused in conversation, what a hoot.
He stared at me.
"You're right," I said and cleared my throat. "Sometimes people can get too fixated on just what they want to see."
Thinking about it, I don't think anybody would ever make a joke about scotoma and scatoma. It's just too obscure, and the odds of it coming up in conversation are about nil. Only a fool would try and make a joke like that.
Let's pretend I never wrote this.

How To Score With Girls

Ski Trip

Outside, it was dark and silent and the snow kept falling.
Inside, it was hot and sweaty and drunk. The bar was crowded and we had rolled up for a beer or two or four. The music was loud and big TV screens showed people doing impossible things on skis. Often they would crash in big explosions of white.
We swigged our first beers and talked about blue runs and red runs and black runs.
We swigged our second beers and watched the girls watching the boys.
We swigged our third beers and talked bullshit with anybody.
"Do you think she’s attractive?" said the girl to me. We had collided with their group at the bar and I had been talking to her for a while. She was blonde with blue eyes and flawless skin. She turned heads.
"Who?" I said.
"The girl presenting this show." She pointed to one of the big screens. I looked at it then back at her. It sounded like a loaded question.
"I don’t know her so how can I tell if I find her attractive?"
She raised her eyebrows and stared at me. She had very blue eyes. Then she nodded and said, "Very true."
Loaded or not, it didn’t matter. Her boyfriend played in a band in the resort.
"Check out her teeth," I said pointing back at the screen, "they’re whiter than the Alps."

All Men Are Useless

It was an innocent domestic scene. The couple had an argument about loading the dish washer. Then there was a flashback to a previous relationship and another squabble.
It was done from the woman's point of view. It was a well written piece, homework for this week's writing class.
The tutor -the fierce one- asked us for our opinions.
I gave my thoughts. I said it lacked information about the main character, about what she was like, about what she was after, about who she really was.
The girl -the woman- next to me objected. She said it was clear what the character was like and what she thought. The heroine, she said, was a strong, funny, independent woman who thought that men were unreliable and weak. That they didn't know what they wanted. That they were immature and fled responsibility.
Wow. I missed all that. I missed reading between the lines into the life of the woman sitting next to me. How careless of me. How weak and immature of me.
I practically fell to the floor in self-loathing.
Maybe next time I should take pottery class.

Cello Scrotum

She was quite intense. Fierce even.
She would look you in the eye and fire direct questions.
She talked about tropes, synecdoche, metonymy, denotation and meta-fiction.
She asked if you could separate emotion from image, or image from emotion. If you write The glass was empty, it's just an image, but isn't there an emotion attached?
She talked about being an active reader. Can you read something without putting your own interpretation on it? Doesn't She lost her child have differing impacts?
She said it was important to take notes in daily life. (Today, I wrote down 'cello scrotum.' I heard it on the radio.)
She was very theoretical. She made my head spin. Other people in the class were nodding or writing things down. They were writing about writing.
Writing about writing can be useful, it can look like you've written something when you actually haven't written anything at all.

I Piss Excellence

So I took another of those personality profile tests and the results came through.
The test was similar to Myers-Briggs and based around Carl Jung's models of psychological typology. Apparently, the results offer me a framework for better self-understanding and development.
To summarise:
-I am logical, critical and ingenious, but tend to be convinced only by reason.
-I am not comfortable expressing my inner feelings to strangers.
-Many people see me as self-contained.
-My quest for knowledge can be very theoretical and I will not trust ideas until I have tested or experienced them.
-I express affection non-verbally and appreciate others' company on an abstract level.
-I prefer the dialogue which is going on in my head with my internal critic to participation in meaningless social chit-chat with others.
-I am puzzled why others see me as rigid and intractable.
-I will make a good lifelong friend if the conditions of friendship allow me complete independence and the freedom to withdraw as and when necessary.
-I tend to be influenced by the idea rather than the person behind the idea.
-I apply unrealistically high standards to myself.
-To communicate effectively with me you should talk quietly and not touch me.

Hmm, I sound like the love child of Spock and the Terminator. Thanks, Carl, lots of areas for self-improvement there, think I'll start by taking that Hawaiian shirt back to the shop.

Giving Up At The Perseverance

It was a set up.
She had been mentioned to me. I wasn't sure if I had been mentioned to her.
She was a doctor but didn't like dating doctors. I wasn't a doctor so I ticked that box.
So I mingled. There was a large crowd. We were in a pub called The Perseverance. I wasn't sure if it was apt or ironic.
She was pointed out to me. I circled, waited for the right moment to approach, moved in. "Hello."
I wasn't nervous, I had been here before, you didn't choose your emotions. So we talked, had a drink, talked some more. Then we were broken up. Other people knew her.
I went outside, got some air, took a breath, thought about it, and didn't go back in.
It wasn't happening, whatever that means. You can't choose your emotions. Perseverance my arse.

The Dogs Ate Her Legs

I was drinking tea, eating toast and reading the paper. The sun was out and the sky was clear blue. Stevie Wonder was playing on the radio.
I scanned the headline and read the article.
On a rubble-strewn street lay the body of a roasted and charred child. Two bones were sticking out where her thighs had been. ‘The dogs ate her legs,’ he explains.It was about Gaza but could have been about any number of places.
I stopped eating.
The dogs ate her legs.
Below the article was an ad showing a kid on a bicycle. The bike was on sale.
The dogs ate her legs.I got up, walked around, looked out of the window. Outside, people were shopping and sitting in cafés.
The dogs ate her legs.
I sat back down and turned the page.
Then I read an article about Spanish nuns using YouTube to recruit new members.

World Famous in Holland

"It's world famous in Holland," he said.
"That doesn't make sense," I said.
He was Dutch and he was talking about the ring tone on his mobile.
"When they show the Tour de France in Holland, they play that music."
"The Tour de France is world famous," I said, "not the music. They only play that music in Holland."
"It's world famous in Holland," he said.
I frowned at him.
What I really felt like doing was hitting him in the mouth. Preferably with a bicycle.

The Bum And The Arsehole

He was asking for change.
He was just wandering up to people in the street and asking for change.
I watched him from the coffee shop. Here it was nice and warm; steam rose from my espresso. Outside it was freezing.
He wasn't in rags, he could have passed unnoticed like the rest of us. But he was going up to people and asking for change. At least I'm guessing it was change, I can't read lips but it didn't look like he was asking for directions or for the time or for the latest on Britney Spears. And he wasn't dancing or singing or selling anything. He was just asking for money.
Nobody gave him any.
He looked around, our eyes met, I looked down, then he moved on, up the street.
Doesn't he know that nothing in life is free? We have to fight for things. Except my coffee. My coffee was free because I had a loyalty card and this one was free. Thinking about it, I should really have ordered a large decaf skinny mocha frappuccino.

The Resolution Will Not Be Televised

Get Me To The Church On Time

A wedding already.
Three days into the year and I'm tailed and waistcoated up. The Stag Guy of 'tache and tutu fame tied the knot.
We sat, we stood, we sang, we celebrated, we drank, we laughed, we ate, we danced, we cheered.
"She looks beautiful," said one guest.
"I can't believe he's finally done it," said another.
"Where's the loo?" said a third.
The doors opened, the cold rushed in, the bride picked up her train, the groom waved, and they disappeared together off into the night and into a new life.
I thought about love and marriage. How the odds seem stacked against us but we still keep trying. Then I caught my reflection in a mirror. Damn, I look good in tails. Maybe I should start wearing them all the time. It would look like I'm getting married every day. Or like I'm a mature student at Eton.