TMI Corner

I woke up on Monday morning to the rain, and a hangover. There'd been no particular reason I'd gone out on Sunday night, and maybe it was more where we drank than what I'd drank that left me feeling like a pig shat in my head -- but the end result was largely the same. Much like any morning I blearily got up and made myself some breakfast -- then, for some reason, while waiting for the bread to toast, I decided I wouldn't go to work that day. The hangover was bareable, certainly not enough to warrant a day off work. Instead I decided -- just like that, while standing in my tatty dressing gown and making toast -- that I'd go to the place affectionately known as "The Clap Clinic".

Let me be clear from the start; I have not been sleeping around (even if it's often seen as some kind of male rite of passage to do so) and nor did I have reason to think I was in any way infected. However, it had been playing on my mind ever since a few months back San got tested -- and she only went to give her friend moral support. My reasoning for being fairly sure of non-contamination was along the lines of San got a clean bill of health -- although she opted not to have the blood test, since she's terrified of needles. However, I'd had a blood test late last year and while I was never told what my results were, I like to think some effort to contact me would have been made, should the results have been in some way untoward.

On the other hand, I admit that I do not know the sexual history of everyone I have slept with, and have not always given due care and attention to my own well-being. This room for uncertainty was enough to convince me that to officially be declared safe for human consumption was worth any indignity.

I arrived at the clinic in east London a little after the time I would normally be settling into some work, had I made it to the office. I would have got there earlier, but I caught the wrong train at first. I was in a strangely cheery mood -- although I would have been in a better mood if I'd planned the day in advance and had a lie-in -- every now and then it would occur to me what I was doing, and I'd shake my head to myself at the absurdity of the situation. I'm not sure why, but I really don't like hospitals -- maybe it's all the time spent in one in Leicester with a fractured jaw, maybe it's from my extended visit when I was seriously ill, aged about four years old -- a time I like to claim now has given me an abandonment complex. Either way, the idea of just walking away seemed attractive -- but I knew it was something I had to do. The clinic itself could have been anywhere, a small dingy waiting room with a single television mounted on the wall. The television was showing the usual daytime television -- but there seemed something quite fitting about the fuzzy picture, while Jeremy Kyle was hosting a "DNA results special" and calling chavs liars.

I was given a little plastic card on my arrival (now that I think about it, I hope they clean all the cards at the end of the day -- you never know what you might catch from the person before you) and told it would be an hour before anyone saw me. Rather than put out, I was amazed -- I'd been execting a visit of about four hours, just the one seemed incredible. And it was my mistake, that first hour was just until anyone saw you at all -- you'd think they would be able to do all the tests at once, but apparently not.

The details of the day are a little unclear for me now, I spent hours just reading Nick Hornby's 31 Songs and trying to ignore the daytime television, although sometimes I'd have to put my book away and amuse myself wondering about the people around me -- from the chavs, to the smart businessman in a freshly-pressed suit -- and trying to work out what all their stories might be.

When I was called in to see the first nurse and discussed the vague reasons I was there, I was given the opportunity to join in a clinical trial. Luckily it was not for anything that could leave me looking like the elephant man, instead it just involved giving an extra sample. I figured it made no difference to me, and I think there was something about maybe getting seen a little quicker -- unless I'm just making that up. I was given my swab test -- which, contrary to reports I've heard is not like jabbing a lolly stick down a banana. Although the swab did look worryingly like a cocktail stirrer. I gave my samples, then went back to join the rest of the masses in the waiting room.

Hours passed before I was called in to see an entirely different nurse. I discussed with him the vague reasons I was there -- which included an entire lack of any symptoms, apart from an occasional itch on the backs of my hands and arms, and the report from San that she has noticed several times getting a rash from kissing me. The nurse then decided it was all a bit out of his league, and I'd have to see a doctor instead -- back into the waiting room I went again.

Time passes and I'm called to give more samples -- just as well I'd been drinking lots of water, although the first one was still mostly alcohol, I'm willing to bet -- and the nurse casually mentioned having found traces of blood earlier. She assured me repeatedly it was absolutely nothing to worry about, and I did want to point out that perhaps they might have some connection to her use of the cocktail stirrer in a place where I've never thought to put one. I kept quiet, did as I was told, and filled out a short questionnaire about in future if I was given the choice would I prefer the old cocktail stirrer down the japseye, or just giving a piss sample. And could I explain why. And various other questions. For my trouble and the extra sample I was given a £10 WH Smith voucher.

I saw the doctor, whom I found fainly irritating, but he reassured me that any itching I might occasional suffer from was not of a sexually transmitted nature. After quizzing me about my sexual habits and whatever else, he sent me back to wait for my blood test.

Yet another nurse was required for the blood tests. She asked me if I had a problem with needles -- I told her I wasn't a fan of them, but it wasn't going to be an issue for me. I mentioned that I used to be a blood donor, until the whole issue of possibly having been given infected blood and the chance of degenerative brain disease came out and they asked me to stop donating. The nurse told me she'd thought about being a blood donor, but hadn't got around to it. It's a very strange state of affairs to be sat in the clap clinic, giving a blood sample, and trying to convince your nurse of the virtues of being a blood donor. She mentioned the idea of donating bone marrow, too, and I told her I'm signed up to be a donor if I'm ever needed.

Again, I'm the patient and yet I'm the one trying to convince her that it's likely you will only ever have to donate bone marrow once in your lifetime. Apparently you do need a couple of days off work following it, and you'll be feeling pretty run down, but I figure if it's only once then it's a small price to pay. I don't know if I managed to convince her to sign up -- I'd like to see her again to ask her.

My final consultation with the doctor established the protocol of what to do when they got my results -- and I opted for their preferred "no news is good news" option, which means if they don't bother to contact you then there's nothing to report. I'd kind of like to have a certificate declaring my clean bill of health, but I'll settle for just not hearing anything.

And hopefully in the future before I'm about to go to bed with some Filipino model I barely know, I will remember the cocktail stirrer and give it some more thought.

Saturday night

It's Saturday night, and tonight Rich Hall is again performing at the Covent Garden comedy club. And I'm sat indoors on my own, wondering why there are fireworks.

After the last time he was there, I really wanted to go tonight. But nobody would or could go -- San was out of town, Fi had friends coming into town, my friends here either couldn't make it or couldn't afford it. I didn't want to go on my own, not again -- it might feel different if you plan to go alone, rather than be stood up... I checked my bank balance today and decided I couldn't afford to be going, just the same.

Things are getting increasingly desperate, not having earned a regular wage in six months -- and even then my wages were more like part time than anything. I still don't know how long it will be before I actually do get a job. A month or two back my dad asked if he could buy my television from me, for my parents' flat -- I told him I'd just as soon keep it, at the time. Now it has got to a point where I need the money more than I need my own television. I like the television, it was a competition prize a few years back and I'd been looking forward to my own flat for it. But that's not looking so likely now. When winter comes, I think my snowboard will have to be sold, too -- it wasn't a very sensible buy, really. Maybe by the time winter comes I won't need to sell it, but I'm not holding out hope.

The latest with the work situation is that there wasn't a permanent position to offer me, but one is being created. However, I have to formerly apply for the position and take the psychometric tests and be interviewed just like anyone else. I hate the thought that this job I prompted them to create might go to someone else -- that I might have worked without pay for six months on the account, only to then miss out.

I know it's not the end of the world if it doesn't happen, I know that this career might not even be right for me, I know that you are not your job or how much money you have in the bank. But it still sucks.

My baby sees the future

When I was 18, I wrote a poem about Fiona called "My Baby Sees The Future". The thing with Fi was she had prophetic dreams, or at least claimed to -- she could never identify a dream as having been prophetic until it happened. One could claim in this case her dreams were vague and unclear like anyone else's, and later she would unconciously impose real-life details into them, making them prophetic. It didn't really matter, and the gist of my poem was more or less if she can see the future, does she see us together? Did she ever dream of the two of us together, 10 years down the line? If she did, she certainly never told me about it.

Last night I dreamed about her. It was nothing exciting, certainly nothing dodgy, but I dreamed about her running a pub with some guy named Tim. It amused me enough to text her and tell her about it. She laughed, and said the funny thing about it was that night in the pub she had met a guy called Tim. Tim apparently had wanted her to run away with him, she said he was offering her land -- that he owned farmland somewhere, or something. Being Fi she suggested to me that maybe in a parallel universe she was with Tim.

That night she dreamed that she was still with her ex, but was cheating on him with her current boyfriend. I think that one says less about parallel universes, though.

I do like to be beside the seaside

Another week, another weekend away from home. The cat is starting to think we're avoiding him.

I'm pleased to say this weekend involved no drunkenness, and no romantic entanglements of any sort. Not that I was ever entangled with Rachel, romantically or not -- and I can reassure anyone who is interested, that she clearly isn't. A week passed and no word from her, I did give in and send her a second, casual text just to say hi, and that elicited no response. When my cousin Lou texted me about something inane, I asked if she'd heard from Rachel. "Not in a couple of days" she said -- which means she has chosen not to contact me. It's funny, really, that's almost a record -- she lost interest before either of us were ever actually interested.

Anyway, Portsmouth -- home to my much-missed older brother, and his family. He went to university there, and just never came back. These things happen, you go for a degree in sport science but you end up married with a son, and running your own business. I'd like to point out that these all came one at a time.

Inspired perhaps by the three-hour drive between them and their only grandchild, my parents recently bought a flat in Portsmouth -- or technically, Southsea. They've been down there various times so far, and are in the process of decorating, but this was the first time I've seen it.

When I said to them I would like to drive there the first time I went, I really don't think I meant on a Friday night, when I get off the train from work. Out of bed at 6am, get off the train at 7.30pm and then get straight into the car and drive to Portsmouth.
That said, the drive wasn't so bad -- considering I use my car about once a week, to drive to the pub for quiz night, and haven't driven much further than about an hour away. I didn't hit anything or break down or annoy other drivers too much, which is always helpful.

The flat needs a lot of work, but it's spacious and airy with a view of the sea and on a clear day, the Isle of Wight. It's a very short walk to the seafront, and to the funfair on the pier. At night you can stand in the window and watch the lights of the ferries and cruise ships, and the lights of the funfair until it closes for the night.

Portsmouth is a naval city -- the word amuses me, makes me think of navels. It has the historic city, with the old buildings mixed in alongside the new ones built over where second world war bombs destroyed the original sites. Even older are the battlements, built to fight off Napoleon if he'd got that far. Most of the men you speak to in Portsmouth have usually been in the navy -- and of course, there are all of the pubs of a port.

On a sunny day, the seafront seems like a wonderful place to be. Even in the middle of September, the sun was warm and I walked by the sea wall -- the same place where San and I walked the morning before my brother's wedding, several years ago. You can walk by the sea wall, past the men fishing over the side, and breathe in the salty air. Somehow Southend-On-Sea (near where I live) just isn't quite the same.

I've decided to make my parents flat my holiday home, when the sun shines it reminds me of some of Edward Hopper's lesser-known paintings, like Sun in an empty room. I might take a week's holiday soon, and just go stay there on my own. Then again, I'm sure in the cold and the rain of winter, it won't seem quite the same. Maybe I'll find somewhere in Barcelona instead.

There's blood in my mouth cos I've been biting my tongue all week

I woke up this morning with a headache, and I knew almost without thinking what it was -- I haven't had a drink all week, so I could be sure it wasn't a hangover, instead I know I have been grinding my teeth while I sleep.

The medical condition has such an ugly name: bruxism. It almost conjures up mental images of the jaw clenched, teeth grinding against teeth... I don't remember when it started, but I think San woke me up in the night to tell me I was doing it -- and that explained my headaches at the time. I was fitted for a nocturnal mouth guard and my doctor increased the dosage on my anti-depressants, but I don't think it ever went away. Funnily enough, one of the reasons I stopped taking my medication was when I found bruxism was a side effect -- the higher dosage and probably only exasperated it.

But lately, I haven't been wearing the mouth guard. I don't even know where it is. The headaches had gone away and even if some mornings I might feel a dull ache, it didn't get so bad.

Why, then, has it returned? My first guess would be work; I'm often afraid that I'm screwing everything up and that it's only a matter of time before I'm found out. I'm still waiting to see if shit hits the fan that a lot of our "tier one" consumer titles have already finished their Christmas issues, which means we'll have no coverage in them -- this could mean real trouble for me. Or it might be nothing. There is also that I haven't earned a proper wage in six months, or even longer -- even when I was working in the pub, I was barely getting more than part-time wages.

My contract here runs out at the end of this months and I'm having to work out what happens then -- renewing my contract further to work, effectively, without pay isn't really an option. This means I have to work out if I want to be here, or elsewhere, and if this industry is even where I want to be working.

I had scheduled today a meeting with an associate director on one of my accounts. Last night I dreamed that we met, as planned, but I completely failed to mention anything about my contract, needing a job and looking elsewhere if there isn't a job here for me -- who knows what we did talk about. It's no wonder I woke up with a headache. I have also scheduled a meeting with a recruitment consultant for the end of next week, so I can update her on where I am.

My meeting with the associate director person went ahead as planned, and lasted perhaps a massive five minutes. We exchanged pleasantries, and she asked what she could do for me -- and unlike in my dream I wasted no time, and put my cards on the table. I told her one of my accounts clearly needed an account assistant, and that I believed it should be me. She agreed an assistant is needed, but it isn't her decision on whether one is hired -- or who it should be. We also talked briefly about the other account I work on, and if there were other accounts I might like to work on. I could think of all of about one on the spot, it's probably a bit late now to be sending her a "list of accounts I don't work on but prefer to my own".

I'm also toying with ideas about music PR, and trying to find agencies who handle extreme sports. With very little luck. Entirely unrelated to PR, I applied for a job the other day working as an assistant on the picture desk of a news agency.

And if anyone's interested: not a word from Rachel, which -- yeah -- is probably a good thing.

The day after deadline day

I tried to write an update earlier, I was even going to email it in so I wouldn't have to lurk around the site, since I was at work. But then, with the entry barely started, my editor came into the newsroom and although I was still, technically, on my lunch break he started hassling me about one thing or another so I abandoned updating.

Instead I wound up going to the library to find the address of someone who over a month ago saved a woman from drowning, but whom we have not been able to make direct contact with. Although the news editor had pretty much told me to give up on it, I think the editor was just looking for something to do.

Yesterday was deadline day, so today there was barely anyone in the newsroom, and even less work to do. I proof-read some pages for next week's paper (I think I found one spelling error in about 10 pages of school profiles), finished a first draft of my review of the band Engerica, and wrote a piece on a beach clean up that's going on locally this weekend.

Working as a journalist sounds a lot more interesting than it really is. However, it's Friday tomorrow and I'm not insanely bored any more like I was the first couple of days, even if it's not the most exciting job ever. I'm actually surprised how few of the stories, at least the stories I'm covering, I actually write from scratch. Most of the time I'm working from a press release, just rewording it, shortening it, trying to prioritise parts, that kind of thing. But very little of it do I actually create, I've actually had to ignore all the kind of creative things that I thought made good essay writing. But just the same, I have a story on page two of the paper this week, with my name on the byline, so that's pretty good.

I imagine if I was actually trained as a journalist -- and perhaps not just a frustrated novelist, as the university seem to think -- then the work would be more varied, with interviewing of people, and the like. Still, I haven't made a single cup of coffee yet, and I don't know where the photocopier is, so it can't be all bad. It just would be a whole lot better if I was getting paid for it. The important thing is that, yeah, I really think that I could do this for a living.

Wasn't that more interesting than yesterday's random forgotten piece from my pen-and-paper journal?

Families that gather

What an incredibly strange weekend. And before you try and second-guess me, her name was Rachel. She contributed mainly to it being so weird.

I mentioned on Friday night that the weekend involved going to a family gathering for a renewal of wedding vows thing. The shameful thing was I couldn't work out, and am still unsure, exactly how I was related to "the bride". I call her that to protect her privacy and whatever else. I think I worked out that she's my cousin's cousin, but as I say I'm not convinced this is right. But that's the context, she was renewing her wedding vows after 25 years.

Which means I was at the original wedding, too, and just over six months old. Apparently I had to be taken out of the service -- no change there, then, I was clearly hostile to churches or just couldn't be trusted to not cause an embarassment in public.

Anyway, at the house afterwards everyone was gathered. And as is typical with family and extended family gatherings, there were a few people there I didn't know -- and I'm still me, and still would rather ignore someone I don't know than go up and introduce myself. But I spent the whole night thinking this cute girl, Rachel, was a relative -- not like a first cousin or whatever, but probably a relative somehow.

Jump to much much later in the night and everyone has been drinking heavily and I'm in the hallway talking to Rachel, and her younger sister Ali, and my secound-cousin Lou. I think she's second cousin, I don't know if your cousin's cousin is your second cousin, or in the case of Lou, your cousin's daughter. But anyway. We'd been talking for a while when the obviously drunk Rachel has had enough to drink to ask "I'm not being rude or anything, but who are you?". I explain who I was, who I was in relation to Lou, and who I was in relation to the bride. It turns out that she is the bride's goddaughter -- and so not actually related to me at all.

For the record, during the course of the night I didn't have much of an opinion on Rachel one way or another. Sure, she was cute but I like to remind myself that cute girls are a dime a dozen in this world -- what I really want is a nice girl, or a funny girl, or an intelligent girl. We exchanged telephone numbers, but I didn't much of that any more than I did exchanging numbers with Lou.

Eventually the time came to go home. I had barely returned to my hotel room when my mobile phone beeps -- okay, it doesn't actually "beep"; it's a new phone and I have a sample from a Pixies song as my message alert. To rephrase, I had barely returned to my hotel room when my mobile phone goes "Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, yeah!".

Guess who is texting me? Rachel. I am pretty damn drunk at this point and all I have for reference are the messages I sent in reply. The first I think she was saying hi, apologising for being pissed and enquiring why I stayed at the party after my parents had left. The following messages all seem to revolve around where I was staying, I remember her asking and I remember wanting to be coy. I told her I was staying in a hotel locally, and deliberately ommitted the name, even though she never asked. She made some comment about wishing she was staying in a hotel, and that it must be exciting. No, not really, I'd said. More exciting than staying with family she replied (alhtough I am heavily paraphrasing) and I assured her, really, it's not. It's silent and the bar closed hours ago.

But behind all of this, there were little comments made by her that made me think she was interested. She was pretty eager to text me for a start. When she started asking me about where I was staying, I was concerned she might make some comment like "I wish I was staying with you" -- which to her credit she never said. I was also concerned if I told her exactly where I was staying she might get some idea about coming to me. I doubt the thought ever crossed her mind. Still, I remaind guarded because although she was cute she is also 17. I had already rehearsed my line if she said anything, I was to tell her flattered and all but it was moving too fast for me.

Mainly because I think it slightly innappropriate for me at 25 to get it on with a 17 year old. I justify it to myself, she's legal, she's a good 6 or 7 months older than the girl at work I called jailbait, whom I once went to lunch with. And I'm not actually doing anything. Just because she appeals to me doesn't mean I will -- or should -- act on it.

We sent several messages back and forth last night, but I never had call to tell her to back off or cool it. I sent her a message today, asking how she felt but got no reply -- I remember last night she ran out of credit and had to text me from a different number, so I'm not reading anything into it.

In a day or two without contact I will likely forget about her. And really, there's not much to say. Met cute girl. Was relieved we're not related as I fancied her. Was disturbed she's so much younger than me. Text drunkenly. Wake up hung over, hear no more from her ever again.

The rest of the weekend was fairly unremarkable...

This is not an update

Well, yeah, I know I should update and while yesterday I was writing an entry about how I thought I was in love with the girl who once (or twice) tried to steal my girlfriend, today the infatuation has faded. It burns brightly around her, but today...nothing.

And instead of ranting about working a boring job for 8 hours a day and not getting paid a red penny for it, I'm going to post something I wrote in my paper journal. I don't write in it very often, though I should. And I never date anything, so I don't remember when I wrote this. But I like it.

Monday morning, sitting at the station. A lady has a cat, in a cage, and every now and again -- very quietly -- it goes
"miaow"
Nothing more, just a small, unhappy "miaow".

It isn't a clever metaphor for how I feel, it's a real cat with real cat thoughts and real cat feelings. I wanted to talk to it, ask it how it was, how it went at the vets -- as surely, that's where it had been -- but, duh, it's a cat.

And besides, the lady whose cat it was might not like it if people talk to her cat.

Don't leave me high

Another week passes with a shameful lack of posts on my part -- not for lack of wanting to update, just struggling for the opportunity.

Tuesday was San's 25th birthday -- don't listen to her, she'll claim it was her 23rd, which is an improvement since she's been 21 every year for the past four years. I gave her one of her birthday presents last Friday night, in a bar after work. She'd been complaining that she needed a new moleskine notebook, so I bought her one and some pencils made from genuine recycled Chinese newspapers. She was suitably pleased.

We had actually been supposed to go to a comedy club last Friday. Because of the time when she stood me up and I spent all night at the Covent Garden comedy club on my own, it had been agreed between us that she would take advantage of the 2-for-1 ticket offer at the Jongleurs comedy club, and take me there to make up for it. Except she kept forgetting to book tickets, and by the time she asked me to do it for her last Thursday it was too late. So instead we went to my favourite bar in Shoreditch and drank imported Portuguese lager, at least I did.

But Tuesday this week was her actual birthday. San had invited her various friends, and it annoyed me that she was sulking about some people not being able to come. I told her it felt a tiny bit insulting to the people that had made it. I bought a sexy new shirt for the occasion, and a super-skinny black tie like an indie rocker. When we arrived at the bar in Covent Garden (the location's geographical similarity to the earlier mentioned comedy club is only a coincidence) and people all arrived San soon stopped sulking.

Even though this is mainly about San's birthday, what matters here instead is my night. I greeted San's close friends that I've known through the years -- they were pleased to see me, and it was nice to see them and it wasn't long before San's friend Jill arrived. I don't think anyone reads this that ever read my diary-x back when Jill featured in it. The whistlestop history of Jill: First she is San's friend. Then she and San both seperately come to the conclusion they are bisexual. San's awakening was helped along by me, fool that I am. I also encouraged her towards Jill, I thought it would be hot. It was not so hot when San cheated on me with Jill. it was not so hot when Jill tried to get San to leave me for her. I sort of resented Jill for a while, without ever having met her. Then I did meet her and felt like I was sort of in love with her, and told San that I admired her strength cos I would have left me for Jill. But I've barely seen her over the years and so the crush has died out.

I wasn't sure what I'd feel when I saw Jill on Tuesday. As it happened, I didn't feel much of anything. Jill was quiet, almost hostile, I think she felt a little bit out of place since she doesn't much know San's other friends and I couldn't think of a single thing to say. I did try and make conversation briefly, but after Jill told me she had been "in a big pit of despair" I figured maybe she just didn't want to talk to me. Strangely enough, Jill became a completely different person later in the evening when her boyfriend arrived -- I think he's a new boyfriend, and maybe she'd just been nervous about seeing him.

During the night I talked to a few of San's friends, and some of her family -- a highlight has to be where I called her younger sister fat, and now she hates me. It's not like it sounds; I think I moved a plate out of her way and she made some comment to me like was I suggesting she was fat. I thought it was a joke, and responded yes, that's exactly what I was saying and that in fact the night was tough love for her, and we'd decided to tell her that. She got stroppy, I realised she thought I was serious and tried to explain but she just brushed me off. I have since emailed her to say I am sorry, I wasn't serious, it was a stupid thing to say and of course I don't think that. But I don't think she's going for it. So that's a whole lot of fun.

There's a picture of me and San together, taken on her 21st birthday. Her real 21st birthday. San is happy -- and slightly tipsy -- and smiling into the camera. My head is on one side, and I'm looking into the camera but not smiling. I don't often smile in pictures, mainly because I don't like having my picture taken. But I know now what the emotion is in my eyes -- San is having a nice time, and I'm pleased she is, but I feel like I'm on the outside. I don't have a problem with it, but I don't feel connected.

I don't remember how much I drank that night, but I didn't ever feel drunk -- there was always a strange coolness, and the drink didn't touch it. As evenings go, it was nice enough for me and San enjoyed herself. Her friends enjoyed themselves, apart from the two who aren't talking and ignored each other all night, but despite this have both reported to San how ghastly it was with the other there. I don't understand girls at all.

San's going out again tomorrow, although she hasn't decided where as yet. I'm going up north for some family thing -- relatives renewing wedding vows or something of the sort. I'm sort of glad that on this quiet Friday night when San is somewhere out drinking cocktails, and my friends have all gone on holiday to Spain together, I have stayed sober, gone swimming.

I will go down with this ship

Fi emailed me today.

It has been months since she last heard from me, so she was giving me a nudge to see if I was still alive and make sure I was cool with her. We chatted most of the morning via text message -- not exactly reminiscing about when we went out, but remembering certain things.

She mentioned she wasn't sure when my birthday is, and I reminded her of a time when we were going and she'd got mad at me. I'd been claiming she didn't know when it was, and she got mad because she did know and I was suggesting she wasn't a good friend for it. It struck me as funny, now that she really can't remember it. She laughed and said she remembers that day, too, and says people teasing her is a continued theme from me. I asked her if she still stamps her feet when she gets mad -- it would make people laugh, and that would make her even more mad -- and she says she does. She said she didn't remember me ever being angry. I don't think I ever was, at her. She was nice to me, she said -- and remembered that I'd always been nice to her.

I said I don't do angry very often, a pretty happy go lucky sort of guy, except for the depression and stress and frustration. She said she likes to bottle things up and then end up crying for no reason, which is always fun.

Later in the day I got another text message from her, clearly bored and complaining about queues in the bank. Then a second message came through, saying exactly the same thing -- except this one ended with the phrase "Love you xxx"

That was a strange feeling. Nobody has really said that to me -- in that context -- since Fiona, and that was 5 years ago. I knew it wasn't meant for me, though, and she quickly followed it up with an apology and an admission I'd caught her out sending the same message to different people. I knew when I read it that she meant it for her boyfriend and not for me, but just the same I wondered what sort of accident lead her to send it to me. Thinking about me and her and the time we were together, and maybe she got confused briefly when selecting the name.

She still wants to meet up sometime, and she mentions she has a new job which is 9 to 5 with weekends off -- making it more practical, more feasible. I've learned my lesson with her now. Even when I saw her in Leicester a few years back and we got drunk and talked for hours and it felt like old times and I felt that familiar stir, I held my tongue. Twice shy, I made the mistake before of speaking my mind and won't do it again.

I'll tell her about the girl at Reading festival though, the one I asked for the time -- just to see her reaction, since it is exactly how we met.

Reading 06

I promised an update about Reading. This time last week I was drunk in a field, so it seems fitting.

Wednesday night, the night before we were to go away, I was sulking. It was cold, dark and it had been pissing it down with rain for days. I remembered Glastonbury in 1998, the knee-deep mud and feeling miserable almost the whole time, and didn't want a repeat of that. I wished that Pearl Jam weren't playing on the last night, because there was no way I was leaving before they played. So I was stuck with it. We were due to leave about 6am on Thursday morning, so we could get to the site for when the gates open and find a good place to camp. There were quite a few of us going, too, so it was important to find a spot with a lot of space. Later into the evening, I got a message from Jon saying his friends from work we were going with didn't want to leave until 10am now, but that it should still be okay. It was phrased like a question, would it be alright, but it wasn't much of a choice. I sulked about that, too.

Thursday morning it was still raining. We loaded up the car, met Jon's friends, and set off. I fell asleep almost immediately, and remained semi-comatose for the whole car journey. I was only semi-aware that a little way into the journey the rain had stopped and it was instead just cloudy. We found our way to the festival site, parked the car, and trudged on for what felt like forever. I was still having a bit of a sulk, even though it wasn't raining in Reading and didn't look like it had, either.

Our camping spot was found (because some of the others had already got there and set up camp before us), we got the tents up and staked out a perimeter fence using wooden poles bought from a camping shop and some "Police line. Do not cross" tape. Then all that was left to do was sit around and drink. So that's what we did; sat, and talked, and drank, and actually ended up getting sun burned. My mood lifted.

Friday was the first day of music -- and a fairly quiet day for bands we wanted to see, since Audioslave although originally billed had pulled out a few months back. The first band we watched wasn't even on the main stage, they had a name like Zox and used a violin in the place of a guitar. I wasn't all that impressed, until they played a cover of "Where is My Mind". However, "impressed" doesn't begin to describe how I felt about the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. They were incredible, Karen O has an amazing voice -- although she is a complete freak. I can't work out if she was dressed as a dragon or as a dinosaur, but it was quite strange to hear her singing "Maps" and it was almost touching, yet at the same time she was lying on the ground in front of the barrier to the crowd, and refusing to get up for security. Gold Lion, Maps, Pin -- they really set the tone of the festival for me. I knew it would take some beating.

That night we watched the Twilight Singers, the band of Greg Dulli from the Afghan Whigs. We got to the second stage for the tail end of Eagles of Death Metal, and pushed our way to the front against the tide of metal fans when the band finished. Greg Dulli is a golden god, but what really raised the bar was his duet with ex-Screaming Trees singer, Mark Lanegan, on "Where Did You Sleep Last Night". I've seen Mark Lanegan before, when he was singing with Queens of the Stone Age, and yet I'm always surprised by him. He's like a relic of the grunge age, and I can't help but wonder if he might have OD'd back in the 90's and just failed to notice he's been dead all this time. He looks like a reanimated corpse of himself, and shows almost no emotion -- he appears on stage with no introduction, sings with an intensity and power that chills you, and then he walks off. No acknowledgement to the crowd or to the band, not even a smile of gratitude for the fans at the front going mad in appreciation. I'm trying to work on my own intense Mark Lanegan look -- and grunge fashion is so hot right now. I was only slightly disappointed that the Twilight Singers didn't play any Afghan Whigs covers, like Honky's Ladder might have been nice, but they went one better than the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. It was one of those performances you hope to always remember.

Saturday was a less Emo day for bands than Friday -- which had boasted Fall Out Boy, Dashboard Confessional and Panic! At the Disco. Incidentally, Panic! covered "Karma Police" -- but the singer didn't have Thom Yorke's range. He was, however, a damn sight better than the twats in the campsite who kept singing it all that night. But, yes -- Saturday. After I painted two black stripes on my face, just because, we settled in fairly early to drinking. San -- via text message -- was surprised that anyone would be drinking when it was barely 11am, but we'd been up for hours and there was nothing else to do.

We headed to the main stage to watch Wolfmother -- who didn't do a lot for me -- and the next band we wanted to see were Feeder. My friends and I have been seeing Feeder live since we were 15, so for the last 10 years we have seen them play local pubs when the only singles they had were Stereo World and Tangerine, and they were soon to be releasing Cement. We used to joke that if you set up some speakers in your garden and called it a festival, Feeder would probably turn up and play -- it seemed like they used to play every festival going. We were excited before they took to the stage as someone said apparently they were going to be playing some old material -- we speculated whether it might be something like "Sweet 16" or "My Perfect Day".

It goes without saying they were good. However, their idea of "old school" was playing "High", which they said was from their first album. First full-length album, maybe -- and even then, the album was re-released to include that song. My copy doesn't have it, we just bought the singles at the time. The set seemed way too short, and it didn't seem quite right that they should be lower on the bill than Arctic Monkeys.

For what it's worth, I really enjoyed t'Monkeys. They kicked off their set with the blistering intro to "Bet You Look Good On the Dancefloor", and naturally cranked out the favourites -- "Mardy Bum", "When The Sun Goes Down", "Fake Tails of San Francisco" -- for great crowd sing-a-long moments. But they did seem to struggle a bit for material. It was after this that my friends and I parted company -- they wanted to watch Muse (who, granted, are a fantastic band) and I wanted to watch the Racontuers. Jon was scathing of my choice -- "You would rather watch a band you haven't heard instead of the tried-and-tested?" he asked me. Yes, I said. I want to see at least a couple of bands I don't know. "Fair enough" he said, and checked I knew how to get back to the tent.

I wandered off on my own, eventually found the NME/Radio 1 Stage (tent) and sat myself down on the grass outside to watch the video screen, rather than try and cram into the tent. Jon had also claimed I would never be able to see or get into the tent because of all the people, but I was happy to just relax on the grass outside. I was early, and after looking around at the other people nearby and watching the end of Coheed and Cambria, I noticed a cute girl sitting near me. On her own. Okay, so I had noticed her there before I even sat down, but anyway. It reminded me of years ago at Glastonbury in 1999 when I met Fiona -- a random girl on her own I took a liking to and struck up conversation with. In a similar vein I asked this new girl if she knew what the time was -- exactly how I had started conversation with Fiona. She checked, and told me, and then asked me if I, too, was waiting for Reel Big Fish. It was going to plan, this was where we were going to carry on talking and the rest would be history. Except for one thing: I wasn't waiting for Reel Big Fish. They were playing on the Radio 1 Lock-Up Stage, an easy mistake to make. But it meant one of us were in the wrong place, so we discussed this, and then together we tried to establish exactly what stage we were waiting at. I was right, she was in the wrong place, and so she left.

I watched her walk away and thought about catching up with her, telling her that I'd rather watch Reel Big Fish with her. Or meeting her over there, telling her I'd changed my mind. But I decided both courses of action made me seem both over-eager and a bit of a stalker, besides I wanted to watch the Raconteurs.

A short while later, a couple of guys sitting near me on the grass started talking to me. I don't remember what they said, but they invited me to join them sitting on the piece of plastic sheeting they had. One of the guys was cute, and they were talking about how he had slept with an actor on "Coronation Street". I don't remember which one, some guy who works in the factory in the programme, or something like that. His friend had apparently slept with a member of SClub8 -- hopefully when they weren't still SClub Junior, but she was 15 at the time. The cute guy said he'd told him he could sleep with them after they left school, so his friend had slept with her after 3pm. They asked me about bands I like "Do you like AC/DC?" they're okay "Do you like Jet?" yeah, I quite like them "Do you like Kid Rock?" I just laughed. They questioned whether I was allowed to be their friend based on these answers, I just wanted to go to bed with the cute guy.

Then quite confusingly they got a phone call from another friend of theirs that was nearby, and promptly left. I had now managed to lose two hotties -- one of each set, if you will -- almost without trying. You will be glad to know that I enjoyed the Raconteurs, though. I don't know if they were as good as everyone tells me Muse were, but I think I made the right decision. Whether I made the right decision not to follow hot chick to Reel Big Fish, I don't know.

Sunday was -- of course -- the big day. It was the big lead up to the mighty Pearl Jam; the big PJ. There were a few bands I was open to seeing earlier in the day, but instead we got into a drinking game in the campsite and that didn't quite happen. We executed our plan for Pearl Jam with almost military precision -- we'd get into the crowd for My Chemical Romance, and make our way forwards until we were at the front when Pearl Jam came on. It was a lot easier than that -- we just walked straight to the front, rather than working our way through the course of the bands. My Chemical Romance were unimpressive -- not bad, just not that good. They also seemed annoyed at the hail of plastic bottles that greeted them, on taking to the stage.

My Chemical Romance were followed by Placebo -- a band I haven't seen live in years, and even then only at festivals. I wasn't surprised by the number of songs I didn't know -- after all, I only own their first album -- but it was enjoyable, if uneventful.

Pearl Jam were what the whole weekend had been building up to, and I think I fell a little bit in love with Eddie Vedder that night. It's only the third time I've ever seen Pearl Jam (although the second time this year), but previously although the gigs have been momentous they have never ranked up there with my favourite ever. Even if Pearl Jam were a technically brilliant band, they were never my favourite band. But Sunday night was something else -- they played for hours, racking up the classic songs like "Better Man", "Even Flow", and "Animal" alongside "Given To Fly", and new songs like "Worldwide Suicide" and "Life Wasted". The encores were breathtaking.

And then it's over. In a kind of daze we all go back to our tents, and in the Monday morning rain we pack everything up. The campsites smell of smoke and are now already half deserted. We trudge back to the car in a reverse of Thursday, load everything up and set off back home, and back down to earth.

Blogiversaries (although not mine)

There's only so many times I can beg for forgiveness for not updating -- Steph, I'm amazed I survived your recent blogroll pruning -- but I do sort of have an excuse. Sort of. Last week, as in not the week just ending but the one before, I packed my bag and set off for the Reading festival (I refuse to call it the Carling Weekend Reading, however much cold beer they give me), so I was gone Thursday through to Monday of this week. Then because this week was a 4-day week due to the bank holiday, work has been a touch manic as it also coincided with a quarterly review for one of my accounts.

In order to make it up to anyone who is left reading, I will dedicate a whole post to the festival -- to the bands, the photos and my self-absorbed anecdotes. And no, that does not sound like the ret of the blog. Shut up.

Anyhow, I've noticed a few Blogiversaries around these parts lately; including the lovely Steph and the endlessly talented (but no less lovely, I'm sure) WDKY. I don't know off the top of my head when my blogger anniversary is, this blog has been kicking around for years in various forms, only the previous incarnations posts have been removed. As far as writing online goes, I've been furiously at it for the past six years or so. If anyone is interested, I could go delve into the old text files and find my first entry and repost it here.

To begin with, I found Open Diary through a nifty little toolbar thing that works a bit like Firefox's "stumble upon". You pressed a button; it took you to a random site -- although I think you earned points to win prizes with each site you visited. I found Open Diary and was fascinated reading the various diaries. Then after perhaps a week of lurking I was angsty enough to create my own. I chose the username "Sharkbait" -- it was originally going to be "Sharky Sharky", after the Eddie Izzard quote: "I swam like a boy chased by a sharky sharky". However, Fiona and I were huge Eddie Izzard fans and I had only just set up an email address under the name "Jay Sharky Sharky" -- I figured if she saw a post under that name, she would read it. And I couldn't have that.

I poured my heart and soul onto Open Diary for many years, through the summer of 2000 and into my second year at university. I wrote about Fiona, I wrote about classes, I wrote about work and my dreams. I wrote in it when I went to university in Utah, and I wrote in it when I came back and Fiona broke my heart. I met San on Open Diary and I wrote about our first meeting and charted our relationship. But in the end I wasn't satisfied with the site for various reasons, and I found Diary-X. Diary-X became my new love, and I wrote under various names there until the great crash of 2006.

Pretty much everything I wrote there was backed up, and only the majority of my posts from the beginning of this year were lost. It was when I needed somewhere to go, I came back to my blogger. I deleted old posts kept here, when for one reason or another I hadn't posted in diary-x, and I started over. It didn't feel the same and it still doesn't, but at the same time you can get used to just about anything -- and I don't know if I will move if/when codexed ("diary-x reborn") goes live.

If I am feeling very self indulgent one day I might upload some greatest hits posts -- not my best writings, but some of the key moments. Like the email I wrote to Fiona when I wanted her back, and her reply ("no"), and the day I met San, and times we've broken up, and the night in Leicester when the chavs beat the crap out of me and fractured my jaw, and the night when Deb and I got drunk and played pool until the early hours...

But either way, even if those posts don't ever see the light of day again, and even if I can't remember when I created this blog or when the first real post was (there’s a few "archive" posts at the start that I brought from diary-x but got bored too quickly to repost any more) -- despite any of that, I plan to keep writing. Somewhere. Even if nobody reads it, even if it's not the most eloquent, exciting or funniest of blogs, I'll still be writing because it's just about the only thing I can do.

That, and my compulsive need to record everything.