The girls I've kissed are grateful

The oldest text message I have saved on my phone is from my old university friend, Owen. I can't remember the last time I saw him, but since I haven't been back to Derby since the one time I interviewed him for a feature I was writing on Urban Exploration, it's probably close to five years.

On a random January evening in 2007 I received a message from Owen that read:

"I am halfway through 'The Game' by Neil Strauss. Feels a bit like Palahniuk. In my head he's played by you. That's a compliment."

I wasn't sure what to make of this, since I'd never heard of either Neil Strauss or The Game -- but if he said it was a compliment I resolved to take it as such. But I also resolved to find out what this book was about, and what it was about the book's character that had him imagine me in their place.

Owen was a nice guy, but he had some odd ideas sometimes. He was a Goth, which in some ways could explain a lot, but the easiest way to describe the difference between us in our friendship is by relating the difference between my idea of going out for a drink, and his. I asked him one night if he wanted to go for a drink, he did, and we arranged to meet outside the student's union around 9pm. My idea of going out for a drink that evening consisted of going to the union, having a few pints of snakebite, playing pool, and stumbling home shortly before 12.

Owen's idea of going out for a drink was he had the keys to abandoned church, two bottles of cheap, fizzy white wine, and some hardcore pornography he had found in the grounds of the church earlier that day. And so instead of a few pints and home, we explored the abandoned building by the light of his pen torch, then looked at the porn he found, before drinking the wine in total darkness, because Owen was concerned about conserving his battery life.

That was Owen. He was a Jewish, vegetarian Goth who would sometimes eat meat when he was drunk and his girlfriend wasn't around, and liked to tell tall stories. He'd read a few novels by Chuck Palahniuk that I recommended, most notably 'Survivor' (which I still think is one of the best) and so I was curious. Who wouldn't be?

I think immediately following the message I looked in my local library for the book, and found out it was a true story about the world of pick-up artists -- there was also a long wait for the book, and I didn't think it would really be my sort of thing. Although I rarely thought any more about it, I kept the message. Until one day I was in a cheap bookshop and saw a copy on sale for £1. The book was on a top shelf among books for adults on relationships and sex, and came with a parental advisory sticker.

I realised soon into reading the book why it reminded Owen of Palahniuk, as the story progresses the style does have distinct similarities -- in a way, it reminded me a bit of Fight Club in places, where the story moved away from the fighting and onto Tyler Durden's army of "Project Mayhem". What amused me to begin with in The Game was when I noticed the main character was described as a "shy, awkward writer". At least, that's how it starts. Neil Strauss went from this socially inept introvert to what the "pick up" community describes as a "master pick up artist" or MPUA.

If you're interested in reading the book, you might want to stop with this post here, as I will discuss the ending -- at least, in a roundabout sort of way.

What intrigues me now is wondering how different some of my past encounters could have been, had I read this book before. Perhaps not serious relationships -- as I think many of the pick up 'techniques' would have only a relatively short appeal -- but if you do look at dating as a game, being played with certain sets of rules, the I could certainly have played it differently and with very different results. Rather than just being played. I think back to short-lived encounters and false starts with people like Claire and Ultra the electro girl, in hindsight they were both very obviously playing a particular sort of game.

Ultra thought she was pretty smart, but it was fairly obvious to me that probably what she was used to, or at least what she wanted, was someone to take her out on dates to expensive restaurants. Claire too, bringing her mate along when we went out for a drink, inviting me to a party then changing her mind. I wonder how different things might have gone with Claire if I'd realised what was being played was a game -- and known different skills to utilise.

Neil Strauss goes from "Neil Strauss: writer" but tragically single to "Style [as he is re-christened]: voted #1 pick up artist in the world", but unlike many others in the story, he keeps his soul. He looks into the void, and sees it is empty, he sees people becoming 'robots' with meaningless lives -- and fortunately, unlike others in his story, he doesn't turn to religion. He is the detached narrator while Tyler Durden is building an army -- literally, too, since one of his proteges calls himself Tyler Durden. What eventually saves Neil and brings him back to reality is a woman.

I do wonder if the 'rules' of The Game could have been used on people on the past for my own benefit -- but it's not what I'm looking for. At the end of Fight Club the narrator realises he has to step out from Tyler Durden's shadow and Marla Singer realises her true feelings are for him, and not for Tyler. Similarly, The Game ends with Neil Strauss realising he will lose the only woman he cares about if he persists in playing this stupid game and doesn't distinguish himself from Style. Lisa likes him for who he really is.

The important thing in both stories is that neither man could have got the girl at the end without the journey. The narrator in Fight Club learns from Tyler Durden, Neil Strauss in a similar way learns the self confidence that allows him to talk to a woman like Lisa to begin with -- and not be scared off when she sometimes seems bitchy. Lisa falls for Neil and not Style, but without being Style and learning from it Neil would never have been able to start let alone continue a relationship with Lisa.

The lessons I take away from both novels are complicated. They don't say "be yourself" or even the subtly different "be true to yourself" -- because in both cases who they are at the end is not the same as the start; it would be a pointless story if they were. Ulysses does not end his Odyssey the same man as he began it, even if the 'core' is essentially the same, although the comparison ends pretty quickly there. Do these people remain true to themselves? Maybe they don't lose their souls, but either way they build and improve on themselves.

It's just a matter of trying to draw out what's important in my own life. I know I have issues I need to build on, and it can be almost frightening to me sometimes how quickly and steeply my mood can decline with almost no warning. I know that I can appear needy, clingy and ineffective at times, but I also know that I have discovered new levels of confidence in me along the way and I am not the same person I once was.
In the words of Eddie and the Hotrods, "I am sure I must be someone, now I'm gonna find out who".

Westminster Chimes

Now I'm reluctantly back at work, it's as good a time as any to look back over the last week of being a tourist and driving Dune crazy.

In my last post, I touched on how I had shown my charming antipodean guest the delights that my small home counties commuter town had to offer -- then on Wednesday we headed into directly into the city of London itself.

We had discussed various tourist ideas, including visiting Buckingham Palace -- but unfortunately it seems that tours of the state rooms are limited to the summer, and that in the winter the world-famous changing of the guards happens only every other day, and even then the guards might not be wearing the traditional red uniform. So that was scratched off the list. Instead, we settled on the idea of seeing Westminster first in the morning -- including the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben and Westminster Abbey. Then, after meeting my Mum for lunch, I promised Dune I would show her Old Spitalfields Market before her meeting with a recruitment consultant in the area. After this we said if there was time we would go to Tower Hill and see the Tower of London.

It was probably early on Wednesday that Dune first started to realise how completely incompetent with directions I am, and how vaguely I knew where a lot of things were in London. I had to look up that Westminster Abbey was best reached from Westminster tube station, but had a very sketchy idea at best as to how to find it. We found our way to the Westminster tube station without too much trouble, followed the exits for Big Ben and Parliament, and emerged from the Underground alongside the spectacular Houses of Parliament. I might not have much time for the people inside the building, but the architecture itself is amazing -- and you don't quite appreciate the sheer size of it until you see it in person.

"Where's Big Ben?" Dune asked me. "Umm, pass? It's around here somewhere...". We were standing directly underneath it which was why I couldn't see it -- and it was only when walking along Westminster bridge did we realise this. My camera's USB cable is currently MIA, so I have no pictures to offer -- which is all the more reason to visit Dune's blog.

Westminster Abbey was found, after a fashion and it would have been spotted sooner, I am sure, if we had seen it from the front to begin with. Although I've visited it before I can't say when that was -- it certainly wasn't remotely recently. This is my excuse for why I didn't know how to get there, whenever it was I last visited I wouldn't have had to know or pay much attention -- it also seems that I didn't pay much attention the inside of it before either, as I was humbled by the final resting places of so many monarchs and historical figures. If we hadn't been on a time constraint and the place hadn't been so busy, I might have really taken the time to linger among the poets. Places like that always make me want to reach out and touch the walls and the tombs -- to see if I can feel any sort of psychic connection to earlier times.

I think I might have managed to not look like a complete idiot when I successfully navigated us from Liverpool Street Station to Old Spitalfields Market. This makes a lot more sense -- it's somewhere that I go semi-regularly (or daily when I worked by there) and visited much more recently. Unfortunately, the renovations that were going on in the place last time I visited -- back in December with China Blue -- were still going on, so there was nothing much to see, aside from a few market stalls outside. Dune was lucky enough to find a bag she liked on one of these stalls, so it wasn't a completely wasted trip.

Dune's appointment with her recruitment consultant was slightly disappointing for her -- but I guess these people come in all shapes, sizes and competencies and despite being pleasant her recruiter did seem to have some odd ideas about finding work and a decent wage.

The Tower of London we decided could wait for another day -- it's not going anywhere -- and it was still very cold out, but we did manage to find Dune a cute-looking winter coat from M&S which is going some way to protecting her from these harsh climates.

And there I guess I can leave it for now -- this post will get far too long if I start writing about Camden and watching the Gutter Twins, or about Friday's trip to the British Museum. At least it's something to keep you coming back for.

Arrivals

The first thing I did Monday morning was log on to the Heathrow airport website, and check the "live arrivals" for Dune's flight -- it was showing as "expected 18.30" rather than the 17.30 it was scheduled for, but if anything this would probably benefit us with the traffic trying to get home.

My day was largely lazy and uneventful -- despite having all this week off work, I hadn't been able to sleep late, but still I failed to make it to the gym, either in the morning or in the afternoon. Bad Jay. More important to my day was making CDs to play in the car -- both on the way to the airport and on the way home. The drive there took more or less an hour, just as the satnav had predicted. I'd given myself plenty of time so even if I was sometimes driving slightly under the speed limit in places, I still didn't really add any time to the journey. I found my way to the short stay car parking for the terminal, wound my way up through the levels til I found somewhere relatively empty, and headed into the airport building.

I'd left plenty of time for the journey in case of delays, and likewise had allowed plenty of time at the airport before Dune was to land. I much prefer to be early and have time to read my book, to wander about, people-watch and dig stuff -- as opposed to getting places "just in time". There was no way I was going to play this one so close to the line.

Arrivals at the airport is a happy place, I like it. Unlike departures there isn't a whole lot to do -- although I was impressed there was a choice of a couple of restaurants -- but there is a lot of good feeling.

I sat for a while and read The Game by Neil Strauss -- which is a book that is going to need posts all of its own, but needless to say it really skews your perceptions of the world. I get very absorbed in books, and find immediately after reading something my world can be very coloured -- for example, if I read The Curious Incident of the Dog In The Nighttime I would have to remind myself afterwards that I can eat foods if they are touching each other, that it is not me that has Asperger's at all.

I stopped reading my book and wandered off to get a drink and something to eat -- I found a coffee shop, ordered what I wanted, and spotted some comfy-looking bench seats along the back wall of the shop. I slid into my seat, and the cute girl with her Mum at the next time looked up, made eye contact and said hi. I smiled to myself, my head still full of Neil Strauss' tales of pick up artists and their routines -- but I instead returned to reading, rather than use some opening question to start conversation.

I read for a while longer, until I found myself unable to concentrate on the book and instead opt to write in my paper journal. A couple of pages in that, and I decided although I was still early, it would be a good time to get my spot on the railing that runs alongside the arrivals.

Getting a good spot on this railing is a lot like trying to find a good spot to see from at a gig. Most people cram along the right-hand side, maybe because they are right-handed and automatically favour that side, or maybe because you have to walk a long way round to get to the opposite side. But because of this, there are several good spots to stand on the left where you can stick your elbows out to give yourself more room. It's important that you are against the rail itself in this case, otherwise your target -- the arrivee, as it were -- might not spot you. And that's a right kerfuffle. But sometimes you have the people for whom just standing there isn't good enough -- they have to stand on the rail, so that you can't see past them, or they have to lean right over and so block the view of everyone alongside them.

I get my spot and I know that I am early, but am content just to watch the people as they come through the doors and look for their friends and loved ones. The best ones would be where (typically) a man would come along smartly dressed and looking quite tired -- and then there would be a yell of "Daddy!" and a small child would run towards them, only to be picked up and hugged. Or there would be a professional looking couple who would be greeted by perhaps two small children who would be barraging them with stories about the toys they are carrying or everything else. You needed a heart of stone not to be touched by these moments. There would be other people you couldn't help but make up stories about -- young people with backpacks you imagined were returning home, or else perhaps seeing England for the first time on the European leg of their round-the-world trip. I saw one old man in robes with a long white beard. I thought he was so cool I wanted to take him home (no, not instead of you, Dune) -- how good would it be to take him to the pub, take him to gigs in Camden, bring home to dinner with my parents...

I kept an eye on the time, to be aware of when I should start properly watching for Dune's arrival. She was now due at 18.30, but I reckoned that it would be silly to expect her before 19.00 at the earliest -- the plane might land at 18.30, but there still needed to take into account deboarding, collecting baggage on the wheel of fortune, clearing customs -- perhaps even being quizzed by security, as I once had returning home from snowboarding in France. I knew 19.00 was the earliest I would possibly see her, but just the same as the time ticked on, I started to wonder -- had she even made her connection in Kuala Lumpur? Were her bags lost? Were customs being difficult? Or could we just have missed each other as she walked along the arrivals walkway?

As each new wave of people passed through the doors and alongside the barrier I'd try to work out if they looked like they have travelled from Kuala Lumpur -- but how can you tell? What exactly does someone who has caught a plane from Malaysia look like? I figured that if it got past 19.30 then I would consider maybe asking airport information to page Dune -- which would have been the first time in history I have ever asked airport security to make a genuine announcement. But as if on cue, Dune walked out at almost exactly 19.30 -- pushing a baggage trolley loaded with bags but looking glad to finally be at Heathrow.

We negotiated a trolley with wonky wheels back to my car -- which seemed a lot easier to find when the car park was empty -- and then began a drive home in thick fog, stopping only for fast food dinner at motorway services about an hour from home.

Reassuringly, from my side at least, we seem to get on very well -- as if there has been no transition from being online mates to real life friends. Today Dune saw the delights my town had to offer (like Asda), and she's quite worn out from all the excitement. Tomorrow we're heading into London to be tourists :)

Boys Don't Cry

We'd known for months Calvin was leaving. I mean, it had been on the cards for years that he was going to move back to Canada, but back then it had been more...well, hypothetical. There was no actual date in mind, and more recently Calvin had speculated at some date in the next few years. Plenty of time away.

Then circumstances changed, Calvin got made redundant -- for, what, the second time in like 3 years or something? -- and everything got moved ahead of schedule. In just a few months it went from being a date in some unknown future, to a concrete reality. But I have an knack of being unable to really grasp major things until they are actually happening -- they don't seem real. I'd like to say that's why I never really studied as much as I should have in the past, because I couldn't quite make the link in my head from that to my future. When I was going to Utah, I only started to pack the night before I left.

Months became weeks, and soon the weeks were dwindling away. A group of us went out last weekend as a farewell dinner for Calvin, something I had originally been organising as a belated birthday meal for me -- which funnily enough had been originally planned for Jongleurs in Camden town, which is only "funnily enough" if you know that last Saturday night Camden market burned down. The meal itself was good, despite some dramas that I don't want to relive by documenting here, but even though that was a farewell it still didn't seem altogether real. I gave Calvin a photo album/scrap book we had bought him, so that he could put in pictures of his old friends and whatever else he desired. And still, I thought someone might still turn the lights up and everyone would say "Surprise! It's all a big joke, he's not going anywhere!" -- although how that would have worked for anyone I don't know. Besides, the time had come and Calvin wanted to go. Real hockey, cute Canadian girls and proper weather all awaited him.

Last night was his last night in town. Much like any other Friday night we all went to the pub, but where I'd objected to going on nights like Christmas eve, last night it felt right. Going anywhere else just wouldn't have been the same -- it was like a ritual. So we went to the pub and drank and talked and laughed like any other night -- while I also tried to get my friends to sign a card I had bought for Calvin. It wasn't easy -- I'd already got several people to sign it during the week, but a few still remained on the night. I didn't manage the subtle part very well, but I think Calvin appreciated the gesture all the same.

At the end of the night, Calvin drove us home and I was the last one left, sitting in the back on my own, when we got to my house. It wasn't goodnight so much as goodbye, and I just didn't know what to say to really sum it up properly. We chatted for a few minutes, until I said that I had to go inside or else I was going to end up crying. We said so long, see you later, and I went upstairs. As I sat trying to compose in an SMS the words that eluded me in his card and in person, my phone buzzed with a message from Calvin. He called me a bastard for making him cry, said he'd just about been keeping it together until then. Good to know I wasn't being over sentimental. I reminded him of the good times we'd had celebrating Canada Day (even with this year's terror scares), the jazz club in Soho and countless nights playing pool -- even playing pool on Christmas Eve one year -- and that I'd see him when he's back in July.

It's not going to be the same, but here's raising a glass to new horizons and new adventures.

To The Unknown Lover

(yes, I think I probably wheel this out every year, but I still like it)

Horrifying, the very thought of you,
whoever you are,
future knife to my scar,
stay where you are.

Be handsome, beautiful, drop-dead
gorgeous, keep away.
Read my lips.
No way. OK?

This old heart of mine's
a battered purse.
These ears are closed.
Don't phone, want dinner,

make things worse.
Your little quirks?
Your wee endearing ways?
What makes you all that?

Stuff it, mount it, hang it
on the wall, sell tickets,
I won't come. Get back. Get lost.
Get real. Get a life. Keep shtum.

And just, you must, remember this --
there'll be no kiss, no clinch,
no smoochy dance,
no true romance.
You are Anonymous. You're who?

Here's not looking, kid, at you.

by Carol Ann Duffy

Letter boxes

In some kind of attempt to tidy my room today, I sat on my bedroom floor with a shoebox filled with old letters. The box has become over-full and wasn't really doing a very good job of containing these various missives. Since I've recently bought some new shoes, I decided that all my postcards will get a box of their own and I would have a quick sift through the letters I have -- just to see if there are any that don't need to be kept.

It's a very strange feeling revisiting the past by way of old letters. It's like a form of archaeology, digging through the layers and discovering details about how a life was lead.

There were all the letters I received from Kath over the years -- from the very first pages she wrote to me when I advertised for a penpal, letters written on coloured paper and in colourful envelopes. Song lyrics written on the back of envelopes or heading the tops of pages. I didn't read the letters again, although sometimes I would have to unfold pages to see who the letter was from. There was pictures from festivals, pictures of nights in pubs. I found a small pack of black and white photographs, dating back to the time I stayed with her for a weekend when I was 17. Old pictures of Manchester, pictures of people sat on the grass in the sun. I've considered throwing away all of these letters from Kath before -- we've previously fallen out and even though our differences were resolved we've grown apart. I could find her online on things like Facebook and MySpace, but we aren't friends. Just the same, I keep the letters. I found a small piece of paper, folded like a card. What year it was I don't know, but it was a makeshift valentie's card from Kath "just in case" I didn't get one.

I found a couple of cards from a girl named Jo I knew at school when I was 18. There was a card she gave me when I left for uni, and I could remember feeling sad reading it at the time -- that she was clearly sad I was going away and she would miss me, and for a second no time had passed and I was still there. I found another card and a short letter she had sent me at university. I guess we eventually dropped out of contact, I've no idea where she is any more.

Going up through the layers to the years I was at university there were various letters from Fi, filled with romantic sentiments and longing. I was struck now by how young she was then. I was young myself, only 18 and in my first year at university -- envelopes addressed to my rooms in halls in Derby. There's been times since when I've been in Derby and I have stood in the street outside my old halls of residence and looked up at what had been my bedroom. I can only spot my room from the first year, but if I stood in the street at the back of the building I could also see the kitchen we shared. I could remember how together we covered almost an entire wall of the kitchen with postcards, the same walls now blank. I had letters from Fi talking about plans for New Year's Eve in 1999, and postcards sent when she was on holiday in France. Even later, there were letters sent to me in Utah. Much fewer letters than the early ones.
I know in the end I broke her heart, but at least we're still friends.

I found a single page of a letter from my Mum when I was in Utah. I couldn't find any more than the end of the letter, where she was asking me what I did with my time in the evenings and at weekends and if I saw any of the boys I had travelled out with.

It's a very strange feeling to find old birthday cards or cards of congratulations on passing my exams and going to university from now-deceased relatives or family friends. Even this year I got a birthday card that my aunt had apparently bought for me before she died, she knew she wouldn't still be here but she had selected cards to be sent just the same.

Here and there were scruffy letters from Jon sent to me at university, just short notes in his illegible writing that he'd include with compilation tapes he sent me.

After the letters in Utah there comes new contacts. Smart envelopes containing cards and written in San's neat script, correspondence between us at our universities and our homes. The smell of the paper reminding me of the musty passageway at my house in Derby, between the front door of the house and a door to the street. The way the door clattered when you slammed it shut, the smell of Rie's cigarettes.

There was a card I didn't recognise, sent to a university halls address. I had to look at the return address on the envelope to see it was from a girl named Amelia that Rie was friends with in Utah, we'd met twice or something and Rie had told her I had a crush on her. We had a very brief correspondence for a short while when I'd come back, but as these things went the gaps got longer and longer until one of us didn't reply. But this card was sent later. This was from the summer of my final year, after all of Matt and Rie's fighting and I'd had a bit of a breakdown and stayed in Derby for the summer to write my dissertation. We'd all moved out of the house, and I'd taken a room in halls for the summer. This card I don't remember ever seeing before was from Amelia, telling me to hang in there, not to give up on myself. I was touched by the sentiment, that although we barely knew each other she was clearly a little worried about me. If it wasn't for the fact the envelope was open, I'd wonder if I had ever read the card before.

Later there was a postcard from Rie of a Van Gogh print -- commenting on the back that it was a safer card this time -- since she once sent to my home a postcard of a half-naked fireman, and pretended it was from a gay lover. My parents had freaked, and I still don't think they really believe me that there really wasn't any gay lover.

That still takes us back almost 5 years now. More recently there are packages sent from Australia, large padded envelopes and neatly written letters tucked inside, sent from cities and streets I've never known. There's Christmas cards and birthday cards, postcards from all over the world -- the postcards now living in a narrow converse shoebox, cards sent by San when she was studying in the USA, Postcrossing missives from around the world, cards sent by various friends who know how I love the pictures and the dreams they offer.

Only a very small pile of letters and cards didn't make the grade. Almost everything went back into the box, still pushing at the lid. All the letters and memories to be kept for other days, and joined by more.

Tell a tall tale

I was very cheekily forwarded an email promoting the latest chick-lit release. It was a cheeky email, since it was sent to everyone on the First Time Club mailing list without first having asked permission from the admin, and that just wasn't on. Anyway, the book sounds like the usual dull and uninteresting tripe that is aimed at people who don't like to read or have no imaginations. But what was interesting was how they are promoting it. With a PR background, the promoting of a product interests me more than the product itself a lot of the time.

To promote the book, a competition is being run to win a weekend away -- the prize going to the person who submits the best story of a lie they have told.

I submitted a true story dating back to the Christmas of 2006, when some friends and I were at a very bad Christmas disco held at a boat club in the middle of nowhere and DJ'd by the half-deaf and slightly retarded older brother of a guy we had gone to school with and didn't really like. Sounds like the recipe for a great night, doesn't it?

The main point of my story -- both here where I first told and on the entry from -- was fairly simple, At the party I had got talking to a woman who was the Mum of a girl I had gone to school with. Her daughter was now a successful lawyer, living in LA. I thought what did I do for a living? I worked in a call centre and felt like a loser.

That's more or less where the real story parts ways with the version I submitted. Like the charming British Government's reports on WMD in Iraq, I wanted to sex it up a bit. In my submitted version of the story, I decided I should have told the woman I was an artist/sculptor (I don't think she ever asked), what's more that I was flirting with this girl's Mum, and that at the end of the night I gave her my phone number on the pretence of her giving it to her daughter but knowing she'd keep it.

One story wasn't enough though. So from a different email address I submitted the story of my imaginary girlfriend -- but again it wasn't quite good enough, so I tacked onto the end of the story being offered the job, but later breaking up with my imaginary girlfriend while she was teaching English abroad.

I think I should get extra credit for not only telling (to my mind) entertaining stories about lies I told, but actually lying about it.

Interestingly, the website for the book and the competition no longer loads, so I wonder if someone got into trouble for the spamming of the link...

Mondegreens

Mondegreens. We all have them, misheard song lyrics. Sometimes they make a song more interesting, sometimes they make the song so much more interesting I refuse to acknowledge the correct words.

A friend of mine says she used to think the Elvis Costello song "Oliver's Army" said "Oliver zombie's on their way" rather than, naturally, "Oliver's army". I like the idea of a zombie called Oliver, and naturally Oliver being a zombie would only be a "they" since they would be neither male or female.

For a long time, I thought Iggy Pop's Lust For Life featured the lines "Here comes Johnny in again, with his Luther Vandross and his fax machine...". It seemed logical to me, this "Johnny" the song talked about was clearly a 1980s yuppie. Unfortunately, the reality was a little different: "Here comes Johnny Yen again, with his liquor and drugs, he's a flesh machine".
Yes, alright, that would make more sense.

Many of us are already familiar with the Kate Bush song Wuthering Heights that seems to contain the line "You had distemper, like my jealous eel" (really "you had a temper, like my jealousy") -- although I have also read interpretations of the song that include lines like "It's me! I'm a tree!".

Raine Maida of Our Lady Peace has quite a unique sounding voice, but sometimes the accent can become a little inscrutable. In the song One Man Army, I always merrily sang along to the line "unbutton your soul, take off your clothes, show them your vicar" -- the offending word in question, naturally, being vigor. I thought it made sense, until Jon laughed and corrected me.

Today I got a message on Facebook from a friend, who wanted to inform me that contrary to what I was asking in my status, the David Bowie song Ziggy Starrdust does not include the line "making love with his eagle", but instead the important word was "ego". I have found on a brief search several instances of this same mishearing. Anyway, I would argue that Ziggy Stardust was an alien, and how could we possibly assume what is normal for us is the same for him? Maybe he had a pet eagle that he really, really loved....

A motorcade of meant-to-be's

I commented in a recent post how I had been talking to a young lady online and we were going on a date. I realise I haven't mentioned since then how it went. The truth is, I haven't really known too well what to say.

We arranged to meet for coffee in Notting Hill last Friday night. Unfortunately, after seemingly walking the length of Notting Hill Gate in both directions -- which although it was very cold was still quite a nice thing to do -- we couldn't find the coffee shop Rebecca had intended we go to. A few people had mentioned to both us that they might not be open anyway, so we concluded it was either closed or gone. So despite planning on going for coffee and not drinking, we ended up going to the pub anyway.

Overall the evening was very pleasant. She was good company, but the word I keep returning to describe it all is "pleasant". She was "pleasant", her company was "pleasant", the evening was very civilised and polite and, yes, pleasant. Unfortunately, what bothers me is that didn't seem to be any chemistry. I enjoyed the evening, but I didn't feel any sort of spark between us. Not just for me, but for her either -- maybe I was reading too much into it, I don't know.

What this means I don't know. Maybe she was just shy, maybe I wasn't outgoing enough. Maybe she did like me and didn't know how to show or express it. Maybe she didn't like me in that way. I don't know. But unfortunately I was just left with a slightly deflated disappointed feeling.

Thinking back, I can recall first meetings with all sorts of people -- Zero Sum and China Blue in particular being among the bloggers I've met, and with both there was definitely a feeling that I wanted to spend more time with this person. Not in a romantic sense, but still a feeling that was noticeably absent after last Friday. And there's others, like Fi and San, both I had romantic designs on after only one meeting. There's many more bloggers that I really want to meet and plan to meet, and am sure we will get on famously. I have even started wondering if blogging might be a more reliable way of meeting someone you like than dating ads...

Since then, I received a text message almost 24 hours later just saying that Friday night was fun and she hoped I'd got home safely -- I noticed there was no mention of "we should do this again" or "hope to see you soon". Perhaps because I didn't reply at the time (I was just going into the cinema) I got another message later -- a very odd picture message. It seemed to be a photo of two people standing in a kitchen, the caption just a random combination of letters. It seems very unlikely one could take what appeared to be a meaningless picture, unknowingly caption it with just presses of keys, and then send it -- all without realising. Even when I did reply to the text I didn't hear anything else.

There have been no more emails this week. Maybe she was waiting for to email her, maybe she's out there feeling sad I haven't -- or maybe it just was one of those things, where we didn't do a whole lot for each other. I have only good things to say about her, she was funny and smart, and good looking, and we had lots in common. She was very pleasant company, but I just didn't feel like either of us really felt...anything.

My room, in 9 points or less

1. "Kryptonite" clock, I like the old, 1950's Americana style. I did briefly move the clock to a different wall and replace it with a ceramic Aztec sun, but I couldn't get used to looking there for the time, and moved it back.

2. "Fingeroo" my Kangaroo finger puppet and phone charm that were among my birthday presents from San this year. Anyone else would probably think it was odd and random, but it's exactly my sense of humour.

3. "Nighthawks: 1942" by Edward Hopper. As longer term readers might remember, I am a big fan of Edward Hopper's work. His paintings in turn are an influence on my photography.

4. My snowboard. Unused for another season, it's annoying living in England where although it's freezing cold it rarely snows, and there's no mountains anyway. No time or funds for a European snow break this year, I hope instead to buy some new boots and take some lessons in time for the season next year. I've tried several times when my funds were at their lowest to sell the board, but it won't go.

5. "Frank" my snake plant. A plant native to the Arizona desert, he didn't really thrive in my bedroom until we got double glazing. I periodically move him around the house depending on how much light/heat I think he needs.

6. A wine bottle carafe -- now being used to collect 1p and 2p coins. Until recently, it also collected 5p coins, until I found the coke machine at work that only ever takes exact change accepted 5p coins, and tipped them all out.

7. "L'Eau D'Issey Pour Homme" eau de toilette. A little known fact is that I prefer eau de toilette to aftershave lotion, but of all fragrances tried, sampled and worn Issey Miyake remains my favourite.

8. My British passport. Still lying on the desk because I had to rummage it out recently when booking flights to Seville for Easter, it seems the Spanish authorities now need passport details for everyone travelling.

9. One, single, solitary glow-in-the-dark star. Until quite recently, I had various stars on my ceiling and walls -- then I read DownHomeGirl's comments on the Sunday Times list of "Reasons Why You're Single". Right there, at number 8 -- "[you] have glow in the dark stars above your bed". This is probably one that was previously gracing the front of my monitor, though looking around the room I can see a couple of others I have missed. The eagle-eyed among you will notice there is still one stuck to my clock.

Edit: Jiminy Cricket has suggested I make this a meme. So I shall. It is the "My room in 9 points" meme, and along with him I also tag to do the same Mez, Zero Sum, Treespotter and Moaky. As mentioned in the comments, the rules are simple: take a picture of your room, then tag 9 random items in the picture. And you are not allowed to deliberately place items in the picture.