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.

Christmas

Her name is Christmas -- like the Bond girl in "The World is Not Enough" -- and juvenile as I am I can't wait for the opportunity to turn to her and make the same joke: "I thought Christmas only came once a year". I'd sleep with her just for the chance to say it.

Internet dating seems once more to have stalled -- there was a couple of false starts, one girl seemed keen when I complimented her on her smile, another liked that I wrote her a long and rambling second email. But neither came to anything. And yet one night I went the largely-pointless flirtomatic website I always see advertised on MySpace, and have heard people refer to. The website is pretty stupid, just horny guys looking for people to have cybersex with -- pulse optional, age negotiable. Just as I was about to write the site off as a bad idea, this girl caught my eye. I sent her a friendly -- as opposed to sleazy -- message and we talked for the rest of the night, switching to IM fairly quickly. We share a taste in music, but there's still plenty of room for me to recommend bands or songs to her. We'd been talking less than a week when I asked for her phone number, now days don't pass without a message or two back and forth. It's not quite calling each other, but there will be time for that later.

I made her a CD the other day -- I vaguely suggested it last week and she jumped at the chance -- and was wondering what to do about her address, she'd be wise not to trust me with it quite yet. The funny thing is, she lives in Shropshire -- a long way from here, but coincidentally the same county as where Fiona lived, back when we dated. It wasn't very close back then, either, when I lived in the Midlands. Funnier still, I know what town she lives in -- she made reference to it the other day, so bored I stuck her second name into a search of the phone book. There was a list of names. For no reason, I put Fiona's surname in -- and up comes her Dad's new address. It seems familiar. I go back to my original search and I notice that one of the people on the first list lives a mere 5 doors away from Fiona's Dad. And if I was a gambling man, I'd put money on it being her.

I don't know where it's going to lead. Right now we're just friends and I don't feel a stir of anything more than friendship for her, which is just as well. But I want to see where the friendship leads -- if people come into our lives for a reason, I'm eager to find out what significance we will have for the other.

And just to mess with my head, now San wants the two of us to to Paris for the weekend, for her birthday. Just her, and me.

Musical Monday (#8)

This song in many ways sums up punk. It might not be "Anarchy in the UK" or "God Save the Queen", or even a random discordant offering by some obscure and largely talentless band that Lester Bangs used to love, but just the same it feels like music wouldn't be the same without it.

As it stands, the song itself appears merely to be about unrequited teenage love -- a common enough theme for punk -- but apparently the lyrics were changed. The Undertones changed the originals words to "I wanna hold her tight -- get teenage kicks right through the night", just one word makes all the difference.

The song was about masturbating. It had originally gone "I wanna hold it tight" -- and if you listen to the rest of the song, it makes sense, the "teenage love, so hard to beat". It's not about tender, warm, romantic feelings but instead conducting one's self in a solo symphony. It is in good company, though, along with the Vapors' "Turning Japanese" and the Buzzcocks' slightly less subtly titled "Orgasm Addict".

Just the same, this song embodies so much -- it is frustrated and sad and filled with longing. Punk wasn't just about being pissed off about the state of the country, it was a musical rebellion against the over-elaborate prog rock -- by making stripped down, simple songs about masturbating.

The song is more than that, though -- Ferghal Sharkey has a unique and disarming voice, the music might be simple but it's not deliberately obnoxious and discordant. He does the political as well as he does the heartfelt, but it's this song that can't be rivalled.

You can, however, come close. I don't include today the Undertones original -- I doubt anyone here has never heard it -- I include instead the cover by Nouvelle Vague. I'm rarely a huge fan of cover versions, and Nouvelle Vague can seem the wrong side of novelty sometimes (remember Mike Flowers Pops?) -- but they take this song and make it their own. The longing increases, even if the original song is hard to beat.
No pun intended.

The week in review

Readers, forgive me, it's been nearly a week since my last update. It's frustrating, I need a kind of telepathic typewriter to update for me -- since I will think of things to write about, then either forget or miss the chance to update. Then before I know it a week has passed. Maybe I should write a bunch of updates all at once and then slowly leak them out over a course of a week.

So, the week in review, in reverse order: After silence from them nearly all week, the dating website opened the lines of communication with me yesterday. I had emailed them on Thursday for the second time, and it probably sounded quite snotty -- but so it should, they have £100 of my money, I wasn't happy about it and I had already emailed them last weekend. But I take back every bad thing I said about them, they have been incredibly cooperative. It was explained to me how I accidentally signed up for the year's premium package -- it's the default, if you don't select what one you do want, which is slightly cheeky to my mind. However, when my bank told me they couldn't get my money back what I wasn't expecting was the website to turn around and gladly offer to correct my membership and refund the difference. Even refunding $171, having deducted some for the 5 days use. Cross your fingers this story has a happy ending.

Yesterday was a half day at work, what was called an "away day" and meant to be a chance for everyone to mix and get to spend time together outside of work. Following an hour-long company meeting. That said, there can't be too many companies that provide free beer, wine or vodka jelly for meetings -- and then free pizzas afterwards. Because of wet weather apaprently the original plan of going to Hyde Park to play sport was abandoned in favour of going to the pub for a quiz. Since I work on the sports team, I didn't think it wise for me to say "I don't like sport", but needless to say I am still emotionally scarred from all the years of being picked last.

Side tangent, is it wrong or abnormal to still be bothered by incidents at school, like 15 years later? I don't so much hold grudges, but I have always had issues with "letting go" of my feelings. This can be that I have difficulty letting go of feelings I had for girls I once dated, or it can be that I am still angry at how I was treated by a teacher.

Back on topic; we went to the pub, for a free bar and a quiz. It seemed like forever before they actually started the quiz -- especially since we'd been told after the meeting to just go turn off our computers and go straight to the pub. The worst afternoon drinking a free bar is usually better than the best afternoon at work, so you can't complain too much. The fact is though that nobody actually mixes and talks to anyone other than the same people they always talk to. I stood up at one point and looked around me and realised I knew almost nobody. I'm still too shy to just walk up to people I don't know and start talking to them. Just the same, it was a good afternoon and I got home from work early which is always a bonus.

The rest of the week has been pretty uneventful -- I went to the movies with Sanyu on Thursday night, to see a beautiful French film, I met with a recruitment consultant on Tuesday -- he contacted me last week after seeing my CV posted on Monster. That's the website, Monster, not on a monster, although that would be unique. Unfortunately, when we met he told me that companies don't like to go through a recruitment consultant to recruit for junior roles, that it's a very quiet time of year without many jobs going, and that I'm better of staying where I am for as long as I can. Which makes you wonder why he contacted me in the first place. Work itself alternates between being something I can do quite happily, and something I absolutely hate. So long as it isn't something I hate all of the time, it's probably good enough for now.

And that's about it, Musical Monday had to be postponed earlier in the week -- but if I can get it written early it will be up as planned this Monday.

Worse than a drunk dial

Sometimes it amazes me that I am able to tie my shoelaces without help. The fact that San calls me a street urchin because my shoelaces are often undone, and trailing through puddles, might go some way to explain this morning's activities.

The Internet is a wonderful thing; it enables you to waste hours of your time without ever actually being awake or paying full attention. I was sat around watching pointless videos on youtube, while outside thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance and it continues to rain so hard that I'm thinking of building an ark. This all seems like a very fitting background.

You know how on these sites there are always the “meet people near you!” ads? The ones we all ignore? Put it down to not really being awake properly, or being distracted, but today I didn't ignore them. My attempts at Internet dating so far haven't been exactly full of promise, but the desire to meet new people is still there and short of going to bars and hanging around my own the Internet seems as good a way as any.

Last week I wasted hours of my life filling out an epic personality test on eHarmony -- only to find at the end of it you had to pay to use the service. It could have told me this to begin with, before I did compatibility tests and personality tests and took a quiz that seemed scarily familiar -- until I realised it's the same test mental health professionals have been giving me for years.

Today I went to this other site, and dutifully filled out who I am, who I am looking to meet, browsed the site a little, all the rest. Then I took a look at the account page. Cut to rumbles of thunder.

I have a "Gold" membership. For $180 a year. At no point when filling out my card details do I remember changing the "no thanks" to "yes please, feel free to charge me extortionate sums of money for a service I will get bored of in a couple of days".

I did what any sensible thinking individual would do in this same circumstance, sent them an email explaining I'm a retard and that they should close my account because I would be cancelling my cards. I tried calling them -- an international phone call on my mobile phone isn't going to be cheap, either -- but my service provider is one step ahead of me and has barred international calls.

True to my word, I called my bank and reported my card as "lost". Card now cancelled, new card reissued. Then I called my card protection service and passed on the same details to them. I don't think it will do me any good, however -- because I expect the transaction has already gone through, and in order to claim this money back it would have to be genuinely fraudulent. This requiring police reports and the rest, and I'm in no hurry to get myself investigated for fraud.

The new mobile phone from LG will have a built-in breathalyser, this means that the phone can automatically block you from calling predefined numbers if your blood/alcohol level is above a certain level -- and stop you drunk-dialling your ex. I need an equivalent for the Internet, something that detects how awake I am or how much attention I am paying before it lets me give out my card details.

Life, or what passes for it

A year ago, the bombings in London left me cold. Terrorism was not new to England, or to London, growing up the threat of the IRA was always there. Even today there is a noticeable lack of bins in central London, in the stations there is a wealth of junk food and no bins to dispose of it in. I'm surprised there's even post boxes.

But this was a different animal.

And then exactly two weeks later, another group of young men tried to do the same thing again. Where are they now? It hasn't occurred to me to think of it since that time, but now I do wonder what happened to those men after they were arrested. Are they in prison, in holding cells? Have they been shipped to some overseas detention centre? I'm not overly concerned for their welfare -- however callous it sounds -- I just dislike how these things disappear from the public eye.

Fast forward just over a year, and our secret services -- or whoever -- foil a major terror attack. Men are in custody, the press are full of dire warnings, and London is on the highest alert possible. The city seemed unnaturally quiet today, perhaps because this level of alert says an attack is imminent.

The trouble can be, though, when do we know who to believe? It was only a couple of months ago that there was a dramtic raid and men were arrested, one was shot, and it was said a chemical weapon attack on the UK had been avoided at the zero hour. Tabloid newspapers were full of warnings of an impending attack, an attack that didn't come. The men were released without charges, without any evidence of chemical weapons or criminal activity, and the police made awkward apologies for shooting one of them.

Then remember even before July 7, there was the time with the tanks at the airport. They wouldn't say why they were there, what they were achieving, we just had to believe we were being kept safe. Sometimes it feels like a lottery. We weren't kept safe on July 7, and two weeks later an attack only failed through luck.

Are these men guilty? Were they planning the largest scale terrorist atrocity we have ever seen? Should the government be allowed to detain without charge potential terror suspects for longer? Or will they soon be released without charges, as just as convenient smoke screen to distract people from other troublesome issues? I have no answers for this, only more questions.

I resent and bristle at the press statements about people who hate freedom or want to destroy our way of life. I doubt very much these people are consumed with rage about people having equal rights to vote. More likely they are displaced, angry and frustrated -- like so many of us can be, like so many of us are. They are easily influenced and easily led and they think Britain sending bombs to Israel or invading Iraq, Afghanistan, is the same thing as blowing up commercial airliners.

But it comes down to what can you do? The official lines are remain vigilant, go about your normal life. Life has to go on. But I wonder, when will it end? Will it ever end? With the IRA there were ceasefires, peace talks, negotiations -- but how do you sit down around a table with people who plan these things? If indeed these things are real at all.

Maybe this is just how life is going to be.

Musical Monday (#7)

So it's a day early: bite me. I wanted to something more positive and upbeat than Serial Killer Sunday.

Sometimes things in life can get overwhelming. I think my problem has always been that I get too hung up on details, and that I need to take more time out just to consider the little things, the things that make me happy.

Today I found an old, old diary that was about to be deleted over its host site, I hadn't been there in six months and forgot it had existed. It combined this song with this picture. Perhaps it's out of place the picture says "Tell me, where is this bright side you speak of" when the song seems to be about taking pleasure from small things.

I love the song, it's so different for Audioslave -- who go up in my estimations with almost everything they do -- it seems happy and simple and just about living life.

"I like colourful clothing in the sun, because it doesn't remind me of anything"

I once made everyone stop and mark the day when I said it was all going to change. When I realised I was the centre of the universe and everything was going to work out just fine. I think now that might actually just have been a manic episode more than anything else, but I want to try and set a milestone for myself. Mark a day on the calendar when I got things into perspective finally and turned my life around. In whatever way.

None of that matters, what does matter is this song is incredible, even if I probably don't understand it properly.

A bed beneath the stars that shine

Before anything else, my heartfelt thanks to everyone who left comments or emailed me to offer comfort, condolences, concern or advice. It means a lot to me that you would care about someone you've never met and -- more than likely -- will never meet.

I apologise for my lack of updates just recently, truth be told there hasn't been much to say. I don't want to speak to soon and jinx it, but I am feeling better this week. I could speculate about a variety of possible reasons why -- perhaps there's a change in air pressure, maybe work is treating me better this week, could be the cumulative effect of listening to my self hypnosis CD or maybe it's as simple as a subtle chemical change.


Thursday night on the train I managed to lose my favourite jacket and the hoody I'd been given at work and worn almost every day since. I put them both on the overhead rack, and was in such a hurry to get off the train when I got back -- since it was late -- that I left them there. Strangely, the various people I called in lost property were all incredibly friendly and helpful -- in contrast to the girl working in the lost property office in the station in London. Her English was limited and she seemed to have an attitude that asking after my lost items was ruining her day. I'm told it can takeas long as 10 days for lost items on the train to migrate into London, and I don't know who would want to keep my jacket.

A battered, beige corduroy jacket. The cuffs were slightly frayed, it was almost impossible to keep clean and was missing buttons. Doesn't exactly sound like the find of a lifetime. I liked it though, it was a sort of birthday present years ago from the Mambo store in Islington and is one of the very few items I have ever been able to afford there. I have since put up an "item wanted" listing on ebay for a replacement, and even emailed the Mambo european head office.

Friday evening I got home from work, sat on my bed and cried. I haven't cried in forever, and I don't even know what it was I was crying about on Friday. I was just at the very limit of my ability to cope, so it's perhaps fortunate it was Friday. I refused invitations to go out with my friends -- perhaps unwise, since it's when I most want to be left alone that I least should be -- and even over Saturday and Sunday there was no marked improvement. It was commented over dinner with family on Sunday that I would speak only to be sarcastic.

Then at some point Sunday night I decided that things were going to change. I was going to be more proactive, harder working and realise that a job is just a job. I don't know if it's the right career for me, but nobody says I have to stay in it if I don't want to. San says she has decided she is going to go teach English in Japan -- like Tom -- and I got to thinking maybe I could do something similar in central or South America. But it always raises the question: what then? I could quit this job, work in something with an actual wage and then disappear off, but it always comes back to the same point. Right now I am better off staying in what I am doing and where I am.

Just the same, for now I am OK, and I again thank everyone for their concern and well-wishes. I'm not yet out of the woods, but I don't think I necessarily will ever be. You just have to do the best you can.

It's not my place in the 9 to 5 world

I was telling San the other day of the age-old problem for me in my life; the eternal question of what am I doing to make the world a better place?

Apparently not everyone feels this same way -- it should come as no surprise, considering the state of various things such as war, greed and global poverty. Most people focus first and often solely on themselves, what are they doing to make their own life better? But somehow that's not good enough for me. I come back to, how does what I do matter? In journalism I found there were various excuses you could make about keeping people informed and entertained, even educated, but really it was about profit. They call PR the dark side not without reason, because here there is really no excuses about educating or informing, it is marketing. Essentially, you work in advertising. It might be a particularly clever form of advertising, it might go hand-in-hand with journalism, but I have no illusions about it helping anyone.

It was brought home to me the other day when everyone recieved a mass email inviting us up to the roof terrace for a glass of champagne, for some announcement or another. I headed up there with various other colleagues, there were various glasses and bottles of champagne and bottles of beer. I went back down to my desk to find my bottle opener, and I'm glad I did as when I got back down there the scenario struck me as absurd and I just went back to work.

An hour or less later, I was called upon to go back up to the kitchen on the top floor and prepare food for a client meeting. It wasn't for an account I work on, I just work for someone who is in charge of the account, which sort of makes me their bitch. I'd already gone out earlier in the day to buy all the food for the meeting, because there hadn't been enough time to get hospitality to provide it. So I went back upstairs to chop fruit and cut sandwiches into quarters and all the drinks from earlier were still out on their trolley. The account exec -- or account manager or director or whoever -- asked hospitality to remove it all, so as not to give the clients the wrong impression.

As I stood slicing fruit and trying to arrange it "nicely" on a plate, I watched half-full bottles of champagne emptied down the sink.

In some parts of the world, people are right now starving to death. In our own city there are people every day struggling to feed their own familes. We, however, can afford to pour bottles of champagne down the drain, if they have been opened. Any food left after these meetings is thrown away -- whether it has been touched or not. San told me where she waitressed the venues were so reluctant to feed the staff, even after work, that entire platters of untouched food would just be thrown away.

So I ask, what am I doing with my life? I told San I have looked at doing aid work overseas, but I have no skills, no qualifications. Nobody needs a writer turned bartender turned PR-assistant. I should be building schools or hospitals, or digging wells, or as San put it "de-worming orphans in Rwanda". But volunteer projects are not only unpaid, but require you to pay them to take part -- to go Indonesia and build homes in devastated communities costs thousands of pounds I don't have. My ideas of working with sea turtles in Mexico again costs hundreds or thousands of pounds.

You could always compromise. You could work for a charity in an every day role, charities and aid organisations need public relations, they need writers, they need accountants and HR people. And maybe that's the way to go, to find the little way you can be making a difference.

Because right now, with my 12 hour days and feeling like I should be happy to come home and watch television for an hour or two before going to bed and getting up and doing it all again... It's not me. I need more in my life, I know, and I tell myself with a regular income I will be able to have things like surfing and snowboarding in my life on a semi-regular basis, I will be able to go out and meet new and interesting people. But I still feel like I should be doing something, something other than getting sportswear featured in consumer magazines.

Not so funny

Five years ago, almost exactly, I went to New York -- effectively on my own.

I don't remember the precise dates, except that it was for Tom's birthday. There's a few other things I don't remember exactly, like why it was that Tom was going there on one date to meet his twin brother and I was going to meet them there a few days later. It seemed like a good enough idea at the time.

I arrived late on a hot night, and it seemed even later waiting alone at the airport for Tom to meet me. This could be seen now as a bad omen, but at the time I was just glad when he did meet me and we trekked into the city itself.

I had booked a room for seven nights in "The Big Apple Hostel", and only that hostel in particular because I thought that was where Tom was staying. It was him who had told me about the place in the first place -- but obviously I probably should have checked with him before I booked it. Because when I got there I found Tom and his brother were staying in a flea pit in Brooklyn, and none of us had any idea how to find my place. I wasn't what you'd call "organised".

Considering the hostel was one of the best known and most popular in the city, it seemed strange that nobody we asked had ever heard of it. Policemen we asked had no idea what a hostel was -- "Do you mean 'hotel'?" they would ask, and we'd have to explain to them what a hostel was, to be met with confused expressions. In the end I slept on the floor where Tom was staying, and early the next day he took me to the subway station and we arranged a time and place to meet.

I found my hostel easily enough the next day, and they asked where I'd been the day before. I explained my trouble finding the place, and they suggested I should have called. I still don't know why nobody we asked knew where it was.

When the time came for Tom and I to meet, he didn't show. Or at least, we didn't meet -- whether one or other of us was waiting in the wrong place I don't think we ever established. But that morning when he took me to the subway was the last I would see of him, not just in New York but I think for the rest of the time we were away from home.

Once or twice there would be messages left for me from him where I was staying, but it seemed to me at the time like it was too much trouble for him to actually wait for me -- since I had no way to contact him, other than leaving replies to his messages.

Aside from the incident I have mentioned before where I was relieved of $100, I managed reasonably well in the city on my own. I found jazz clubs -- avoid "Blue Note", it might be old and famous but the door charge was excessive, the drinks overpriced and the jazz very unimpressive. Instead, visit "Smalls"; an amateur jazz club held underground in an old meat locker. Entry was free, the club was unlicenced although they provided complimentary soft drinks, and the jazz went on all night.

I visited various comedy clubs -- again of varying quality and reputation -- but it felt strange doing these things alone. Sitting on my own at a table for two in a bar/restaurant/comedy club I felt especially conspicuous.

I was reminded of this time last night when I ended up going alone to a comedy club in London. San and I visited the same club last week, and when booking our tickets I'd noticed this week that Rich Hall was performing. Being a big fan of his work, I booked tickets for then, too. On Friday I got a message from San asking if we were "still on" for Saturday night, I assured her we were and if she could remember, I'd booked tickets the weekend before. No more was said about it. Saturday morning San told me in a text that she wouldn't be able to see me during the day, as she had a hair appointment, but we were still on for the evening.

A little later we established that we'd meet "7-ish", and I reminded San the show was to start at 8pm. Shortly before I was leaving, San said we had better make it more like 7.30, and that she would meet me there. Reluctantly I agreed, and told her I would be very annoyed if she didn't make it in time. She assured me she would be there. The plan soon changed to if I could leave her ticket on the door, she would meet me inside. Again, this plan changed to could I ask what time they stopped allowing admission? I said to her "You're not coming, are you?" but she insisted she really was, although she might miss the first act.

I got there early, and arranged for her ticket to be left on the door, so long as she could get there by 9.30 it all would be fine. I took my seat, and marked her seat next to me with my coat. Throughout the evening I kept glancing over at her chair, as if she might miraculously appear in the spot. As time got later, I'd be glancing round at the door any time I saw movement. 8.30 she told me was finished, and I asked her if she could make it in an hour -- "I think so" she said.

I was preoccupied all night, glancing at the time, unable to concentrate fully. I felt conspicuous, especially since during the first act not only was the seat next to me empty but the entire rest of the row. I was glad to be a few rows back so nobody much would notice.

I think it was 9.20 when I sent San a message asking her if she was there yet. She replied saying she'd just arrived, but they were refusing her entrance. I offered to have words myself, or try and have words with the compere -- I was even prepared to try and talk to one of the comedians themselves. But San told me not to, that it was done now, and just to enjoy myself. It seemed ironic that Rich Hall himself should then have been late arriving.

Obviously, he was good, and very funny, but my heart really just wasn't in it. I didn't want to be annoyed at San -- it wouldn't change anything and it wasn't really her fault -- but I couldn't understand why she had made the appointment for Saturday, even if she couldn't get one any other day. I didn't see why it couldn't have waited a week, for a night I hadn't pre-booked tickets. I wanted to tell her I'd had a really shit week, and being alone in a comedy club wasn't a great way to round it off.

San tried to wait around for when the club finished, but she said she was being followed by a creepy guy who kept asking her phone number. The night finished and I weighed up my options; if I hadn't been facing a cab ride home I might not have gone back to San's. The tube seemed to take forever, and San was contrite when I finally arrived at hers. I told her the comedy had been only average, and I was still annoyed at her. We watched tv half heartedly until about 2am.

It was only today that I established from San that the urgency with her hair appointment was because of her graduation this week. She said she'd even booked the appointment on Monday, and Saturday had really been the only day available, even that the girl doing her hair and told her she should be done by 7. I accept that San needed to look her best for her graduation, and it was just unfortunate circumstance that it had spoiled the night.

I can't say I'm not still a little sore about it, even if it could't be helped, and I've told San she really owes me one for it. She suggested if I finish work early one night this week we could go for happy hour in the bar I like.

Happy hour isn't going to cut it, I told her.

Sometimes it rains inside my head

I feel like I'm drowning.

Logically, it makes no difference. It doesn't matter if you can recognise the problem isn't external, it makes no odds if you can identify nothing has really changed around you. Even if you could run a test and show an chemical imbalance in the brain or in the blood, nothing would be any different for it.

I visualise swimming, and something dark wrapped around my ankles. I feel like I'm struggling to break the surface, I feel like I'm gasping for air. And I feel like every time I'm being pulled under.

A human being that was given to fly

I dreamed last night (probably more like 10 this morning, but still) that I could fly. Inspired by China Blue's mention of her own desire to fly -- which probably prompted my whole dream -- I had to record it here.

Remembering the dream is like changing the tv channel onto a film that's already halfway through; I don't recall how it started or the background details that would be needed to make sense. The important was that somehow with the aid of a run up and a sort of leather strap that worked as a seat, I could fly. I was flying over fields and woodland, and would go low enough to talk to people, then flying miles high above the trees.

Unfortunately -- and I think this might say something about my state of mind -- there was sometimes a sense of unease, a lack of understanding of how it was this leather strap enabled me to fly (although I wasn't surprised at all, neither were anyone I encountered, even if they might have been slightly jealous). Because I didn't understand how it worked, I would get worried that it could fail. The higher I'd go, the more danger I'd realise I was in -- soaring high over a forest it struck me suddenly I was doomed if I suddenly lost it.

I don't know why then I didn't just land, but instead I flew out over the ocean -- I think coming down might have been a problem, maybe the speed I was travelling, too -- but the ocean was a steely grey-blue. Why would it have been somehow better to drop into the ocean, miles from shore? I don't know, but that's what I reasoned -- if I should fall, I wouldn't be killed.

As ever, a dream of flying just makes me want to return to sleep. I want back that feeling of flying, but of course -- I want it back with control. Sometimes I like to imagine where I'd go, if I could fly. Supposing it was only the equivalent speed of a regular jog, so travelling great distances would be out of the question. I scope out buildings, great cathedrals or rooftops, imagine sitting on top, unnoticed.

Last night with San we took the lift to the top floor of her flats, so I could look out over the city. We haven't been up there since the New Year's Eve when we watched fireworks, instead last night we just stood in the dark while I made out London landmarks, pointed out bedrooms lit by televisions, or watched people walking or driving far below. I imagine that is a bit like flying, being unnoticed and so quiet above all the houses.

Looking forwards

Yesterday's post was about all I am going to say to mark 7/7 -- I could write pages and pages of contradictory and rambling thoughts, but I'd prefer not to. I marked midday with two minutes of reflection, and a silent prayer for peace, love and understanding. But life goes on, life has to go on, and I'm not going to dwell on something so sad and horrible as that day.

Instead, things at work are looking up. My colleague George is leaving for greener pastures, after several months of paid work experience. Early on into my initial contract I mused on what I would say if they offered me a similar contract to his; paid work experience but paid only at £100 a week. Since my travel costs me about £70 to £85 a week, depending on the travelcard, I had thought about how I might have to turn it down because it was impractical. But I quickly learned that without this experience I am not going to get a job, and since I have been willing to work for only my travel costs, it might be wiser to accept it.

George is leaving, and I have been offered his job. It's a promotion of sorts for me -- different accounts, slightly more money, slightly more responsibility, and a three-month contract. That means no more asking to renew my contract and no uncertainty on if I will still have a job one month to the next. And at the end of it I will have six months experience, good enough for an entry-level job. So it's just three more months of impoverished living, with any luck.

When I started in PR earlier this year I had hoped to mark July 4 with starting a real job, it could be my own "independence day", I thought. Perhaps that target was a little unrealistic, but it's a step in the right direction.

After work yesterday I invited San to meet me, then took her to the bar I had met Jade in all those weeks ago. A warm Friday evening and happy hour was just ending, so we found a space to stand at the bar and enjoyed the atmosphere and the feeling like being in another country. We drank and chatted for hours and caught up and she told me about her time in Argentina. I'm going to make the place my new favourite bar, and will just have to hope I don't run into Jade in there...

When Morning Comes

A young British man he strap a bomb to himself
and then he get onto a London bus...
Blew off the roof and explode a nation with fear
We saw the war was coming home to us

Smoke on the underground the train
Go BANG BANG BOOM!
Bodyparts propelled out with the truth
Can't hide the reality now, it looks us in the eye
But why does it take a white face in the hopsital
To demand a two minute silence?

Two million people march along the Thames
Angry at foreign policy
sad the government had
Put them in danger
As they prepare for war illegally

Screaming and shouting
Loud uprise a people now
Falling upon deaf ears,
Said that they be here to protect and serve
But I don't think we really deserved
To be decieved in this way
And now I'm thinking about a revolution

Roots rock rebel
Will I be here when the morning comes?

As civil rights are being reigned back in
Now I'm fearful of the police state
Proud of a culture that rejected the firearm
But now the police shoot an innocent dead
Playing on the terror scare, solution they prepare?
Compulsory ID! In their wisdom?
Protection?! Downpression!!
And they got the nerve to tell me I'm free

We been betrayed, and enraged
And now I'm thinking about a revolution

Roots rock rebel
Will I be here when the morning comes?

(taken from the self titled album, by Suicide Bid. One year ago today; this is not Musical Monday.)



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Midweek update

It's a grey and rainy afternoon in East London, and the office is almost empty with people out on their lunch breaks. The only sounds are the faint music from the radio playing on someone's laptop over the other side of the office, and the occasional key-tones of someone making phone calls on speaker phone.

Things are going pretty well, considering. Gainful, paid employment is still yet to be achieved -- however, what my little meeting last week with the MD did seem to achieve is an extension to my contract for "initially" another month (I think it's important they used that word) and that they setting me up with my own place to sit, presumably with computer and telephone, that will be all mine for as long as I stick around. All I want now is a little sign on the desk with my name on it. Or maybe an office. And a secretary...

So why is it today I feel a strange, drawing, sadness? I'm not so fussed about the weather that I care if it's rainy after a few days of heatwave -- sure, I can't go sit on the grass and read a book, but I could still go for a walk. Maybe it's a change in air pressure has affected my mood.

San's back safely from Argentina, and we've made vague plans to meet up and see a film on Friday night. At least San is still around when all the girls in my life I try to date have fizzled out and lost interest. We may be just friends, but it's reassuring in a way that there is enough about me to want to stay close to. Of course, if I want to meet more people an obvious idea would be to get out more -- but sometimes the idea seems almost too difficult, or it does when you have to really force yourself to be outgoing.

It's sort of strange, who I am in work is not who I am in the rest of the world. Sometimes I feel like I can be blurring the lines between who I am. Between the shy boy that eats his lunch on his own every day with a book, and the confident upbeat person who talks to journalists on the phone about fashion or sport and who asks the MD for a job. But I'm not there yet, if I ever will be.

I've taken more risks and bold moves in my life than most of my friends, I stepped out of my comfort zone of my minimum wage job to go work unpaid in London to get where I want to be. I try to encourage my friends to try it for themselves, but until I actually get a 'proper job' out of it, it might be too soon to recommend it. I also take holidays on my own, and meet girls I know almost nothing about for drinks. And yet, I still feel scarred. I still feel confronted by sharp objects. And I still sit in front of the computer at 11.30 at night writing in my blog about my teenaged angst, several years too late.

Dead Flag Blues

Public Announcement:
Now that England have (predictably) crashed out of the World Cup, can we please take all the bloody flags down? I can't imagine ever feeling joy or pride or patriotism for the cross of St George. All I think of is it painted on the faces of fat, shirtless men with their beer bellies hanging down, standing in pub gardens singing "Three Lions".

Also; can chavs please now take their tattered and bent flags off their "performance" cars. All of them.

In fact, I have a request for any British bloggers -- or readers -- please, can you take and email to me pictures of sad-looking England flags? Left out in the rain, frayed around the edges, half-hanging out of a bedroom window, all that sort of thing. I want to make a collage of them.

Twenty years of schooling and they put you on the day shift

It's hard to know where to begin talking about this week. Monday, as reported, I met with HR and wasn't what you would call inspired about my job prospects past next week. The following days were pretty uneventful -- I took a shine to a pretty girl at work (hey, it's better than meeting girls online) but despire promising early signs I think she's a non-starter. She had the most amazing eyes and a gorgeous smile, but conversation with her was difficult.

She noticed my shark-tooth necklace that I wear almost constantly, but of all the remarks she could have made about it she asked me if was one of my own teeth. If you've never seen a shark tooth you might not get why this seems like a stupid question, but they look nothing like a human tooth. We discussed where I got it from, if I had known the shark it came from (wtf?) and I think she even suggested making a necklace with one of my own teeth. I told her I wasn't planning on losing any in the near future, but I'd keep it in mind...

Thursday morning I got into work about 9am, as usual, and there was hardly anyone around. Some senior exec person was asking a colleague where the newspapers were kept, then turned to ask me when they didn't know why today's papers weren't there. I suggested they hadn't yet been delivered, and was instructed -- in a manner that suggested, I felt, that I was a lowly dog -- to go get one from reception and bring it to her, in her office. I did as I was told. Once in her office, I was instructed to find a certain page. I found it, but it was wrong -- I think I found the corresponding page in one of the supplements -- and was told to keep looking. This time I got it right, luckily for me.

I was then told to go make photocopies of the page, and then scan it. Again, did as I was told -- it felt like I was fighting with the photocopier for ages, while I tried to make it copy in A3 and not cut off part of the article. I eventually managed it, took the copies back and was scolded for copying in colour. It's too expensive, apparently. I would have been there half the day trying to change the colour settings. By this time, the exec's assistant had arrived and she offered to scan the page for me -- but I told her I'd as soon as do it myself, since if someone is on the scanner they need to use my computer anyway. And that seemed like the end of it.

Except later, the exec was passing near my desk and recognised me and took a moment to thank me for my help, and asked my name. And I had me an idea. I emailed a colleague -- and asked her, what do you think of the idea of me asking her for a job? A bit too random, since she only met me today? But my colleague said no, go for it -- this business is all about having guts (you might say it's about having balls, but men are heavily out-numbered in my workplace) and it would be a bold move. So rather than march into her office, I emailed the exec a polite email requesting a meeting with her. Skip to the end, after emails back and forth and I ask my colleague what this exec's particular job title/role was. She's the MD.

Yesterday morning I'd dressed smarter than usual -- on contrast to Thursday morning's "Department of Correction" t-shirt and skate shoes -- and marched into her office to ask her for a job. I outlined the situation -- I've been her three months, enjoy my work, feel personally involved with the campaigns, but if they don't find anywhere for me to sit I'm out of work next week. She thought it was ridiculous I might have to leave, and said of course they will find me somewhere. She also said to submit to her my CV as a formal application, and she would take it from there. It's not every day you have a meeting with the managing director, so hopefully it will be a bold move that pays off.