We return to our regular scheduled programs, and pick up where we left off -- I got out of my interview in Brighton, and had to find my way to Portsmouth.I hadn't bothered to use google maps for the Brighton - Portsmouth journey as I was fairly sure they were close enough together for it to be signposted. I was wrong. I had absolutely no idea what way I should be going to even try and leave the city, and then even less of an idea as to what direction to head in. I think I did several laps of the city before I was illegally calling my Dad while driving to ask him. He had no idea, either -- so I said I would head for London, even though it wasn't right, and hopefully once I was on a main road there'd be signs for Portsmouth. My Dad accepted it as an idea as good as any other (except, I don't know, him looking it up for me might have been good) and warned me not to get stuck on a motorway.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I got stuck on the motorway and ended up driving back to London. Well you're wrong! I drove almost as far as the start of the M23 but pulled into a services at a place called "Pease Pottage" instead. I figured there I could ask directions if my Dad wouldn't help. This time he figured maybe it would be a good idea to consult a map for me -- and yes, found I shouldn't have gone that way at all, in fact I had been driving North when I should have been driving West, and all I had needed to do was follow signs for Worthing in the first place. This meant driving back to Brighton, just so I could follow signs for Worthing -- and wouldn't you know it, as soon as I start following those signs, up pops Portsmouth on the signs as well. Confusingly, almost the whole way London was appearing on the signs as well.
From here it was plain sailing -- windows down, rocking out to my live Pearl Jam bootlegs, all the way to Portsmouth and to my parents' flat. I found a parking spot almost right outside, and everything was good. Dumped my bags, cracked open a cold beer, and called my brother to see if he wanted to meet up for a drink.
He seemed very non-committal about the idea, saying it was up to me either way, but that he could only do Friday night if I decided I did want to to do anything. I figured despite his perceived lack of enthusiasm, it would be good to see him -- I don't see much of him, and miss him now we don't live together. So we made the necessary arrangements, he gave me the number for a cab company, and I figured I should get something to eat and get changed.
I got my shirt out of my bag, and started rummaging through the pile of t-shirts I'd brought. Why did I pack so many t-shirts, I wondered to myself, did I really need that much choice? And why could I not find my jeans. Then I remembered, the night before when I was packing, I had been wearing the jeans I wanted to take -- and so thought I'd pack them later. I obviously forgot. I'd remembered to pack a pair of pyjama bottoms and 50 million different t-shirts and two types of deodorant, but I hadn't packed any jeans because I'd been wearing the ones I wanted to take.
Fine, I thought, I'll see if I'd left any clothes in my wardrobe there. Maybe a pair that were a bit tight in the waist but would do for one night and a weekend. Nothing. I thought, fine then, even though his waist is about 10 inches wider than mine, maybe I could get away with a pair of my Dad's jeans with a belt and look a bit gangsta in my baggy jeans. The only pair I could find were enormous, with paint and grass stains on them.
This left me with two choices -- either cancel going on, because I had literally had nothing to wear, or wear my suit. I was worried what my brother's reaction would be if I turned up in my suit, but figured I'd be damned if I was going to cancel. The shirt was casual enough not to look like I'd come from a business meeting, and yet smart enough not to look stupid with a suit, and I figured if questioned I'd tell him I'd just wanted to look smart and hadn't been sure what he'd wear. Obviously he wasn't going to be wearing a suit, but whatever.
I got to the pub a couple of minutes before him and just hung around outside. I saw his cab pull up, but pretended not to notice so he wouldn't think I'd been impatiently waiting for him. He didn't recognise me at first as he walked up to the pub, I forgot he'd not seen me with a shaved head and certainly wasn't expecting to see me in a black suit. He was surprised I'd decided to wear a suit, but didn't really give me any stick over it.
Once Steve and I had found a table and started talking I quickly realised that what I'd taken for indifference on the telephone was more likely just tiredness after a long day, and a long week, not being a huge fan of talking on the telephone and really not minding if I didn't want him to come out. The important thing was that it hadn't been indifference to seeing me.
I can't remember the last time the two of us just had a whole evening alone together to drink and talk and laugh and catch up -- it has probably been years. Whenever we see each other it's because he's come to stay with his wife and his son, or that they are visiting when we're staying in Portsmouth, or we are visiting his house. Either way, it's never just him and me -- and any chance we get to be alone together is cut short fairly quickly by someone else coming in, or something needing to be done. Neither of us are great conversationalists, so we don't talk on the phone, and he's not much of a letter-writing person, so it meant a lot to get that opportunity -- and it reminds me of why I would like to live closer, so I could see more of him, and his family.
I woke early the next morning with one of the worst hangovers in recent memory. It hadn't been a late night, there hadn't been shots involved, but I don't recall how much we did drink. I should never try to pace him for drinks, but at least I didn't throw up everywhere like I did one night when I was out drinking with him in Rhodes, many years ago. Either way, Saturday morning the pain was excruciating and my parents seemed to have a complete absence of pain killers in the flat. Also, it seems that even soothing muscle gels containing ibuprofen don't do the job. And so Portsmouth found me, dressed in a suit, sat outside the Co-Op, waiting for it to open at 7am. I went back to bed after some painkillers and some toast to line my stomach.
Around 11 I got up, had a cold shower because I couldn't work out how the hot water worked in the flat, and put my suit on yet again -- although I did wonder if I could get away with wearing pyjamas outside, and decided against it -- so I could go and buy something else to wear. I decided to buy from Gap some vaguely smart khaki trousers I could wear to work where they deem it necessary to be "smart casual".
Once I got home and got changed the rest of the day was my own, I sat in the sun near the seafront and read a book of my brother's I'd found in the flat. I took pictures on my phone -- reminding me my brother had laughed at me on Friday when I'd said I was an artist -- and I actually ended up slightly sun burned. For my Australian readers, you can laugh at me here because it was probably barely 20ºC.
Saturday night, I stayed in, cooked a couple of sausages and a small ciabatta bread I'd found in the freezer, and watched a DVD -- since along with a selection of t-shirts, I'd also brought a choice of films from home to watch. I woke on Sunday free from any headaches, but must have slept strangely as I had a crick in my neck -- just the kind of thing you could do with a muscle gel for...
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