Yesterday evening I was reminded that my routine failure with females may not be THAT worth the constant whingeing.
Marriage is terrifying both as a concept and in practise: the bond you’ve made, the contract you’ve signed, supposedly for your whole life with all the people you love watching you.
The average age of newlyweds is getting older with generations and there’s less of a stigma attached to singletons and divorcees in their thirties, forties and fifties. It happens. You might argue that it happens because we communicate better, or we communicate more, or because we’re less willing to simply keep up appearances.
Yet there still exists an implicit pressure on twenty-somethings who have been together a while to do just this; those who look – to all extents and purposes – like they’re ‘made’ for each other. If they’ve been together long enough, their families want to see some semblance of security, maybe children; they’re nudged in that direction and if they’re happy and solid, then why not?
But if they are childhood or university sweethearts who haven’t known many, if any other relationships, does there always exist a tiny glint of attraction towards the unknown, towards the other? Is it an innate undercurrent fear which those sort of couples learn to deal with? It might lie blissfully dormant or never be realised (safety first). But it might equally just need an unknown figure to appear and prise the edges apart, so that glint becomes dazzling, hot, scalding.
My former colleague was an amusing, bumbling and self- effacing guy who often exercised pleasing amounts of self-doubt. (I always warm more easily to those who exercise self-doubt). You might have thought him slightly quirky if you only saw him loping caveman-like around the office in his baggy striped jumpers, or at his desk hiding behind a giant box of cornflakes and coffee pot, but. In conversation though – one-to-one or in a group – he engaged indiscriminately with everyone, he was funny and candid.
After living with his long-term girlfriend for four years, they married and bought a house.
Our roughly four-monthly pub conversation kicked off as usual: work, the office, colleagues and former colleagues, my move. Then I asked about married life and he gave hints which I entirely failed to pick up on, only later realising that he was trying to use it as a segway. What do you think keeps couples going until they’re old? How do you keep making a relationship work? What is it? Don’t all couples get bored of each other after a certain time?
I gave bland answers: separate and shared interests, doing new things, travelling, planning, shared experience, family. Our chat progressed to a point when I mentioned my curious evening on the night of the USA-Ghana World Cup match.
“Yeah, I had a.. a strange evening then too.”
“Really, what happened? You go first. You’re not being..?”
He breathed in, looked down and away. He was being..
“You ok mate?”
He wiped his increasingly glassy eye. Did he just wipe his eye? Fuck.
“Hey really, don’t tell me if you don’t want to tell me. Shall I go first and..?”
“Yeah, you go on. Just need more to drink then I’ll..”
I went on with my commentary of that evening, aware that he wasn’t really paying attention, glazed over, trapped in his own world and whatever was going on in there.
“And that was that,” I concluded. “Now you? If you..?”
“Mate, I’m totally fucked.”
He did the breathing, looking down, eye-wipe thing again. His eyes looked full.
“You told anyone about this?”
“One. Best mate. This girl in the office: over the past month we’ve started sort of going out, I’ve taken her to places and we’ve stayed out together until three four or five in the morning. She’s exciting and different and likes me.”
“Single?”
“Married too. But it’s shit; she hates it, and him. They’re getting divorced, selling their house and she’s moving back to America soon.”
“How old?”
“25, so only a few years younger. Got married when they were stupidly young. But mate, she’s so different and like nobody I’ve ever met: hobbies and interests and.. drugs. I’ve always been liberal about that stuff but never tried much. We’ve done lines of coke at lunchtimes.”
I looked at him quizzically, laughed.
“Yeah, scored them off some drunk on the train back from Brighton. It’s overrated to tell you the truth. But she’s just.. You know those shit montages in films which show couples getting together, doing stuff and falling in love? It feels like I’m in the middle of one of those. Thing is, I don’t know if this is what it’s like meeting someone new, if this was what it was like when I first met.. and everything about her was new and interesting. I can’t remember what it was like.”
It sounded amazing, the bastard. I shovelled back the encroaching jealousy.
“And your wife?”
“She suspects. I slept on the sofa last night. Probably tonight too. Doubt she’ll believe I’m here with you, with good reason. Before it all got to the stage it has now I’d talked about not knowing what I was doing with my life, and our marriage. We’ve barely spoken for weeks.”
“But this girl is moving back to America?”
“I’ve said I’ll go with her but I don’t think she took me seriously. She’s impulsive and spontaneous. She likes me, we’ve done – although we haven’t slept together. Mate. I’m totally obsessed with her.”
We sipped our drinks.
“You’re sure you’re not a convenience for her?” I asked. “Attention from a decent bloke and something to do while she sits out the dregs of a crappy first marriage, and before she ups and leaves for home?”
“No. No, I’m not sure at all.”
He held his head in his hands but was no longer on the brink of tears, at least.
We continued to bat it back and forth, speaking of little else for the remaining two hours until closing time: life’s too short, you don’t want to live life regretting. But I also voiced my suspicions that he was being played by some sort of whimsical Zooey Deschanel in 500 Days Of Summer character (although subsequent Facebook snooping revealed a crazier looking girl), and also that he could have ruined his marriage.
This seemed to be less of an issue: he was tired of his marriage, or so obsessed with the new, exciting girl that he couldn’t be bothered to resuscitate it. He was scared but prepared for whatever will happen in the next few weeks. Weakness and that glint of unknown attraction, boredom with his wife; it could easily contrive to make him a single man again in a short period of time.
Fuck David Cameron’s family policies. Marriage shouldn’t be legal until you’re 30.
Viewed through this lens, failing to persuade females to see me more than once might not merit constant whingeing. Relationships and marriage bring levels of stress that single, one-off meetings can’t really match.
Perhaps I should be relieved.
Thursday 29 July 2010
Tuesday 27 July 2010
Brixton
Noticing on a mobile maps application that the connecting A-road between Clapham Common and Brixton didn’t look all that long, I dismissed my fear of traffic in these parts, picked up my cycle (with its increasingly ineffective brakes), and aimed myself in the direction of where the A23.. no, the A32.. that big green road should be. I wish my brain stored A-road numbers more effectively. Middle-aged men pride themselves on such skills, but it’s not developing for me. Yet.
Brixton was a place I’d meant to check out for a long time, thinking a gig would summon me there at some point, but with two weeks remaining of my London stay, it still hadn’t. I popped in my earphones and began to weave between people sprawled out on the common and those loping through the sunshine towards the Ben & Jerry’s festival gate.
Then watchfully, I pedalled out into the snarling, give-no-inch traffic.
The connecting A-road was simple and not long; little more than a five or ten minutes spin between residential streets which slowly opened up and out. I freewheeled down an incline into what I figured must be the centre, a heavily made up bottle blonde with hoisted short skirt to my right: either seriously craving male attention or a prostitute. She stood out, not least because this didn’t appear like a place for such dress or try-hard glamorous style.
I dismounted at the base of the hill, looking over a surprisingly cultured looking, arty plaza; well- polished buildings neighboured less well polished buildings. Two bike locks felt appropriate all the same. The new sense of place was vivid, despite the proximity to the white middle-classness of Clapham and its own urbane pretentions. Brixton had fewer, didn’t need them.
The concentration of ethnic minorities was immediately striking but the place had a vibrancy and creativity about it which other strongly black places like the downtrodden feeling Seven Sisters Road in Tottenham didn’t. Here there were artistic hubs, even iconic places like the Academy, places of obvious congregation, wide open spaces next to narrow market streets which could quite easily fool you into thinking you weren’t in London, or even England.
I walked up the street with my earphones in. A young black man walking at a similar pace said something. Hello?
I unpopped my earphones: “Hello mate.”
What did he want?
“How’s it going?” he said.
“Um, good. You ok?”
“Yeah I’m good.”
“Good.”
Perturbed by the exchange, I stopped to look at my phone and he kept walking.
Young people were, by and large, pretty. Most looked like they were, or should be in a band. This was a south of the river Camden, possibly with an even richer mix of people and less contrivance. Most of these people weren’t essentially rebellious angsty middle class kids who studied other people slightly too hard.
In a narrow market street dense with butchers and meats and rivalling scents, a woman wheeled a trolley in front of her and out across the road. A second glance revealed her to be wheeling a sack, out of which poked the rear end of what appeared to be a serious looking snake. I couldn’t imagine this happening in Richmond.
It can be easy to feel like you stand out in your ethnicity when displaced from a native white middle class domain, especially if you’re naturally self-conscious, self-aware. But the truth is that there are many places where nobody cares. Places like Brixton. I could totally understand for young and zesty folk, for those who seek and embrace life in all its forms, Brixton could be a place to live unjudged and unhampered, and to feel a rugged texture of experience.
Brixton was a place I’d meant to check out for a long time, thinking a gig would summon me there at some point, but with two weeks remaining of my London stay, it still hadn’t. I popped in my earphones and began to weave between people sprawled out on the common and those loping through the sunshine towards the Ben & Jerry’s festival gate.
Then watchfully, I pedalled out into the snarling, give-no-inch traffic.
The connecting A-road was simple and not long; little more than a five or ten minutes spin between residential streets which slowly opened up and out. I freewheeled down an incline into what I figured must be the centre, a heavily made up bottle blonde with hoisted short skirt to my right: either seriously craving male attention or a prostitute. She stood out, not least because this didn’t appear like a place for such dress or try-hard glamorous style.
I dismounted at the base of the hill, looking over a surprisingly cultured looking, arty plaza; well- polished buildings neighboured less well polished buildings. Two bike locks felt appropriate all the same. The new sense of place was vivid, despite the proximity to the white middle-classness of Clapham and its own urbane pretentions. Brixton had fewer, didn’t need them.
The concentration of ethnic minorities was immediately striking but the place had a vibrancy and creativity about it which other strongly black places like the downtrodden feeling Seven Sisters Road in Tottenham didn’t. Here there were artistic hubs, even iconic places like the Academy, places of obvious congregation, wide open spaces next to narrow market streets which could quite easily fool you into thinking you weren’t in London, or even England.
I walked up the street with my earphones in. A young black man walking at a similar pace said something. Hello?
I unpopped my earphones: “Hello mate.”
What did he want?
“How’s it going?” he said.
“Um, good. You ok?”
“Yeah I’m good.”
“Good.”
Perturbed by the exchange, I stopped to look at my phone and he kept walking.
Young people were, by and large, pretty. Most looked like they were, or should be in a band. This was a south of the river Camden, possibly with an even richer mix of people and less contrivance. Most of these people weren’t essentially rebellious angsty middle class kids who studied other people slightly too hard.
In a narrow market street dense with butchers and meats and rivalling scents, a woman wheeled a trolley in front of her and out across the road. A second glance revealed her to be wheeling a sack, out of which poked the rear end of what appeared to be a serious looking snake. I couldn’t imagine this happening in Richmond.
It can be easy to feel like you stand out in your ethnicity when displaced from a native white middle class domain, especially if you’re naturally self-conscious, self-aware. But the truth is that there are many places where nobody cares. Places like Brixton. I could totally understand for young and zesty folk, for those who seek and embrace life in all its forms, Brixton could be a place to live unjudged and unhampered, and to feel a rugged texture of experience.
Friday 23 July 2010
flung forwards
Wednesday lunchtime I was running through Richmond Park, vaguely mulling over quite how pathetic, whiny and self-absorbed my last blog post here had sounded, and also wondering about the move: a move I’m now fairly sure I don’t want to make, but quite sure I will.
It makes sense, I have no real need to be in London, it’s more affordable and there are many more pretty places within easy reach. But still, I’ve grown to like London more over these past few months, its opportunity and scale has been better illuminated under the summer months and I will be sad to leave it.
It feels like a personal retreat of sorts, a defeat, having moved here originally for a job I was made redundant from, then failing to secure another one so going it alone and sitting at a desk in a small room on my own for over a year, although remaining solvent, doing ok; but also roundly failing to find a female who would believe I was worth expelling any effort for. The almost three years since arriving haven’t exactly flung me forwards so I return west, tail between legs, shrugging, mumbling fuck em like a bitter old drunk.
I have little to be grateful to London for, but still she’s just as much a cruel temptress as ever she was. I have flirted with the idea of cancelling the move and retracting my notice and staying put, trying to find somewhere else in London. Not allowing her to beat me.
Although I still want change, the whole reason moving was implanted as an idea was because I want change, difference, space which is properly my own. I want to close this chapter and open a new one, “start afresh” – although starting afresh loses its freshness when you start afresh roughly once every eighteen months, which I seem to.
So I wondered if I could stay in London, when the allure fell away of moving all that way back to a smaller city riven with ghosts – an antipathy aided through being conned by a private landlord at the first attempt at moving. There MUST be something within budget in London, maybe a bit further out from the centre.
But there isn’t, not really, not of the standard I want. My property-seeking motivation has wilted; I should just do this and cease my infernal, overly dramatic whingeing. It’s beginning to bore me.
Sweating through the park I approached one of the main bisecting roads where all traffic is restricted to a 20mph crawl. A red car was coming from the left while a clutch of serious looking spindly cycles attacked the incline to my right. I easily had enough time to cut between the two and make it to the other side.
Injecting a degree more pace, I pressed down hard with my left foot, then my right, which fell further than expected, deeply into a soft crevice a yard before the road’s edge. I buckled over and the road loomed up to meet me, smashing gravel into my right knee. My momentum carried and I bowled out into the middle of the concrete strip, rolling once or twice (momentarily wondering if this might even look cool – not the falling over bit, the rolling bit – like I’m an accomplished stuntman who does this thing all the time) before finally halting myself with my head, grit pricking the right corner of my brow.
Did it look cool? Doubt it. Definitely hurt. Hurt quite a lot, in fact. Ouch.
There I stayed for a brief second, sucking it up, feeling stupid and hurt, yet realising I still had a firm grip of my iPod in my left hand, both earphones were in place and music was still playing (there’s a result at least, well done!) The red car must have slowed to a stop because it hadn’t hit me. I rolled back onto my heels and stood up. “You all right, mate?” a passing cyclist kindly enquired. (No, everything really hurts). I waved an embarrassed hand in acknowledgement and gingerly hobbled across the road, conscious not to look down at my legs, struggling to breathe with the pain management. I waved an arm of gratitude towards the red car too: Thanks for not running me over. Also meant to infer ‘I’m fine, Go.’ It went. I ripped a piece of dangling skin from the palm of my right hand, inspected grazes to upper arms and hip, felt blood trickle down my right shin and began to run again. It was the sort of pain which could be run off and ignored if you just kept going, stretched it out.
There might be some kind of glib metaphor here: when it comes to moving, crossing, making decisions, just keeping going when you’ve tried to move quickly and taken a clumsy fall in front of an audience, emerging cut and bruised, uncertain and wary of fully inspecting all the damage. That’s what you do: clumsily fall, injure yourself but ignore where, get up again. Run it off and it’ll get better, Forrest; keep moving dumbly forwards.
It makes sense, I have no real need to be in London, it’s more affordable and there are many more pretty places within easy reach. But still, I’ve grown to like London more over these past few months, its opportunity and scale has been better illuminated under the summer months and I will be sad to leave it.
It feels like a personal retreat of sorts, a defeat, having moved here originally for a job I was made redundant from, then failing to secure another one so going it alone and sitting at a desk in a small room on my own for over a year, although remaining solvent, doing ok; but also roundly failing to find a female who would believe I was worth expelling any effort for. The almost three years since arriving haven’t exactly flung me forwards so I return west, tail between legs, shrugging, mumbling fuck em like a bitter old drunk.
I have little to be grateful to London for, but still she’s just as much a cruel temptress as ever she was. I have flirted with the idea of cancelling the move and retracting my notice and staying put, trying to find somewhere else in London. Not allowing her to beat me.
Although I still want change, the whole reason moving was implanted as an idea was because I want change, difference, space which is properly my own. I want to close this chapter and open a new one, “start afresh” – although starting afresh loses its freshness when you start afresh roughly once every eighteen months, which I seem to.
So I wondered if I could stay in London, when the allure fell away of moving all that way back to a smaller city riven with ghosts – an antipathy aided through being conned by a private landlord at the first attempt at moving. There MUST be something within budget in London, maybe a bit further out from the centre.
But there isn’t, not really, not of the standard I want. My property-seeking motivation has wilted; I should just do this and cease my infernal, overly dramatic whingeing. It’s beginning to bore me.
Sweating through the park I approached one of the main bisecting roads where all traffic is restricted to a 20mph crawl. A red car was coming from the left while a clutch of serious looking spindly cycles attacked the incline to my right. I easily had enough time to cut between the two and make it to the other side.
Injecting a degree more pace, I pressed down hard with my left foot, then my right, which fell further than expected, deeply into a soft crevice a yard before the road’s edge. I buckled over and the road loomed up to meet me, smashing gravel into my right knee. My momentum carried and I bowled out into the middle of the concrete strip, rolling once or twice (momentarily wondering if this might even look cool – not the falling over bit, the rolling bit – like I’m an accomplished stuntman who does this thing all the time) before finally halting myself with my head, grit pricking the right corner of my brow.
Did it look cool? Doubt it. Definitely hurt. Hurt quite a lot, in fact. Ouch.
There I stayed for a brief second, sucking it up, feeling stupid and hurt, yet realising I still had a firm grip of my iPod in my left hand, both earphones were in place and music was still playing (there’s a result at least, well done!) The red car must have slowed to a stop because it hadn’t hit me. I rolled back onto my heels and stood up. “You all right, mate?” a passing cyclist kindly enquired. (No, everything really hurts). I waved an embarrassed hand in acknowledgement and gingerly hobbled across the road, conscious not to look down at my legs, struggling to breathe with the pain management. I waved an arm of gratitude towards the red car too: Thanks for not running me over. Also meant to infer ‘I’m fine, Go.’ It went. I ripped a piece of dangling skin from the palm of my right hand, inspected grazes to upper arms and hip, felt blood trickle down my right shin and began to run again. It was the sort of pain which could be run off and ignored if you just kept going, stretched it out.
There might be some kind of glib metaphor here: when it comes to moving, crossing, making decisions, just keeping going when you’ve tried to move quickly and taken a clumsy fall in front of an audience, emerging cut and bruised, uncertain and wary of fully inspecting all the damage. That’s what you do: clumsily fall, injure yourself but ignore where, get up again. Run it off and it’ll get better, Forrest; keep moving dumbly forwards.
Wednesday 21 July 2010
second date jinx
It goes on. Those two shards from ten days ago appear to have now fizzled, though it took a little longer than expected, and the one enjoyed a brief crackle of sorts.
However, the one higher in my affections and more subjected to careful hope qualified her brush off yesterday evening by text message. Her indifference had grown obvious. She initially gave hope and we loosely arranged a second meeting, then she cancelled – really busy, promising to get in touch the week after, then didn’t.
Part due to my own circumstance and lifestyle, but I have little respect for an excuse of ‘busyness.’ It’s tantamount to not being arsed. Unless you’re a Prime Minister or a President, or James Corden, there clearly ARE enough hours in a day or week.
Added to this sketchiness and inability to fix a date was a frustrating email manner of one-liners, text messages no more developed, minimal words. Yet within them: still responses and questions. If complete indifference, why bother responding at all?
I kept it casual, never mentioning my probable and increasingly imminent departure from London. Yet mindful of ever dwindling time I decided to push the issue, and wondered by text if it was worth my while attempting to ‘challenge her indifference.’
‘Challenge my indifference?’ the three words were returned several hours later.
Perhaps I should have just called her. Verbal conversations about such matters seem to be getting rarer, or maybe our generation is just bad at them, particularly at early stages like this. Also.. well, I was in a cinema at the time and the film was really good.
I explained that I didn’t know if she was that bothered; she apologised for being flaky but was very busy at the moment so it was probably better if we just left it, sorry.
No reply rushed to my fingertips. That was that then.
Perhaps on that evening, when there was that small frisson: if I’d been more direct, more of a slag – who knows if she was actually interested then, and then only.. But then came the discovery of the theft.
Everything was simpler with the brush off, but it raised the ugly narcissistic head of my relentless inability to secure second dates.
What the hell is wrong with you? Ok, at times it’s your own doing and you don’t fancy them and there aren’t many who have moved you enough to try and persuade them they’re wrong (none in fact because you don’t Do persuasion). But the brutal truth is that the ratio is around 50/50. Do you scare them somehow? Are you just not attractive enough? Are you too needy? (You tempered that one quite well last time too, you thought, extremely casual). You wish you could conceal yourself slightly better, not say quite so much, lie about small things – although you’re essentially unashamed that you don’t and can’t. Why should you apologise for yourself? How much of your personal integrity is it necessary to compromise? How much should you lie or fake or bluster?
But when it rolls on like this, the first dates which are only ever first dates, followed by more first dates and no second dates, you can’t help but reflect and look inward. You can do presentable, fairly charming, moderately amusing, even upbeat at a push; you don’t swear, probe insensitively on delicate subjects, talk endlessly about work or football, burp or fart in their faces.
There are often small things I regret saying or not saying, and I know if I possessed more direction, greater ambition and knew how to confidently operate chopsticks, this would be beneficial. On the whole though, I don’t walk away thinking I’ve given an unfair or disappointing representation.
I’m usually excellent at navelgazy self-criticism, but here all I see is fog and murk and confusion. It concerns me.
However, the one higher in my affections and more subjected to careful hope qualified her brush off yesterday evening by text message. Her indifference had grown obvious. She initially gave hope and we loosely arranged a second meeting, then she cancelled – really busy, promising to get in touch the week after, then didn’t.
Part due to my own circumstance and lifestyle, but I have little respect for an excuse of ‘busyness.’ It’s tantamount to not being arsed. Unless you’re a Prime Minister or a President, or James Corden, there clearly ARE enough hours in a day or week.
Added to this sketchiness and inability to fix a date was a frustrating email manner of one-liners, text messages no more developed, minimal words. Yet within them: still responses and questions. If complete indifference, why bother responding at all?
I kept it casual, never mentioning my probable and increasingly imminent departure from London. Yet mindful of ever dwindling time I decided to push the issue, and wondered by text if it was worth my while attempting to ‘challenge her indifference.’
‘Challenge my indifference?’ the three words were returned several hours later.
Perhaps I should have just called her. Verbal conversations about such matters seem to be getting rarer, or maybe our generation is just bad at them, particularly at early stages like this. Also.. well, I was in a cinema at the time and the film was really good.
I explained that I didn’t know if she was that bothered; she apologised for being flaky but was very busy at the moment so it was probably better if we just left it, sorry.
No reply rushed to my fingertips. That was that then.
Perhaps on that evening, when there was that small frisson: if I’d been more direct, more of a slag – who knows if she was actually interested then, and then only.. But then came the discovery of the theft.
Everything was simpler with the brush off, but it raised the ugly narcissistic head of my relentless inability to secure second dates.
What the hell is wrong with you? Ok, at times it’s your own doing and you don’t fancy them and there aren’t many who have moved you enough to try and persuade them they’re wrong (none in fact because you don’t Do persuasion). But the brutal truth is that the ratio is around 50/50. Do you scare them somehow? Are you just not attractive enough? Are you too needy? (You tempered that one quite well last time too, you thought, extremely casual). You wish you could conceal yourself slightly better, not say quite so much, lie about small things – although you’re essentially unashamed that you don’t and can’t. Why should you apologise for yourself? How much of your personal integrity is it necessary to compromise? How much should you lie or fake or bluster?
But when it rolls on like this, the first dates which are only ever first dates, followed by more first dates and no second dates, you can’t help but reflect and look inward. You can do presentable, fairly charming, moderately amusing, even upbeat at a push; you don’t swear, probe insensitively on delicate subjects, talk endlessly about work or football, burp or fart in their faces.
There are often small things I regret saying or not saying, and I know if I possessed more direction, greater ambition and knew how to confidently operate chopsticks, this would be beneficial. On the whole though, I don’t walk away thinking I’ve given an unfair or disappointing representation.
I’m usually excellent at navelgazy self-criticism, but here all I see is fog and murk and confusion. It concerns me.
Sunday 18 July 2010
rides
“Horsey!” infants shrieked, riding on my back as I crawled on all fours around our relatives’ large back garden. The previous two hours had been spent playing football with a five year old. Blissfully little of my time at the extended family had been spent speaking with adults. When I finally collapsed into an armchair it was with small alarm that I noted the time. I had little over two and a half hours to make it back to London. How did it get to be that late? It was doable, just, if I put my foot down on the A-Roads. I thanked people for their hospitality, apologised for not going to the park with them, ruffled infants’ hair and hugged and kissed the older generations.
What would this one be like? I pondered while speeding down a pretty A-road bisecting dense forest. Does a date at 8.30pm on a Saturday evening basically mean you’re on a promise?
I still knew next to nothing about her, suspected she wasn’t the sharpest tool, just that she was probably willing. Seemed willing back then, text messages suggested she may still be now. That was ok, just go with it, get drunk, see what happens, don’t think too much.
I was back, showered, out and on a bus in perfect time. She called asking where I was, fifteen minutes before we were due to meet. She’d misremembered the time she’d given and sounded confused. I’ll be there in five.
Painfully thin, a strained, pinched face which suggested nerves, troubles and fragility – please don’t be a bit mental; a whispy, flighty manner, washed-out elsewhere eyes and a strangled, almost puppet-like voice. Ridiculously high heels. She made you want to protect her in a not particularly attractive way. Yet for all that, she wasn’t unattractive.
Her ‘issues’ were confirmed during our early chatter, but never in detail and I never probed. My suspicions that she wasn’t all too bright were also given substantial evidence. Did I care? Should I care? Her grammar appalled me and I couldn’t help but mention it, although I dumbed down my own language. She smoked a lot, had struggled with it for a long time, a clearly necessary crutch which made it more acceptable somehow. Just go with it, get drunk, don’t think too much about it. Live in the moment for once: not before it or after it. Take a stupid decision.
Given a lack of common ground and interests – aside from mutual loneliness and unspoken needs – I expected conversation to flag but, propelled by alcohol, it didn’t. We passed through several bars, eventually ending at a loud, dark, busy venue with a late licence. We had gone there via the station to check her last train times, but I didn’t know if this was merely for show. If she would ‘forget,’ leaving the only option to return to mine. We stayed in the late bar, discussing the music and the venue’s youthful clientele. The time of her last train came and went, unmentioned.
It had been a long day; I’d driven a fair distance across the country and back. I didn’t like this sort of place anyway and wanted to go, she wanted to stay.
We stayed and drank more, too much, but didn’t dance. There was barely any obvious warmth or explicit flirtation between us, no signals being sent or received; simply an implicitly shared assumption. I admired younger, prettier females in the bar: those with height and flesh, confidence and grace.
When she was eventually persuaded that we should leave, we tumbled out and onto the street and she became aware that the short distance to my flat was the only option outside of an extortionate taxi ride. It was likely what we both had in mind all along. A date at 8.30 on a Saturday night?
Just do it, you’re drunk, everything is as it was vaguely forecast. So, she might be a bit mental but you always take that risk.
*
In the morning, following a more concerted Round Two being ridden in an entirely different way from the previous afternoon, she laboured with her hangover. She claimed she wasn’t usually this bad and said “Oh God my head” a lot. I made tea, returned to bed and watched the golf on mute, waiting for her to move, silently impatient although I had no plans for the day at all.
After several aborted attempts she did move, spurning all offers of paracetomol, tea, or anything at all. I pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt while dressed in her only clothes from the night before, complete with precariously high-heeled shoes which took her an age to walk any distance in. She might as well have been wearing stilts.
I drove her back to the station and here conversation struggled as we shared the hungover silence. Token attempts at the weather, this part of town. Despite a relaxed affection and playfulness which had developed in the slumbering bedroom, neither of us spoke about repeating this thing we’d done, doing it again sometime or meeting up somewhere. Was the mismatch starkly obvious? That it was a meeting to satisfy mutual needs and nothing more?
A final snatched lips kiss while the car engine idled outside the station: “thanks, bye then.” She made sure she had everything and left, and stepped out, teetering on her ridiculous heels. The passenger door clunked shut. My eyes didn’t linger on her gallingly skeletal frame. I checked my blind spot, pulled out, looked forward and drove on.
I would prefer never to see or hear from her again.
What would this one be like? I pondered while speeding down a pretty A-road bisecting dense forest. Does a date at 8.30pm on a Saturday evening basically mean you’re on a promise?
I still knew next to nothing about her, suspected she wasn’t the sharpest tool, just that she was probably willing. Seemed willing back then, text messages suggested she may still be now. That was ok, just go with it, get drunk, see what happens, don’t think too much.
I was back, showered, out and on a bus in perfect time. She called asking where I was, fifteen minutes before we were due to meet. She’d misremembered the time she’d given and sounded confused. I’ll be there in five.
Painfully thin, a strained, pinched face which suggested nerves, troubles and fragility – please don’t be a bit mental; a whispy, flighty manner, washed-out elsewhere eyes and a strangled, almost puppet-like voice. Ridiculously high heels. She made you want to protect her in a not particularly attractive way. Yet for all that, she wasn’t unattractive.
Her ‘issues’ were confirmed during our early chatter, but never in detail and I never probed. My suspicions that she wasn’t all too bright were also given substantial evidence. Did I care? Should I care? Her grammar appalled me and I couldn’t help but mention it, although I dumbed down my own language. She smoked a lot, had struggled with it for a long time, a clearly necessary crutch which made it more acceptable somehow. Just go with it, get drunk, don’t think too much about it. Live in the moment for once: not before it or after it. Take a stupid decision.
Given a lack of common ground and interests – aside from mutual loneliness and unspoken needs – I expected conversation to flag but, propelled by alcohol, it didn’t. We passed through several bars, eventually ending at a loud, dark, busy venue with a late licence. We had gone there via the station to check her last train times, but I didn’t know if this was merely for show. If she would ‘forget,’ leaving the only option to return to mine. We stayed in the late bar, discussing the music and the venue’s youthful clientele. The time of her last train came and went, unmentioned.
It had been a long day; I’d driven a fair distance across the country and back. I didn’t like this sort of place anyway and wanted to go, she wanted to stay.
We stayed and drank more, too much, but didn’t dance. There was barely any obvious warmth or explicit flirtation between us, no signals being sent or received; simply an implicitly shared assumption. I admired younger, prettier females in the bar: those with height and flesh, confidence and grace.
When she was eventually persuaded that we should leave, we tumbled out and onto the street and she became aware that the short distance to my flat was the only option outside of an extortionate taxi ride. It was likely what we both had in mind all along. A date at 8.30 on a Saturday night?
Just do it, you’re drunk, everything is as it was vaguely forecast. So, she might be a bit mental but you always take that risk.
*
In the morning, following a more concerted Round Two being ridden in an entirely different way from the previous afternoon, she laboured with her hangover. She claimed she wasn’t usually this bad and said “Oh God my head” a lot. I made tea, returned to bed and watched the golf on mute, waiting for her to move, silently impatient although I had no plans for the day at all.
After several aborted attempts she did move, spurning all offers of paracetomol, tea, or anything at all. I pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt while dressed in her only clothes from the night before, complete with precariously high-heeled shoes which took her an age to walk any distance in. She might as well have been wearing stilts.
I drove her back to the station and here conversation struggled as we shared the hungover silence. Token attempts at the weather, this part of town. Despite a relaxed affection and playfulness which had developed in the slumbering bedroom, neither of us spoke about repeating this thing we’d done, doing it again sometime or meeting up somewhere. Was the mismatch starkly obvious? That it was a meeting to satisfy mutual needs and nothing more?
A final snatched lips kiss while the car engine idled outside the station: “thanks, bye then.” She made sure she had everything and left, and stepped out, teetering on her ridiculous heels. The passenger door clunked shut. My eyes didn’t linger on her gallingly skeletal frame. I checked my blind spot, pulled out, looked forward and drove on.
I would prefer never to see or hear from her again.
Friday 16 July 2010
Londonderry, Paddy's Day Eve 2009
Londonderry, or Derry, seems one of those historically critical cities which somehow still manages to sit below a general coverage radar. A solidly walled central city slashed in two parts by a lusty thick river which makes a stream of the Thames. Its topography too is rich, providing many lofty platforms for numerous sentinel cannons. Steep central streets exaggerated a sense of caution as I ascended the hill at twilight, a group of adolescents walking down. It feels both protected and homely beneath the gradients and abrasively exposed by the epic River Foyle, another town relentlessly buffeted by the unforgiving Atlantic.
During my few hours pacing the city at an odd, in between time when the streets were mainly empty, I was stopped and asked for directions three times. The first, a French couple of pedestrians for the best route to a restaurant; then a priest and his companion from a car: where a certain street was; then on my way back to my brick-mobile, another car abruptly halted and a pretty girl (as most seem) poked her head from the window. We only exchanged greetings before I explained this was the third time I’d been stopped and, as my accent probably suggested, I still wasn’t local I’m afraid. I would’ve liked to prolong the altercation if I was able – my phone has maps on it if.. – geek. Maybe there’s something about a lone, pacing chap, which indicates that he’s local.
My current host at this dowdy Motel a few miles out of Londonderry was the second person today to assume I was on business. “Just put your company name” the man of apparently few words asked as I signed in. I did so, not bothering to explain I wasn’t on business. The young chap from the car hire place had initially done the same, making me think such a leisurely solo road trip isn’t the most usual use of leave.
*
Earlier today I skirted the east coast of Northern Ireland, up and away from Belfast – after accidentally heading in the opposite direction. It was an averagely pretty coastal ride to begin with, nicely rugged in parts, if constantly bleak and grey – consoled only by the dramatic violence of cloud formations.
I was surprised how quickly I became accustomed to my surroundings, the boring vehicle, the coastal path and greenery. How soon it felt ordinary. This could have been due to the boringness of my boxy, clunk-click drive. It looks like a snubbed nose and handles like an untrustworthy go-kart. You have to lean into tighter corners, as if driving a Lego brick. It’s a new enough model, just a shit one. I’ve approached it in car parks slightly nervous, faintly embarrassed of its dinky toy car appearance.
After a short walk I drove on, forcibly reminding myself that at least I wasn’t in a grey tower block in West London, getting frustrated and annoyed at my colleagues.
Approaching the much hyped Giant’s Causeway, I decided to turn in, then quickly baulked at the fiver entrance charge and did an immediate U-turn. As I drove on I felt silly, that I had missed out on what most people who visit the area say is the jewel of the region. Not sure how though. I’ve seen plenty of grand coastlines in and around this region. What’s particularly special about that bit? Maybe I should’ve just paid a fiver rather than have it nag at me afterwards.
I stopped in Coleraine, another historic if roughly forgettable town, and mooched around there beneath the murk before taking a Tesco pitstop for supplies. Since I’ve been here the sky has hung heavy with a stubbornly dull clouded gloom. A gloom of the kind which would usually warn of an imminent downpour at home, but doesn’t necessarily here. It lurks above, breaking now and again at the whim of the dictatorial Atlantic, which irresponsibly spits its bile at the first land it reaches. You wonder if this perpetual gloom weighs heavily on the people beneath. If it presses and unsettles and makes people bitter and resentful. How much of a year does this weather take up? Who’s to say scepticism, pessimism and bitterness aren’t discouraged by the consistently bleak press of gloom? Could violence be one symptom of that?
This is my final night of pre-booked accommodation and I’m faintly nervous of panicking about the lack of well-placed B&Bs, multiple rejections possibly just for looking a bit sketchy, alone, male, youngish, not on business – and nobody giving much of a shit because tomorrow’s St Patrick’s Day and everyone’s on a mission to get shitfaced. Around Derry, Paddy’s Day’s status became even more obvious: the decoration – high street bunting now decorates every small town – every pub looking that touch more Irish, like Irish pubs everywhere in the world, uber self-conscious and made up, the whole country a bride. Paddy’s Eve events were being promoted around the town and pedestrian traffic on the streets was just beginning to pick up as I made my way back over the sloping cobbled streets to my car, apologising to lost people for not being local.
____________
The post, St Patrick's Day 2009 follows on almost directly from this, should you feel so inclined.
During my few hours pacing the city at an odd, in between time when the streets were mainly empty, I was stopped and asked for directions three times. The first, a French couple of pedestrians for the best route to a restaurant; then a priest and his companion from a car: where a certain street was; then on my way back to my brick-mobile, another car abruptly halted and a pretty girl (as most seem) poked her head from the window. We only exchanged greetings before I explained this was the third time I’d been stopped and, as my accent probably suggested, I still wasn’t local I’m afraid. I would’ve liked to prolong the altercation if I was able – my phone has maps on it if.. – geek. Maybe there’s something about a lone, pacing chap, which indicates that he’s local.
My current host at this dowdy Motel a few miles out of Londonderry was the second person today to assume I was on business. “Just put your company name” the man of apparently few words asked as I signed in. I did so, not bothering to explain I wasn’t on business. The young chap from the car hire place had initially done the same, making me think such a leisurely solo road trip isn’t the most usual use of leave.
*
Earlier today I skirted the east coast of Northern Ireland, up and away from Belfast – after accidentally heading in the opposite direction. It was an averagely pretty coastal ride to begin with, nicely rugged in parts, if constantly bleak and grey – consoled only by the dramatic violence of cloud formations.
I was surprised how quickly I became accustomed to my surroundings, the boring vehicle, the coastal path and greenery. How soon it felt ordinary. This could have been due to the boringness of my boxy, clunk-click drive. It looks like a snubbed nose and handles like an untrustworthy go-kart. You have to lean into tighter corners, as if driving a Lego brick. It’s a new enough model, just a shit one. I’ve approached it in car parks slightly nervous, faintly embarrassed of its dinky toy car appearance.
After a short walk I drove on, forcibly reminding myself that at least I wasn’t in a grey tower block in West London, getting frustrated and annoyed at my colleagues.
Approaching the much hyped Giant’s Causeway, I decided to turn in, then quickly baulked at the fiver entrance charge and did an immediate U-turn. As I drove on I felt silly, that I had missed out on what most people who visit the area say is the jewel of the region. Not sure how though. I’ve seen plenty of grand coastlines in and around this region. What’s particularly special about that bit? Maybe I should’ve just paid a fiver rather than have it nag at me afterwards.
I stopped in Coleraine, another historic if roughly forgettable town, and mooched around there beneath the murk before taking a Tesco pitstop for supplies. Since I’ve been here the sky has hung heavy with a stubbornly dull clouded gloom. A gloom of the kind which would usually warn of an imminent downpour at home, but doesn’t necessarily here. It lurks above, breaking now and again at the whim of the dictatorial Atlantic, which irresponsibly spits its bile at the first land it reaches. You wonder if this perpetual gloom weighs heavily on the people beneath. If it presses and unsettles and makes people bitter and resentful. How much of a year does this weather take up? Who’s to say scepticism, pessimism and bitterness aren’t discouraged by the consistently bleak press of gloom? Could violence be one symptom of that?
This is my final night of pre-booked accommodation and I’m faintly nervous of panicking about the lack of well-placed B&Bs, multiple rejections possibly just for looking a bit sketchy, alone, male, youngish, not on business – and nobody giving much of a shit because tomorrow’s St Patrick’s Day and everyone’s on a mission to get shitfaced. Around Derry, Paddy’s Day’s status became even more obvious: the decoration – high street bunting now decorates every small town – every pub looking that touch more Irish, like Irish pubs everywhere in the world, uber self-conscious and made up, the whole country a bride. Paddy’s Eve events were being promoted around the town and pedestrian traffic on the streets was just beginning to pick up as I made my way back over the sloping cobbled streets to my car, apologising to lost people for not being local.
____________
The post, St Patrick's Day 2009 follows on almost directly from this, should you feel so inclined.
Monday 12 July 2010
struggling with direction
With a move-in date a few weeks away and notice given on my current flat, now I’m unsure about the move.
I've been quite enjoying London in the summer – it feels bigger and more full of chance than in the winter months. Things like this can happen (I never saw or heard from any of them again). Added to which - and it could easily be nothing at all, something I'll feel silly about in a month - but there are two thin shards of recently developed female hope.
One of these was a young lady with whom I reasserted my status as King Fuckwit. Her bossy friend led us up the road to impatiently wait on the station steps, wanting them to hurry down onto the platform for the last train. We walked slowly, pausing deliberately, in no stress about potentially missing her last train, talking nonsense about seasoning biscuits. She clearly didn't want to go, and was aware that I didn’t live far away. It only needed a suggestion on my part that we could go… to mine, we could have childishly run away, around a block, out of sight of her friend. She was drunk, but perhaps not THAT drunk, and totally persuadable. That is, persuadable for any regular man with a grain of self-belief in matters of being direct.
She had at least served to quell the over-replayed memory of another female from twenty four hours earlier. It may have even been memories from the previous evening which hamstrung me into fuckwittage. They did flicker through my brain as we walked up towards the station.
But she was really nice last night … but then, she’s nice here too, but then..
Don’t be an idiot! You have no obligation towards the girl from last night AT ALL. Just as she doesn’t to you, and probably instantly forgot you. You’re simply using it as an excuse to be a gutless little twerp here and now, aren’t you?!
Fnerr! Why is everything so HARD?! I whined in my head.
Because you make it hard, fool.
I sensed the inevitable: that I was about to screw this up and let her make her train without proposing that we run away. I gave her a card and messages have since been exchanged, but still, the immediate opportunity is difficult not to rue.
The night before had been a blind(ish) date. I didn’t figure myself to be her usual type (she seemed to be the kind of girl to have ‘types,’ often narrowing her eyes as if comparing me to an imagined other), and although I certainly warmed to her, I suspected she was out of my league. The evening had ended with the discovery that my laptop and camera had been stolen from my case, irrecoverably denting an amiable, maybe faintly flirtatious atmosphere that had developed. (She had briefly played with my hair. Girls don’t usually do that if they’re repulsed by you, right?) As well as the sickening violation and huge inconvenience of the theft, neither loss was without sentimental attachment: both devices had done some miles with me and contained a considerable amount of personal data. It was as if somebody had suddenly punched me in the guts and pulled off my penis.
*
Even slender shards of female hope don't appear too often. And notwithstanding females, I've been newly unsure of the move: wondering if it's a cowardly retreat to a smaller scale and a place of proportionately reduced opportunity, albeit an improvement in living space. It’s possible I’ve had too much time to mull it over, what with the previous aborted move.
I could cancel or postpone the move, lose a hundred quid deposit, surprise and annoy a few people, retract my notice here.
A friend asked: if something were to be engineered on the female front, would a brief thing, or a six week to six month dalliance be worth it? I replied yes. I’m essentially a sad lonely fool and moving won’t change this. But it’s most likely immaterial. It would come as no surprise if both shards fizzled by Friday.
I've been quite enjoying London in the summer – it feels bigger and more full of chance than in the winter months. Things like this can happen (I never saw or heard from any of them again). Added to which - and it could easily be nothing at all, something I'll feel silly about in a month - but there are two thin shards of recently developed female hope.
One of these was a young lady with whom I reasserted my status as King Fuckwit. Her bossy friend led us up the road to impatiently wait on the station steps, wanting them to hurry down onto the platform for the last train. We walked slowly, pausing deliberately, in no stress about potentially missing her last train, talking nonsense about seasoning biscuits. She clearly didn't want to go, and was aware that I didn’t live far away. It only needed a suggestion on my part that we could go… to mine, we could have childishly run away, around a block, out of sight of her friend. She was drunk, but perhaps not THAT drunk, and totally persuadable. That is, persuadable for any regular man with a grain of self-belief in matters of being direct.
She had at least served to quell the over-replayed memory of another female from twenty four hours earlier. It may have even been memories from the previous evening which hamstrung me into fuckwittage. They did flicker through my brain as we walked up towards the station.
But she was really nice last night … but then, she’s nice here too, but then..
Don’t be an idiot! You have no obligation towards the girl from last night AT ALL. Just as she doesn’t to you, and probably instantly forgot you. You’re simply using it as an excuse to be a gutless little twerp here and now, aren’t you?!
Fnerr! Why is everything so HARD?! I whined in my head.
Because you make it hard, fool.
I sensed the inevitable: that I was about to screw this up and let her make her train without proposing that we run away. I gave her a card and messages have since been exchanged, but still, the immediate opportunity is difficult not to rue.
The night before had been a blind(ish) date. I didn’t figure myself to be her usual type (she seemed to be the kind of girl to have ‘types,’ often narrowing her eyes as if comparing me to an imagined other), and although I certainly warmed to her, I suspected she was out of my league. The evening had ended with the discovery that my laptop and camera had been stolen from my case, irrecoverably denting an amiable, maybe faintly flirtatious atmosphere that had developed. (She had briefly played with my hair. Girls don’t usually do that if they’re repulsed by you, right?) As well as the sickening violation and huge inconvenience of the theft, neither loss was without sentimental attachment: both devices had done some miles with me and contained a considerable amount of personal data. It was as if somebody had suddenly punched me in the guts and pulled off my penis.
*
Even slender shards of female hope don't appear too often. And notwithstanding females, I've been newly unsure of the move: wondering if it's a cowardly retreat to a smaller scale and a place of proportionately reduced opportunity, albeit an improvement in living space. It’s possible I’ve had too much time to mull it over, what with the previous aborted move.
I could cancel or postpone the move, lose a hundred quid deposit, surprise and annoy a few people, retract my notice here.
A friend asked: if something were to be engineered on the female front, would a brief thing, or a six week to six month dalliance be worth it? I replied yes. I’m essentially a sad lonely fool and moving won’t change this. But it’s most likely immaterial. It would come as no surprise if both shards fizzled by Friday.
Friday 9 July 2010
malestream
You tell yourself what to say and how to behave as you sit there waiting, your heartbeat feeling steadily more pronounced and your stomach faintly complaining. You’re cool though, it’s all fine. Casual. Remember to lie and be nothing like you are most of the time. You must not ‘just be yourself.’ There disaster lies, or at least the usual route of ambivalence. Nobody wants to date that sort of person: a miserable bastard. Exude charm, appear effervescent, affect some level of charisma and contentedness with your lot: you know you can do it. Although it feels fraudulent, like lying or pretending you’re rich. Try not to be too honest; you’ve fallen foul of that one much too often. Don’t allow your brain to buckle under the pressure of attempted fabrication. Make something up. People do it all the time. There’s no need to lazily concede and automatically speak the truth, especially if it isn’t favourable or doesn’t reflect brilliantly upon you. Pretend you don’t mind your job or lifestyle. Accentuate the positive and attempt to believe it for a short while. You don’t want to have a boss or regular hours. You like your own freedom. It’s all cool; maybe not forever, but for now it’s fine. Don’t fear conversation pauses, or go about nervously machine-gunning questions into them. You’ve done that before and they don’t like that. Listen. You rock at that anyway; your larger than average ears help. Remember to specifically lie by saying ‘we’ instead of ‘I’. (Because it’s only ever ‘I’). Invent company if you have to. Just do NOT sound like a weirdo loner. Don’t look at any other girls either. This one will be the centre of your world. A very occasional glance perhaps, but no studied lingering looks, even if they’re insanely hot; especially if they’re insanely hot. You can however share a bitchy comment about another person’s dress or shoes. Don’t over-share or say too much or stay too long. Leave something else, don’t play all your cards.
And above all… there should be an ‘above all,’ a mantra to remember at all times. Is there one? Perhaps: try not to think too much about it? Don’t painfully overanalyse everything, even afterwards. Casual, nothing really matters. Remember that. Now put the book down now, she’s coming. Is that really her? Christ, she’s quite attractive. What would she see in y-? Be quiet, brain. Make your mouth smile.
*
“Who with?” she asks because you’ve avoided saying we or I, again.
Make it up!
LIE!
Invent a friend.
Don’t be a lazy brain!
Your face is transparent, crumbling under the effort.
“Just me,” you squeak.
“Are you a bit of a loner?”
She's even used the fucking word. Jesus. WHY are you so useless at concealing this?! It’s not that hard. Lie.
Oh.. bollocks.
The truth bubble has been pricked and it's easiest to simply allow it to splurge: “Hey look. I’ve done plenty of fun travelly things I would have never done if I’d waited around for my mates. It means I’ve done lots of them alone, yes, which I wouldn’t necessarily have chosen to, but you meet people you wouldn’t have otherwise met who I’m still in touch with. And it means you don’t do nothing, you don’t just sit at home moping.” Although you DO very cleverly omit to tell her that you’ve done loads of that too. Well done, you: that's really sensational. “And I live alone and work alone so, you know: draw your own conclusions.” You sound heavy and serious and have completely over-shared, but strangely you don’t regret it. You take a perverse pride in what you perceive to be your difference, even if it gets you nowhere, which it usually does. She hasn't walked out the door yet. You don't even want to begin trying to decipher the meaning behind her smile.
Say something stupid now. Diffuse.
You share two bottles of wine and stay there for far too long.
And above all… there should be an ‘above all,’ a mantra to remember at all times. Is there one? Perhaps: try not to think too much about it? Don’t painfully overanalyse everything, even afterwards. Casual, nothing really matters. Remember that. Now put the book down now, she’s coming. Is that really her? Christ, she’s quite attractive. What would she see in y-? Be quiet, brain. Make your mouth smile.
*
“Who with?” she asks because you’ve avoided saying we or I, again.
Make it up!
LIE!
Invent a friend.
Don’t be a lazy brain!
Your face is transparent, crumbling under the effort.
“Just me,” you squeak.
“Are you a bit of a loner?”
She's even used the fucking word. Jesus. WHY are you so useless at concealing this?! It’s not that hard. Lie.
Oh.. bollocks.
The truth bubble has been pricked and it's easiest to simply allow it to splurge: “Hey look. I’ve done plenty of fun travelly things I would have never done if I’d waited around for my mates. It means I’ve done lots of them alone, yes, which I wouldn’t necessarily have chosen to, but you meet people you wouldn’t have otherwise met who I’m still in touch with. And it means you don’t do nothing, you don’t just sit at home moping.” Although you DO very cleverly omit to tell her that you’ve done loads of that too. Well done, you: that's really sensational. “And I live alone and work alone so, you know: draw your own conclusions.” You sound heavy and serious and have completely over-shared, but strangely you don’t regret it. You take a perverse pride in what you perceive to be your difference, even if it gets you nowhere, which it usually does. She hasn't walked out the door yet. You don't even want to begin trying to decipher the meaning behind her smile.
Say something stupid now. Diffuse.
You share two bottles of wine and stay there for far too long.
Wednesday 7 July 2010
Semi Final 2, Munich. (World Cup 2006)
It cast a grey fug over me for most of the following day, the female failure of the night before. With little else to think about and nobody else to speak to, I pondered it torturously as I walked around a huge, empty sunbaked park. I was an over-hasty idiot who felt his delicate pride had been slighted. My only chance, and a half decent one, and I backed down, walked away.
Wouldn’t do that again.
Towards the centre of town, a series of elegant spires and jagged edges, I found a beautifully sociable beer garden with a warm, buzzy atmosphere. Green leafy trees overhung multiple, standard pub benches, while two swiftly managed hatches sold a neverending supply of beer in an extraordinary range of glasses and long, thick, mustard-laden wurst. You picked your size of mug from one hatch and paid at the next. It was predictably efficient.
On the bench next to mine a lone girl stopped, sat down and began chatting to two young male American tourists. They all seemed to get on splendidly, oblivious to the bitter envy-rays my eyes spat at them from across the path. I sat alone on my table except for the apparently obligatory old man I might someday be. It’s always such fairly nondescript middle-aged or old men who sit on my table; it was the day before when I’d stopped here. It’s always them who end up sitting next to me on planes too. Never the cute girl from the departure lounge who was sitting alone, flicking through Cosmopolitan. That girl sits down the plane and across the aisle, next to someone who could well be me and mightn’t even look dissimilar, but isn’t me. It’s the version of me with the luck who trails the real me about the place rubbing my nose into the floor.
In the Munich Fan Fest for the Portugal-France Semi Final I saw the boys from the previous evening and quickly passed with a nod and chipper “all right, boys?” Partly because I was still smarting, partly because I was embarrassed of myself for leaving like that, and partly because I didn’t want to know if she and James actually did...
I strolled around the old Olympic fan park, the highest hill affording an impressive panorama across the city, the distinctively sharp-edged Munich Olympic stadium at its centre, where England had famously beaten Germany 5-1 in a 2001 World Cup qualifier.
Back inside the surprisingly modest Munich fan park itself – some scale shy of Berlin’s, I said no more than a word or two to those around me while supporting Les Bleus to their almost entirely forgettable 1-0 win over Portugal, (despite wearing a cloyingly talk-to-me intentioned England top, and France and Germany coloured flowery wrist chains).
At the full-time whistle I said something, perhaps felicitations, to a French supporting young girl in front of me, who turned out to be German. I teased her about the flexibility of her allegiance; she looked for a name and number on the back of my England shirt. There was none so we deduced that I was nobody. We chatted for a short time near her timid looking friends, a couple. (Is it more ok for Germans to hang out with friends who are couples? Is there less awareness or awkwardness about encroaching? Or are they less uptight about that kind of thing?) She thought me amusingly odd to be alone. I considered lying and making up some lost friends; didn’t bother. With the sun fully dipped, the weather turned eerily gusty, dust and dirt whipped up uncomfortably from the bank where we were standing, blowing grit into faces and eyes. I offered myself as a shield and she held me close to avoid getting dirt into her eyes. We continued chatting. She held tighter as the wind whipped stronger. Stewards soon began to shepherd people out and away. Her friends’ plans of what they were doing weren’t clear. Nobody seemed to know or be terribly fussed about where I went and my new friend made no appeal for me to stay with them, she seemed genuinely ambivalent.
I walked away, hating myself anew. Couldn’t you just grow some bollocks?
My feet took me back to the town and into a local feeling karaoke bar, on which sat a brochure of awful songs, matched by some equally bad singers. Wearing an England top, my nationality was obvious as I sat at the square bar in the middle of the room, pawing through the brochure, half glancing up at the confident young barmaid who showed the odd uncaring indication of drunkenness. She even contributed the occasional track from her bar. One young local chap talked to me about the football, and was physical in his gesturing. I nervously wondered about his orientation but he did nothing to clarify and eventually left me alone.
A girl then chatted to me, drunk but confident. She said something suggestive. Overweight and pierced, she looked and behaved like she’d experienced her fair share of wurst. I didn’t warm to her, although I likely would have if she’d been an attractive tart. I cursed my inability to compromise and numb myself, instead emitting accordingly uninterested signals.
She discomforted me into moving bar. Another club; non-karaoke, surprisingly busy. I glanced enviously at two young men wearing England tops, with two presumably local, attractive girls. They both seemed fairly advanced with their partners and my envy surged again. Could’ve been me last night. More Other-version-Me’s with luck. Nobody spoke to me there, but there was more to admire so I stayed awhile, bored, sad, perving. My huge hostel and shared room wasn’t enticing.
This was supposed to be the day / night / week of my year / life. And it had mostly been shit.
I was due to return to Berlin on the Deutsche Bahn and fly home from there in another 48 hours. 48 hours was AGES, especially with a 10 hour train ride and more accommodation to sort out. Baddiel & Skinner came on once more and I moved for the door. Morning was cracking the sky as I walked away. I decided to head for Munich airport after a few hours’ sleep. I was coming home.
Wouldn’t do that again.
Towards the centre of town, a series of elegant spires and jagged edges, I found a beautifully sociable beer garden with a warm, buzzy atmosphere. Green leafy trees overhung multiple, standard pub benches, while two swiftly managed hatches sold a neverending supply of beer in an extraordinary range of glasses and long, thick, mustard-laden wurst. You picked your size of mug from one hatch and paid at the next. It was predictably efficient.
On the bench next to mine a lone girl stopped, sat down and began chatting to two young male American tourists. They all seemed to get on splendidly, oblivious to the bitter envy-rays my eyes spat at them from across the path. I sat alone on my table except for the apparently obligatory old man I might someday be. It’s always such fairly nondescript middle-aged or old men who sit on my table; it was the day before when I’d stopped here. It’s always them who end up sitting next to me on planes too. Never the cute girl from the departure lounge who was sitting alone, flicking through Cosmopolitan. That girl sits down the plane and across the aisle, next to someone who could well be me and mightn’t even look dissimilar, but isn’t me. It’s the version of me with the luck who trails the real me about the place rubbing my nose into the floor.
In the Munich Fan Fest for the Portugal-France Semi Final I saw the boys from the previous evening and quickly passed with a nod and chipper “all right, boys?” Partly because I was still smarting, partly because I was embarrassed of myself for leaving like that, and partly because I didn’t want to know if she and James actually did...
I strolled around the old Olympic fan park, the highest hill affording an impressive panorama across the city, the distinctively sharp-edged Munich Olympic stadium at its centre, where England had famously beaten Germany 5-1 in a 2001 World Cup qualifier.
Back inside the surprisingly modest Munich fan park itself – some scale shy of Berlin’s, I said no more than a word or two to those around me while supporting Les Bleus to their almost entirely forgettable 1-0 win over Portugal, (despite wearing a cloyingly talk-to-me intentioned England top, and France and Germany coloured flowery wrist chains).
At the full-time whistle I said something, perhaps felicitations, to a French supporting young girl in front of me, who turned out to be German. I teased her about the flexibility of her allegiance; she looked for a name and number on the back of my England shirt. There was none so we deduced that I was nobody. We chatted for a short time near her timid looking friends, a couple. (Is it more ok for Germans to hang out with friends who are couples? Is there less awareness or awkwardness about encroaching? Or are they less uptight about that kind of thing?) She thought me amusingly odd to be alone. I considered lying and making up some lost friends; didn’t bother. With the sun fully dipped, the weather turned eerily gusty, dust and dirt whipped up uncomfortably from the bank where we were standing, blowing grit into faces and eyes. I offered myself as a shield and she held me close to avoid getting dirt into her eyes. We continued chatting. She held tighter as the wind whipped stronger. Stewards soon began to shepherd people out and away. Her friends’ plans of what they were doing weren’t clear. Nobody seemed to know or be terribly fussed about where I went and my new friend made no appeal for me to stay with them, she seemed genuinely ambivalent.
I walked away, hating myself anew. Couldn’t you just grow some bollocks?
My feet took me back to the town and into a local feeling karaoke bar, on which sat a brochure of awful songs, matched by some equally bad singers. Wearing an England top, my nationality was obvious as I sat at the square bar in the middle of the room, pawing through the brochure, half glancing up at the confident young barmaid who showed the odd uncaring indication of drunkenness. She even contributed the occasional track from her bar. One young local chap talked to me about the football, and was physical in his gesturing. I nervously wondered about his orientation but he did nothing to clarify and eventually left me alone.
A girl then chatted to me, drunk but confident. She said something suggestive. Overweight and pierced, she looked and behaved like she’d experienced her fair share of wurst. I didn’t warm to her, although I likely would have if she’d been an attractive tart. I cursed my inability to compromise and numb myself, instead emitting accordingly uninterested signals.
She discomforted me into moving bar. Another club; non-karaoke, surprisingly busy. I glanced enviously at two young men wearing England tops, with two presumably local, attractive girls. They both seemed fairly advanced with their partners and my envy surged again. Could’ve been me last night. More Other-version-Me’s with luck. Nobody spoke to me there, but there was more to admire so I stayed awhile, bored, sad, perving. My huge hostel and shared room wasn’t enticing.
This was supposed to be the day / night / week of my year / life. And it had mostly been shit.
I was due to return to Berlin on the Deutsche Bahn and fly home from there in another 48 hours. 48 hours was AGES, especially with a 10 hour train ride and more accommodation to sort out. Baddiel & Skinner came on once more and I moved for the door. Morning was cracking the sky as I walked away. I decided to head for Munich airport after a few hours’ sleep. I was coming home.
Tuesday 6 July 2010
Semi Final 1. Munich (World Cup 2006)
Onto Munich on the trusty Deutsche Bahn south. At each stop between Nuremberg and Munich the female train announcer finished her spiel with, “to departing passengers, we would like to say goodbye!” It was delivered in a half sinister fashion which made me imagine her firing a gun into the heads of departing passengers.
Approaching the door of my towering chain hostel on the fringe of central Munich, a sign hiring out bicycles caught my attention. Reasonably priced, I thought. A searing heat surged into the tip of my exposed big toe and I came to an abrupt halt. I looked down to discover I had just walked into a concrete step. It stung deep, causing waves of improbably acute pain to course through me. Crumbling in half, I whined gently and concentrated on not swearing, before eventually exhaling. For several moments I stood still, petrified by the level of pain which could be sourced from a toe. I was perversely pleased to find that the cosmetic damage matched the pain. Blood trickled from beneath the corner of nail and onto my sandal, forming a dark red sticky puddle its rubber sole. My toe grew numb and the nail quickly began to darken.
Despite there being people present, sitting at tables of a bar outside the hostel, nobody appeared to notice. I whined a bit more, negotiated the step and walked gingerly into the lobby.
I was given another room which, as in Nuremberg, was quite probably the furthest distance away from the reception. I grazed my injured toe on one of the many steps up to the fourth floor and bleated in expectation of a pain which didn’t quite transpire, then felt foolish. Five-minutes battling with my roomcard and feeling stupid led me to conclude that it definitely didn’t work, so I beckoned a cleaner from down the corridor to help me.
It wasn’t the best half hour ever. If I’d been arriving in Munich for an England World Cup Semi Final, none of this would have happened.
*
Before the game I found a pleasant public riverside spot near the centre of Munich. People sat on the grass enjoying the early evening sunshine and relaxing with a beer or some food, and friends. It felt novel, being able to sit down somewhere pretty and not feel obliged to spend money on refreshments. People Watching was rich. A larger middle-aged lady was topless and blomonche-like; an old man taking a dip in the surprisingly healthy coloured water – in contrast to Berlin’s river – looked like a prune, stretched and skinny, what little flesh he had sagging from his torso; other younger, attractive people were more aesthetically pleasing, but less interesting viewing. I dozed, listening to Ray LaMontagne on my iPod, feeling my toe tingle and throb.
The Germany-Italy Semi Final was played in Dortmund, not far from Bochum and Gelsenkirchen in the north-west of the county, where I had travelled from. I watched the first 90 minutes on a large screen, hoisted high up in a crammed beer hall. It was the quarter of Munich where several such beer halls seemed to be located, although I'd stumbled across it completely by chance. Several revellers cast fleeting, suspicious eyes over the 3 Lions crest of my old England T-shirt.
Amidst the excitable partisan bustle, hooting and clinking of the beer hall – a long conglomeration of open bars and restaurants – I was growing quietly angry by the amount of refereeing decisions which were going Germany’s way: the bookings they didn’t receive but which I felt they merited. Michael Ballack’s recklessly outstretched leg which took out a full-flight Mauro Camoranesi; Jens Lehmann’s errant punch which connected only with an Italian forward. Neither were given yellow cards. Italy looked the better, more inventive team, especially in the first half, and despite my setting I wanted them to win.
No goals arrived inside ninety minutes so I walked over to the main Marienplatz square for the extra-time period. A large crowd sat and stood beneath a modestly sized screen outside a bar on a warm midsummer evening. Bottles of beer were sold from a crate on the floor.
Italy scored two well-deserved and beautifully crafted late goals towards the end of the second period of extra-time, sparing yet more penalties. Pockets of Italians rejoiced, the vast majority of natives experienced that familiar sagging. They were understandably crushed and the atmosphere in the square drooped. This was supposed to be their tournament, the one they hosted and owned and played well in; the one which meant the German flag could be freely and openly waved again, a justifiable united patriotism.
But now that was all over and I was pleased Italy won. While chatting briefly with an Italian fan outside the bar a local girl approached. On discovering our allegiances she was only half joking in her dismissiveness, turning her nose up and quickly walking away.
An amiable France fan then joined us, sympathetically and equally briefly. The Italian left. Only now was this old England T-shirt paying dividends for speaking to people; people who otherwise wouldn’t have spoken to me. I wished the Frenchman bon chance, we shook hands and he disappeared down the steps to the S-Bahn.
Another group approached: English, no colours – about half dozen of them enjoying a laddish holiday. We had a decent football chat in the square and, after I explained my situation, they invited me to tag along in their search of a decent club. We were directed a few stops up the S-Bahn line to a segregated bar/club area with an oddly temporary caravan park feel.
There weren’t many people around; it was too early at 11.30pm or the Germans were sick with defeat and not feeling like partying. Or both. Led by our main spokesman, a small, confident, geezery but likeable black guy whose name I’ve forgotten but we’ll call James, took the responsibility of asking people where was best. Especially any passing girl. One, who was appended to a quiet couple, gladly advised us. She was German, confident, a little nutty and drunk, but fun and she spoke great English. She totally contradicted my earlier pontifications about German roboticness, straightness. As with many, she wasn't immediately striking, but once your eyes settled there was a definite appeal: thick curly blonde hair, an open approachable face. I don’t recall precisely what I contributed to the consultation – a few lame jokey interjections perhaps – but after she advised us of two places to try, she made a point of saying she liked me because I was typical English. She asked my name and I asked hers: Jen (she abbreviated for me from something less pronouncable). She offered me her cheeks to kiss, one at a time, which I did. And we parted.
After finding our first choice was apparently “members night” only - we went onto our second choice. Jen and her couple friends were already sitting at the bar as we entered. She enthusiastically threw her arms around me when I entered with our group: “you came!” We bought drinks and the boys gave me raised eyebrows. The place was dead; she was the only single girl in there and chatted with an old man at the bar for a time.
I willed him to fuck off.
They chatted for ages.
The unmistakable opening bars to the Baddiel, Skinner and Lightning Seeds’ 3 Lions England football song were played, and she leaped down from her barstool to join us in arms-over-shoulders/ round-waist-dancing. We chatted for a while afterwards and she was all over me. Was she touchy-feely with everyone, or did she want me to make a move? Was she giving signals? The other boys were now giving me how-the-fuck-did-you-do-that? glances and unbelieving shakes of the head. I wasn’t even close to the best looking of the group. We hugged as she clung onto me but I never made a move and we didn’t kiss.
She went back to the bar and her friends, leaving me still quietly confident. “I think you’ve pulled mate,” one of the guys advised.
James went to join her at the bar, started chatting, pulled up a stool. Hello? He’d just been talking to me about his girlfriend of three years. Seemed the faithful sort, although I had only known him for an hour. I had no right claiming any ownership of her but still I felt disgruntled. Evidently so, as the other boys noticed me glancing at them. I overheard one of them saying, “well he never actually pulled her,” and he was right. I hadn’t. Bollocks. It wasn’t my style to battle, go over swinging my bollocks above my head to prove how much worthier I was. Nor was diving straight in, which was maybe what I should have done. She put an arm on his shoulder to lean into his ear.
Bastard. I couldn’t watch this. It was still otherwise empty in there. Perhaps it was all innocent and they were just chatting and she was clearly very physical, but... If it wasn’t I couldn’t bear to see them actually...
She laughed, he laughed.
Terrific. They were getting on great.
I shook hands with the other boys and left, passing behind the backs of the happy fucking couple. I despondently walked away, through the weird complex and back to the station, defeated again, out on penalties in the quarter-final to an equally capable competitor after not playing especially well.
Approaching the door of my towering chain hostel on the fringe of central Munich, a sign hiring out bicycles caught my attention. Reasonably priced, I thought. A searing heat surged into the tip of my exposed big toe and I came to an abrupt halt. I looked down to discover I had just walked into a concrete step. It stung deep, causing waves of improbably acute pain to course through me. Crumbling in half, I whined gently and concentrated on not swearing, before eventually exhaling. For several moments I stood still, petrified by the level of pain which could be sourced from a toe. I was perversely pleased to find that the cosmetic damage matched the pain. Blood trickled from beneath the corner of nail and onto my sandal, forming a dark red sticky puddle its rubber sole. My toe grew numb and the nail quickly began to darken.
Despite there being people present, sitting at tables of a bar outside the hostel, nobody appeared to notice. I whined a bit more, negotiated the step and walked gingerly into the lobby.
I was given another room which, as in Nuremberg, was quite probably the furthest distance away from the reception. I grazed my injured toe on one of the many steps up to the fourth floor and bleated in expectation of a pain which didn’t quite transpire, then felt foolish. Five-minutes battling with my roomcard and feeling stupid led me to conclude that it definitely didn’t work, so I beckoned a cleaner from down the corridor to help me.
It wasn’t the best half hour ever. If I’d been arriving in Munich for an England World Cup Semi Final, none of this would have happened.
*
Before the game I found a pleasant public riverside spot near the centre of Munich. People sat on the grass enjoying the early evening sunshine and relaxing with a beer or some food, and friends. It felt novel, being able to sit down somewhere pretty and not feel obliged to spend money on refreshments. People Watching was rich. A larger middle-aged lady was topless and blomonche-like; an old man taking a dip in the surprisingly healthy coloured water – in contrast to Berlin’s river – looked like a prune, stretched and skinny, what little flesh he had sagging from his torso; other younger, attractive people were more aesthetically pleasing, but less interesting viewing. I dozed, listening to Ray LaMontagne on my iPod, feeling my toe tingle and throb.
The Germany-Italy Semi Final was played in Dortmund, not far from Bochum and Gelsenkirchen in the north-west of the county, where I had travelled from. I watched the first 90 minutes on a large screen, hoisted high up in a crammed beer hall. It was the quarter of Munich where several such beer halls seemed to be located, although I'd stumbled across it completely by chance. Several revellers cast fleeting, suspicious eyes over the 3 Lions crest of my old England T-shirt.
Amidst the excitable partisan bustle, hooting and clinking of the beer hall – a long conglomeration of open bars and restaurants – I was growing quietly angry by the amount of refereeing decisions which were going Germany’s way: the bookings they didn’t receive but which I felt they merited. Michael Ballack’s recklessly outstretched leg which took out a full-flight Mauro Camoranesi; Jens Lehmann’s errant punch which connected only with an Italian forward. Neither were given yellow cards. Italy looked the better, more inventive team, especially in the first half, and despite my setting I wanted them to win.
No goals arrived inside ninety minutes so I walked over to the main Marienplatz square for the extra-time period. A large crowd sat and stood beneath a modestly sized screen outside a bar on a warm midsummer evening. Bottles of beer were sold from a crate on the floor.
Italy scored two well-deserved and beautifully crafted late goals towards the end of the second period of extra-time, sparing yet more penalties. Pockets of Italians rejoiced, the vast majority of natives experienced that familiar sagging. They were understandably crushed and the atmosphere in the square drooped. This was supposed to be their tournament, the one they hosted and owned and played well in; the one which meant the German flag could be freely and openly waved again, a justifiable united patriotism.
But now that was all over and I was pleased Italy won. While chatting briefly with an Italian fan outside the bar a local girl approached. On discovering our allegiances she was only half joking in her dismissiveness, turning her nose up and quickly walking away.
An amiable France fan then joined us, sympathetically and equally briefly. The Italian left. Only now was this old England T-shirt paying dividends for speaking to people; people who otherwise wouldn’t have spoken to me. I wished the Frenchman bon chance, we shook hands and he disappeared down the steps to the S-Bahn.
Another group approached: English, no colours – about half dozen of them enjoying a laddish holiday. We had a decent football chat in the square and, after I explained my situation, they invited me to tag along in their search of a decent club. We were directed a few stops up the S-Bahn line to a segregated bar/club area with an oddly temporary caravan park feel.
There weren’t many people around; it was too early at 11.30pm or the Germans were sick with defeat and not feeling like partying. Or both. Led by our main spokesman, a small, confident, geezery but likeable black guy whose name I’ve forgotten but we’ll call James, took the responsibility of asking people where was best. Especially any passing girl. One, who was appended to a quiet couple, gladly advised us. She was German, confident, a little nutty and drunk, but fun and she spoke great English. She totally contradicted my earlier pontifications about German roboticness, straightness. As with many, she wasn't immediately striking, but once your eyes settled there was a definite appeal: thick curly blonde hair, an open approachable face. I don’t recall precisely what I contributed to the consultation – a few lame jokey interjections perhaps – but after she advised us of two places to try, she made a point of saying she liked me because I was typical English. She asked my name and I asked hers: Jen (she abbreviated for me from something less pronouncable). She offered me her cheeks to kiss, one at a time, which I did. And we parted.
After finding our first choice was apparently “members night” only - we went onto our second choice. Jen and her couple friends were already sitting at the bar as we entered. She enthusiastically threw her arms around me when I entered with our group: “you came!” We bought drinks and the boys gave me raised eyebrows. The place was dead; she was the only single girl in there and chatted with an old man at the bar for a time.
I willed him to fuck off.
They chatted for ages.
The unmistakable opening bars to the Baddiel, Skinner and Lightning Seeds’ 3 Lions England football song were played, and she leaped down from her barstool to join us in arms-over-shoulders/ round-waist-dancing. We chatted for a while afterwards and she was all over me. Was she touchy-feely with everyone, or did she want me to make a move? Was she giving signals? The other boys were now giving me how-the-fuck-did-you-do-that? glances and unbelieving shakes of the head. I wasn’t even close to the best looking of the group. We hugged as she clung onto me but I never made a move and we didn’t kiss.
She went back to the bar and her friends, leaving me still quietly confident. “I think you’ve pulled mate,” one of the guys advised.
James went to join her at the bar, started chatting, pulled up a stool. Hello? He’d just been talking to me about his girlfriend of three years. Seemed the faithful sort, although I had only known him for an hour. I had no right claiming any ownership of her but still I felt disgruntled. Evidently so, as the other boys noticed me glancing at them. I overheard one of them saying, “well he never actually pulled her,” and he was right. I hadn’t. Bollocks. It wasn’t my style to battle, go over swinging my bollocks above my head to prove how much worthier I was. Nor was diving straight in, which was maybe what I should have done. She put an arm on his shoulder to lean into his ear.
Bastard. I couldn’t watch this. It was still otherwise empty in there. Perhaps it was all innocent and they were just chatting and she was clearly very physical, but... If it wasn’t I couldn’t bear to see them actually...
She laughed, he laughed.
Terrific. They were getting on great.
I shook hands with the other boys and left, passing behind the backs of the happy fucking couple. I despondently walked away, through the weird complex and back to the station, defeated again, out on penalties in the quarter-final to an equally capable competitor after not playing especially well.
Monday 5 July 2010
itchy memories
I went back last Friday and found somewhere new to live. It certainly doesn’t have the wow factor of the ill-fated first attempt, but it should do fine for a while: clean, spacey, reasonable location, a probably civilised yet fairly anonymous local community.
Pending form-filling and references, the flat is mine. Another deposit holding payment has been made, telephone discussions have been conducted and emails exchanged. A prospective move date has been agreed.
I’m suddenly nervous, jittery and slightly afraid. Of what, I’m not precisely sure, although I have suspicions. I haven’t minded London as much this last month or so, but the good financial arguments still hold, as do the social ones – despite their vague hopefulness.
Added to this is that continued nagging doubt about moving backwards, also expressed before, and the irritation of old memories which that unavoidably brings.
Current reading, Obstacles To Young Love, by David Nobbs, has helpfully (or unhelpfully) illuminated this. Its key characters have a brief teenage fling, their first, at the book’s opening, and it seems they periodically come back together – not unlike One Day, the most recent book by the similarly styled David Nicholls. In these books, and probably in real life, people might take a year or two to get over their other, but they ostensibly do (even if they ‘deeply’ do not). People move on.
The horrid truth is that I haven’t, not really. And it’s been significantly longer than a year or two. There's been nothing anywhere near as serious. She still invades my dreams every month or so, accusing, teasing, sighing at how utterly pathetic I must be.
But I don’t seek reconciliation. A few months ago I unfriended her on Facebook (she had originally found me and, after a short dither, I had accepted the friend request). I didn’t want to see photos of her and her boyfriend but couldn’t resist my temptation to click when they did appear on my feed, the handsome bastard. I WANT to move on, put clear water between me and those memories. I simply can’t; they keep resurfacing like stubbornly floating shit.
Returning to the scene of the crime, the place where all that was set, it’s natural for that to breed nervousness, to fear how healthy or unhealthy it could be, the scabs you’re picking anew. It’s this which is a large cause of my discomfort about moving back, as well as knowing she could be around the next corner.
Move dates refresh this nervousness. They make it pungent, fresh and frightening.
Pending form-filling and references, the flat is mine. Another deposit holding payment has been made, telephone discussions have been conducted and emails exchanged. A prospective move date has been agreed.
I’m suddenly nervous, jittery and slightly afraid. Of what, I’m not precisely sure, although I have suspicions. I haven’t minded London as much this last month or so, but the good financial arguments still hold, as do the social ones – despite their vague hopefulness.
Added to this is that continued nagging doubt about moving backwards, also expressed before, and the irritation of old memories which that unavoidably brings.
Current reading, Obstacles To Young Love, by David Nobbs, has helpfully (or unhelpfully) illuminated this. Its key characters have a brief teenage fling, their first, at the book’s opening, and it seems they periodically come back together – not unlike One Day, the most recent book by the similarly styled David Nicholls. In these books, and probably in real life, people might take a year or two to get over their other, but they ostensibly do (even if they ‘deeply’ do not). People move on.
The horrid truth is that I haven’t, not really. And it’s been significantly longer than a year or two. There's been nothing anywhere near as serious. She still invades my dreams every month or so, accusing, teasing, sighing at how utterly pathetic I must be.
But I don’t seek reconciliation. A few months ago I unfriended her on Facebook (she had originally found me and, after a short dither, I had accepted the friend request). I didn’t want to see photos of her and her boyfriend but couldn’t resist my temptation to click when they did appear on my feed, the handsome bastard. I WANT to move on, put clear water between me and those memories. I simply can’t; they keep resurfacing like stubbornly floating shit.
Returning to the scene of the crime, the place where all that was set, it’s natural for that to breed nervousness, to fear how healthy or unhealthy it could be, the scabs you’re picking anew. It’s this which is a large cause of my discomfort about moving back, as well as knowing she could be around the next corner.
Move dates refresh this nervousness. They make it pungent, fresh and frightening.
Thursday 1 July 2010
wavering
The idea of moving suddenly seems a bigger deal. I’ve grown to like betweenyness. Limbo is good; it suits me. That added spice of injustice too, being embattled: it fits my angst like an England World Cup exit.
There’s even more possibility and opportunity when you’re in between, neither coming or going knowing or being massively certain, and only sporadically caring.
ANYTHING could happen. Not that it does. The idea that it could is almost enough.
Almost. Because it’s equally tiring. At times you want to give yourself a good shake and tell yourself to grow up, get direction, be all assertive and adult-like. Plant two feet firmly on the ground and.. and..
And what?
I don’t know: keep on doing whatever it is that you’ve been doing anyway.
So, just remind me: what’s the point in moving again?
Well, there was old mates and stuff too.
Don't look at me like that, subconscious. How can you look at me like anything?
...
FUCK OFF! Leave me alone, I made my mind up!
Change it if you want, nothing’s set in stone. It's only you.
No, really. Fuck off now, subconscious, I'm doing it.
Going back, hitting the M4 once more and flathunting again: it feels scarier. The idea of signing a contract, albeit only a short-term tenancy agreement, it’s more of a commitment than the first time: a distance that’s been stretched by a longer time thinking about it – my removal; and stretched by liking London in the summer, by feeling its richness, scale and people even more. It’s ok here actually. Upheaval makes me newly nervous, unsure. My living circumstances aren’t ideal, but they’re not terrible. If I could just find a little better around here then..
A little better doesn’t come cheaply though. A little better than this costs lots more. That’s a key reason why you decided to move, doofus, remember?
Oh yes. And ANYTHING could happen anywhere else too, remember?
But this is less easy to accept. Opportunities and possibilities must surely be proportional with scale, size and number. Mustn’t they? Does a smaller place with fewer people offer quite as much?
It’s not with massive conviction that I’ll return and potentially sign up to rent a new property, notwithstanding being conned by an unscrupulous landlord again. Yet it’s seldom with massive conviction that I do anything: I guess and hope and leap.
There’s even more possibility and opportunity when you’re in between, neither coming or going knowing or being massively certain, and only sporadically caring.
ANYTHING could happen. Not that it does. The idea that it could is almost enough.
Almost. Because it’s equally tiring. At times you want to give yourself a good shake and tell yourself to grow up, get direction, be all assertive and adult-like. Plant two feet firmly on the ground and.. and..
And what?
I don’t know: keep on doing whatever it is that you’ve been doing anyway.
So, just remind me: what’s the point in moving again?
Well, there was old mates and stuff too.
Don't look at me like that, subconscious. How can you look at me like anything?
...
FUCK OFF! Leave me alone, I made my mind up!
Change it if you want, nothing’s set in stone. It's only you.
No, really. Fuck off now, subconscious, I'm doing it.
Going back, hitting the M4 once more and flathunting again: it feels scarier. The idea of signing a contract, albeit only a short-term tenancy agreement, it’s more of a commitment than the first time: a distance that’s been stretched by a longer time thinking about it – my removal; and stretched by liking London in the summer, by feeling its richness, scale and people even more. It’s ok here actually. Upheaval makes me newly nervous, unsure. My living circumstances aren’t ideal, but they’re not terrible. If I could just find a little better around here then..
A little better doesn’t come cheaply though. A little better than this costs lots more. That’s a key reason why you decided to move, doofus, remember?
Oh yes. And ANYTHING could happen anywhere else too, remember?
But this is less easy to accept. Opportunities and possibilities must surely be proportional with scale, size and number. Mustn’t they? Does a smaller place with fewer people offer quite as much?
It’s not with massive conviction that I’ll return and potentially sign up to rent a new property, notwithstanding being conned by an unscrupulous landlord again. Yet it’s seldom with massive conviction that I do anything: I guess and hope and leap.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)