He pushed the door open and the conversation inside ceased, he became an interruption. He pulled the door closed behind him and sat down, his swimming shorts squeltching against the marble. Opposite him was a large, smoothly bronzed man, and along the stone bench was the middle-aged woman, her legs stretched out in front of her.
After several seconds’ silence, she resumed.
“So I only come here on Tuesdays and Thursdays usually because it’s much quieter,” she told her original company. “At the weekend there are so many children.”
She spoke in clipped, Slavic tones. The man nodded his agreement, not caring one way or the other, not appearing hugely keen on having the conversation at all.
“So many children,” she confirmed, her distaste of children clear enough. “But now it is nice and quiet.”
The man nodded.
It wasn’t THAT quiet, the younger man thought. He’d been on weekend evenings when it had been quieter than this.
“Do you work every day?” she asked the man
“No, I don’t work,” he said in softly spoken Welsh tones, wanting to leave it at that. But he soon realised that she wouldn’t. She would pepper him with questions for as long as he sat there, or twitter away to anyone who’d listen.
“Oh.”
“Took early retirement last year at 50,” he conceded. The man did not look 50 years of age. Bronzed, smooth - was it possible to reach fifty and still be so hairless? the younger man wondered. He must wax. Muscular too, the peak of physical fitness, early retirement at 50, financially secure. The younger man opposite him steamed enviously.
“The army?” she guessed, almost childishly, “or a builder? Down in the mines?” She was enjoying herself, flattering him with macho professions.
“Steelworks,” he said. “They were laying lots of people off you know, youngsters coming through. I volunteered because I had a private pension.
“Oh, perhaps one day some easy job will come up?”
“No, I don’t want to work. Moving abroad soon.”
“Oh yes? To where? To Spain?” she guessed at random, wanting to get something right.
“Bulgaria.”
“Bulgaria?”
The unexpected country halted the flow of her questions.
“I am from Russia originally and so we don’t trust the former.. you know,” she trailed off. “We think they will look to cheat us or..”
Both men smiled at her loyalty and old-fashioned caution. The younger man thought of breaking his silence by saying something comparable about being an Englishman in Wales, but didn’t.
“You are going to buy a house there?” she asked, apparently recovered.
“Bought one.”
“Oh, so you and your wife will settle there now, yes?”
He smiled and mumbled about a new life, never qualifying who the ‘we’ was supposed to refer to. The younger man wondered at this clean-cut man’s sexuality for a second, the rough and tumble of steel worker life. For all his size and obvious strength, there was a coy softness about him. Men who looked like this usually had booming voices that travelled effortlessly, natural mannerisms which could fill a stage.
“That's enough in here for me, I think,” he said. He stood up and, looking mildly harassed, left the steam room.
Tuesday 14 September 2010
Monday 13 September 2010
Minor grievances / Galgutted
Scanning the library shelves I kept repeating the names of the three authors in my head: Dunmore, Galgut, Chalkas (?) – if that’s how you say / spell it. I held little hope for any of them, given their contemporariness and likely popularity. However, as I reversed through the Gs, then spun around to face the GAs, I saw the Galgut.
The day before I’d taken a long, scenic, glorious walk through rolling countryside and listened to many podcasts along the way, mostly cultural reviews of film, music and books. One had passingly discussed this booker shortlisted title, In A Strange Room, by Damon Galgut. I had heard it discussed in podcasts before. It appealed: a dreamy sounding semi-autobiographical tale of three separate but interconnected journeys, a slim book of the kind I might stupidly aspire to write.
There it was. I took a sharp intake of breath and pulled it from the shelf – brand new but with that uncomfortable protective seal which all library books wear, like a disagreeable plastic sheet on an infant’s bed. As if conscious that the book could easily be spotted in my grasp and confiscated from me, I held it low to my thigh and made for one of the large windows across the large open space, then flopped down on a comfortable armchair, already sated by my smug glory.
Shit, I thought, not quite as eloquently as the book. This was good. I suddenly felt compelled to devour the whole book in one sitting, however long it took, then I quickly realised I couldn’t. Guilt, inboxes and paying duties would call.
I read 33 pages, saw another book en route to the automated machine – DBC Pierre’s latest – then tried to take them out. The machine rejected the books and ordered me to take them to a manned desk. My gut squirmed with irrationally strong fear that the book would be wrenched from me. “No, can’t let you have this one," the bald, blank man told me, indicating the Galgut. "It’s been reserved by someone else.”
It shouldn’t have been on the bloody shelf in the first place then, SHOULD IT? – I didn’t say. Because what was the point? Just take it. Accept another slap.
These things have been snowballing of late: minor grievances which in and of themselves are just that: small irritations. Some are marginally larger than others irritations, but all are essentially inconsequential. The second DVD rental in a short space of time which was faulty, ruining an long-anticipated pleasure; a bicycle too broken to justify the expense of fixing; a temperamental iPod; confusingly unclear directions during the walk; a weak handbrake which made hill parking unwise; slow drying laundry; the biting misery of the lonely which must be concealed for the sake of coolness and self-pride, but which never gets easier.
You have to be realistic and rational in the face of these things, however minor, significant or stupidly allegorical they can appear: this route doesn’t make any bloody sense! Woah, deep man. Fuck off, brain. And there are no direct correlations here. Finding the freezer door open can invoke preposterous anger. Be strong, keep going, take on the next week, see if anything different happens.
I sulked out of the library and walked a short distance up the road to purchase the book from the nearest Waterstones book shop. I wanted to read all of it now I’d bitten a decent chunk off. I hadn’t wanted to buy or own it, but now I’d started, I would. Fuck the library bastards.
Taking it from the new shelf I found my deeply programmed frugality offended at paying full price for such a thin book, the small thrill of its newness and the lack of a protective plastic cover almost non-existent. (Another thing). I paid a smiley young shop assistant with a grudging smile, instantly regretting paying by card as soon as I'd entered it in the machine. I had enough cash on me. (Another thing).
Why was I being such a miserable bitter dick? I was my father again. Like the day before when I was mentally composing the letter of complaint to the author of those terrible directions. I hated it when that happened.
I left the bookshop and walked past a church, a lone woman crying under its arch. She could’ve lost a loved one or received bad news about her health. What were my problems compared to these grown up ones; serious ones which could form plot-lines in hospital dramas and Eastenders? Nothing at all. Comedic ones which might make Adrian Mole or The Inbetweeners.
Queuing in Starbucks I made a silly face at an infant who was staring at me from a nearby table, then I made that pu-pu sound which tots in their teen months seem to be engaged by. A toddler equivalent of the kissing noise which alerts cats. This one smiled even more widely at the noise and his two female guardians laughed along. Three seconds was enough of that. I smiled weakly at the adults, didn’t remove my headphones and faced ahead again, remembering I was supposed to be annoyed and embattled and a dick. I shuffled forwards, looked gravely at a smug plump banana muffin, all full of itself, and waited.
The day before I’d taken a long, scenic, glorious walk through rolling countryside and listened to many podcasts along the way, mostly cultural reviews of film, music and books. One had passingly discussed this booker shortlisted title, In A Strange Room, by Damon Galgut. I had heard it discussed in podcasts before. It appealed: a dreamy sounding semi-autobiographical tale of three separate but interconnected journeys, a slim book of the kind I might stupidly aspire to write.
There it was. I took a sharp intake of breath and pulled it from the shelf – brand new but with that uncomfortable protective seal which all library books wear, like a disagreeable plastic sheet on an infant’s bed. As if conscious that the book could easily be spotted in my grasp and confiscated from me, I held it low to my thigh and made for one of the large windows across the large open space, then flopped down on a comfortable armchair, already sated by my smug glory.
“Memories come back of other places he has waited in, departure halls of airports, bus-stations, lonely kerbsides in the heat, and in all of them there is an identical strain of melancholy summed up in a few transitory details… From this particular place he will retain the vision of a cracked brick wall growing hotter and hotter in the sun.”
“…a sort of primal nervousness descends. But this is also one of the most compelling elements in travel, the feeling of dread underneath everything, it makes sensations heightened and acute, the world is charged with a power it doesn’t have in ordinary life.”
Damon Galgut, In A Strange Room
Shit, I thought, not quite as eloquently as the book. This was good. I suddenly felt compelled to devour the whole book in one sitting, however long it took, then I quickly realised I couldn’t. Guilt, inboxes and paying duties would call.
I read 33 pages, saw another book en route to the automated machine – DBC Pierre’s latest – then tried to take them out. The machine rejected the books and ordered me to take them to a manned desk. My gut squirmed with irrationally strong fear that the book would be wrenched from me. “No, can’t let you have this one," the bald, blank man told me, indicating the Galgut. "It’s been reserved by someone else.”
It shouldn’t have been on the bloody shelf in the first place then, SHOULD IT? – I didn’t say. Because what was the point? Just take it. Accept another slap.
These things have been snowballing of late: minor grievances which in and of themselves are just that: small irritations. Some are marginally larger than others irritations, but all are essentially inconsequential. The second DVD rental in a short space of time which was faulty, ruining an long-anticipated pleasure; a bicycle too broken to justify the expense of fixing; a temperamental iPod; confusingly unclear directions during the walk; a weak handbrake which made hill parking unwise; slow drying laundry; the biting misery of the lonely which must be concealed for the sake of coolness and self-pride, but which never gets easier.
You have to be realistic and rational in the face of these things, however minor, significant or stupidly allegorical they can appear: this route doesn’t make any bloody sense! Woah, deep man. Fuck off, brain. And there are no direct correlations here. Finding the freezer door open can invoke preposterous anger. Be strong, keep going, take on the next week, see if anything different happens.
I sulked out of the library and walked a short distance up the road to purchase the book from the nearest Waterstones book shop. I wanted to read all of it now I’d bitten a decent chunk off. I hadn’t wanted to buy or own it, but now I’d started, I would. Fuck the library bastards.
Taking it from the new shelf I found my deeply programmed frugality offended at paying full price for such a thin book, the small thrill of its newness and the lack of a protective plastic cover almost non-existent. (Another thing). I paid a smiley young shop assistant with a grudging smile, instantly regretting paying by card as soon as I'd entered it in the machine. I had enough cash on me. (Another thing).
Why was I being such a miserable bitter dick? I was my father again. Like the day before when I was mentally composing the letter of complaint to the author of those terrible directions. I hated it when that happened.
I left the bookshop and walked past a church, a lone woman crying under its arch. She could’ve lost a loved one or received bad news about her health. What were my problems compared to these grown up ones; serious ones which could form plot-lines in hospital dramas and Eastenders? Nothing at all. Comedic ones which might make Adrian Mole or The Inbetweeners.
Queuing in Starbucks I made a silly face at an infant who was staring at me from a nearby table, then I made that pu-pu sound which tots in their teen months seem to be engaged by. A toddler equivalent of the kissing noise which alerts cats. This one smiled even more widely at the noise and his two female guardians laughed along. Three seconds was enough of that. I smiled weakly at the adults, didn’t remove my headphones and faced ahead again, remembering I was supposed to be annoyed and embattled and a dick. I shuffled forwards, looked gravely at a smug plump banana muffin, all full of itself, and waited.
end of days
In an extraordinary move intended to ease recessionary burden and tackle binge drinking, the coalition government is set to abolish the traditional sequence of days of the week.
Less ability to organise meetings and generally plan our lives, as well as an uncertainty about being able to tackle the professional effects of getting drunk, will alleviate numerous recessionary tensions, according to the proposal document.
“Everyone knows Britain would be better if we all just chilled out a bit” said David Cameron, through a plume of dense, sickly smoke. “This move, while we appreciate its radical nature, will be welcomed by people. Nobody really LIKES planning things after all. Making lists, yes. Planning, no. Knowing that Monday will follow Sunday, and Tuesday will follow that, those balling Sunday night butterflies: all gone. The knowledge of predictable Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday – poof! Vanished.
“Finely scheduled meetings and events are a bore. If we wake up without the certainty of knowing what day of the week it is, then we must simply all just roll with it. If we find the midnight draw has revealed it’s a Sunday, stay in bed. If it’s Thursday the 14th – then get out and move because you’d orchestrated a seminar for this date, although you didn’t know when it would be. There’s the new excitement there, the unpredictability. Consider this a reinjection and reinvigoration of edgy British life through simply not knowing.”
Nick Clegg managed to stifle his previously uncontrollable giggles to echo the sentiments, before going on to add: “We all know routine is dull. Days of the week are outdated now and have been for a long time. We need rather more spontaneity in our otherwise tepid lives today and these plans will deliver that. Sure, it’ll take a short time to adjust and the markets might go a little wobbly for a few days. But hey: it’ll be fun, guys, you know? Just go with us on this one.”
Less ability to organise meetings and generally plan our lives, as well as an uncertainty about being able to tackle the professional effects of getting drunk, will alleviate numerous recessionary tensions, according to the proposal document.
“Everyone knows Britain would be better if we all just chilled out a bit” said David Cameron, through a plume of dense, sickly smoke. “This move, while we appreciate its radical nature, will be welcomed by people. Nobody really LIKES planning things after all. Making lists, yes. Planning, no. Knowing that Monday will follow Sunday, and Tuesday will follow that, those balling Sunday night butterflies: all gone. The knowledge of predictable Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday – poof! Vanished.
“Finely scheduled meetings and events are a bore. If we wake up without the certainty of knowing what day of the week it is, then we must simply all just roll with it. If we find the midnight draw has revealed it’s a Sunday, stay in bed. If it’s Thursday the 14th – then get out and move because you’d orchestrated a seminar for this date, although you didn’t know when it would be. There’s the new excitement there, the unpredictability. Consider this a reinjection and reinvigoration of edgy British life through simply not knowing.”
Nick Clegg managed to stifle his previously uncontrollable giggles to echo the sentiments, before going on to add: “We all know routine is dull. Days of the week are outdated now and have been for a long time. We need rather more spontaneity in our otherwise tepid lives today and these plans will deliver that. Sure, it’ll take a short time to adjust and the markets might go a little wobbly for a few days. But hey: it’ll be fun, guys, you know? Just go with us on this one.”
Saturday 4 September 2010
Through the mill
Glancing at his pint glass across the table from mine, I noticed the liquid level was an inch further down and remembered his gulping, intimidating yet nonchalant drinking pace. Beer was like water to him and appeared to the similar affect.
One to one, man to man, it’s difficult to NOT keep pace; you just have to. I would be drunk before too long.
I remembered his pace from that small Croatian island three years ago when I was on the cusp of my move to London. A group of us had been thrown together and got on well, unknowable pledges to keep in touch had been made at the end of the week, Facebook friend requests had subsequently been accepted, occasional messages, but no more than that. Then a week into my new term in Cardiff we bumped into each other in the street, met up for lunch, and now beer. Copious, free-flowing, fast-paced beer.
I could reign it in though. First game of the season tomorrow, after all. Didn’t want to miss that, not after playing myself into the starting line-up thanks to a couple of passable pre-season performances. Wouldn’t mind seeing the England qualifier too.
Another?
No need to feel the obligation of watching England really. Not after the summer.
Go on then.
They were having no discernible affect on him at all. Whereas I was feeling drunk and wobbly. He was taking more toilet breaks more than me. Perhaps that helped. Neither of us had eaten. We’d sat outside the trendy bar in the street since about five o clock, watched the sun affably fade and the evening rise, the cackling leering weekend Cardiff emerge.
We got on well and shared similar interests: books, music, outdoorsyness, occupations. He was a proper valleys boy, a couple of years older and about a foot shorter. Walking next to him felt awkward, as if I was patronising him by being there. Daresay he was used to it.
A colleague of his walked past the bar and joined us. I teased her, possibly flirted, drunk: infected by Cardiff’s cackling leer? She failed to conceal a smile, said she didn’t like me and bought us a drink; the last one as it turned out. Rum and coke. I was done with San Miguel after more pints than I could remember. They had to get trains back to their valleys. I couldn’t drink anymore and could now get home for the football highlights.
Jermain Defoe had already notched his first of three when I arrived back. Fuck me, I was really drunk. I drank lots of water, which made it worse: stirring an unsettled stomach.
Today saw the worse hangover I’ve experienced in years. My head has pounded relentlessly, I vomited until there was nothing there, just stomach lining, bile and tears, I spat blood at one point and had brief fleeting fears. I text messaged an apology for my absence to the football manager, explaining it as some sort of food poisoning. Sorry. I’d really wanted to play too.
Instead I slept, more than I have slept in any single day in recent memory, mostly in bed, one hour on the sofa after Football Focus. It came in wave after sickening wave, just when the worst seemed beaten, complemented by shivers and shakes and fever and cold. Movement induced nausea and further horrible, exhausting wretches. Sipping water was pointless, reintroducing itself with mulchy interest inside minutes. I slept more. There was no other answer.
Around five o clock, twenty four hours after we had met the previous day, I awoke again. There was an absence I was emotionally grateful for. The squeezing and pulling at my stomach had weakened, I could move my body without wanting to hurl. Could I sip water and..? More gurgling and clanking, but no cold sweats and nausea which heralded those intense contractions and that gravity-defying rush.
A carefully devoured cup of tea and slice of buttered toast was heavenly. Each crumb and drop savoured like it was the first thing I’d eaten anything for months. Would it go down and stay down?
I waited. Things gurgled and processed. No sweating or nausea or horrid expectation.
Yes, it stayed down. Now I was confident I would pull through and this traumatising ordeal would be over.
I stank.
One to one, man to man, it’s difficult to NOT keep pace; you just have to. I would be drunk before too long.
I remembered his pace from that small Croatian island three years ago when I was on the cusp of my move to London. A group of us had been thrown together and got on well, unknowable pledges to keep in touch had been made at the end of the week, Facebook friend requests had subsequently been accepted, occasional messages, but no more than that. Then a week into my new term in Cardiff we bumped into each other in the street, met up for lunch, and now beer. Copious, free-flowing, fast-paced beer.
I could reign it in though. First game of the season tomorrow, after all. Didn’t want to miss that, not after playing myself into the starting line-up thanks to a couple of passable pre-season performances. Wouldn’t mind seeing the England qualifier too.
Another?
No need to feel the obligation of watching England really. Not after the summer.
Go on then.
They were having no discernible affect on him at all. Whereas I was feeling drunk and wobbly. He was taking more toilet breaks more than me. Perhaps that helped. Neither of us had eaten. We’d sat outside the trendy bar in the street since about five o clock, watched the sun affably fade and the evening rise, the cackling leering weekend Cardiff emerge.
We got on well and shared similar interests: books, music, outdoorsyness, occupations. He was a proper valleys boy, a couple of years older and about a foot shorter. Walking next to him felt awkward, as if I was patronising him by being there. Daresay he was used to it.
A colleague of his walked past the bar and joined us. I teased her, possibly flirted, drunk: infected by Cardiff’s cackling leer? She failed to conceal a smile, said she didn’t like me and bought us a drink; the last one as it turned out. Rum and coke. I was done with San Miguel after more pints than I could remember. They had to get trains back to their valleys. I couldn’t drink anymore and could now get home for the football highlights.
Jermain Defoe had already notched his first of three when I arrived back. Fuck me, I was really drunk. I drank lots of water, which made it worse: stirring an unsettled stomach.
Today saw the worse hangover I’ve experienced in years. My head has pounded relentlessly, I vomited until there was nothing there, just stomach lining, bile and tears, I spat blood at one point and had brief fleeting fears. I text messaged an apology for my absence to the football manager, explaining it as some sort of food poisoning. Sorry. I’d really wanted to play too.
Instead I slept, more than I have slept in any single day in recent memory, mostly in bed, one hour on the sofa after Football Focus. It came in wave after sickening wave, just when the worst seemed beaten, complemented by shivers and shakes and fever and cold. Movement induced nausea and further horrible, exhausting wretches. Sipping water was pointless, reintroducing itself with mulchy interest inside minutes. I slept more. There was no other answer.
Around five o clock, twenty four hours after we had met the previous day, I awoke again. There was an absence I was emotionally grateful for. The squeezing and pulling at my stomach had weakened, I could move my body without wanting to hurl. Could I sip water and..? More gurgling and clanking, but no cold sweats and nausea which heralded those intense contractions and that gravity-defying rush.
A carefully devoured cup of tea and slice of buttered toast was heavenly. Each crumb and drop savoured like it was the first thing I’d eaten anything for months. Would it go down and stay down?
I waited. Things gurgled and processed. No sweating or nausea or horrid expectation.
Yes, it stayed down. Now I was confident I would pull through and this traumatising ordeal would be over.
I stank.
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