And I want you to find me so I'll stay by your side

Wow. It’s Tuesday morning and already I have had the most roller coaster ride of emotions. I woke up feeling, not surprisingly, fucking sleepy, and I lay in the sun for a while like a cat. I pottered around and dreaded going into work- for a damn good reason, as it turned out. Finally I left and got the bus but decided to get off half way there and walk the rest of the way. I was trying to convince myself that it was warm enough to not wear my jacket but I think I was just procrastinating. By the time I got to work I was feeling okay, and I saw my friend (who is looking more and more Jewish every day) who told me that I looked “awesome” and “a little sunburnt” (eh?), but then I came into my office and switched on my computer and within five minutes I had tears running uncontrollably down my face and there was nothing I could do about it.

But that aside- and I am not going to go into that right now because, for one, it is private, and also, I’m trying to pretend that I’m working, and crying doesn’t help me make this a very convincing façade- I don’t want to be at work today. The carefully constructed bonhomie with my colleague appears to be in tatters (and I am beginning not to care) and there is yet another drama that I am being asked my opinion on. Not just asked. It appears that I am being consulted. To the point that I have some print outs of carefully numbered and highlighted emails sitting on my desk, and I am expected to formulate a cogent response. This, I knew before I even saw the emails, was an impossible task. I have no idea what I am meant to say, and I feel completely useless. For the millionth time.

Then I also got another weird email, which made me feel sick to my stomach though I can’t exactly pinpoint why.

I suppose this is the point where I give a synopsis of the weekend. On Friday after work I went to the pub with N and C. After two pints, we went home, planning to have a nap and then go out in Brixton to this guy’s birthday. But we fell asleep (incidentally, listening to the same track that I had woken up to that morning) and I didn’t wake up until 2am. I couldn’t wake N up as I knew he was fucking tired, even though I knew he’d be hungry, so I pottered around for a while and read a magazine before staring at the night sky for an hour or so before going back to sleep again.

I just managed, in the space of sixty seconds, to spill some of my cup-a-soup down my arm and then burn my mouth on the rest of it. They don’t call me “special” for nothing you know. Plus I would like to add that I know cup-a-soup is gross and wrong etc but I am on a diet and it’s better than anything else I would otherwise eat. Back to the tale of the weekend…

On Saturday we had quite a lazy day. I read both the Independent and the Guardian and went through the jobs section (to no real avail) while N did revision for scary accountancy exams. Then we headed off for Old Street and went to the most pretentious bar I’d ever been to (and bear in mind that I’ve been out on Old Street a number of times, so I know pretentious when I see it). Why is it that all these “trendy” Old Street types seem to like hanging out in places that wouldn’t look out of place in a sewer? When I earn as much as these media type people do, I won’t be drinking in establishments like that. I used to know this girl (or woman, I suppose) who lived on Old Street and was a porn writer. She used to comb her cat and save the hair so that she could get it spun into wool and then she would make it into a jumper. It was always quite fun going out with her but it made me feel like I was a child (I suppose I was- I was 19 and she must have been nearly 30). I stopped going round after I saw her cooking up crack in her kitchen.

I digress. The bar on Old Street… I am trying to think what happened. Ah yes. I found out that S wasn’t actually invited to the party we were going to and I felt like a big bad… baddie. People quizzed me on my knowledge of the London Underground. It turns out that I know most of it. I mean, I knew I knew most of it, but when people say a name of a station, I can tell them what line it is on and (pretty much) which zone. There was this guy there who told me that it was a useless skill as it wasn’t a true representation, as maps go, which of course I knew. I told him that I did have some idea of the lie of the land above ground as well, as I had been reading the A-Z. Which I have, in a way, though I am glad he didn’t test me on that. He also asked me what zone different stations were in, and when I said zone 2 (instead of zones 2 AND 3, silly me) he said something along the lines of “ha! Not so clever now”, which I didn’t really appreciate. In fact I felt about 3mm tall. It’s not like I have memorised the tube map to impress people, I just happen to know it. I don’t tell people that I know it either (other people do that, I guess they find it amusing). I don’t know why that guy wanted to make me feel stupid, but he succeeded. Oh well, fuck it. He’s probably just jealous because he doesn’t know where Hatton Cross is.

After another guy telling me that one of my friends was a pain in the arse and a complete bitch (much appreciated, thanks… clearly TACT is your middle name), we all went to get the bus up to Stoke Newington. I hadn’t been to Stokey since I moved, back in October, and it wasn’t really all that different except that they had resurfaced the road and the front of my old house was really overgrown. Anyhow, got to the party and stood in the kitchen area feeling quite awkward. Then I went to sit in what was apparently the “rave room” and discovered that JA has Busted on his computer. Not good, but better than kiddie porn I suppose. Not that I expected there to be kiddie porn. That’s just me being “witty”. More people came and shook hands with everyone except me, though I didn’t really mind as they looked like tossers. People started smoking weed and I remembered that I absolutely despise the smell as it makes me feel ill. I can’t believe I used to smoke. Then N actually got sick, and I spent the next few hours looking after him. I actually didn’t mind at all as I like looking after people (as mentioned in a previous post, I am Florence Nightingale reincarnate), plus I like looking after N more than anyone else, plus I don’t think I missed all that much, party-wise.

When he fell asleep, I went to smoke a cigarette but started crying, mainly for a reason that I can’t write here, and also because I was worried about N, and then also for another reason that I can’t write here (reason number 1 involves S and she knows what it is and that there is no need to worry, and reason number 2 is not for me to write about for a myriad of reasons, though again, no one should worry about it- apart from me, as that’s what I do = worry). A was still there and we had a good old chat, and I decided that I would quite like to get drunk, so me, her and JA drank vodka and orange fanta, and JA made what he christened a “council house white Russian”. To make one of these, you need:

- Vodka (cheap as possible, I think we were using the connoisseurs choice: “vodkat”)
- Milk, semi skimmed
- Cocoa powder, large tablespoon of
- Polystyrene cup (for proper authenticity)

Vodka and milk goes in cup, then the spoon of cocoa, which should not be stirred properly. JA said that he’d drink half if I drank half, so I made him go first. He managed about a quarter, which to me was fighting talk, so I downed the rest and then ran to the bathroom where I thought I was going to spew (but didn’t). Clearly I am hardcore, but then again he’s been told before that I could drink him under the table. God knows why I drank that drink though. Even seeing the cup the next day made me feel properly sick.

A left about 3 or so and I passed out on the sofa, and looked like a weasel (I’ve seen photographic evidence). N got thrown out of JA’s bed and we managed to have quite a good sleep on the sofa, before stumbling down Church Street in a hungover daze, helped considerably by some food and a foray into one of the bookshops. I was, however, disappointed to see that there were no longer any birthing pools on display in the window of Born, one of the most cringingly awful shops known to man. As some sort of consolation, I did see a three-wheeler pram. I didn’t know these things even existed. Stoke Newington makes Herne Hill seem ghetto.

What else? I decided that I really should wash my hair as it was feeling sticky and N told me that it smelt, but there was no hot water. In the end I had a cold shower and I found that by repeating “I am not cold. This is bracing. I am not cold”, it was tolerable. I have decided to abandon for good this whole not-washing-my-hair experiment. I told this to R today who told me that that was a good thing and that I looked considerably better with clean hair. It seems my 15 year old grebo self just won’t leave the adult me alone.

Today is my mum’s birthday and I have forgotten to send a card, like the bad daughter that I am. I also forgot to call her this weekend and I guess that’s another reason why I’m feeling sad. Today I also have to show some prospective housemates around camp mansions, which should be an experience, not least because I am utterly shit at things like this. I will do one of two things- either, piss around and make stupid jokes (and then they’ll think I’m a moron), or, I’ll get silly and shy and won’t be able to talk properly. When I get like that I end up saying things that aren’t even true, just because it’s easier (for example, when people ask where I am from, I say London, just because it’s less complicated than saying I’m not from London… it doesn’t make sense, I know). #2 is also moving out, which is good in a way as maybe we’ll get to live with someone more chilled out, but I don’t like change, and I hate moving house (or in this case, rooms) and I just wish that things could stay the same forever. In that way I guess I am a little like Peter Pan.

Just to update- I gave my advice on the emails and the impossible drama, and I think it actually went okay. Okay in that what I said made sense, brought a smile to her face, sounded mature and sensible, etc. Bloody hell.