What a fabulous day I've just had. And for once, I'm not actually being sarcastic when I say that. I really have had a great day. Which is funny, really, as it so nearly wasnt a good day at all. And I suppose, looking back at the day, there were quite a few things that went wrong, or could have gone better.
For a start, I woke up quite late. Bearing in mind that I didn't have to go to work, but that I did have a lot to do, I'd set my alarm for 08:30. I woke up at about 06:15 thanks to the bin men making an absolute cacophony. That kept me awake for ages. I think it was the reversing noise more than anything. They must have reversed half way across London, it went on so long. Then I slept through my alarms. I just couldn't rouse myself. At one point I did get up and even got as far as washing my face, but then I went back to bed. I tried playing music to wake me up. That failed. I tried listening to the radio, but all that did was give me weird dreams. In the end I got up properly just before 11:00.
It was just as well that I woke up then as the debt recovery agents called me fifteen minutes later and asked why I hadn't been making my payments. I had to promise to pay them £20 by the end of the day or they'd get their solicitors onto me. I dont have £20 but I had to agree. In the end it was okay as a guy who goes to my old uni lent me the money, as well as reserving a book for me. So a bad situation was made better.
I was feeling so chirpy walking up Fleet Street, thinking about how great it will be going back to uni. I was annoyed with myself for not appreciating student life a bit more. Just as I was thinking how I'd happily walk up Fleet Street every day if I was a student again, a bus came past and splashed a puddle up at me. Sometimes I wonder if fate is trying to tell me something? Thankfully it didn't go on my dress- I would have gone nuts if it had as it's a vintage white woollen dress. Not the kind of thing you want covered with street skank.
I had one of the funniest conversations with one of my friends:
Him: People keep writing mean things about me in the newspaper.
Me: Oh, that sucks
Him: I suppose I should be glad I'm being written about.
Me: Yeah. Any publicity is good publicity!
Him: That's true. Just look at Hitler! People are still talking about him and he died ages ago.
Me: That's not quite what I had in mind.
I went to see my old tutor to sort out my references and personal statement for my masters application. I queued for ages outside his office, but all these Americans kept pushing in front. Now, I've nothing against Americans as such. I couldn't really admit to it anyway, seeing as I work in race relations and all that. But LSE attracts a really awful type of American. They're obnoxious. They're rude. They think theyre god's bloody gift. They whinge about how crap London is but still bust a gut and spend a fortune to stay here. They live in Chelsea and wear flip flops all year round. They can't actually write essays because thats not how American universities work. Argh! Anyway, there were loads of these in the department today. There were so many that my tutor didn't have time to see me and I had completely wasted my time.
This could have been a bad situation, but it turned out okay. I went to see my favourite teacher of all time. Actually, first of all I knocked on another teachers door to say something along the lines of, "You know how you said that I was rubbish in comparison to other people and that you hoped one day I would find something that I'm good at? Well, fuck you!" Or something equally mature. She wasn't there, which was probably a good thing. I hadn't brought in my degree certificate, and waving that in her face would have been the piece de resistance.
My favourite teacher was wonderful and as always, she made me feel really good about myself. For some reason she thinks that I'm clever. If I had to choose a mother (that wasnt already my mother) I would choose her in an instant. She promised to check my personal statement, and got all the information she needed to write my reference. Whenever I speak to her, I feel so much more sorted. She's helped me to get so much more clarity in my writing that it actually makes my thoughts clearer too (NB, when I say writing, I don't mean this. I'm well aware that my blog is pretty poorly written- but it's in the vernacular, and so doesn't count. I mean my proper writing, academic work and the like).
This evening I had a really good ballet class. I walked there from Lavender Hill, which didn't take too long. I quite like doing so much walking. I just wish I had my mp3 player back from T as it would make walking so much more interesting. It's really good for my ankle too. Anyway, in the class, things went pretty well. I had really bad period pains all day so I didn't know how well it would go. Someone once said to me that they found it easier to balance when on their period, and I think I found it easier too. That and the fact that Ive been really concentrating on my sides and which muscles will stop you from falling over. My feet didnt want to move very quickly, so some of the exercises were a bit of a shambles, but for once I felt like my weight placement was right. I even did some nice pirouettes, which is quite an achievement as I'm still very dizzy from coming off my medication. I still can't do jumps though, so I had to miss all the fun allegro exercises. When I got home, however, I had a letter from the physiotherapists asking me to call and make an appointment. So hopefully I will be in full working order soon.
Other things than have brought a smile to my face today:
- Watching birds fly under the bridge at Clapham Junction station (they look like theyre having a race)
- Having people call you and let you know that they care
- Arranging for old friends to come and stay. Well, in this case, ex-boyfriend, but it was so long ago that it doesn't count and he's just classified as an old friend, right?
- Cooking up yet another storm. This time I made potato and apple bake. It looks delicious but I haven't tried it yet as its for my packed lunch
- Reading fantastic books
- Reading Calvin and Hobbes- the best way to relax before bedtime!
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
The link I was talking about
This is the link to the Guardian article I mentioned in my last post... (hope it works)
http://books.guardian.co.uk/extracts/story/0,,1686011,00.html
I found it enlightening, I hope you do too.
http://books.guardian.co.uk/extracts/story/0,,1686011,00.html
I found it enlightening, I hope you do too.
Dee dum dee dum...
I don’t normally talk about my depression. It’s not really the done thing, I suppose. But I was talking to a friend of mine yesterday, and realised that far more people have it than is commonly thought. The stigma attached to “mental illness” is unfair and does far more harm than good. For example, my ex boyfriend thought that having depression meant that I was inherently cuckoo. I tried to explain that it was an illness in the same way that asthma is- you take the medication (or asthma inhaler) and then it is as if there is nothing wrong with you. Although, being a rational person, he was completely capable of understanding this, he chose to dismiss this theory. Instead he would call me “mental” whenever he wanted to win an argument. Or he would ignore my opinion on something that differed from him, saying that I was crazy, and what would I know…
That kind of attitude to mental health- in this apparently enlightened day and age- is very worrying, not to mention completely counter-productive.
I’ve now reached the point where if I don’t talk about my own depression, then it just perpetuates the whole cycle I despise so much. Depression really isn’t uncommon. I am twenty-one.
I have had depression for about ten years now. It wasn’t diagnosed then. I first went to the doctor when I was fifteen. At sixteen I was sent to therapy by my school. At eighteen I went back to the doctor and started my first anti-depressants. Since then I’ve taken six different types, as well as beta-blockers.
The first time I went to the doctor, they told me that it was just a teenage thing, and that I should basically just get over it. I’ve been self harming since I was about twelve. Then at sixth form, a teacher noticed my arms and told my senior tutor, who sent me to see a therapist. I really didn’t like the therapist; she was incredibly patronising, and kept her room far to warm, so all I felt like doing was falling asleep. I stopped going, but continued self harming. I started taking beta blockers to deal with the signs of my nervousness. In the summer before I went to university, I realised that I had a problem. At the time, I was standing on a bridge- a footbridge- and thinking how I should probably just throw myself off. I went to the doctor, who put me on the first of the many SSRI’s I have taken.
When I came to London, in September 2002, I started to lose the plot even more. I started going out with my ex, and we took a lot of drugs together. I was sleeping about ten hours a week, and keeping a diary of everything I was eating. I was completely convinced that no one liked me, and cried a lot of the time. I went to the university doctor. I was told that I had clinical depression and severe anxiety disorder. They gave me Venlafaxine to deal with my depression and Diazepam to help me sleep. I started seeing a new therapist, who was also patronising, but less so than the last one. But I kept taking all the other drugs, and I didn’t get any better. I vividly recall lying in my bed in halls, and thinking how much effort it would take to get up and walk across the street to the A&E department. In the end I didn’t, I just took a packet of pain killers instead.
Fast forward a year and I was no longer living in halls, and had stopped taking the anti-depressants as I couldn’t see any benefits. I’d also stopped taking the Diazepam, but only because I couldn’t get them to prescribe me any more. I was still pretty fucked up, and eventually went back to the doctor, fearing I was losing my mind. They put me on some other SSRI’s. I had to take a high dose to feel anything, and then I really suffered with the side effects. Well, one side effect really. I completely lost my sex drive. As if the doctor doesn’t think you’re mental enough, I reveal that I’m actually a nymphomaniac. After that I tried yet another SSRI.
Like a kid in a candy store, picking out penny sweets.
In the spring of 2004, I started at a new doctor. The doctor I had was the nicest doctor I have ever had. He really took the time to listen to me, and was just lovely. He decided that I should try Venlafaxine again, but a modified release version, which would mean only taking one tablet a day. I am sure that some people have had positive results using Venlafaxine, but I had a terrible experience. Soon after starting on a high dose, I developed some of the nasty side-effects you get when you mess around with these drugs- namely agitation, anxiety, disturbed sleep and mania. I felt crazier than had I not been taking anything. I went back to the doctor and was sent to the psychiatric hospital. They put me back on SSRI’s, and then a month later, doubled the dose. I’ve been on 100mg- which is double the recommended maintenance dose, but half the maximum dose- for 18 months.
But not any more. And boy, I am suffering. For those who’ve never had SSRI withdrawal, I will attempt to explain how it feels, and why the hell I would want to do this.
You know that feeling on a rollercoaster, where you feel like you’ve left your head at the top of a loop, and your stomach somewhere else? That’s how I feel, all the time. If I move, it’s worse, but it happens even when I’m sitting down, staying still. It’s like walking in the funhouse. Add to this the feeling that your legs aren’t really attached to your body. And aching muscles through clenching too much, a sore head and always, always being too hot, except when I’m unbearably cold. That’s pretty much how I’m feeling right now.
I didn’t mean to come off them. Not now anyway. Not after my little crazy episode the other week. But the truth of the matter is, I ran out of money and I can’t afford to get my prescription. I’m carrying it around with me, waiting until pay day when I can stop this out of body experience.
In a way, it’s nice not to be taking them, even though I know that I should really get back to taking them again before I throw myself under a bus or similar (already I’m thinking about jumping out of windows). But it’s nice not taking anything, not being reliant on anything. The drugs companies are cunts. I read an article in the Guardian on Saturday about SSRI’s. I’ll try and link it to this blog, though it might not work- I’m not overly technical. Basically it said that SSRI’s didn’t have great results in trials versus placebos and that they caused suicidal feelings, as well as being “more difficult to come off them than anticipated”. I’ll fucking say. And while it’s nice to not be taking anything, and not lining the pockets of some pharmaceutical company, I now that I’m on a much thinner tightrope than when I’m taking my pill of sanity every morning.
I so want to cure this through sheer willpower. I keep looking at the prescription in my bag and contemplating throwing it away. But all I want to do is get my drugs and take them, and make everything okay. I’m so hooked on these things. An SSRI junkie.
In other news… I’m sure absolutely no one is reading this now, seeing as I have just decided to share my medical history with the world…The HR department at work have finally stopped making pension deductions from my pay. I have no intention of building up a pension at the moment. Let’s take into consideration the huge amount of debt I’m in. Does it really seem like I have spare cash so when I’m 85 I can go to Waitrose and not Asda? I don’t understand all the fuss about the retirement age going up. I’m going to working until I kick the bucket. I don’t think I can afford not to. Though if there are any rich men out there reading this, then offers off marriage to the following address…. (I may not be able to get rid of my debt, but I have no qualms about getting other people to do it for me)
What else? I haven’t forgotten that I need to lay out my new philosophy, courtesy of A (T's housemate). You’ll have to wait for that one though.
I’ve made a list of things to do this week. So far it’s going well. The list is:
- Sleep in my own bed every night this week. This is instead of anyone else’s sofa or random people’s beds. I didn’t buy these bed covers just to look pretty, you know.
- Take a packed lunch to work every day. I managed that today, and made enough tonight to take in tomorrow.
- Don’t use the vending machine at work. Smarties chocolate bars are not your friend.
- Apply for my Masters course. Going well so far. I’ve even emailed my old tutors to get references.
- Get a haircut. Haven’t managed that one yet, but it is only Monday after all. I’ve called my hairdresser but I don’t think he’s returning my calls. Yes, hairdressing really IS that lame!
- Go to the bank. And grovel. Nuff said.
- Finish reading that sociology book I started ages ago. I really should stop being so lazy.
- Stop obsessing about the fact that certain people haven’t texted you back. I’m not naming names as that would reveal the shameful depths of lameness I’ve sunk to.
I’ll give a progress report at the end of the week. I’m sure I will have done fabulously.
Right, time to have a ciggie out of the bedroom window.
I just realised that I no longer talk to people about what I’ve been up to or how I feel as I write it all down here. I hope that means that I have more time for fun, rather than the other interpretation, which would be that I have no friends and these people are just happy to have got away. You’d think it would be an easy decision, but I’m actually scuppered on this one.
That kind of attitude to mental health- in this apparently enlightened day and age- is very worrying, not to mention completely counter-productive.
I’ve now reached the point where if I don’t talk about my own depression, then it just perpetuates the whole cycle I despise so much. Depression really isn’t uncommon. I am twenty-one.
I have had depression for about ten years now. It wasn’t diagnosed then. I first went to the doctor when I was fifteen. At sixteen I was sent to therapy by my school. At eighteen I went back to the doctor and started my first anti-depressants. Since then I’ve taken six different types, as well as beta-blockers.
The first time I went to the doctor, they told me that it was just a teenage thing, and that I should basically just get over it. I’ve been self harming since I was about twelve. Then at sixth form, a teacher noticed my arms and told my senior tutor, who sent me to see a therapist. I really didn’t like the therapist; she was incredibly patronising, and kept her room far to warm, so all I felt like doing was falling asleep. I stopped going, but continued self harming. I started taking beta blockers to deal with the signs of my nervousness. In the summer before I went to university, I realised that I had a problem. At the time, I was standing on a bridge- a footbridge- and thinking how I should probably just throw myself off. I went to the doctor, who put me on the first of the many SSRI’s I have taken.
When I came to London, in September 2002, I started to lose the plot even more. I started going out with my ex, and we took a lot of drugs together. I was sleeping about ten hours a week, and keeping a diary of everything I was eating. I was completely convinced that no one liked me, and cried a lot of the time. I went to the university doctor. I was told that I had clinical depression and severe anxiety disorder. They gave me Venlafaxine to deal with my depression and Diazepam to help me sleep. I started seeing a new therapist, who was also patronising, but less so than the last one. But I kept taking all the other drugs, and I didn’t get any better. I vividly recall lying in my bed in halls, and thinking how much effort it would take to get up and walk across the street to the A&E department. In the end I didn’t, I just took a packet of pain killers instead.
Fast forward a year and I was no longer living in halls, and had stopped taking the anti-depressants as I couldn’t see any benefits. I’d also stopped taking the Diazepam, but only because I couldn’t get them to prescribe me any more. I was still pretty fucked up, and eventually went back to the doctor, fearing I was losing my mind. They put me on some other SSRI’s. I had to take a high dose to feel anything, and then I really suffered with the side effects. Well, one side effect really. I completely lost my sex drive. As if the doctor doesn’t think you’re mental enough, I reveal that I’m actually a nymphomaniac. After that I tried yet another SSRI.
Like a kid in a candy store, picking out penny sweets.
In the spring of 2004, I started at a new doctor. The doctor I had was the nicest doctor I have ever had. He really took the time to listen to me, and was just lovely. He decided that I should try Venlafaxine again, but a modified release version, which would mean only taking one tablet a day. I am sure that some people have had positive results using Venlafaxine, but I had a terrible experience. Soon after starting on a high dose, I developed some of the nasty side-effects you get when you mess around with these drugs- namely agitation, anxiety, disturbed sleep and mania. I felt crazier than had I not been taking anything. I went back to the doctor and was sent to the psychiatric hospital. They put me back on SSRI’s, and then a month later, doubled the dose. I’ve been on 100mg- which is double the recommended maintenance dose, but half the maximum dose- for 18 months.
But not any more. And boy, I am suffering. For those who’ve never had SSRI withdrawal, I will attempt to explain how it feels, and why the hell I would want to do this.
You know that feeling on a rollercoaster, where you feel like you’ve left your head at the top of a loop, and your stomach somewhere else? That’s how I feel, all the time. If I move, it’s worse, but it happens even when I’m sitting down, staying still. It’s like walking in the funhouse. Add to this the feeling that your legs aren’t really attached to your body. And aching muscles through clenching too much, a sore head and always, always being too hot, except when I’m unbearably cold. That’s pretty much how I’m feeling right now.
I didn’t mean to come off them. Not now anyway. Not after my little crazy episode the other week. But the truth of the matter is, I ran out of money and I can’t afford to get my prescription. I’m carrying it around with me, waiting until pay day when I can stop this out of body experience.
In a way, it’s nice not to be taking them, even though I know that I should really get back to taking them again before I throw myself under a bus or similar (already I’m thinking about jumping out of windows). But it’s nice not taking anything, not being reliant on anything. The drugs companies are cunts. I read an article in the Guardian on Saturday about SSRI’s. I’ll try and link it to this blog, though it might not work- I’m not overly technical. Basically it said that SSRI’s didn’t have great results in trials versus placebos and that they caused suicidal feelings, as well as being “more difficult to come off them than anticipated”. I’ll fucking say. And while it’s nice to not be taking anything, and not lining the pockets of some pharmaceutical company, I now that I’m on a much thinner tightrope than when I’m taking my pill of sanity every morning.
I so want to cure this through sheer willpower. I keep looking at the prescription in my bag and contemplating throwing it away. But all I want to do is get my drugs and take them, and make everything okay. I’m so hooked on these things. An SSRI junkie.
In other news… I’m sure absolutely no one is reading this now, seeing as I have just decided to share my medical history with the world…The HR department at work have finally stopped making pension deductions from my pay. I have no intention of building up a pension at the moment. Let’s take into consideration the huge amount of debt I’m in. Does it really seem like I have spare cash so when I’m 85 I can go to Waitrose and not Asda? I don’t understand all the fuss about the retirement age going up. I’m going to working until I kick the bucket. I don’t think I can afford not to. Though if there are any rich men out there reading this, then offers off marriage to the following address…. (I may not be able to get rid of my debt, but I have no qualms about getting other people to do it for me)
What else? I haven’t forgotten that I need to lay out my new philosophy, courtesy of A (T's housemate). You’ll have to wait for that one though.
I’ve made a list of things to do this week. So far it’s going well. The list is:
- Sleep in my own bed every night this week. This is instead of anyone else’s sofa or random people’s beds. I didn’t buy these bed covers just to look pretty, you know.
- Take a packed lunch to work every day. I managed that today, and made enough tonight to take in tomorrow.
- Don’t use the vending machine at work. Smarties chocolate bars are not your friend.
- Apply for my Masters course. Going well so far. I’ve even emailed my old tutors to get references.
- Get a haircut. Haven’t managed that one yet, but it is only Monday after all. I’ve called my hairdresser but I don’t think he’s returning my calls. Yes, hairdressing really IS that lame!
- Go to the bank. And grovel. Nuff said.
- Finish reading that sociology book I started ages ago. I really should stop being so lazy.
- Stop obsessing about the fact that certain people haven’t texted you back. I’m not naming names as that would reveal the shameful depths of lameness I’ve sunk to.
I’ll give a progress report at the end of the week. I’m sure I will have done fabulously.
Right, time to have a ciggie out of the bedroom window.
I just realised that I no longer talk to people about what I’ve been up to or how I feel as I write it all down here. I hope that means that I have more time for fun, rather than the other interpretation, which would be that I have no friends and these people are just happy to have got away. You’d think it would be an easy decision, but I’m actually scuppered on this one.
Monday, January 16, 2006
I can't think of a title...
I think my last post was one of my lowest points. Actually, no, the low points continued all night, until about 2 am. I might as well be truthful here. Damn the low points. I know that without them I wouldn’t feel the high points, but I just can’t take feeling that bad, and I don’t have the internal mechanisms necessary to deal with my emotions. I pretend to be wise- I even (and this is the worst, most hypocritical thing of all) give advice to other people. I try to deal with my life by ridiculing it. Having a blog is a fantastic was of doing that. Not only can I take the piss of my very existence, but also I can allow the entire bloody world to read all about it, and fill their shoes with pity.
Sometimes I really am a sorry excuse for a person, let alone the adult I masquerade as.
Having started this entry in possibly one of the most depressing manners I’ve ever done- forgive me, my internal monologue is taking on Vesuvius proportions- I’d like to state that I’m not actually in such a tumultuous mental state as one could be forgiven for thinking I am in. This weekend I have done a lot of thinking, and have made some realisations about myself that I think are potentially very important. I suppose now is the point in the blog where I list the events of the last weekend, in a similar vein to a parrot…
Immediately after writing my last post, I went to the pub. Actually, first I went to the loos and brushed my teeth. But then I walked to the pub with another girl from work, who was wearing a very pretty dress, as she was off to a gentlemen’s club in Mayfair later on in the evening. It was T’s leaving drinks, so most people came along, though not all for very long. I chatted to one of the lawyers, for the first half hour or so. Then I talked to a guy in my department for a while. He really made me laugh, as he’s so sarcastic. When he starts laughing, I can’t help myself and I just HAVE to laugh. His laugh sort of gurgles up from inside him, and it’s very addictive. It all kind of went downhill from there. I was rude to a girl I work with, calling her patronising. I started ranting at one of T’s friends about my ideas for European development. At one point he was almost shouting at me: “Will you just listen to me? Will you let me speak?” Eventually he just left.
Amazingly, things went even further downhill after that. That this was possible doesn’t cease to astonish me. I decided it would be a good idea to give S a call. I don’t really remember what I said. I think I just wanted to be loved, hence me pretty much begging for affection. I’m sure I sounded like a complete fool. I sent her a text message after that, which I think said sorry, though it could have said anything really. My eyes (at the time) and memory (now) are obviously in a big conspiracy against me. Why else would I remember only that I’d made an arse of myself, without the details? After last weekend, I just wanted her to like me. Not even because I want affection from her specifically, but because I just needed affection. In truth, I just want her as a friend. But when I’m drunk, the thought of anyone holding me seems so appealing. I think we’re still friends though. She’s not ignoring me, anyway.
Everyone decided to leave, and T and I got a taxi to east London. He kept trying to kiss me in the cab, which I found quite wearing and also incredibly annoying. I may be emotionally starved but I can’t stand for men to be, particularly if they’re apparently my friends. There’s nothing worse than having a ‘friend’ who you then find out is only your friend because they’re trying to shag you (I will ignore the fact that S probably thinks that about me, as I’m not just trying to shag her, I’m just a bit stupid, especially after I’ve been drinking). T and I had a curry, which was quite funny as the waiter dropped a plate of rice all over the table/floor/me. The food itself wasn’t all that great, and the waiter was a bit rude to me as he thought that I couldn’t understand the menu. Yes, this gora can understand what aloo saag is, thanks. I ordered the rest of the food in Punjabi, just to prove a point. Lame, I know, but it seemed like the pinnacle of wit at the time.
Going into T’s apartment block, he managed to fall up the stairs to his flat and smash a bottle of wine into the palm of his hand. I had to get glass out of it and bandage it up. Then go downstairs and try and clean up the blood that was literally everywhere (on the stairs, the wall, the door, the floor, the sofa...). That was quite amusing. As that was the bottle of wine we were going to drink, we needed to get more wine. I was sent out to get some, and ended up getting a lift from a stranger, who drove me to Dalston and back. He was clearly trying to hit on me, so I had a go at him for picking up strange girls with no regard for their safety. I pulled the old trick, “Do you have a sister? Would you be happy with her getting into cars with people she didn’t know?” He pointed out that I was the one walking down Commercial Road at silly o’clock looking for an off licence, but I ended up doing quite a good job of making him feel bad and he actually apologised. Ha! He apologised for driving to the Kingsland Road just so I could get some wine. Looking back, it wasn’t a very safe thing for me to do, and so the less said about it, the better. You know I’m an idiot. I know I’m an idiot. The point doesn’t really need reiterating.
In my last post, I asked, rhetorically, for someone to save me. I found that someone. She is T’s housemate. T went to bed fairly soon after I got back with the wine, as he was too drunk to even speak. A and I stayed up most of the night, talking about everything under the sun and listening to Leonard Cohen, snuggled up under a duvet. A told me so many things I was so happy to hear. We’re from the same town but she’s eleven years older so we don’t have any mutual friends. She didn’t talk any bullshit and said things that weren’t necessarily the nicest to hear… but I was so happy to listen. I still need to think so much about all the things we talked about, and when I have made some sense of it in my head, I will write it here. Most importantly, she told me never to apologise for who I am, and to view intimacy as a transient thing, rather than something that is fixed. And thankfully, I didn't make an idiot of myself and try and kiss her, which is quite a relief.
I eventually went to sleep on the sofa, fully clothed. I woke up when the others got up, but didn’t open my eyes, as I wasn’t sure if they were going to stay awake (and therefore wake me up!). I woke up again a few hours later with a completely numb leg (that’s sleeping in jeans for you!), a stonking headache and a feeling like I’d been kicked viciously in the kidneys. Not pleasant. I managed to make my way back home, and spent quite a pleasant journey reading the newspaper and eating a Cadbury’s Caramel Egg (my new favourite chocolate, in case anyone is feeling generous).
Back home, I made some calls and then metamorphosed into some sort of Martha Stewart hybrid. Though without the prison. I baked some scones, made potato pancakes and a huge pot of dhal. I wish I’d had a pinny to complete the domestic goddess look, though I did have the requisite flour on my face. After cooking up a storm- quite literally- my housemate and I sat down to eat. She’d drunk a bottle of wine, and we made the executive decision that she should call her ex to tell him that she had a new boyfriend. Not in a callous way, of course, but because her ex is coming to stay in a couple of weeks and she wanted him to know before he got here. Turns out that he’s been doing some Olympic style shagging, and wasn’t going to tell her until he got here- and that was only because he didn’t think that they should have sex, as he hadn’t always used a condom. We decided to crack open the vodka. We spent the night bitching about men, describing our various medical problems, trying to explain just how mental we really were, and getting stupidly drunk. In the end, she crashed out on top of her duvet. I tucked her up and tried to clear up the ash she’d spilt on her bed, and then got her a pint of water and some paracetamol. She drank some of the water and asked me to sleep in her room, as she thought she might be sick. Now sober, I can’t believe I agreed to sleep in a bed with someone who had just told me they might puke, but that’s what I did. Her first thought the next morning was, apparently, “I feel rough…. Who the hell is that in my bed?”
Yesterday I passed the day being quite idle. The first episode of the new series of ‘The OC’ was on, so I watched that while eating some of my scones and drinking a whole pot of tea. I love trashy shows like ‘The OC’. It’s the TV equivalent of a marshmallow- delicious but lacking substance.
I started looking for my employment contract. In the end, I ended up completely sorting out all of my papers- bank statements, phone bills, hospital letters, etc.- but I didn’t find the contract. Still, everything is very organised and I managed to make some space, so I was able to finally unpack the books I was given last weekend. I was so chuffed with myself. Next on the list of things to do is buy a new scrapbook (the old one is full) and some more glue, and get started on that.
We could smell gas in the hallway YET AGAIN, so we called out Transco (YET AGAIN). The man came pretty quickly and we all pestered him, bossing him around and telling him that we could smell the gas and so there must be a leak, and if he couldn’t detect it then he should look harder. After noting that we looked like the witches of Eastwick, we went back to watching TV. He said that we had yet another leak but that he’d fixed it. I was ready to turn the gas off completely. I get so paranoid about gas.
I couldn’t sleep last night as I was actually sick with worry. You know the phrase? Well, I was actually physically sick thinking about how poor I was and what the hell I was going to do about it. I wrote up a budget and figured that if I only spent 5p a week on non-essentials, I would have enough money to pay my rent, bills, loan repayment and maybe be able to save a tenner so I can go travelling. I hate being this poor. I had more money as a student, as I didn’t have to pay council tax and had a loan and a scholarship (as well as two jobs). I didn’t really go out all that much back then though. Not only did I have no money, I was convinced I had no friends. Now I don’t care if I don’t have any friends, and I have even less money. Life is pretty shitty sometimes. The only way I could get to sleep was to put ‘Amelie’ on in the background. There’s nothing like that film to soothe you, though it does always make me cry.
Today I don’t feel so bad. I may be poor, but I’m okay. I’m a pretty good person. I can get another job where I earn a little more. I have great prospects. I guess I’m quite pretty. I know that things are only looking down at the moment for a limited number of reasons (which I can’t be bothered to go into right now). Things are okay. I am okay.If I say this enough times then I will start to believe it.
Sometimes I really am a sorry excuse for a person, let alone the adult I masquerade as.
Having started this entry in possibly one of the most depressing manners I’ve ever done- forgive me, my internal monologue is taking on Vesuvius proportions- I’d like to state that I’m not actually in such a tumultuous mental state as one could be forgiven for thinking I am in. This weekend I have done a lot of thinking, and have made some realisations about myself that I think are potentially very important. I suppose now is the point in the blog where I list the events of the last weekend, in a similar vein to a parrot…
Immediately after writing my last post, I went to the pub. Actually, first I went to the loos and brushed my teeth. But then I walked to the pub with another girl from work, who was wearing a very pretty dress, as she was off to a gentlemen’s club in Mayfair later on in the evening. It was T’s leaving drinks, so most people came along, though not all for very long. I chatted to one of the lawyers, for the first half hour or so. Then I talked to a guy in my department for a while. He really made me laugh, as he’s so sarcastic. When he starts laughing, I can’t help myself and I just HAVE to laugh. His laugh sort of gurgles up from inside him, and it’s very addictive. It all kind of went downhill from there. I was rude to a girl I work with, calling her patronising. I started ranting at one of T’s friends about my ideas for European development. At one point he was almost shouting at me: “Will you just listen to me? Will you let me speak?” Eventually he just left.
Amazingly, things went even further downhill after that. That this was possible doesn’t cease to astonish me. I decided it would be a good idea to give S a call. I don’t really remember what I said. I think I just wanted to be loved, hence me pretty much begging for affection. I’m sure I sounded like a complete fool. I sent her a text message after that, which I think said sorry, though it could have said anything really. My eyes (at the time) and memory (now) are obviously in a big conspiracy against me. Why else would I remember only that I’d made an arse of myself, without the details? After last weekend, I just wanted her to like me. Not even because I want affection from her specifically, but because I just needed affection. In truth, I just want her as a friend. But when I’m drunk, the thought of anyone holding me seems so appealing. I think we’re still friends though. She’s not ignoring me, anyway.
Everyone decided to leave, and T and I got a taxi to east London. He kept trying to kiss me in the cab, which I found quite wearing and also incredibly annoying. I may be emotionally starved but I can’t stand for men to be, particularly if they’re apparently my friends. There’s nothing worse than having a ‘friend’ who you then find out is only your friend because they’re trying to shag you (I will ignore the fact that S probably thinks that about me, as I’m not just trying to shag her, I’m just a bit stupid, especially after I’ve been drinking). T and I had a curry, which was quite funny as the waiter dropped a plate of rice all over the table/floor/me. The food itself wasn’t all that great, and the waiter was a bit rude to me as he thought that I couldn’t understand the menu. Yes, this gora can understand what aloo saag is, thanks. I ordered the rest of the food in Punjabi, just to prove a point. Lame, I know, but it seemed like the pinnacle of wit at the time.
Going into T’s apartment block, he managed to fall up the stairs to his flat and smash a bottle of wine into the palm of his hand. I had to get glass out of it and bandage it up. Then go downstairs and try and clean up the blood that was literally everywhere (on the stairs, the wall, the door, the floor, the sofa...). That was quite amusing. As that was the bottle of wine we were going to drink, we needed to get more wine. I was sent out to get some, and ended up getting a lift from a stranger, who drove me to Dalston and back. He was clearly trying to hit on me, so I had a go at him for picking up strange girls with no regard for their safety. I pulled the old trick, “Do you have a sister? Would you be happy with her getting into cars with people she didn’t know?” He pointed out that I was the one walking down Commercial Road at silly o’clock looking for an off licence, but I ended up doing quite a good job of making him feel bad and he actually apologised. Ha! He apologised for driving to the Kingsland Road just so I could get some wine. Looking back, it wasn’t a very safe thing for me to do, and so the less said about it, the better. You know I’m an idiot. I know I’m an idiot. The point doesn’t really need reiterating.
In my last post, I asked, rhetorically, for someone to save me. I found that someone. She is T’s housemate. T went to bed fairly soon after I got back with the wine, as he was too drunk to even speak. A and I stayed up most of the night, talking about everything under the sun and listening to Leonard Cohen, snuggled up under a duvet. A told me so many things I was so happy to hear. We’re from the same town but she’s eleven years older so we don’t have any mutual friends. She didn’t talk any bullshit and said things that weren’t necessarily the nicest to hear… but I was so happy to listen. I still need to think so much about all the things we talked about, and when I have made some sense of it in my head, I will write it here. Most importantly, she told me never to apologise for who I am, and to view intimacy as a transient thing, rather than something that is fixed. And thankfully, I didn't make an idiot of myself and try and kiss her, which is quite a relief.
I eventually went to sleep on the sofa, fully clothed. I woke up when the others got up, but didn’t open my eyes, as I wasn’t sure if they were going to stay awake (and therefore wake me up!). I woke up again a few hours later with a completely numb leg (that’s sleeping in jeans for you!), a stonking headache and a feeling like I’d been kicked viciously in the kidneys. Not pleasant. I managed to make my way back home, and spent quite a pleasant journey reading the newspaper and eating a Cadbury’s Caramel Egg (my new favourite chocolate, in case anyone is feeling generous).
Back home, I made some calls and then metamorphosed into some sort of Martha Stewart hybrid. Though without the prison. I baked some scones, made potato pancakes and a huge pot of dhal. I wish I’d had a pinny to complete the domestic goddess look, though I did have the requisite flour on my face. After cooking up a storm- quite literally- my housemate and I sat down to eat. She’d drunk a bottle of wine, and we made the executive decision that she should call her ex to tell him that she had a new boyfriend. Not in a callous way, of course, but because her ex is coming to stay in a couple of weeks and she wanted him to know before he got here. Turns out that he’s been doing some Olympic style shagging, and wasn’t going to tell her until he got here- and that was only because he didn’t think that they should have sex, as he hadn’t always used a condom. We decided to crack open the vodka. We spent the night bitching about men, describing our various medical problems, trying to explain just how mental we really were, and getting stupidly drunk. In the end, she crashed out on top of her duvet. I tucked her up and tried to clear up the ash she’d spilt on her bed, and then got her a pint of water and some paracetamol. She drank some of the water and asked me to sleep in her room, as she thought she might be sick. Now sober, I can’t believe I agreed to sleep in a bed with someone who had just told me they might puke, but that’s what I did. Her first thought the next morning was, apparently, “I feel rough…. Who the hell is that in my bed?”
Yesterday I passed the day being quite idle. The first episode of the new series of ‘The OC’ was on, so I watched that while eating some of my scones and drinking a whole pot of tea. I love trashy shows like ‘The OC’. It’s the TV equivalent of a marshmallow- delicious but lacking substance.
I started looking for my employment contract. In the end, I ended up completely sorting out all of my papers- bank statements, phone bills, hospital letters, etc.- but I didn’t find the contract. Still, everything is very organised and I managed to make some space, so I was able to finally unpack the books I was given last weekend. I was so chuffed with myself. Next on the list of things to do is buy a new scrapbook (the old one is full) and some more glue, and get started on that.
We could smell gas in the hallway YET AGAIN, so we called out Transco (YET AGAIN). The man came pretty quickly and we all pestered him, bossing him around and telling him that we could smell the gas and so there must be a leak, and if he couldn’t detect it then he should look harder. After noting that we looked like the witches of Eastwick, we went back to watching TV. He said that we had yet another leak but that he’d fixed it. I was ready to turn the gas off completely. I get so paranoid about gas.
I couldn’t sleep last night as I was actually sick with worry. You know the phrase? Well, I was actually physically sick thinking about how poor I was and what the hell I was going to do about it. I wrote up a budget and figured that if I only spent 5p a week on non-essentials, I would have enough money to pay my rent, bills, loan repayment and maybe be able to save a tenner so I can go travelling. I hate being this poor. I had more money as a student, as I didn’t have to pay council tax and had a loan and a scholarship (as well as two jobs). I didn’t really go out all that much back then though. Not only did I have no money, I was convinced I had no friends. Now I don’t care if I don’t have any friends, and I have even less money. Life is pretty shitty sometimes. The only way I could get to sleep was to put ‘Amelie’ on in the background. There’s nothing like that film to soothe you, though it does always make me cry.
Today I don’t feel so bad. I may be poor, but I’m okay. I’m a pretty good person. I can get another job where I earn a little more. I have great prospects. I guess I’m quite pretty. I know that things are only looking down at the moment for a limited number of reasons (which I can’t be bothered to go into right now). Things are okay. I am okay.If I say this enough times then I will start to believe it.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Urgh
God, I really need to get a more satisfying job. I can't believe the most exciting thing I have to do is potentially move my blog from one place to another. How sad can I be?
We're all going to the pub now. I'm really not feeling in the mood. Please, someone, make my life less pointless. Please make me smile. I feel like my face has ossified, it's been so long since I've smiled. Please, someone, make this dismal nothingness feel like something.
I sound so teenage and I'm sorry.
We're all going to the pub now. I'm really not feeling in the mood. Please, someone, make my life less pointless. Please make me smile. I feel like my face has ossified, it's been so long since I've smiled. Please, someone, make this dismal nothingness feel like something.
I sound so teenage and I'm sorry.
Some facts about me (physically)
I am 5 foot 10, which makes me the smallest of my siblings.
I broke two of my fingers at secondary school- one playing hockey and one playing basketball.
I have curly hair, but I keep it really short so no one knows.
I kicked a door so hard that I’ve damaged the ligaments in my ankle and now I have to go to physiotherapy, rock on.
I can hardly see anything without my contact lenses in.
I have what my friend refers to as “abnormally large breasts”.
I have almost no control over my body temperature and have had both heatstroke and hypothermia (not at the same time, obviously).
I fractured my wrist when I was seventeen.
I am allergic to grass and get a rash if my skin touches it for too long.
I have hyper-extended arms and hypo-extended legs.
I have a scar on the back of my neck from where I had a mole that needed to be removed.
I bruise and scar quite easily, which seems unfair as I’m pretty clumsy.
I give great oral sex.
I also give great hand jobs.
I have a crescent shaped scar on my knee from when I fell off a climbing frame as a kid.
I have a very tiny and very faint birthmark on my inside thigh.
I have another birthmark on my head but I’ve never seen it, as it is not only behind me, but also covered with my hair.
I look like a bright red hedgehog in the mornings, thanks to my hair.
I have a cigarette burn on my arm from when I was about fifteen and at a party.
I have no qualms about being naked.
I'll put some other facts about me, more psychological ones, on here soon.
I broke two of my fingers at secondary school- one playing hockey and one playing basketball.
I have curly hair, but I keep it really short so no one knows.
I kicked a door so hard that I’ve damaged the ligaments in my ankle and now I have to go to physiotherapy, rock on.
I can hardly see anything without my contact lenses in.
I have what my friend refers to as “abnormally large breasts”.
I have almost no control over my body temperature and have had both heatstroke and hypothermia (not at the same time, obviously).
I fractured my wrist when I was seventeen.
I am allergic to grass and get a rash if my skin touches it for too long.
I have hyper-extended arms and hypo-extended legs.
I have a scar on the back of my neck from where I had a mole that needed to be removed.
I bruise and scar quite easily, which seems unfair as I’m pretty clumsy.
I give great oral sex.
I also give great hand jobs.
I have a crescent shaped scar on my knee from when I fell off a climbing frame as a kid.
I have a very tiny and very faint birthmark on my inside thigh.
I have another birthmark on my head but I’ve never seen it, as it is not only behind me, but also covered with my hair.
I look like a bright red hedgehog in the mornings, thanks to my hair.
I have a cigarette burn on my arm from when I was about fifteen and at a party.
I have no qualms about being naked.
I'll put some other facts about me, more psychological ones, on here soon.
The Royal Ballet’s ‘Giselle’, 10th January 2006
I’d planned to walk to the Royal Opera House, but my ankle was giving me a bit of grief so I took a bus part of the way there. I arrived with ten minutes or so to spare, which I thought was quite reasonable. My seat was in the Amphitheatre, right at the top of the building. My ticket said that it was a ‘tall and loose’ seat, which sounded interesting. After stashing my coat in the cloakroom I headed off up a flights of stairs, an escalator, through a bar, up some more stairs, along a corridor and then up another flight of stairs. I thought that I would be sitting on the roof, but there were still seats up this high. My seat looked like a bar stool, with a footrest. It was quite comfortable, as it had padding on the seat and on the back, though one of the legs was a little wonky, which proved to be a little annoying. I had been a little worried that I wouldn’t be able to see anything from up this high, but once I got settled into my seat, I found that I had a great view of the stage. The next row down from me were on chairs, not stools, so there was quite a big gap between my line of sight and the head of the person in front of me.
The lights dimmed, and the orchestra began the overture. When the lights finally came up, I was very excited. As it turns out, the overture wasn’t long, and the curtain soon rose. I didn’t have a programme so I was a little bit lost by the story line. However, plots in ballets are very often the flimsiest of things. I know people complain about musicals (my friend announced, during ‘Chicago’, that he’d never seen such tenuous excuses to have a song and dance), but ballets really do win the prize for most ludicrous plot lines. I’d read a synopsis on the Internet, and so could probably sum up the story thus:
Girl lives in village and is loved by all who see her. Girl meets dashing young man who woos her and sweeps her off her feet. They get engaged (pretty swiftly, it must be said- a little more patience and the story might have had a different ending). Girl’s mum is none to pleased and has premonitions that girl will meet sticky end and be turned into a ghost, like all girls who die before their wedding day. Girl ignores mum as that would ruin the plot, although by all accounts is a very obedient girl anyway. Girl dances around with her new beau. Girl finds out that said dashing young is actually a lying pig as he is already engaged to some rich girl. Girl dies of a broken heart (since when does this happen?? A more realistic version would be that girl dies of obesity having eating her weight in chocolates while watching girlie films in a misguided attempt to “get over him”). Girl turns into a ghost with the sole purpose of haunting her still-alive fiancé. Girl hangs around in graveyard with other ghosts and waits for her man. Man turns up and girl haunts him. Girl and other ghosts attempt to dance him to death (huh??). Girl begs Head Ghost to spare him. Head Ghost spares him and girl goes off with other ghosts to go haunt someone else. Man gets off scot-free and probably goes to shag his other fiancée, the rich chick.
What’s the moral there? If your fiancé cheats on you and you die, then it’s okay as you’re going to be a ghost forever and he’s going to be alive and kicking (and possibly shagging)? Check whether your prospective lover is single or else you’ll end up haunting graveyards for all eternity?
Anyway, the dancing was really good. Tamara Rojo was playing Giselle. She had very precise footwork, and I thought that she suited the role well. The men were excellent and very athletic. The men’s jumps in particular were brilliant. I preferred the second Act to the first. In the first, everyone was dressed as peasants and although the costumes were fabulous (I would love a skirt that swing round like that!), it all seemed a little contrived and the dancing didn’t seem that dynamic. In the second Act, all semblance of a plot had vaporised, so I was able to concentrate more on the actual dancing. My favourite dancer was Zenaida Yanowsky, who was the Head Ghost. I could hardly take my eyes off her! There were some fantastic solos.
At the end I clapped so hard my hands were hurting. The only down side to the whole thing was that it was freezing inside the auditorium. It was cold the last time I was at the theatre, so I should really have been more prepared. In the interval I’d headed outside to chain-smoke. I was a bit worried that I’d have to go all the way down to street level, as there was a no smoking policy indoors. Luckily the Royal Opera House has a large balcony section that overlooks Covent Garden Market, and so I went out there, along with all the other smokers. I didn’t have my coat on and I was incredibly cold. Still, smoking takes priority I guess…
I’m really looking forward to going to the ballet again. I’m going on the 28th February, and I’m going to see Darcey Bussell. My all time favourite dancer. What could be better??
The lights dimmed, and the orchestra began the overture. When the lights finally came up, I was very excited. As it turns out, the overture wasn’t long, and the curtain soon rose. I didn’t have a programme so I was a little bit lost by the story line. However, plots in ballets are very often the flimsiest of things. I know people complain about musicals (my friend announced, during ‘Chicago’, that he’d never seen such tenuous excuses to have a song and dance), but ballets really do win the prize for most ludicrous plot lines. I’d read a synopsis on the Internet, and so could probably sum up the story thus:
Girl lives in village and is loved by all who see her. Girl meets dashing young man who woos her and sweeps her off her feet. They get engaged (pretty swiftly, it must be said- a little more patience and the story might have had a different ending). Girl’s mum is none to pleased and has premonitions that girl will meet sticky end and be turned into a ghost, like all girls who die before their wedding day. Girl ignores mum as that would ruin the plot, although by all accounts is a very obedient girl anyway. Girl dances around with her new beau. Girl finds out that said dashing young is actually a lying pig as he is already engaged to some rich girl. Girl dies of a broken heart (since when does this happen?? A more realistic version would be that girl dies of obesity having eating her weight in chocolates while watching girlie films in a misguided attempt to “get over him”). Girl turns into a ghost with the sole purpose of haunting her still-alive fiancé. Girl hangs around in graveyard with other ghosts and waits for her man. Man turns up and girl haunts him. Girl and other ghosts attempt to dance him to death (huh??). Girl begs Head Ghost to spare him. Head Ghost spares him and girl goes off with other ghosts to go haunt someone else. Man gets off scot-free and probably goes to shag his other fiancée, the rich chick.
What’s the moral there? If your fiancé cheats on you and you die, then it’s okay as you’re going to be a ghost forever and he’s going to be alive and kicking (and possibly shagging)? Check whether your prospective lover is single or else you’ll end up haunting graveyards for all eternity?
Anyway, the dancing was really good. Tamara Rojo was playing Giselle. She had very precise footwork, and I thought that she suited the role well. The men were excellent and very athletic. The men’s jumps in particular were brilliant. I preferred the second Act to the first. In the first, everyone was dressed as peasants and although the costumes were fabulous (I would love a skirt that swing round like that!), it all seemed a little contrived and the dancing didn’t seem that dynamic. In the second Act, all semblance of a plot had vaporised, so I was able to concentrate more on the actual dancing. My favourite dancer was Zenaida Yanowsky, who was the Head Ghost. I could hardly take my eyes off her! There were some fantastic solos.
At the end I clapped so hard my hands were hurting. The only down side to the whole thing was that it was freezing inside the auditorium. It was cold the last time I was at the theatre, so I should really have been more prepared. In the interval I’d headed outside to chain-smoke. I was a bit worried that I’d have to go all the way down to street level, as there was a no smoking policy indoors. Luckily the Royal Opera House has a large balcony section that overlooks Covent Garden Market, and so I went out there, along with all the other smokers. I didn’t have my coat on and I was incredibly cold. Still, smoking takes priority I guess…
I’m really looking forward to going to the ballet again. I’m going on the 28th February, and I’m going to see Darcey Bussell. My all time favourite dancer. What could be better??
Monday, January 09, 2006
My new favourite website
I almost forgot- I have a new favourite website:
www.stuffonmycat.com
How great is that?? I have been laughing at it all day.
www.stuffonmycat.com
How great is that?? I have been laughing at it all day.
This is the week that was
It's been a funny old week.
I guess I will start at the beginning, the only logical place to, I suppose. On Tuesday I went back to work. Like a complete spakker I took the wrong train and ended up at Blackfriars. Pretty stupid. On Tuesday evening I started feeling really depressed. No one I called picked up. In the end I rang one of my exes, who asked me what it was like sleeping with his friend. I told him that I found even the concept of him asking was incredibly weird. We discussed whether shagging numerous people made you a slag. I told him that after I’d had sex with A, I’d lain awake thinking that I was a slag. He said that he didn’t think that was a bad thing, and that sometimes he was kept awake by that too, but more down to furiously masturbating over his immense sexual prowess than feeling in any way regretful.
By Wednesday the black cloud I had sensed had really settled on me. I couldn’t do anything, I just stayed in bed and tried to sleep. I didn’t even let my housemates know that I was in, so that no one would talk to me. It seemed like no one wanted to talk to me anyway. All the people I tried ringing didn’t answer the phone. It’s funny, when I’m at my lowest I find out who are really good friends. Depression, with me at least, is not something that’s going to go anywhere any time soon, so I just need to deal with it. And I do deal with it pretty well, most of the time. I guess after ten years you do get quite acclimatised. Nowadays, I’m normally fine (though stuffed full of anti-depressants), but I have bad episodes, where I am almost incapable of doing anything.
The next day, I finally emerged from my room, but only to go as far as the living room. The Wolf called, and I told him about how I was feeling. He’s had depression too- well, still has it. His advice was to go outside and get some fresh air, and if possible go tot Camden and look at the tramps, and think “well, at least I’m not a fuck-up like that”, which I thought was very wise, but also completely typical of the Wolf. He had remembered sleazing at my friend, and his way of dealing with her rejection of him was to cal her vacuous. I asked him why he would say that about someone that he quite clearly likes, and he said it was an automatic reaction- you wolf whistle at a girl, she tells you to fuck off, so you shout “you’re ugly anyway”. I love the twisted, simple logic of men.
I hadn’t heard from S- my New Year conquest. I’d even called and left a voicemail message. When I was feeling really low, sometime on Wednesday, I wrote up a list of all the men who I’ve kissed and they’ve said they’ll call and I’ve never heard from again. It was quite depressing. Anyway, I decided to make an effort and go out, and went round to the Legend's house. S was there. I asked him why he hadn’t returned my text message or my call, and he said he wasn’t ignoring me and that he was just crap. Hmm. In the pub (i.e., after I’d got a drink in me) I asked him whether he did want to hang out sometime, and he said that he did, but he didn’t want a relationship or anything. Like I was asking for commitment or a relationship or anything. I may love the male crazy logic, but I really don’t understand it at all. Straight away I texted my friend with the news, and she was very sweet about it. I told the Wolf, and he suggested I go for Cousin Will instead. Cousin Will was once described by Wolf as “a boring fucker”, though at the time he didn’t know that Cousin Will was standing just behind him. So I am probably not going to be throwing myself in Cousin Will’s direction anytime soon. We all got really pissed. S had to go home because he was so pissed. Legend got really moody. Afterwards, I was going to go home but Legend had left his wallet in the pub so I walked over to there to give it back. Another friend from halls was also there with his very dull girlfriend, and some upper-class toff who was doing everyone’s head in. Legend's girlfriend and I ended up staying up late drinking beer and taking the piss out of this guy, who would not go home, despite our none-too-subtle hints. In the end he went, but he forgot his scarf, so we’ve kept it. It’s a nice cashmere scarf, which’ll be good as present for a dad or uncle or the such like. I decided that going home was too much of a challenge and I slept on the sofa, still with my jeans on.
In the morning I was woken by Legend having an absurdly loud shower. I had to get back as I had to collect some furniture. My new housemate made quite a fuss about giving me a lift, but did in the end. When I was there, I saw the short Irish guy I slept with a few weeks ago, which was a tiny bit awkward, not least because I still have his Madonna CD.
I went to Borough to my friends leaving do, where I was introduced to the girlfriend of the Scottish guy I kissed at the Christmas party. I don’t think she knows. If she does, she was being remarkably nice about it. I drank lots of wine, and announced that I was gay to about twenty people. Which was quite ominous of me, but I’ll come to that later. I started feeling quite depressed again and decided to leave.
The most exciting part of my week was when I went to Afterskool, an indie night, with my friend S (not new year boy S. Using initials is a pain in the arse sometimes). She's so beautiful in such a cool without even trying kind of way, and really smart too. A girl spent an inordinately long amount of time telling me how beautiful I was, which was quite flattering. S and I proceeded to get stupidly drunk. Two of my friends were working at the bar so we had to pay nominal prices- £1 for two double vodka and cokes. One of them I slept with a few months ago, but hadn’t seen him in ages. We also saw S’s ex and I was quite cutting to him. It’s only what he deserves. S and I ended up on the stage, and we kissed. It wasn’t really just kissing; we were all over each other. She pinned me against the wall. I just wanted to touch her (which I did) and kiss her (ditto). Now all I can think about is sleeping with her. That’s pretty bad on two counts: 1) you shouldn’t sleep with your friends. 2) Thinking about having sex with someone else during the act is always wrong, but if you’re shagging a man and thinking about a woman, that’s just insane.
As is fairly obvious from the above, I got laid, but by a man, not a woman. At the end of the night, I’d lost S and presumed she’d gone home. My two friends who’d been working invited me back to theirs, and had a car, so my decision was quite forced. And of course I ended up shagging that guy again. I was so pissed, I said some really embarrassing things. One of the worst was “I really like your cock, it’s just the right size and shape”. Worst thing is, he was sober, so he will remember all of this. I was marginally less pissed than when I slept with him before. I can’t really remember too much of the last time, I’m ashamed to say. But this time it was good, and I can actually remember it, so I’m not making that up. We had sex a couple of times, watched Family Guy and then went to sleep. He’s really nice to sleep next to and he cuddles properly, and stroked my hair and kissed me on the forehead. I may be a complete slut but I do like a bit of romance like that. When I eventually woke up, I stood on a used condom getting out of bed, which was quite funny, and made me feel a little like Tracey Emin.
To finish off the weekend, I cut my friends hair and hung around at his house. I decided that I would walk back to Brixton from New Cross (where he lives). It was probably a bit of a stupid plan, bearing in mind that I didn’t have a map. It was quite nice walking, I had my mp3 player, and although it was raining and cold, I had my big winter coat on, so I didn’t really mind. When I got home and checked my map, I realised that I hadn’t gone the quickest way at all, and that there was actually no need for me to have walked through Peckham at all. Things you learn, I suppose.
Still, the walk gave me chance to reflect on everything. I don’t feel as depressed as I did earlier in the week. I don’t care what it is that’s made me less depressed- yet more random sex, lots of booze, kissing pretty girls- as long as I feel better. I have given up having a conscience. Quite selfishly, I am following a strategy of personal gratification. I figure that I am the only person I can realistically rely on to always think of me, so that’s what I shall do. Part of that plan involves getting some new batteries for my vibrator.
Right. Off to bed…
I guess I will start at the beginning, the only logical place to, I suppose. On Tuesday I went back to work. Like a complete spakker I took the wrong train and ended up at Blackfriars. Pretty stupid. On Tuesday evening I started feeling really depressed. No one I called picked up. In the end I rang one of my exes, who asked me what it was like sleeping with his friend. I told him that I found even the concept of him asking was incredibly weird. We discussed whether shagging numerous people made you a slag. I told him that after I’d had sex with A, I’d lain awake thinking that I was a slag. He said that he didn’t think that was a bad thing, and that sometimes he was kept awake by that too, but more down to furiously masturbating over his immense sexual prowess than feeling in any way regretful.
By Wednesday the black cloud I had sensed had really settled on me. I couldn’t do anything, I just stayed in bed and tried to sleep. I didn’t even let my housemates know that I was in, so that no one would talk to me. It seemed like no one wanted to talk to me anyway. All the people I tried ringing didn’t answer the phone. It’s funny, when I’m at my lowest I find out who are really good friends. Depression, with me at least, is not something that’s going to go anywhere any time soon, so I just need to deal with it. And I do deal with it pretty well, most of the time. I guess after ten years you do get quite acclimatised. Nowadays, I’m normally fine (though stuffed full of anti-depressants), but I have bad episodes, where I am almost incapable of doing anything.
The next day, I finally emerged from my room, but only to go as far as the living room. The Wolf called, and I told him about how I was feeling. He’s had depression too- well, still has it. His advice was to go outside and get some fresh air, and if possible go tot Camden and look at the tramps, and think “well, at least I’m not a fuck-up like that”, which I thought was very wise, but also completely typical of the Wolf. He had remembered sleazing at my friend, and his way of dealing with her rejection of him was to cal her vacuous. I asked him why he would say that about someone that he quite clearly likes, and he said it was an automatic reaction- you wolf whistle at a girl, she tells you to fuck off, so you shout “you’re ugly anyway”. I love the twisted, simple logic of men.
I hadn’t heard from S- my New Year conquest. I’d even called and left a voicemail message. When I was feeling really low, sometime on Wednesday, I wrote up a list of all the men who I’ve kissed and they’ve said they’ll call and I’ve never heard from again. It was quite depressing. Anyway, I decided to make an effort and go out, and went round to the Legend's house. S was there. I asked him why he hadn’t returned my text message or my call, and he said he wasn’t ignoring me and that he was just crap. Hmm. In the pub (i.e., after I’d got a drink in me) I asked him whether he did want to hang out sometime, and he said that he did, but he didn’t want a relationship or anything. Like I was asking for commitment or a relationship or anything. I may love the male crazy logic, but I really don’t understand it at all. Straight away I texted my friend with the news, and she was very sweet about it. I told the Wolf, and he suggested I go for Cousin Will instead. Cousin Will was once described by Wolf as “a boring fucker”, though at the time he didn’t know that Cousin Will was standing just behind him. So I am probably not going to be throwing myself in Cousin Will’s direction anytime soon. We all got really pissed. S had to go home because he was so pissed. Legend got really moody. Afterwards, I was going to go home but Legend had left his wallet in the pub so I walked over to there to give it back. Another friend from halls was also there with his very dull girlfriend, and some upper-class toff who was doing everyone’s head in. Legend's girlfriend and I ended up staying up late drinking beer and taking the piss out of this guy, who would not go home, despite our none-too-subtle hints. In the end he went, but he forgot his scarf, so we’ve kept it. It’s a nice cashmere scarf, which’ll be good as present for a dad or uncle or the such like. I decided that going home was too much of a challenge and I slept on the sofa, still with my jeans on.
In the morning I was woken by Legend having an absurdly loud shower. I had to get back as I had to collect some furniture. My new housemate made quite a fuss about giving me a lift, but did in the end. When I was there, I saw the short Irish guy I slept with a few weeks ago, which was a tiny bit awkward, not least because I still have his Madonna CD.
I went to Borough to my friends leaving do, where I was introduced to the girlfriend of the Scottish guy I kissed at the Christmas party. I don’t think she knows. If she does, she was being remarkably nice about it. I drank lots of wine, and announced that I was gay to about twenty people. Which was quite ominous of me, but I’ll come to that later. I started feeling quite depressed again and decided to leave.
The most exciting part of my week was when I went to Afterskool, an indie night, with my friend S (not new year boy S. Using initials is a pain in the arse sometimes). She's so beautiful in such a cool without even trying kind of way, and really smart too. A girl spent an inordinately long amount of time telling me how beautiful I was, which was quite flattering. S and I proceeded to get stupidly drunk. Two of my friends were working at the bar so we had to pay nominal prices- £1 for two double vodka and cokes. One of them I slept with a few months ago, but hadn’t seen him in ages. We also saw S’s ex and I was quite cutting to him. It’s only what he deserves. S and I ended up on the stage, and we kissed. It wasn’t really just kissing; we were all over each other. She pinned me against the wall. I just wanted to touch her (which I did) and kiss her (ditto). Now all I can think about is sleeping with her. That’s pretty bad on two counts: 1) you shouldn’t sleep with your friends. 2) Thinking about having sex with someone else during the act is always wrong, but if you’re shagging a man and thinking about a woman, that’s just insane.
As is fairly obvious from the above, I got laid, but by a man, not a woman. At the end of the night, I’d lost S and presumed she’d gone home. My two friends who’d been working invited me back to theirs, and had a car, so my decision was quite forced. And of course I ended up shagging that guy again. I was so pissed, I said some really embarrassing things. One of the worst was “I really like your cock, it’s just the right size and shape”. Worst thing is, he was sober, so he will remember all of this. I was marginally less pissed than when I slept with him before. I can’t really remember too much of the last time, I’m ashamed to say. But this time it was good, and I can actually remember it, so I’m not making that up. We had sex a couple of times, watched Family Guy and then went to sleep. He’s really nice to sleep next to and he cuddles properly, and stroked my hair and kissed me on the forehead. I may be a complete slut but I do like a bit of romance like that. When I eventually woke up, I stood on a used condom getting out of bed, which was quite funny, and made me feel a little like Tracey Emin.
To finish off the weekend, I cut my friends hair and hung around at his house. I decided that I would walk back to Brixton from New Cross (where he lives). It was probably a bit of a stupid plan, bearing in mind that I didn’t have a map. It was quite nice walking, I had my mp3 player, and although it was raining and cold, I had my big winter coat on, so I didn’t really mind. When I got home and checked my map, I realised that I hadn’t gone the quickest way at all, and that there was actually no need for me to have walked through Peckham at all. Things you learn, I suppose.
Still, the walk gave me chance to reflect on everything. I don’t feel as depressed as I did earlier in the week. I don’t care what it is that’s made me less depressed- yet more random sex, lots of booze, kissing pretty girls- as long as I feel better. I have given up having a conscience. Quite selfishly, I am following a strategy of personal gratification. I figure that I am the only person I can realistically rely on to always think of me, so that’s what I shall do. Part of that plan involves getting some new batteries for my vibrator.
Right. Off to bed…
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
A very long entry
Well, it’s been a while since I wrote my blog, as I can’t do it at home, not having broadband and all that. And I haven’t been at work, it being Christmas and all that. So right now- it’s Monday 2nd January 2006- I’m at home writing this, and I plan to cut and paste it onto my blog in the morning. So if anyone wonders why I haven’t written in so long, this is why. I can hardly type at the moment, it’s been a while since I used my computer for anything other than listening to music and playing DVD’s. For added interest, I can’t actually see the screen. I have a wireless keyboard and mouse, so I’m sitting on my bed typing. I mainly watch DVD’s on this computer- as I said- so it’s the perfect distance for that. However, it’s not really the optimum distance for typing.
I feel like writing all my thoughts down today. My internal monologue is making a bid for freedom.
So where do I start?
Back in 2005… that’d be the 21st December… I was completely enamoured with the beautiful boy. I probably still would be was it not for the fact that he’s moved back to Australia. We went out for lunch at Tas, and had some of the strangest soup ever. It was meant to Leek and Potato, but I didn’t find any leek, and only a little potato. It was nice, but a little too much lemon. Afterwards, we cam back to the office, and larked about in his room for a while.
Then I did something really stupid. I emailed him, telling him that I liked him. Afterwards I could hardly sit still with nerves and I even climbed onto my desk, apparently to rearrange the posters, but in reality just to get rid of some of my nervous energy. He emailed back after what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was more like 20 minutes. He said that he was very flattered but that he was going away on Saturday and so nothing could happen. This of course prompted me to go for a cigarette break. I was quite gutted, but not really surprised. I emailed back asking him if he wanted to make the most of the few days he did have left in the UK. He sent back one of the oddest replies, in what- to me- seemed one of the most cack-handed brush-offs ever.
That night I went out for a curry with some friends from uni- the Wolf, the Legend and his girlfriend. Two of them were also in my halls, until they got thrown out anyway. When I was with my ex I didn’t see all that much of them as he didn’t like me being friends with them. The Wolf couldn’t stand him anyway. We went to the pub afterwards and made some prank calls- to the Jeremy Kyle show, and also to a man trying to sell his car, which was parked outside the pub. He was actually in the pub, but because we were laughing s much, he noticed us and told us to piss off. Wolf offered me a charity shag now that I’m single, saying that a friend in need was a friend indeed. I declined, unsurprisingly. I have heard from numerous sources that he is possibly the worst shag ever in the history of the world. Also, I’ve seen him naked on many occasions, and it’s not a pretty sight. On the way home I started to get quite a sore throat. I thought that if I got straight to bed it would be better, but when I woke in the morning I had a fever and swollen glands, along with a very sore throat. I took the day off and lay in bed feeling quite miserable. In the end I got up and went into Brixton to get some pic’n’mix from Woolies, then went home, got back into my pyjamas and watched Peep Show, eating the pic’n’mix. Good stuff.
The next day- 23rd December- I went back to work, it being the last day and everything. I’d brought in a big bag of Lebkuchen which I took round to everyone. I’d also made cards for T and K, and written one for the boy. It took me three drafts, but I was happy in the end, and I left it on his desk like the sad little stalker that I am. We all thought it would be a half day, but 12:30 came and went and went, and we were still there. It was eventually decided that we could go at 15:00, though by then lots of people had already left, and those who were there hadn’t done any work. We all went to the pub and had quite an odd anti-climatic evening. The beautiful one had said that he was going to come to the pub, but then he rang me in the early evening to tell me that he was doing some last minutes shopping for his travels the next day. That was the last time I heard from him. He’s got my email address, but I don’t know if I’ll ever hear from him again. I don’t see any reason why he would think of me when he’s travelling around India, or even when he’s at his family’s house in Tasmania. I guess it will always be one of those “I wonder what might have happened?” things. Not that I don’t have other things on my mind, as I shall detail below…
So, Christmas. I went back to my parents for the good old festive season, as that’s what is done by children all across the world. I guess it’s like in the Nativity Play; Joseph has to go to Bethlehem because he is from the house of David. Thankfully I didn’t have to ride a donkey, or have a pregnant virgin with me. Instead, I caught the train up to the fens, where my parents (foolishly, in my opinion, but who am I to say?) live. One thing I always forget, but am getting better at remembering, is that it’s bloody freezing in the countryside. It had been cold in London, but it was icy and everything when I stepped off the train. That kind of stuff always bodes well for a great holiday, although of course you know that it won’t actually snow on Christmas day. I don’t understand the fascination people have with a white Christmas. It’s just snow. I’d rather have it in January, when there’s nothing else happening. January could do with cheering up with some snowball fights and the such like. Christmas already has trees and carols and baby Jesus and all that.
On Christmas day itself I was forced out of bed at some ungodly hour, as is tradition. I’d asked my mum the night before what time we had to get up and she’d said that we could have a lie in… until 9:00!! Now that, to me, is not a lie in. Bah humbug. Anyway, Father Christmas obviously realised that negotiating the stairs would be too much on Christmas morning so the presents were under the tree in the upstairs living room. When we were little we used to leave sherry and mince pies out for Father Christmas, and we’d make dad open the chimney so he’d be able to get in. Then we’d put straw out in the yard for the reindeers, with a carrot on top. Looking back, that’s kind of stupid. Why would the reindeers land in the yard, only for Father Christmas to scale up the side of the house and climb down the chimney? Why not just use the back door? I always wondered what happened if you didn’t have a chimney, like my friend who lived in a bungalow. She told me that they used to leave the back door open. To be fair, they probably did. Growing up in the countryside there wasn’t really any danger, except for maybe the road that runs through the village. I remember the most dangerous things in the village when I was growing up were the geese in the pond, which pecked my friends’ leg and made it bleed. Oh, and foxes, but they were only dangerous for the chickens.
Anyway, I completely digress. At 10:00 we went to church. The village church is quite old and it’s always cold. They have some antiquated heaters that I always worry are a health risk (they stink of gas), but I invariably position myself close to them as I don’t want to risk frostbite. Or chilblains. I haven’t had one of those since I was a kid, when I used to get them all the time. If you’ve never had one, you’re lucky. They’re unbelievably itchy. The church service was alright. I was worried that it would drag on for ages, but it was quite short. I didn’t sing most of the songs or join in with all the “amen” stuff as I’m not religious. I certainly didn’t go up for a blessing- I’m not a complete hypocrite. There were a few people at the church that I knew. To be fair, there weren’t all that many people there- it is a small village after all. My mum’s best friends family were there or some of them anyway). There was another family there who I knew, but none of us like them. The mum is morbidly obese. I mean MORBIDLY. She looks like a giant Christmas pudding. There’s nothing worse than the obese. I know it sounds really mean and judgmental, but there’s nothing worse than obese people. That is actually a little hypocritical as I have a bit of a belly nowadays, but I don’t have a BMI of over 40, like that woman in my village no doubt has. Her husband is a pain in the arse too. He has a really terrible moustache. I guess he probably doesn’t feel the need to make an effort, if his wife is going to walk around like that and everything. Their daughters are completely devoid of any talents whatsoever, and he younger one in particular is intensely irritating.
I’m not going to bother describing what I was given for Christmas, as I really can’t be bothered, but I did get some nice presents, and overall, I was very pleased.
My family have huge problems with me being a vegetarian. They don’t seem to understand it at all. My dad keeps asking me if I eat fish, and pretended to be confused as to why I wasn’t going to have any turkey. My mum actually made me my own special food- a chestnut and courgette pie, which was surprisingly nice. I say surprisingly not because I doubt the quality of my mum’s cooking, but because I didn’t think I liked chestnuts. I still don’t think I’d choose them, given a choice, but at least I can eat them. They all ate the normal turkey and such like.
Later on I decided to get drunk. My mum and dad were watching “The Importance of Being Earnest” so I went downstairs to where they were to drink wine. I started getting quite sarcastic, as I often do when I’ve had a glass of wine. When “Jerry Maguire” cam on, it was the final straw. I can not take that amount of poorly acted schmaltz. My youngest brother had come downstairs by this point, and we decided to get pissed. Mum and dad went to bed and I dragged my brother outside so I could have a cigarette, which he started preaching about, sanctimonious little brat!! We talked for hours, ate all the sweets in the untouched advent calendar and drank all the red wine in the house. By the end I was so drunk I could hardly see, but I still managed to send quite a pissed text message to one of my ex boyfriends. He sent me back a message the next day, laughing at me. I finally dragged myself to bed at about seven in the morning, and did wake up until four the next day. Even then, it was only because I was hungry that I got out of bed, and I went back to bed an hour later, waking up at about midnight to read the copy of F1 Racing I’d been saving for exactly this sort of occasion.
On the Tuesday- that must have been the 27th- I was woken up and told that we were going shopping as a big family outing. I told my mum that I needed to have a shower, and that it would take me half an hour or so before I was ready, but when I ran downstairs, I was greeted with my mum screaming like a banshee at me:
“We can’t go now! You knew your dad needed to be back this afternoon and now there’s not enough time to go and come back!”
I told her that I didn’t know that, as I’d been asleep all the previous day.
She shouted: “You’re so selfish!! When are you going to grow up and stop being late for everything? You always do this, all the time!”
I got pretty annoyed- I was outside with wet hair in the bloody snow, for fuck’s sake. I told her, “How would I be able to do this ‘all the time’? I don’t live here!! I live in London, not with you. How often do I come back here for you to call ‘always’?”
She wasn’t best pleased, but after my parents having a bit of a shouting match (I could hear it, sitting in the car, and they were upstairs, inside) my mum got in the car and we went shopping as planned. I think it was my dad she was mad at more than me. Neither of us apologised. Well, I did at the time, but I didn’t really mean it- how can you mean that you’re sorry for having a shower, and not being able to get straight out of bed and into a car? I think they expect the impossible from me and my brothers. It can only ever lead to disappointment. That sounds pretty harsh, and my mum’s not really like that. My dad is, and he’s the one that gets angry the most. He doesn’t quite so much now that there’s only one of us at home for most of the time. It was a nice day in the end, though I worry about my mum spending so much. Especially as we’re not always- or maybe ever- the nicest kids to have. In the evening we went out for a meal, apparently for my middle brothers birthday, some eleven days previously. Still, it was nice, though dad got quite drunk and mum had to drive.
I’m getting so bored of writing about everything I’ve done. I don’t think anyone would be in any way interested in anything I’ve just written. I thought 2006 would be ‘new year, new me’, but instead it’s just the same old chicky, fucked up as ever. I’m having a real crisis of confidence. This is meant to be the year we take over the world. Instead it might just be the year I stay in bed.
I’m going to make an effort to finish this, as if there’s one thing I really fucking hate, is quitting. There’s nothing better than finishing a task, accomplishing something, even if it’s something quite small, or inconsequential. I think that the best thing to do is think positive thoughts and trick myself into feeling happy. I know I can do it. I’m just having a real down moment. When I think about my life it seems very boring, but maybe to some people it sounds interesting. Having said that, they’d probably need to be living in completely blank room for that to happen. I need to snap out of this. Maybe it’s time for another ciggie out the bedroom window…
On Wednesday I made my way into Cambridge. That’s quite a mission from my parents’ house. First I had to take a tin little bus, driven by this guy who does this same route six days a week. There are only four buses a day from my parents’ village to the nearest market town. Clearly my parents never intended for any of their children to have any semblance of a social life! Then after sitting in the freezing cold at the bus station, a bus to Cambridge finally turned up. They’ve got remarkably pricy. I remember the good old days when it was only 70p to Cambridge. I had to pay £2.50 for that same journey last week. Rip off merchants. They’d take your blood if they could. Anyway, finally I got to Cambridge. I’d bought some new headphones for my mp3 player the day before, so I was finally able to listen to music in two ears, which made a bloody change. I met some friends and we went to the King’s Street Run.
For those who don’t know Cambridge, you’re really missing out on a treat. Well, not really. King Street used to have lots of pubs on it, something like ten, and you had to go from one end to the other and have a pint in each, and this was called the King Street run., hence the name of the pub. Now there’s only three, I think. There’s the Rattle and Hum, more commonly known as the Scum (which has changed names now to something quite anodyne). Then there’s a pub next to the noodle bar, which I think I’ve been to but can’t really remember. Then further up the street there’s the Run, and there’s another on the corner, where I once had sex in the toilets. So that makes four, which is hardly a run, more like a crawl. Anyway, we went to the Run, which is the “alternative” pub. I quite like it there, even though it’s full of pretentious wannabe punks. The music was far too loud and they played Atari Teenage Riot, which I wasn’t particularly pleased about. Thankfully it was only one song and then something more palatable came on, which doesn’t really narrow the field. A couple of pints there, and we headed off to M’s for supper.
Let me just get a couple of things out of the way first of all. I love M. I love M’s house. I love M’s mum. I love M’s dad. I love his sister. I love his cat. I love literally everything about everything to do with M. I therefore loved having supper there, and chatting to M’s slightly bonkers dad about suitable insane topics. M thinks that they (i.e. his family) are highly embarrassing- his dad at least. I can see why, but I have fun! I’m not going to gush about that family anymore, it sickens even me.
We headed off to the pub once we’d eaten. There’s a pub in Cambridge that used to be called the Hogshead. Then someone got abducted and killed from outside it, and the next day they changed the name to the Avery. Coincidence or what. There’s nothing like national notoriety to initiate a quick change of plan. Anyway, many drinks there. Then many drinks at another pub, where I threw beer mats at people and saw I guy who I nearly went out with when I was about 16. At some point I managed to nearly kiss one of my friends (he’s wanted to kiss me since I was 13, so full marks for trying I suppose) and another friend... Eventually I ended up at one of my ex’s friend’s house, via someone else’s house, and nearly crashing on the dark fen roads. A, the friend of my ex, is quite a nice guy though he is possibly the laziest person in the world. That really is something, as I know a lot of extremely lazy people. He spends weeks- literally weeks- in bed. I met him years ago, before I met my ex. He was in one of his not-so-lazy moments, which involves sitting around in a coffee house. I was at college, which means sitting around in coffee houses and skiving my lessons, learning about completely unrelated things to anything I was meant to be studying. The place I always went to was a place called Clowns, also on King Street. It’s owned by this crazy Italian man, who always hugs and kisses the girls. I think it’s changed a lot now, but when I was there, you could sit and smoke and drink tea, and there were huge tables, so you could really spread your work out. I used to meet a lot of very interesting people in there, and this one time, I met A. He told me how he’d been at a club and a girl had licked his eyeball. When I met him again, about six months later, with my then-boyfriend, it was quite funny, as my ex had no idea how we knew each other. Anyhow, A and I spent the next 18 hours in bed, alternately sleeping and shagging. It was good sex, as you’d expect from someone who spends so much time in bed. There was just one thing that was really really weird- he was completely silent, all the way through. Now, I’m not expecting- or even wanting- some sort of song and dance, but complete silence is quite unnerving. I felt like shouting things out, and blaming it on Tourettes. I didn’t of course, as I’m far too much of a lady. I’m not sure what kind of lady that would be, having random sex with yet another person she doesn’t fancy. But that’s my story, and I’m sticking with it.
When I got home, my mum asked me if I’d had a nice time, and where had I been, etc. I muttered something about a friend and asked for a lift to the train station.
I’m getting tired, and I’ve only just got to the good bit.
On the 30th I felt quite rough all day, and had an upset stomach. In the evening the first guy to ever break my heart came round my house. He was driving from Cambridge to Bristol, but detoured to London to see me. It was completely surreal.
New Year. Legend had a party, and I had already asked him to put in a good word for me to his brother, who is really really lovely. I met him when I went to stay at the Legend's one summer, and of course he tells me about him. It was a fun party, despite there only being three girls, including me. Legend and his brother, S, share a flat near Euston. The Wolf was there, and Legend's girlfriend, and I brought a friend (who the Wolf decided he was in love with, and proceeded to letch all over). At about 1 in the morning, S kissed me. I stayed the night. I don’t think I could have been forced out. Then we spent the next day hanging out at their flat. The four of us went to a Nepalese restaurant, and watched “Chicago”, and the whole time I felt like I was on fire, I just wanted to touch S and kiss him. I stayed another night.
I don’t want to think about it feels when he kisses me. I don’t want to think about how sweet he is, or how he makes sure my arm is around him when he’s sleeping. And I don’t want to think about how soft his hair is, and the way he’s funny, kind, musical… I really don’t want to think about any of this because I don’t know if he’ll ever call me.
I’m sure anyone reading this thinks I’m fickle. I mean, how can someone who jumps from one bed to another actually say she really likes someone? But I do really like him. He’s actually a nice guy, unlike most of the men in my life. But I don’t want to think about this because I don’t want to get hurt for the millionth time.
I feel like writing all my thoughts down today. My internal monologue is making a bid for freedom.
So where do I start?
Back in 2005… that’d be the 21st December… I was completely enamoured with the beautiful boy. I probably still would be was it not for the fact that he’s moved back to Australia. We went out for lunch at Tas, and had some of the strangest soup ever. It was meant to Leek and Potato, but I didn’t find any leek, and only a little potato. It was nice, but a little too much lemon. Afterwards, we cam back to the office, and larked about in his room for a while.
Then I did something really stupid. I emailed him, telling him that I liked him. Afterwards I could hardly sit still with nerves and I even climbed onto my desk, apparently to rearrange the posters, but in reality just to get rid of some of my nervous energy. He emailed back after what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was more like 20 minutes. He said that he was very flattered but that he was going away on Saturday and so nothing could happen. This of course prompted me to go for a cigarette break. I was quite gutted, but not really surprised. I emailed back asking him if he wanted to make the most of the few days he did have left in the UK. He sent back one of the oddest replies, in what- to me- seemed one of the most cack-handed brush-offs ever.
That night I went out for a curry with some friends from uni- the Wolf, the Legend and his girlfriend. Two of them were also in my halls, until they got thrown out anyway. When I was with my ex I didn’t see all that much of them as he didn’t like me being friends with them. The Wolf couldn’t stand him anyway. We went to the pub afterwards and made some prank calls- to the Jeremy Kyle show, and also to a man trying to sell his car, which was parked outside the pub. He was actually in the pub, but because we were laughing s much, he noticed us and told us to piss off. Wolf offered me a charity shag now that I’m single, saying that a friend in need was a friend indeed. I declined, unsurprisingly. I have heard from numerous sources that he is possibly the worst shag ever in the history of the world. Also, I’ve seen him naked on many occasions, and it’s not a pretty sight. On the way home I started to get quite a sore throat. I thought that if I got straight to bed it would be better, but when I woke in the morning I had a fever and swollen glands, along with a very sore throat. I took the day off and lay in bed feeling quite miserable. In the end I got up and went into Brixton to get some pic’n’mix from Woolies, then went home, got back into my pyjamas and watched Peep Show, eating the pic’n’mix. Good stuff.
The next day- 23rd December- I went back to work, it being the last day and everything. I’d brought in a big bag of Lebkuchen which I took round to everyone. I’d also made cards for T and K, and written one for the boy. It took me three drafts, but I was happy in the end, and I left it on his desk like the sad little stalker that I am. We all thought it would be a half day, but 12:30 came and went and went, and we were still there. It was eventually decided that we could go at 15:00, though by then lots of people had already left, and those who were there hadn’t done any work. We all went to the pub and had quite an odd anti-climatic evening. The beautiful one had said that he was going to come to the pub, but then he rang me in the early evening to tell me that he was doing some last minutes shopping for his travels the next day. That was the last time I heard from him. He’s got my email address, but I don’t know if I’ll ever hear from him again. I don’t see any reason why he would think of me when he’s travelling around India, or even when he’s at his family’s house in Tasmania. I guess it will always be one of those “I wonder what might have happened?” things. Not that I don’t have other things on my mind, as I shall detail below…
So, Christmas. I went back to my parents for the good old festive season, as that’s what is done by children all across the world. I guess it’s like in the Nativity Play; Joseph has to go to Bethlehem because he is from the house of David. Thankfully I didn’t have to ride a donkey, or have a pregnant virgin with me. Instead, I caught the train up to the fens, where my parents (foolishly, in my opinion, but who am I to say?) live. One thing I always forget, but am getting better at remembering, is that it’s bloody freezing in the countryside. It had been cold in London, but it was icy and everything when I stepped off the train. That kind of stuff always bodes well for a great holiday, although of course you know that it won’t actually snow on Christmas day. I don’t understand the fascination people have with a white Christmas. It’s just snow. I’d rather have it in January, when there’s nothing else happening. January could do with cheering up with some snowball fights and the such like. Christmas already has trees and carols and baby Jesus and all that.
On Christmas day itself I was forced out of bed at some ungodly hour, as is tradition. I’d asked my mum the night before what time we had to get up and she’d said that we could have a lie in… until 9:00!! Now that, to me, is not a lie in. Bah humbug. Anyway, Father Christmas obviously realised that negotiating the stairs would be too much on Christmas morning so the presents were under the tree in the upstairs living room. When we were little we used to leave sherry and mince pies out for Father Christmas, and we’d make dad open the chimney so he’d be able to get in. Then we’d put straw out in the yard for the reindeers, with a carrot on top. Looking back, that’s kind of stupid. Why would the reindeers land in the yard, only for Father Christmas to scale up the side of the house and climb down the chimney? Why not just use the back door? I always wondered what happened if you didn’t have a chimney, like my friend who lived in a bungalow. She told me that they used to leave the back door open. To be fair, they probably did. Growing up in the countryside there wasn’t really any danger, except for maybe the road that runs through the village. I remember the most dangerous things in the village when I was growing up were the geese in the pond, which pecked my friends’ leg and made it bleed. Oh, and foxes, but they were only dangerous for the chickens.
Anyway, I completely digress. At 10:00 we went to church. The village church is quite old and it’s always cold. They have some antiquated heaters that I always worry are a health risk (they stink of gas), but I invariably position myself close to them as I don’t want to risk frostbite. Or chilblains. I haven’t had one of those since I was a kid, when I used to get them all the time. If you’ve never had one, you’re lucky. They’re unbelievably itchy. The church service was alright. I was worried that it would drag on for ages, but it was quite short. I didn’t sing most of the songs or join in with all the “amen” stuff as I’m not religious. I certainly didn’t go up for a blessing- I’m not a complete hypocrite. There were a few people at the church that I knew. To be fair, there weren’t all that many people there- it is a small village after all. My mum’s best friends family were there or some of them anyway). There was another family there who I knew, but none of us like them. The mum is morbidly obese. I mean MORBIDLY. She looks like a giant Christmas pudding. There’s nothing worse than the obese. I know it sounds really mean and judgmental, but there’s nothing worse than obese people. That is actually a little hypocritical as I have a bit of a belly nowadays, but I don’t have a BMI of over 40, like that woman in my village no doubt has. Her husband is a pain in the arse too. He has a really terrible moustache. I guess he probably doesn’t feel the need to make an effort, if his wife is going to walk around like that and everything. Their daughters are completely devoid of any talents whatsoever, and he younger one in particular is intensely irritating.
I’m not going to bother describing what I was given for Christmas, as I really can’t be bothered, but I did get some nice presents, and overall, I was very pleased.
My family have huge problems with me being a vegetarian. They don’t seem to understand it at all. My dad keeps asking me if I eat fish, and pretended to be confused as to why I wasn’t going to have any turkey. My mum actually made me my own special food- a chestnut and courgette pie, which was surprisingly nice. I say surprisingly not because I doubt the quality of my mum’s cooking, but because I didn’t think I liked chestnuts. I still don’t think I’d choose them, given a choice, but at least I can eat them. They all ate the normal turkey and such like.
Later on I decided to get drunk. My mum and dad were watching “The Importance of Being Earnest” so I went downstairs to where they were to drink wine. I started getting quite sarcastic, as I often do when I’ve had a glass of wine. When “Jerry Maguire” cam on, it was the final straw. I can not take that amount of poorly acted schmaltz. My youngest brother had come downstairs by this point, and we decided to get pissed. Mum and dad went to bed and I dragged my brother outside so I could have a cigarette, which he started preaching about, sanctimonious little brat!! We talked for hours, ate all the sweets in the untouched advent calendar and drank all the red wine in the house. By the end I was so drunk I could hardly see, but I still managed to send quite a pissed text message to one of my ex boyfriends. He sent me back a message the next day, laughing at me. I finally dragged myself to bed at about seven in the morning, and did wake up until four the next day. Even then, it was only because I was hungry that I got out of bed, and I went back to bed an hour later, waking up at about midnight to read the copy of F1 Racing I’d been saving for exactly this sort of occasion.
On the Tuesday- that must have been the 27th- I was woken up and told that we were going shopping as a big family outing. I told my mum that I needed to have a shower, and that it would take me half an hour or so before I was ready, but when I ran downstairs, I was greeted with my mum screaming like a banshee at me:
“We can’t go now! You knew your dad needed to be back this afternoon and now there’s not enough time to go and come back!”
I told her that I didn’t know that, as I’d been asleep all the previous day.
She shouted: “You’re so selfish!! When are you going to grow up and stop being late for everything? You always do this, all the time!”
I got pretty annoyed- I was outside with wet hair in the bloody snow, for fuck’s sake. I told her, “How would I be able to do this ‘all the time’? I don’t live here!! I live in London, not with you. How often do I come back here for you to call ‘always’?”
She wasn’t best pleased, but after my parents having a bit of a shouting match (I could hear it, sitting in the car, and they were upstairs, inside) my mum got in the car and we went shopping as planned. I think it was my dad she was mad at more than me. Neither of us apologised. Well, I did at the time, but I didn’t really mean it- how can you mean that you’re sorry for having a shower, and not being able to get straight out of bed and into a car? I think they expect the impossible from me and my brothers. It can only ever lead to disappointment. That sounds pretty harsh, and my mum’s not really like that. My dad is, and he’s the one that gets angry the most. He doesn’t quite so much now that there’s only one of us at home for most of the time. It was a nice day in the end, though I worry about my mum spending so much. Especially as we’re not always- or maybe ever- the nicest kids to have. In the evening we went out for a meal, apparently for my middle brothers birthday, some eleven days previously. Still, it was nice, though dad got quite drunk and mum had to drive.
I’m getting so bored of writing about everything I’ve done. I don’t think anyone would be in any way interested in anything I’ve just written. I thought 2006 would be ‘new year, new me’, but instead it’s just the same old chicky, fucked up as ever. I’m having a real crisis of confidence. This is meant to be the year we take over the world. Instead it might just be the year I stay in bed.
I’m going to make an effort to finish this, as if there’s one thing I really fucking hate, is quitting. There’s nothing better than finishing a task, accomplishing something, even if it’s something quite small, or inconsequential. I think that the best thing to do is think positive thoughts and trick myself into feeling happy. I know I can do it. I’m just having a real down moment. When I think about my life it seems very boring, but maybe to some people it sounds interesting. Having said that, they’d probably need to be living in completely blank room for that to happen. I need to snap out of this. Maybe it’s time for another ciggie out the bedroom window…
On Wednesday I made my way into Cambridge. That’s quite a mission from my parents’ house. First I had to take a tin little bus, driven by this guy who does this same route six days a week. There are only four buses a day from my parents’ village to the nearest market town. Clearly my parents never intended for any of their children to have any semblance of a social life! Then after sitting in the freezing cold at the bus station, a bus to Cambridge finally turned up. They’ve got remarkably pricy. I remember the good old days when it was only 70p to Cambridge. I had to pay £2.50 for that same journey last week. Rip off merchants. They’d take your blood if they could. Anyway, finally I got to Cambridge. I’d bought some new headphones for my mp3 player the day before, so I was finally able to listen to music in two ears, which made a bloody change. I met some friends and we went to the King’s Street Run.
For those who don’t know Cambridge, you’re really missing out on a treat. Well, not really. King Street used to have lots of pubs on it, something like ten, and you had to go from one end to the other and have a pint in each, and this was called the King Street run., hence the name of the pub. Now there’s only three, I think. There’s the Rattle and Hum, more commonly known as the Scum (which has changed names now to something quite anodyne). Then there’s a pub next to the noodle bar, which I think I’ve been to but can’t really remember. Then further up the street there’s the Run, and there’s another on the corner, where I once had sex in the toilets. So that makes four, which is hardly a run, more like a crawl. Anyway, we went to the Run, which is the “alternative” pub. I quite like it there, even though it’s full of pretentious wannabe punks. The music was far too loud and they played Atari Teenage Riot, which I wasn’t particularly pleased about. Thankfully it was only one song and then something more palatable came on, which doesn’t really narrow the field. A couple of pints there, and we headed off to M’s for supper.
Let me just get a couple of things out of the way first of all. I love M. I love M’s house. I love M’s mum. I love M’s dad. I love his sister. I love his cat. I love literally everything about everything to do with M. I therefore loved having supper there, and chatting to M’s slightly bonkers dad about suitable insane topics. M thinks that they (i.e. his family) are highly embarrassing- his dad at least. I can see why, but I have fun! I’m not going to gush about that family anymore, it sickens even me.
We headed off to the pub once we’d eaten. There’s a pub in Cambridge that used to be called the Hogshead. Then someone got abducted and killed from outside it, and the next day they changed the name to the Avery. Coincidence or what. There’s nothing like national notoriety to initiate a quick change of plan. Anyway, many drinks there. Then many drinks at another pub, where I threw beer mats at people and saw I guy who I nearly went out with when I was about 16. At some point I managed to nearly kiss one of my friends (he’s wanted to kiss me since I was 13, so full marks for trying I suppose) and another friend... Eventually I ended up at one of my ex’s friend’s house, via someone else’s house, and nearly crashing on the dark fen roads. A, the friend of my ex, is quite a nice guy though he is possibly the laziest person in the world. That really is something, as I know a lot of extremely lazy people. He spends weeks- literally weeks- in bed. I met him years ago, before I met my ex. He was in one of his not-so-lazy moments, which involves sitting around in a coffee house. I was at college, which means sitting around in coffee houses and skiving my lessons, learning about completely unrelated things to anything I was meant to be studying. The place I always went to was a place called Clowns, also on King Street. It’s owned by this crazy Italian man, who always hugs and kisses the girls. I think it’s changed a lot now, but when I was there, you could sit and smoke and drink tea, and there were huge tables, so you could really spread your work out. I used to meet a lot of very interesting people in there, and this one time, I met A. He told me how he’d been at a club and a girl had licked his eyeball. When I met him again, about six months later, with my then-boyfriend, it was quite funny, as my ex had no idea how we knew each other. Anyhow, A and I spent the next 18 hours in bed, alternately sleeping and shagging. It was good sex, as you’d expect from someone who spends so much time in bed. There was just one thing that was really really weird- he was completely silent, all the way through. Now, I’m not expecting- or even wanting- some sort of song and dance, but complete silence is quite unnerving. I felt like shouting things out, and blaming it on Tourettes. I didn’t of course, as I’m far too much of a lady. I’m not sure what kind of lady that would be, having random sex with yet another person she doesn’t fancy. But that’s my story, and I’m sticking with it.
When I got home, my mum asked me if I’d had a nice time, and where had I been, etc. I muttered something about a friend and asked for a lift to the train station.
I’m getting tired, and I’ve only just got to the good bit.
On the 30th I felt quite rough all day, and had an upset stomach. In the evening the first guy to ever break my heart came round my house. He was driving from Cambridge to Bristol, but detoured to London to see me. It was completely surreal.
New Year. Legend had a party, and I had already asked him to put in a good word for me to his brother, who is really really lovely. I met him when I went to stay at the Legend's one summer, and of course he tells me about him. It was a fun party, despite there only being three girls, including me. Legend and his brother, S, share a flat near Euston. The Wolf was there, and Legend's girlfriend, and I brought a friend (who the Wolf decided he was in love with, and proceeded to letch all over). At about 1 in the morning, S kissed me. I stayed the night. I don’t think I could have been forced out. Then we spent the next day hanging out at their flat. The four of us went to a Nepalese restaurant, and watched “Chicago”, and the whole time I felt like I was on fire, I just wanted to touch S and kiss him. I stayed another night.
I don’t want to think about it feels when he kisses me. I don’t want to think about how sweet he is, or how he makes sure my arm is around him when he’s sleeping. And I don’t want to think about how soft his hair is, and the way he’s funny, kind, musical… I really don’t want to think about any of this because I don’t know if he’ll ever call me.
I’m sure anyone reading this thinks I’m fickle. I mean, how can someone who jumps from one bed to another actually say she really likes someone? But I do really like him. He’s actually a nice guy, unlike most of the men in my life. But I don’t want to think about this because I don’t want to get hurt for the millionth time.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Cold, ill and loveless
I’m not a happy bunny at the moment. The heating in our office has broken. The heating is quite temperamental at the best of times. Last week it got so hot that I felt like I was being boiled alive. Now this week it is far too cold. We have a little fan heater in the office, which we’ve had on all day. The only problem with this is that it makes you feel quite ill. As I write this I have my scarf on, and a big fleecy blanket wrapped round me, as well as fur lined boots (and bear in mind I hate wearing shoes when I’m at work). The engineers are apparently coming to try and fix it.
In the mean time I might just go home.
To add insult to injury, I was meant to be going out for a drink with the beautiful boy after work today, but he’s cancelled. And he’s moving to Australia next week anyway, so it seems like that’s not going to happen.
I feel really miserable today. I want to go home, and eat some lovely warm food while watching dvd’s in bed. That seems like the only option, seeing as the boy doesn’t want to go out with me. I just re-read that last couple of sentences, and I have a correction. I’m not miserable, I’m just grumpy. I think if they played some music in here, it would be a lot more tolerable. I could do with getting up and having a bit of a boogie.
I’m sure I must look like a bit of a weirdo, wrapped up in a lime green blanket, drinking hot ribena. I reckon the only solution is to go for a fag.
In the mean time I might just go home.
To add insult to injury, I was meant to be going out for a drink with the beautiful boy after work today, but he’s cancelled. And he’s moving to Australia next week anyway, so it seems like that’s not going to happen.
I feel really miserable today. I want to go home, and eat some lovely warm food while watching dvd’s in bed. That seems like the only option, seeing as the boy doesn’t want to go out with me. I just re-read that last couple of sentences, and I have a correction. I’m not miserable, I’m just grumpy. I think if they played some music in here, it would be a lot more tolerable. I could do with getting up and having a bit of a boogie.
I’m sure I must look like a bit of a weirdo, wrapped up in a lime green blanket, drinking hot ribena. I reckon the only solution is to go for a fag.
Monday, December 19, 2005
A cynical synopsis of the weekend
I hate not having broadband at home as it means I’m always a few days behind in writing my blog. If I could write it as I went along I think I would be much happier, and also then I would be bothered to write more about what I’ve done or how I feel. As it is, I just feel like writing a list. I feel very lethargic today, I don’t know why. I fell asleep fully clothed last night, and slept really well. At about 2 I got up and took my clothes off, and continued sleeping well. At 5, I got up to have a glass of water, and after that I slept terribly and woke up feeling very strange. I also noticed that I’d bruised three of my fingers on my right hand.
On Friday I woke up to the sound of K blowdrying her hair. I was a bit disconcerted as she hadn’t brought a hairdryer with her, which meant that it must belong to T. I really didn’t want to get out of bed, as I’d only just got sufficient blanket. I think K wraps it round herself. Eventually I did, though, and I had a much needed shower. T’s bathroom is quite funny. There are three separate rooms, one with a bath and shower, one with the loo, and one with the sink. The shower didn’t have a shower curtain, so the bathroom was already quite soaked by the time I got in there (the others had their showers before me).
T doesn’t live all that far from work, so we walked in. We left his around 11, and after stopping to get a cup of tea, we finally got in at about 11:30, which I didn’t think was that bad. I had absolutely no intention to do any work, and told my colleagues so. They didn’t seem all that bothered. There’s normally four of us in the office, but on Friday there were just three, and that was only until lunchtime, when our numbers shrank to two. I sent off some emails, firstly to the Scot I kissed at the party, who’d actually emailed me first, and then to the guy I fancy. He emailed back to tell me that he’d just been sick in his bin. The Scot didn’t seem too awkward about kissing me.
During the course of the day, I went over to the beautiful boy's office twice. The first time was to see if he was okay after being sick in the bin. He said that he’d just drank a large coffee, without eating anything first. Poor thing. He looked quite pale, and he didn’t seem happy about the amount of work he had lined up. Later in the day I went back with some diet coke (it’s meant to be good for upset stomachs) and a crème egg. We had a hug, which I was (obviously) pretty pleased about. When he was going home, I saw him in the hall and he put his hand on my arm, and thanked me for looking after him all day. If he hadn’t been sick I would have tried to kiss him.
I got to the pub quite late after work as I had to call my little brother to wish him happy birthday. My mobile is terrible, and had run out of battery hours and hours before, so I used my work phone. Also, using my work phone doesn’t cost me any money. I was so tired when I got to the pub, I didn’t think I’d stay long. Myself and one of my gay friends spent a considerable amount of time proclaiming ourselves to be fabulous, and moaning about the lack of attractive men.
Approximately one bottle of wine consumed solely by me = not very clever. I ended up taking the tube to Brixton, and going to another bar. With the date-that-wasn’t guy. And then back to his. I eventually left his at about 4 in the afternoon, having spent the time shagging and sleeping. We had some really good sex, but I’m not sure that I want to see him again. It’s really mean, I know, but he’s far too small for me to take seriously (by small, I mean height- I did say it was good sex!). However, I was left with a nice memento of the night, with a bite mark on my back. Proper teeth imprints and everything. I was actually really chuffed because rather than being a typical man and not paying any attention to female anatomy, he took the time to see to my needs. I was so impressed. Clearly short men have their advantages. It's funny, out of all the people I've slept with only 3 (including this one) have ever made me come. The other two I was with for a considerable period of time (a year and 3 years, respectively), so it would seem that most of the one-night stands I've had have been crap. Like it was difficult for me to work that one out!
In one of my finest moments, I also managed to swipe his Madonna cd (the new album). Job’s a good’un.
Anyway, eventually home. Another gay friend was coming round to watch the X-Factor final, so I tidied up my room a little (it was an awful mess) while listening to the Madonna album, singing along to my hearts content. Two of my housemates were also in, so we decided to order a takeaway once my friend arrived. We were all backing Shayne (the hot one) to win. It was quite amusing as I’m not sure that one of my housemates had ever met a gay person before, or a Jew, and now a gay Jew was sitting in the living room! Everyone got on really well though, thankfully, and we had a nice time drinking sparkling wine and absolutely stuffing our faces with curry.
On Sunday, I arranged to meet friends in town to have a present handover. I felt a bit weird, a little out of sorts. I don’t know why. I even had a bath, to try and make myself feel better, but there was a power cut halfway through, which didn’t make me feel all that great. I even wore some very cool, fuschia-pink heels (not in the bath obviously, but when I was out), but I still wasn’t feeling all that great. I’d originally felt so great about having sex again, and thinking I was so cool, but by this point I just felt quite crap about it. Hadn’t I said that the next time I had sex it would be with someone I like? And the teeth marks had turned into a very fetching- and very sore- bruise, which definitely wasn’t very cool.
And then to top off the weekend, I fell asleep with all my clothes on, reading a book.
Today at work has been alright. Nothing too exciting. There was a fire drill, which meant we all had to go to the park and have a cigarette- well, the smokers did anyway. I chatted to the beautiful boy for a while earlier and arranged to go out for a drink this week, possibly tomorrow. He’s been feeling ill all weekend, and thinks that the sick-in-the-bin episode was due not to alcohol, but to the malaria tablets he’s been taking. I’ve spent a lot of time today in the smoking room, and very little time doing anything productive.
I still haven’t done my Christmas shopping. Hopefully I will feel happier tomorrow- especially if I do get to go out with the beautiful boy after work. I’m seeing some old friends on Wednesday, and meeting up with a girl from uni on Thursday, before heading off to my parents for another action packed Christmas in the countryside. Can you sense my enthusiasm??
On Friday I woke up to the sound of K blowdrying her hair. I was a bit disconcerted as she hadn’t brought a hairdryer with her, which meant that it must belong to T. I really didn’t want to get out of bed, as I’d only just got sufficient blanket. I think K wraps it round herself. Eventually I did, though, and I had a much needed shower. T’s bathroom is quite funny. There are three separate rooms, one with a bath and shower, one with the loo, and one with the sink. The shower didn’t have a shower curtain, so the bathroom was already quite soaked by the time I got in there (the others had their showers before me).
T doesn’t live all that far from work, so we walked in. We left his around 11, and after stopping to get a cup of tea, we finally got in at about 11:30, which I didn’t think was that bad. I had absolutely no intention to do any work, and told my colleagues so. They didn’t seem all that bothered. There’s normally four of us in the office, but on Friday there were just three, and that was only until lunchtime, when our numbers shrank to two. I sent off some emails, firstly to the Scot I kissed at the party, who’d actually emailed me first, and then to the guy I fancy. He emailed back to tell me that he’d just been sick in his bin. The Scot didn’t seem too awkward about kissing me.
During the course of the day, I went over to the beautiful boy's office twice. The first time was to see if he was okay after being sick in the bin. He said that he’d just drank a large coffee, without eating anything first. Poor thing. He looked quite pale, and he didn’t seem happy about the amount of work he had lined up. Later in the day I went back with some diet coke (it’s meant to be good for upset stomachs) and a crème egg. We had a hug, which I was (obviously) pretty pleased about. When he was going home, I saw him in the hall and he put his hand on my arm, and thanked me for looking after him all day. If he hadn’t been sick I would have tried to kiss him.
I got to the pub quite late after work as I had to call my little brother to wish him happy birthday. My mobile is terrible, and had run out of battery hours and hours before, so I used my work phone. Also, using my work phone doesn’t cost me any money. I was so tired when I got to the pub, I didn’t think I’d stay long. Myself and one of my gay friends spent a considerable amount of time proclaiming ourselves to be fabulous, and moaning about the lack of attractive men.
Approximately one bottle of wine consumed solely by me = not very clever. I ended up taking the tube to Brixton, and going to another bar. With the date-that-wasn’t guy. And then back to his. I eventually left his at about 4 in the afternoon, having spent the time shagging and sleeping. We had some really good sex, but I’m not sure that I want to see him again. It’s really mean, I know, but he’s far too small for me to take seriously (by small, I mean height- I did say it was good sex!). However, I was left with a nice memento of the night, with a bite mark on my back. Proper teeth imprints and everything. I was actually really chuffed because rather than being a typical man and not paying any attention to female anatomy, he took the time to see to my needs. I was so impressed. Clearly short men have their advantages. It's funny, out of all the people I've slept with only 3 (including this one) have ever made me come. The other two I was with for a considerable period of time (a year and 3 years, respectively), so it would seem that most of the one-night stands I've had have been crap. Like it was difficult for me to work that one out!
In one of my finest moments, I also managed to swipe his Madonna cd (the new album). Job’s a good’un.
Anyway, eventually home. Another gay friend was coming round to watch the X-Factor final, so I tidied up my room a little (it was an awful mess) while listening to the Madonna album, singing along to my hearts content. Two of my housemates were also in, so we decided to order a takeaway once my friend arrived. We were all backing Shayne (the hot one) to win. It was quite amusing as I’m not sure that one of my housemates had ever met a gay person before, or a Jew, and now a gay Jew was sitting in the living room! Everyone got on really well though, thankfully, and we had a nice time drinking sparkling wine and absolutely stuffing our faces with curry.
On Sunday, I arranged to meet friends in town to have a present handover. I felt a bit weird, a little out of sorts. I don’t know why. I even had a bath, to try and make myself feel better, but there was a power cut halfway through, which didn’t make me feel all that great. I even wore some very cool, fuschia-pink heels (not in the bath obviously, but when I was out), but I still wasn’t feeling all that great. I’d originally felt so great about having sex again, and thinking I was so cool, but by this point I just felt quite crap about it. Hadn’t I said that the next time I had sex it would be with someone I like? And the teeth marks had turned into a very fetching- and very sore- bruise, which definitely wasn’t very cool.
And then to top off the weekend, I fell asleep with all my clothes on, reading a book.
Today at work has been alright. Nothing too exciting. There was a fire drill, which meant we all had to go to the park and have a cigarette- well, the smokers did anyway. I chatted to the beautiful boy for a while earlier and arranged to go out for a drink this week, possibly tomorrow. He’s been feeling ill all weekend, and thinks that the sick-in-the-bin episode was due not to alcohol, but to the malaria tablets he’s been taking. I’ve spent a lot of time today in the smoking room, and very little time doing anything productive.
I still haven’t done my Christmas shopping. Hopefully I will feel happier tomorrow- especially if I do get to go out with the beautiful boy after work. I’m seeing some old friends on Wednesday, and meeting up with a girl from uni on Thursday, before heading off to my parents for another action packed Christmas in the countryside. Can you sense my enthusiasm??
Friday, December 16, 2005
Office Christmas party
Oh dear oh dear oh dear.
Office Christmas party. That’s never a good thing. It all kicked off quite early, as it was four people’s leaving do’s. I’d decided to be brave and wear a dress, so I was looking pretty foxy, it must be said. The dress is purple satin-like material, strapless, with a net skirt underneath. I had a little sparkly cardigan on top. To complete the look I had my pink boots on. I thought that would make it easier to walk, rather than heels, and it played down the dress as well- I didn’t want to look too dressy.
Anyway, I got right in there with the wine, and had a couple of canapés. I sat down, and my friend immediately tried to convince me to throw an X-Factor Final party.
Because you can’t smoke in the boardroom, I spent a fair bit of time walking to and from the smoking room, where there seemed to be a separate party going on. I kept my eyes open for the guy on my corridor who I quite fancy. When he showed up, I spent quite a lot of time talking to him, until I got dragged off to dance.
It was quite strange with the guy from my corridor. At one point I went to the smoking room and was told that he’d been in there looking for me, so I ran off to catch up with him. We went to his office, to admire the plants, and then went to my office, where we sat on the desk and drank and chatted. It all seemed to be going really well. But then, when he was leaving (he had another party to go to), something strange happened. At that point where you think you’re going to kiss, and you get the butterflies and everything… nothing. I got a hug. I was left feeling decidedly odd.
Of course, the solution to this, in my eyes, was to have another drink. I went back to the smoking room and sat on the floor. I started feeling really dodgy, and went to the loo. Thankfully I got there just in time, where I regurgitated all the wine and canapés. My friend got me some water, but I wouldn’t let anyone come in. I like to think I have some dignity. Soon I felt alright, and I had my toothbrush and toothpaste with me, so I brushed my teeth. This is not the first time I have been sick at a party, hence the provisions.
Back in there, I found some eyeliner on the floor and decided to draw some on an unsuspecting colleague. I chased him into the kitchen, but he ran away before I could do more than draw a big black line across his cheek. Another guy, a Scottish man who also works with me, had tried to help me. Before I knew what was happening, we were kissing pretty passionately. After a while he broke off, saying, “Ah cannae do this. You’re a beautiful wee lassie, ah think you’re really attractive. But ah’m sorta seeing someone”.
What he meant by this, which I didn’t know until much later, was that he had a girlfriend of three years that he lived with. We agreed to be amicable about it all though.
Pretty soon the party was over and we headed of to Belushi’s. I’ve actually missed out something there. I kissed the biggest sleaze in the office. Nice move.
Anyway, Belushi’s, for those not in the know, is possibly the biggest dive in London. It’s a bar on Borough High Street, full of pissed arseholes, where we invariably end up as it’s open late and close to the office. What a shithole. We didn’t stay there long, but had a little dance.
When we left, some others were getting a cab back to south London. Me being a clever girl DIDN’T go with them. Instead I decided that I wanted to stay at T's. The only problem with this was that T and K had already left. I knew it would be fine, and rang to check. I started walking up to London Bridge with the Scot and the sleaze.
At London Bridge, there were no taxis. The Scot and I arranged to go for a hot chocolate together next week. Soon enough- and I know this is bad- we were snogging like randy teenagers at the bus stop. It’s bad, yes, but I’m not the one in a relationship, and anyway, we couldn’t really help ourselves. We get on really well, though we don’t know each other that well. But obviously we also fancied a bit of each other last night, hence all the furious kissing.
I eventually hailed a taxi by standing in the middle of the road near Monument station, smoking a fag and swearing loudly. A guy ran over to ask if I wanted to share a cab, as we were going the same way. Obviously he was impressed by my style. He was nice, and we had quite a laugh. He asked if I wanted to stay at his, but I said no, as I am a lady (hahaha). He gave me his card anyway and we’re going to go out for a drink.
Finally at T’s. He let me in, wearing only his pants. As I took my lenses out (good girl) I told them what I’d been up to, and T told me that he’d nearly had sex in the office with a girl from his department. He lent me a pyjama top- K had the bottoms on already- and I climbed into bed. There wasn’t a huge amount of space as there were the three of us in one bed, and I didn’t get much blanket. Nevertheless, I fell in to one of those sleeps that you only have when you’re pissed.
Merry Christmas.
Office Christmas party. That’s never a good thing. It all kicked off quite early, as it was four people’s leaving do’s. I’d decided to be brave and wear a dress, so I was looking pretty foxy, it must be said. The dress is purple satin-like material, strapless, with a net skirt underneath. I had a little sparkly cardigan on top. To complete the look I had my pink boots on. I thought that would make it easier to walk, rather than heels, and it played down the dress as well- I didn’t want to look too dressy.
Anyway, I got right in there with the wine, and had a couple of canapés. I sat down, and my friend immediately tried to convince me to throw an X-Factor Final party.
Because you can’t smoke in the boardroom, I spent a fair bit of time walking to and from the smoking room, where there seemed to be a separate party going on. I kept my eyes open for the guy on my corridor who I quite fancy. When he showed up, I spent quite a lot of time talking to him, until I got dragged off to dance.
It was quite strange with the guy from my corridor. At one point I went to the smoking room and was told that he’d been in there looking for me, so I ran off to catch up with him. We went to his office, to admire the plants, and then went to my office, where we sat on the desk and drank and chatted. It all seemed to be going really well. But then, when he was leaving (he had another party to go to), something strange happened. At that point where you think you’re going to kiss, and you get the butterflies and everything… nothing. I got a hug. I was left feeling decidedly odd.
Of course, the solution to this, in my eyes, was to have another drink. I went back to the smoking room and sat on the floor. I started feeling really dodgy, and went to the loo. Thankfully I got there just in time, where I regurgitated all the wine and canapés. My friend got me some water, but I wouldn’t let anyone come in. I like to think I have some dignity. Soon I felt alright, and I had my toothbrush and toothpaste with me, so I brushed my teeth. This is not the first time I have been sick at a party, hence the provisions.
Back in there, I found some eyeliner on the floor and decided to draw some on an unsuspecting colleague. I chased him into the kitchen, but he ran away before I could do more than draw a big black line across his cheek. Another guy, a Scottish man who also works with me, had tried to help me. Before I knew what was happening, we were kissing pretty passionately. After a while he broke off, saying, “Ah cannae do this. You’re a beautiful wee lassie, ah think you’re really attractive. But ah’m sorta seeing someone”.
What he meant by this, which I didn’t know until much later, was that he had a girlfriend of three years that he lived with. We agreed to be amicable about it all though.
Pretty soon the party was over and we headed of to Belushi’s. I’ve actually missed out something there. I kissed the biggest sleaze in the office. Nice move.
Anyway, Belushi’s, for those not in the know, is possibly the biggest dive in London. It’s a bar on Borough High Street, full of pissed arseholes, where we invariably end up as it’s open late and close to the office. What a shithole. We didn’t stay there long, but had a little dance.
When we left, some others were getting a cab back to south London. Me being a clever girl DIDN’T go with them. Instead I decided that I wanted to stay at T's. The only problem with this was that T and K had already left. I knew it would be fine, and rang to check. I started walking up to London Bridge with the Scot and the sleaze.
At London Bridge, there were no taxis. The Scot and I arranged to go for a hot chocolate together next week. Soon enough- and I know this is bad- we were snogging like randy teenagers at the bus stop. It’s bad, yes, but I’m not the one in a relationship, and anyway, we couldn’t really help ourselves. We get on really well, though we don’t know each other that well. But obviously we also fancied a bit of each other last night, hence all the furious kissing.
I eventually hailed a taxi by standing in the middle of the road near Monument station, smoking a fag and swearing loudly. A guy ran over to ask if I wanted to share a cab, as we were going the same way. Obviously he was impressed by my style. He was nice, and we had quite a laugh. He asked if I wanted to stay at his, but I said no, as I am a lady (hahaha). He gave me his card anyway and we’re going to go out for a drink.
Finally at T’s. He let me in, wearing only his pants. As I took my lenses out (good girl) I told them what I’d been up to, and T told me that he’d nearly had sex in the office with a girl from his department. He lent me a pyjama top- K had the bottoms on already- and I climbed into bed. There wasn’t a huge amount of space as there were the three of us in one bed, and I didn’t get much blanket. Nevertheless, I fell in to one of those sleeps that you only have when you’re pissed.
Merry Christmas.
Road trip to Europe: part 4
Poland, once we were finally there, was really cool. It was nowhere near as cold as I thought it would be. In fact, I think it's possibly colder here. Our first priority was to get in the shower and change our clothes. I was so glad that I had exfoliating soap. I think I shed an entire laying of skin.
Gdansk nightlife doesn't really compare to London's. We'd made a list of all the bars we wanted to go to, and we tried them all out. We were drinking the nicest drink- Zubrowka with apple juice. Two of these drinks only cost 13 zloty (just over £2) and we probably drank about 15 of these on the first night alone. Some of the places we went to while in Gdansk:
- Cafe Mariacka: run by a husband and wife, this chintzy little cafe served up cabbage dumplings (for me) and sausages (for K). The owners gave us a postcard of the cafe, which had a photo of them standing proudly behind the bar.
- another cafe on Mariacka (the cutest street in the world), with quite a cute barman. We got some more food and zubrowka here. I had cheese soup, which sounds horrible, but was actually really nice. If I had a cafe, I'd want it to look just like this.
- Cafe Absinthe: this one took us quite a long time to find, and when we got there, there was nowhere to sit. We perched on the end of a table where some very moody boys were sitting. I can imagine it being quite cool later but it was a little souless when we were there.
- Plastykon: this place was pretty cool. It was quite dingy, and had big comfy sofas. We managed to nab the nicest one, and settled down into it, zubrowka in hand.
- Club 80's: what a fantastic idea, a club playing only 80's music. We loved this one, we danced until five in the morning. This is where we met Magit #1. He was trying- I emphasise the word TRYING- to chat us up, but he was doing a particularly poor job of it. His English wasn't great, so if we said something too quickly (which was most things, to be fair) he would stop us with the immortal line: "again.... and slow". He wouldn't believe that K was from the UK. I asked him if Poland had ethnic minorities and he said that of course they did, they had Ukrainians and Germans. We didn't see any black or asian people the whole time we were there- except at the airport!! At one point, we saw the most blatant prostitute, dancing with quite a smug looking man in a leather jacket. Classy. Oh, and K got hit on by a lesbian.
- Soda cafe: we had some really nice food here. The place was decorated like a christmas grotto. They had possibly the coolest baubles I've ever seen- glass, with a white feather inside. They were gorgeous.
- Yesterday: an indie club, made fabulous by us meeting Magit #2 and Artur. We had a real blast dancing with them. They had a friend with them who wouldn't speak, and didn't even take his coat off. Magit was so funny, when he didn't understand a word he would repeat it, as a question. He asked us where we worked... the conversation went a little like this:
"It's in the government"
"Government??"
"You know what the parliament is?"
"Parliament??"
"Hmmm... where the prime minister works"
"Minister??"
"Like the president..."
"You are president???"
"No no no... Okay, you know the White House?"
"You work in White House??"
"No, but like the British version of that... kind of..."
I danced mainly with Artur, who was so funny. We did lots of comedy dancing.
- Amber shops on Mariacka: these were lovely. There was some really nice stuff. There was also some really tacky, awful stuff. Like model boats made out of amber.
- Matarnia shopping outlet: it was astandard out-of-town shopping outlet... except it had a pet shop! There were the tiniest hamsters I have ever seen, no bigger than my thumb. Better still, there were chinchillas! K was completely hooked by these little furry bundles. She wants to get one, though she did point out that they were the only other living beings with slanty eyes that we'd seen in Poland!
- Green Way: the most amazing vege restaurant. It was ridiculously cheap, for a huge mountain of delicious, filling vege food and salads. Freshly squeezed orange juice, too.
In all, we had a really good time. We took taxis most places, as they were so cheap. We didn't always get Hello Taxis, but we much preferred them, just for the name.
We're going to go back to Poland. I think we're going to plan a week long mini-interrail, with T and other people. That would be a lot of fun, we could have a whole room in a hostel. I'm not sure when that would be though, as I'm completely. I love travelling, I need to do more of it. Next time I won't take so much stuff though. I only had a small rucksack and a shoulder bag, but I could have got away with having far less. If we go in summer, then all I need is a couple of changes of tshirts, and maybe some shorts, as well as my washbag. I'm going to see just how little I can get away with travelling with.
But that will have to wait... I must stop going on the Ryanair website...
Gdansk nightlife doesn't really compare to London's. We'd made a list of all the bars we wanted to go to, and we tried them all out. We were drinking the nicest drink- Zubrowka with apple juice. Two of these drinks only cost 13 zloty (just over £2) and we probably drank about 15 of these on the first night alone. Some of the places we went to while in Gdansk:
- Cafe Mariacka: run by a husband and wife, this chintzy little cafe served up cabbage dumplings (for me) and sausages (for K). The owners gave us a postcard of the cafe, which had a photo of them standing proudly behind the bar.
- another cafe on Mariacka (the cutest street in the world), with quite a cute barman. We got some more food and zubrowka here. I had cheese soup, which sounds horrible, but was actually really nice. If I had a cafe, I'd want it to look just like this.
- Cafe Absinthe: this one took us quite a long time to find, and when we got there, there was nowhere to sit. We perched on the end of a table where some very moody boys were sitting. I can imagine it being quite cool later but it was a little souless when we were there.
- Plastykon: this place was pretty cool. It was quite dingy, and had big comfy sofas. We managed to nab the nicest one, and settled down into it, zubrowka in hand.
- Club 80's: what a fantastic idea, a club playing only 80's music. We loved this one, we danced until five in the morning. This is where we met Magit #1. He was trying- I emphasise the word TRYING- to chat us up, but he was doing a particularly poor job of it. His English wasn't great, so if we said something too quickly (which was most things, to be fair) he would stop us with the immortal line: "again.... and slow". He wouldn't believe that K was from the UK. I asked him if Poland had ethnic minorities and he said that of course they did, they had Ukrainians and Germans. We didn't see any black or asian people the whole time we were there- except at the airport!! At one point, we saw the most blatant prostitute, dancing with quite a smug looking man in a leather jacket. Classy. Oh, and K got hit on by a lesbian.
- Soda cafe: we had some really nice food here. The place was decorated like a christmas grotto. They had possibly the coolest baubles I've ever seen- glass, with a white feather inside. They were gorgeous.
- Yesterday: an indie club, made fabulous by us meeting Magit #2 and Artur. We had a real blast dancing with them. They had a friend with them who wouldn't speak, and didn't even take his coat off. Magit was so funny, when he didn't understand a word he would repeat it, as a question. He asked us where we worked... the conversation went a little like this:
"It's in the government"
"Government??"
"You know what the parliament is?"
"Parliament??"
"Hmmm... where the prime minister works"
"Minister??"
"Like the president..."
"You are president???"
"No no no... Okay, you know the White House?"
"You work in White House??"
"No, but like the British version of that... kind of..."
I danced mainly with Artur, who was so funny. We did lots of comedy dancing.
- Amber shops on Mariacka: these were lovely. There was some really nice stuff. There was also some really tacky, awful stuff. Like model boats made out of amber.
- Matarnia shopping outlet: it was astandard out-of-town shopping outlet... except it had a pet shop! There were the tiniest hamsters I have ever seen, no bigger than my thumb. Better still, there were chinchillas! K was completely hooked by these little furry bundles. She wants to get one, though she did point out that they were the only other living beings with slanty eyes that we'd seen in Poland!
- Green Way: the most amazing vege restaurant. It was ridiculously cheap, for a huge mountain of delicious, filling vege food and salads. Freshly squeezed orange juice, too.
In all, we had a really good time. We took taxis most places, as they were so cheap. We didn't always get Hello Taxis, but we much preferred them, just for the name.
We're going to go back to Poland. I think we're going to plan a week long mini-interrail, with T and other people. That would be a lot of fun, we could have a whole room in a hostel. I'm not sure when that would be though, as I'm completely. I love travelling, I need to do more of it. Next time I won't take so much stuff though. I only had a small rucksack and a shoulder bag, but I could have got away with having far less. If we go in summer, then all I need is a couple of changes of tshirts, and maybe some shorts, as well as my washbag. I'm going to see just how little I can get away with travelling with.
But that will have to wait... I must stop going on the Ryanair website...
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Road trip to Europe: part 3
Finally it rolled round to 6:40 at Berlin Ostbahnhof and we got on our train. It was one of those old types, with seperate compartments. There were none vacant, so we had to share with quite a grumpy man. It was very warm and comfortable on the train, and we were asleep within five minutes.
We were woken up by a ticket inspector, who wouldn't sell us through tickets to Poznan for some reason. He insisted on seeing our passports, but only sold us tickets to Frankfurt am Oder. I was too sleepy to argue, and didn't want to risk any more filthy looks from the grumpy man. I was soon asleep again, only to be woken at the Polish border by some gruff guards, demanding to see passports. They examined them quite closely, with smirks on their faces. I don't know why, as my passport photo is actually really good. Nevertheless, I was soon asleep again. The next time I was woken up was by a Polish ticket inspector, who spoke terrible German. The grumpy man had by this point disappeared, which made me slightly worried as he was travelling to Poznan too. I presume he got fed up of sharing his compartment with two sleeping girls. What a hard life it must have been for him.
At around 9:40 we pulled up into Poznan. It was a very bleak station, very grey and stark. The platforms were only raised about a foot from the level of the tracks, which meant you had to clamber down from quite a height. We had to cross onto the other platform, where the ticket office was, and I wanted to just skip accross the track instead of going up onto the ridiculously high footbridge. No one else seemed to be taking this shortcut though, and I knew that sod's law would dictate that I would be hit by a speeding train. In the ticket office there appeared to be no members of staff hanging around to answer questions, but luckily K was a little more sensible than me and actually checked the departure board. There was a train going to Gdynia, and we thought that this must go to Gdansk too. Sure enough, it was, and we climbed (literally) on board.
This train was dusty and quite full. We found a compartment with two seats, and settled down. When the ticket inspector came round, we faced a small problem in that we don't know a single word of Polish. A kind girl in our compartment- probably late teens or early twenties, looked a little like Maria Sharapova- translated for us, and we were able to get the tickets. Looking out at the Polish landscape, I was struck by one thing: the lack of colour. I'd read that Poland is a very green country, but to me it seemed only grey. Even the sky was grey. There were lots of allotments with sheds in various states of disarray. We passed through towns (grey, bleak, univiting), villages (cute, rustic, but still grey), fields (either plain mud or snow covered) and forests (some had snow on the ground- these were the most attractive). As time passed, the amount of snow we saw increased, to the point where the world seeemed covered in a white blanket. I was a bit worried that Gdansk would be too cold. When I went to Berlin three years ago it was really cold, -15 on some days. That was awful, you needed to wear two pairs of trousers just to get around. The train went quite slowly as far as Bydgoszcz, where most of the people sharing our compartment got out. Then it picked up some speed, and it didn't take all that much time to get to Gdansk.
However, as we pulled into Gdansk, there was no snow. Architecturally- at least from the train- Gdansk seemed nicer than Poznan, or Bydgoszcz. We got out of the train and hugged each other. Finally!! Outside the station we hailed a "Hello Taxi"- our first of many. We showed the driver the address of the hotel, which we had on a piece of paper. We didn't think our Polish pronounciation would get us anywhere. The Hello Taxi whisked us off to our much dreamed of hot shower....
We were woken up by a ticket inspector, who wouldn't sell us through tickets to Poznan for some reason. He insisted on seeing our passports, but only sold us tickets to Frankfurt am Oder. I was too sleepy to argue, and didn't want to risk any more filthy looks from the grumpy man. I was soon asleep again, only to be woken at the Polish border by some gruff guards, demanding to see passports. They examined them quite closely, with smirks on their faces. I don't know why, as my passport photo is actually really good. Nevertheless, I was soon asleep again. The next time I was woken up was by a Polish ticket inspector, who spoke terrible German. The grumpy man had by this point disappeared, which made me slightly worried as he was travelling to Poznan too. I presume he got fed up of sharing his compartment with two sleeping girls. What a hard life it must have been for him.
At around 9:40 we pulled up into Poznan. It was a very bleak station, very grey and stark. The platforms were only raised about a foot from the level of the tracks, which meant you had to clamber down from quite a height. We had to cross onto the other platform, where the ticket office was, and I wanted to just skip accross the track instead of going up onto the ridiculously high footbridge. No one else seemed to be taking this shortcut though, and I knew that sod's law would dictate that I would be hit by a speeding train. In the ticket office there appeared to be no members of staff hanging around to answer questions, but luckily K was a little more sensible than me and actually checked the departure board. There was a train going to Gdynia, and we thought that this must go to Gdansk too. Sure enough, it was, and we climbed (literally) on board.
This train was dusty and quite full. We found a compartment with two seats, and settled down. When the ticket inspector came round, we faced a small problem in that we don't know a single word of Polish. A kind girl in our compartment- probably late teens or early twenties, looked a little like Maria Sharapova- translated for us, and we were able to get the tickets. Looking out at the Polish landscape, I was struck by one thing: the lack of colour. I'd read that Poland is a very green country, but to me it seemed only grey. Even the sky was grey. There were lots of allotments with sheds in various states of disarray. We passed through towns (grey, bleak, univiting), villages (cute, rustic, but still grey), fields (either plain mud or snow covered) and forests (some had snow on the ground- these were the most attractive). As time passed, the amount of snow we saw increased, to the point where the world seeemed covered in a white blanket. I was a bit worried that Gdansk would be too cold. When I went to Berlin three years ago it was really cold, -15 on some days. That was awful, you needed to wear two pairs of trousers just to get around. The train went quite slowly as far as Bydgoszcz, where most of the people sharing our compartment got out. Then it picked up some speed, and it didn't take all that much time to get to Gdansk.
However, as we pulled into Gdansk, there was no snow. Architecturally- at least from the train- Gdansk seemed nicer than Poznan, or Bydgoszcz. We got out of the train and hugged each other. Finally!! Outside the station we hailed a "Hello Taxi"- our first of many. We showed the driver the address of the hotel, which we had on a piece of paper. We didn't think our Polish pronounciation would get us anywhere. The Hello Taxi whisked us off to our much dreamed of hot shower....
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Road trip to Europe: part 1
My friend K and I had planned to visit Poland last weekend. We bought flights on Ryanair for some paltry sum, and spent ages looking at websites and choosing where to stay. We planned to spend four days in Gdansk, by the coast. However, nothing went according to plan...
We were due to fly out to Poland on an early morning flight on Friday. We'd taken our bags and passports to work, so we could get the coach from Liverpool Street to the airport without having to go home first. We had explained to the normal security guard that we would be back at the office by 11.30 to get our bags, as I had a ballet class and we were going to get some food afterwards. He said that this would be fine, and that the night security guard would let us in.
On arriving back at the office, the security guard was nowhere to be seen. Assuming that he was doing his routine checks, we waited for 15 minutes. We then started to worry. We suspected that he might be on the 4th floor, as one of the lifts was on the 4th floor. We then called some people from work. We tried calling a number of different phone numbers accross the whole building, in the hope of alerting the security guard.
By now it was half past midnight, and we were freezing. We went to a pub that was open to sit in the warmth and carried on calling the office. At 1am we returned to the office, but the security guard was still not there. By now, the panic had really set in, and we called the police for advice, but they couldn't help us. We banged on the doors, and shouted, hoping to alert the guard, but he clearly wasn't on the ground floor, as he didn't hear us. There was only one light on on the ground floor, in the library, but no one was there.
As it passed 2am, we started to get really scared. We sat in the doorway for another half hour but eventually it got too cold. We decided that we would have to find somewhere warmer to stay. We walked up to London Bridge and sat inside for a while, trying to think of what we should do. Eventually, the only place we could think of that would be open was the hospital. Inside the main entrance, there were some chairs, where we sat, and kept calling the security phone every hour until half past five. Again, there was no response, but having been told to leave the hospital, and knowing that time was ticking and we needed our bags, we went back to the office.
We called the office and banged on the door for a further few minutes but still no one appeared. By this point, both lifts were on the ground floor. We suddenly saw a shadow, and realised that someone was there. We shouted and banged as loud as we could, and he appeared from the reception area and let us in. By this time it was 5.30. We ran to get our bags and passports, and booked a taxi. As we waited for the taxi to arrive, we asked the security guard where the hell he had been. He claimed that he had a stomach bug and was being sick in the room next door. That was obviously rubbish, as that room is an office. Don't normal people go to the bathroom when they're being sick?? We asked him why he hadn't answered his phone, and he said that he couldn't hear it. But we'd rung him on this number when he was sitting in the reception area! I really wanted to kill him.
By now, 5.45, the taxi had arrived, so we ended our conversation with the guard, as our main priority was getting to the airport on time. Unfortunately, we ended up missing our flight by five minutes. The next flight to Gdansk would be the following morning.
At this point, we were so close to tears out of tiredness and frustration. We tried to find flights to nearby destinations, with no success. In the end, we bought a flight to Berlin - some 120 miles from our destination, planning to take a train from there to Poland, so that we could at least use our return tickets. This cost us £165 each. We didn't think we could face the disappointment of not going away after the traumatic experience of the night before.
As Stansted airport was nice and warm, we decided to get some sleep there. Unfortunately the benches were metal and had arm rests. Somehow we managed to get to sleep, and actually slept quite well. I woke up to the sound of screaming children. One kid in particular was making a godawful racket and would only be silenced by her mother shaking some maracas at her. If the kid had been young, I might have let it pass. But no, it was a girl aged about 10!! I came so close to strangling the kid, and her mum for good measure. In the end I had to go for a walk around the fabulous shopping centre that is Stansted airport to get away from the kid.
We spent quite a lot of time in the smoking area, which seemed to be where all the fit guys were. I tried eyeing some of them up,as an enjoyable way to pass some time, but I realised that I probably looked like death warmed up. I tried to have a wash in the bathrooms, but it wasn't really possible. All I wanted was a bath.
Check in time for the Berlin flight was 16:40, and the time crept round so slowly. When we finally got through passport control, I wanted to jump around with happiness. I did a little jumping, and was thankful we were finally on our way.
We were due to fly out to Poland on an early morning flight on Friday. We'd taken our bags and passports to work, so we could get the coach from Liverpool Street to the airport without having to go home first. We had explained to the normal security guard that we would be back at the office by 11.30 to get our bags, as I had a ballet class and we were going to get some food afterwards. He said that this would be fine, and that the night security guard would let us in.
On arriving back at the office, the security guard was nowhere to be seen. Assuming that he was doing his routine checks, we waited for 15 minutes. We then started to worry. We suspected that he might be on the 4th floor, as one of the lifts was on the 4th floor. We then called some people from work. We tried calling a number of different phone numbers accross the whole building, in the hope of alerting the security guard.
By now it was half past midnight, and we were freezing. We went to a pub that was open to sit in the warmth and carried on calling the office. At 1am we returned to the office, but the security guard was still not there. By now, the panic had really set in, and we called the police for advice, but they couldn't help us. We banged on the doors, and shouted, hoping to alert the guard, but he clearly wasn't on the ground floor, as he didn't hear us. There was only one light on on the ground floor, in the library, but no one was there.
As it passed 2am, we started to get really scared. We sat in the doorway for another half hour but eventually it got too cold. We decided that we would have to find somewhere warmer to stay. We walked up to London Bridge and sat inside for a while, trying to think of what we should do. Eventually, the only place we could think of that would be open was the hospital. Inside the main entrance, there were some chairs, where we sat, and kept calling the security phone every hour until half past five. Again, there was no response, but having been told to leave the hospital, and knowing that time was ticking and we needed our bags, we went back to the office.
We called the office and banged on the door for a further few minutes but still no one appeared. By this point, both lifts were on the ground floor. We suddenly saw a shadow, and realised that someone was there. We shouted and banged as loud as we could, and he appeared from the reception area and let us in. By this time it was 5.30. We ran to get our bags and passports, and booked a taxi. As we waited for the taxi to arrive, we asked the security guard where the hell he had been. He claimed that he had a stomach bug and was being sick in the room next door. That was obviously rubbish, as that room is an office. Don't normal people go to the bathroom when they're being sick?? We asked him why he hadn't answered his phone, and he said that he couldn't hear it. But we'd rung him on this number when he was sitting in the reception area! I really wanted to kill him.
By now, 5.45, the taxi had arrived, so we ended our conversation with the guard, as our main priority was getting to the airport on time. Unfortunately, we ended up missing our flight by five minutes. The next flight to Gdansk would be the following morning.
At this point, we were so close to tears out of tiredness and frustration. We tried to find flights to nearby destinations, with no success. In the end, we bought a flight to Berlin - some 120 miles from our destination, planning to take a train from there to Poland, so that we could at least use our return tickets. This cost us £165 each. We didn't think we could face the disappointment of not going away after the traumatic experience of the night before.
As Stansted airport was nice and warm, we decided to get some sleep there. Unfortunately the benches were metal and had arm rests. Somehow we managed to get to sleep, and actually slept quite well. I woke up to the sound of screaming children. One kid in particular was making a godawful racket and would only be silenced by her mother shaking some maracas at her. If the kid had been young, I might have let it pass. But no, it was a girl aged about 10!! I came so close to strangling the kid, and her mum for good measure. In the end I had to go for a walk around the fabulous shopping centre that is Stansted airport to get away from the kid.
We spent quite a lot of time in the smoking area, which seemed to be where all the fit guys were. I tried eyeing some of them up,as an enjoyable way to pass some time, but I realised that I probably looked like death warmed up. I tried to have a wash in the bathrooms, but it wasn't really possible. All I wanted was a bath.
Check in time for the Berlin flight was 16:40, and the time crept round so slowly. When we finally got through passport control, I wanted to jump around with happiness. I did a little jumping, and was thankful we were finally on our way.
Road trip to Europe: part 2
We touched down in Berlin having had quite a satisfying sleep on the plane. Passport control seemed a little more strict than normal, but then German passport officials are always very stern. We walked accross the park to the station. It's one of the weirdest stations I know.
There's a long corridor underneath eight platforms, with no signs announcing trains and no ticket office. The train times are posted on a grubby leaflet, stuck to the wall.
When the train did arrive, however, it made up for it by being a double decker train. We sat on the top deck, of course. It doesn't take long to get from the airport to the city centre. From my guidebook to Poland, I had figured out that the best thing to do would be to take a train accross the border to Poznan, on the Berlin-Warsaw express, and then another train from Poznan to Gdansk. I guessed that trains going east would leave from the Ostbahnhof, so we headed to there.
I guessed right. However, the train would not be leaving until the morning. I was glad that I can speak German as the men at the information desk did not speak English. I checked that there were no other trains to Poland before the morning, but there weren't. If we hadn't spent the previous night out in the cold, we might have thought that this would be a problem. As it was, we felt that we could deal with almost every situation that was thrown at us.
K had never been to Berlin before, but I had. We decided to go sightseeing. First we left our bags in one of the lockers, and I changed my tshirt. I instantly felt a lot better. I felt quite skanky as I hadn't taken my shoes off in so long, and I wondered how long it took fo foot rot to start to take place.
I didn't know my way around the Ostbahnhof, so we took a train to Freidrichstr. and went to a nearby pub. After some hearty German food and a beer, we felt ready to tackle the city. The pub was playing really terrible German music, and we were quite annoyed at having to leave at 1:00, when it shut.
As K hadn't done history at school, and I did a degree in the bastard subject, with most of my last year concentrating on german history, I gave her a bit of a guided tour. We started off by walking down to Unter den Linden. There were christmas lights everywhere- not the tacky half-arsed ones you get in the UK, but full-on fantastic ones. Unter den Linden wasn't that nice, as there were some building works. However, over by the Brandenberg Tor there was a huge tree. I've not seen any as good as that. It was so huge, it was tethered with three thick metal cables. There were wooden stars and moons tied to the end of the branches. It looked really magical, with the Tor just behind it.
We went to see the marker, pointing out where the wall stood. It's funny to think that there was a huge wall right in the middle of this crossroads. Then we walked over to the Reichstag. I'd seen it by day, and had been up to the dome, but I hadn't seen it at night. It looked fabulous with the dome all lit up.
K wanted to see the remaining section of the wall, so we walked over to Checkpoint Charlie. The hut that was the checkpoint is still there, along with a sign marking the end of the American sector. We started walking over to the wall, and walked past a skip, when suddenly the skip shrieked!! We ran to the other side of the road as quickly as we could. K said she thought that there must be a man in the skip, and at first I thought that was ridiculous. Then I thought that it was probably less ridiculous than it being the skip itself making the noise. Nevertheless, we didn't go over to investigate.
The remaining section of the wall is impressive, it's somewhat taller than I remembered. It's hard to think what it must have been like before the wall came down. Life on the East must have been hard for people to take the risks they took to get to the West. The East is still pretty grey, and bleak in places. What makes me really think is that the DDR had the highest standard of living of any of the eastern bloc. Parts of the USSR must look like concrete hell on polluted earth.
By now we were both quite cold and tired, and we headed back to the Ostbahnhof. K fell asleep with her head on my shoulder, so I made her a pillow and cover out of bags and coats, and she went to sleep on the bench. As it wasn't yet 4:00, and our train didn't leave until 6:40, I decided to get some sleep too. I lay on top of my bag, to stop it being stolen, and used my coat as a blanket.
There's a long corridor underneath eight platforms, with no signs announcing trains and no ticket office. The train times are posted on a grubby leaflet, stuck to the wall.
When the train did arrive, however, it made up for it by being a double decker train. We sat on the top deck, of course. It doesn't take long to get from the airport to the city centre. From my guidebook to Poland, I had figured out that the best thing to do would be to take a train accross the border to Poznan, on the Berlin-Warsaw express, and then another train from Poznan to Gdansk. I guessed that trains going east would leave from the Ostbahnhof, so we headed to there.
I guessed right. However, the train would not be leaving until the morning. I was glad that I can speak German as the men at the information desk did not speak English. I checked that there were no other trains to Poland before the morning, but there weren't. If we hadn't spent the previous night out in the cold, we might have thought that this would be a problem. As it was, we felt that we could deal with almost every situation that was thrown at us.
K had never been to Berlin before, but I had. We decided to go sightseeing. First we left our bags in one of the lockers, and I changed my tshirt. I instantly felt a lot better. I felt quite skanky as I hadn't taken my shoes off in so long, and I wondered how long it took fo foot rot to start to take place.
I didn't know my way around the Ostbahnhof, so we took a train to Freidrichstr. and went to a nearby pub. After some hearty German food and a beer, we felt ready to tackle the city. The pub was playing really terrible German music, and we were quite annoyed at having to leave at 1:00, when it shut.
As K hadn't done history at school, and I did a degree in the bastard subject, with most of my last year concentrating on german history, I gave her a bit of a guided tour. We started off by walking down to Unter den Linden. There were christmas lights everywhere- not the tacky half-arsed ones you get in the UK, but full-on fantastic ones. Unter den Linden wasn't that nice, as there were some building works. However, over by the Brandenberg Tor there was a huge tree. I've not seen any as good as that. It was so huge, it was tethered with three thick metal cables. There were wooden stars and moons tied to the end of the branches. It looked really magical, with the Tor just behind it.
We went to see the marker, pointing out where the wall stood. It's funny to think that there was a huge wall right in the middle of this crossroads. Then we walked over to the Reichstag. I'd seen it by day, and had been up to the dome, but I hadn't seen it at night. It looked fabulous with the dome all lit up.
K wanted to see the remaining section of the wall, so we walked over to Checkpoint Charlie. The hut that was the checkpoint is still there, along with a sign marking the end of the American sector. We started walking over to the wall, and walked past a skip, when suddenly the skip shrieked!! We ran to the other side of the road as quickly as we could. K said she thought that there must be a man in the skip, and at first I thought that was ridiculous. Then I thought that it was probably less ridiculous than it being the skip itself making the noise. Nevertheless, we didn't go over to investigate.
The remaining section of the wall is impressive, it's somewhat taller than I remembered. It's hard to think what it must have been like before the wall came down. Life on the East must have been hard for people to take the risks they took to get to the West. The East is still pretty grey, and bleak in places. What makes me really think is that the DDR had the highest standard of living of any of the eastern bloc. Parts of the USSR must look like concrete hell on polluted earth.
By now we were both quite cold and tired, and we headed back to the Ostbahnhof. K fell asleep with her head on my shoulder, so I made her a pillow and cover out of bags and coats, and she went to sleep on the bench. As it wasn't yet 4:00, and our train didn't leave until 6:40, I decided to get some sleep too. I lay on top of my bag, to stop it being stolen, and used my coat as a blanket.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Things that have been making me happy recently
Some things that have been making me smile:
The masses of yellow leaves that have amassed at the foot of Herne Hill.
The excuse given by Thameslink trains for the delay this morning: "Illegal immigrants on the line".
Doing really precise pirouettes and being complimented for my "snappy head".
Holiday photos.
The excitement of going on holiday again in less than 24 hours.
Climbing the hill and looking down at Battersea Power Station.
Remembering all the funny things my cat used to do, like steal my food and chase my shoelaces.
Debating whether girls are actually boys.
Warm towels when you get out of the shower.
Drinking icy cold water.
Finding my favourite lipbalm.
Remembering to take a packed lunch to work, and feeling smug about it, instead of having to go to Sainsbury's and buy a rubbish sandwich.
Hanging out with my friends.
Leprechaun impressions.
Singing inappropriate songs.
Inventing names for work colleagues.
My snoopy shorts.
The masses of yellow leaves that have amassed at the foot of Herne Hill.
The excuse given by Thameslink trains for the delay this morning: "Illegal immigrants on the line".
Doing really precise pirouettes and being complimented for my "snappy head".
Holiday photos.
The excitement of going on holiday again in less than 24 hours.
Climbing the hill and looking down at Battersea Power Station.
Remembering all the funny things my cat used to do, like steal my food and chase my shoelaces.
Debating whether girls are actually boys.
Warm towels when you get out of the shower.
Drinking icy cold water.
Finding my favourite lipbalm.
Remembering to take a packed lunch to work, and feeling smug about it, instead of having to go to Sainsbury's and buy a rubbish sandwich.
Hanging out with my friends.
Leprechaun impressions.
Singing inappropriate songs.
Inventing names for work colleagues.
My snoopy shorts.
Monday, December 05, 2005
A catastrophic weekend
Having been very hyper at work all day on Friday, we headed off to the pub. I'd managed to get out of a Knowledge Management exercise, so I could leave at six. I headed up to the top floor where the boys were playing cricket, and cajoled them into leaving. I think they would have been content to play all night- or at least until there was a confirmed winner, anyway.
At the pub, we started on the wine. And then the spirits. And then more wine... By about 11 we were all completely pissed. There was only three of us at this point, and to remain upright we were all leaning against each other. T had previously gone to a dinner party, but he came back and we proceeded to get even more drunk.
Things that I did in the pub:
- shout abuse at the barman
- lose my debit card
- find my debit card
- talk non stop in German for no particular reason
- take blurry pictures on my phone
- smoke a lot
- kiss my friend
- call T 'Paddington' even though I know he hates it
- chat to an Irish guy and insult his mates girlfriend
- kiss aforementioned Irish guy
- turn down offer of a shag from the Irish guy, telling him to go home
- drunkenly text some random I'd met online and invite him out
- fall over a bar stool
Once we'd finally been thrown out, I realised that the random guy I'd only met online had actually come to the pub. The others decided to go home. Actually, they didn't all want to go home, but as she was only one, and she was marginally more pissed than the rest of us, she was dragged off. I decided that it would be a really good idea to carry on drinking.
The random guy and I walked down to Elephant and waited for a bus. For some reason that is unknown to me, we then took a cab. I left my work folder in the taxi by accident but decided I couldn't be bothered to worry about it. We went to the Fridge bar, where I instantly got in a bad mood.
I managed to find a free chair for myself. By this point I was feeling quite selfish and decided not to find one for the random, even though he was at the bar paying for my drink. After ten minutes or so, the random went to the loo, and I did a runner. I grabbed my stuff and legged it out of the door, and put my phone on silent so it wouldn't annoy me. I looked around and realised that I was in Brixton.
No worries, I thought to myself. I can walk home from here.
I crossed the road and started walking down towards mine. After about ten steps I started crying, and I proceeded to cry most of the way home. About two minutes into my journey I met another random guy who took pity on me. He told me that he could see I was sad, and that what I was doing was dangerous. He told me he'd been in my position once, miserable and lonely, and that drinking didn't make it any better.
He walked me half the way home.
By the time he left me to walk down the Dulwich Road myself, I had sobered up enough to know that if I didn't stick to the main road, I would get lost. I was still crying. As I got closer to home, the hunger kicked in. The only course of action was to go to the garage and buy a packet of Galaxy Minstrels.
I finally got home, and attempted to be quiet. Once in my room, I threw my clothes off and fell pretty instantly asleep.
I woke up on Saturday morning feeling awful. I hadn't managed to eat the Minstrels, and they were sitting on my pillow, along with a packet of crisps I had clearly bought too. My housemate knocked on the door, and I put on my comfiest clothes and went to the kitchen. She was very sweet. She told me about her date, and made me feel a lot better. She told me that I wasn't alone in doing stupid things like that, and that she'd done similar when she'd split up with her ex.
Having drunk four glasses of water, I went back to bed and plugged in my phone, so I could send some messages. Then I went straight back to sleep.
At around 20:00 I woke up- forced awake by my hunger. I went to the living room and watched tv. Mindless television was just what I needed. Eventually the acidic feeling in my brain lifted enough for me to go to the kitchen and make the biggest plate of food ever.
I was laughed at, eating spaghetti. My housemate said she had never seen such a look of concentration.
I made the mistake of staying up too late. I watched Taxi Driver, and then went to my room and watched Lilja 4-ever. That was a far bigger mistake than I envisaged, as- as always with that film- I started crying and crying. Eventually I cried myself to sleep.
My ex met me in Brixton at 4 on Sunday. The atmosphere was so icy, the weather felt almost tropical in comparison. It rounded off a terrible weekend quite appropriately. I think it was one of the saddest experiences ever.
At the pub, we started on the wine. And then the spirits. And then more wine... By about 11 we were all completely pissed. There was only three of us at this point, and to remain upright we were all leaning against each other. T had previously gone to a dinner party, but he came back and we proceeded to get even more drunk.
Things that I did in the pub:
- shout abuse at the barman
- lose my debit card
- find my debit card
- talk non stop in German for no particular reason
- take blurry pictures on my phone
- smoke a lot
- kiss my friend
- call T 'Paddington' even though I know he hates it
- chat to an Irish guy and insult his mates girlfriend
- kiss aforementioned Irish guy
- turn down offer of a shag from the Irish guy, telling him to go home
- drunkenly text some random I'd met online and invite him out
- fall over a bar stool
Once we'd finally been thrown out, I realised that the random guy I'd only met online had actually come to the pub. The others decided to go home. Actually, they didn't all want to go home, but as she was only one, and she was marginally more pissed than the rest of us, she was dragged off. I decided that it would be a really good idea to carry on drinking.
The random guy and I walked down to Elephant and waited for a bus. For some reason that is unknown to me, we then took a cab. I left my work folder in the taxi by accident but decided I couldn't be bothered to worry about it. We went to the Fridge bar, where I instantly got in a bad mood.
I managed to find a free chair for myself. By this point I was feeling quite selfish and decided not to find one for the random, even though he was at the bar paying for my drink. After ten minutes or so, the random went to the loo, and I did a runner. I grabbed my stuff and legged it out of the door, and put my phone on silent so it wouldn't annoy me. I looked around and realised that I was in Brixton.
No worries, I thought to myself. I can walk home from here.
I crossed the road and started walking down towards mine. After about ten steps I started crying, and I proceeded to cry most of the way home. About two minutes into my journey I met another random guy who took pity on me. He told me that he could see I was sad, and that what I was doing was dangerous. He told me he'd been in my position once, miserable and lonely, and that drinking didn't make it any better.
He walked me half the way home.
By the time he left me to walk down the Dulwich Road myself, I had sobered up enough to know that if I didn't stick to the main road, I would get lost. I was still crying. As I got closer to home, the hunger kicked in. The only course of action was to go to the garage and buy a packet of Galaxy Minstrels.
I finally got home, and attempted to be quiet. Once in my room, I threw my clothes off and fell pretty instantly asleep.
I woke up on Saturday morning feeling awful. I hadn't managed to eat the Minstrels, and they were sitting on my pillow, along with a packet of crisps I had clearly bought too. My housemate knocked on the door, and I put on my comfiest clothes and went to the kitchen. She was very sweet. She told me about her date, and made me feel a lot better. She told me that I wasn't alone in doing stupid things like that, and that she'd done similar when she'd split up with her ex.
Having drunk four glasses of water, I went back to bed and plugged in my phone, so I could send some messages. Then I went straight back to sleep.
At around 20:00 I woke up- forced awake by my hunger. I went to the living room and watched tv. Mindless television was just what I needed. Eventually the acidic feeling in my brain lifted enough for me to go to the kitchen and make the biggest plate of food ever.
I was laughed at, eating spaghetti. My housemate said she had never seen such a look of concentration.
I made the mistake of staying up too late. I watched Taxi Driver, and then went to my room and watched Lilja 4-ever. That was a far bigger mistake than I envisaged, as- as always with that film- I started crying and crying. Eventually I cried myself to sleep.
My ex met me in Brixton at 4 on Sunday. The atmosphere was so icy, the weather felt almost tropical in comparison. It rounded off a terrible weekend quite appropriately. I think it was one of the saddest experiences ever.
Friday, December 02, 2005
I was getting the train to work yesterday, a little later than intended as I'd slept in (yet again). There weren't many people on the train. In my carriage there was just me, a little old lady and some yoof with a baseball cap and shiny tracksuit-type attire.
The yoof suddenly spoke to the lady, who had been listening to music. He asked what part of London we were in.
Taking her headphones off, the lady said, "Oh, sorry. This is... hmmm... where are we?" She had a little look out of the window at the concrete jungle of the Walworth Road. "Oh, this is near the Elephant and Castle. It's South East London, though it's not very far from the centre."
The yoof looked interested, so she continued. "The Elephant is named after the shopping centre here. It's the last stop on this line that's south of the river. The next stop is Blackfriars, on the other side of the river. Blackfriars is very close to St Paul's Cathedral, right in the City of London."
She carried on giving a guide to London from each of the Thameslink stations. I was gutted that I was getting off at the next stop, and couldn't carry on eavesdropping.
Incidentally, that old lady was the first pensioner I have seen listening to an iPod. I think she could be called an iPensioner, or OAiP.
The yoof suddenly spoke to the lady, who had been listening to music. He asked what part of London we were in.
Taking her headphones off, the lady said, "Oh, sorry. This is... hmmm... where are we?" She had a little look out of the window at the concrete jungle of the Walworth Road. "Oh, this is near the Elephant and Castle. It's South East London, though it's not very far from the centre."
The yoof looked interested, so she continued. "The Elephant is named after the shopping centre here. It's the last stop on this line that's south of the river. The next stop is Blackfriars, on the other side of the river. Blackfriars is very close to St Paul's Cathedral, right in the City of London."
She carried on giving a guide to London from each of the Thameslink stations. I was gutted that I was getting off at the next stop, and couldn't carry on eavesdropping.
Incidentally, that old lady was the first pensioner I have seen listening to an iPod. I think she could be called an iPensioner, or OAiP.
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