M r M o d e s t y : I n c o n s e q u en ti a l N o n s e n s i c a l n e s s

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2012-01-09T13:40:00.001-06:00

So I step into daddy shoes for the day..

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2012-01-05T19:49:00.007-06:00

"It is the photographer, not the camera, that is the instrument."

- Eve Arnold, April 1912- January 2012

Sad loss of a true great.

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2012-01-04T19:55:00.003-06:00

New Years resolutions. Designed to be broken, made to be attempted. So I will:

1) Have more fun.

2) Change career.

3) Learn to drive.

4) Kick Operation Adonis into high gear.

5) Shake off the remnants of 2011's melodramatic systematic entries and replace with realism. Dull, dreary, unfussy realism.

6) Do as I damn well please.

7) New Zealand.

8) Enjoy a birthday.

It's a start.

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2011-10-10T19:13:00.004-05:00

And Friday is a long, excruciatingly drawn out kind of work day, full of plastered on smiles and deliberate misinterpretations.

I drink six bottles of Evian.

Remove and then put back on my tie eleven times.

Send sixty SMS's.

Play pretend life is one big perfume commercial with a Chemise soundtrack.

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2011-09-30T20:20:00.000-05:00

Fivelittle things I never thought I’d say:

1) “Idon’t know anything but I don’t want to know everything anymore”

2) “I’mgoing to travel and see the things I want to see. Alone”

3) “Islept for more than two hours last night. No pills”

4) “I’mfat and I’m fat because you’ve made me this way”

5) “I’m ready to move to the big city now”

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2011-08-18T17:37:00.002-05:00

“How long have you been together?”

“Nearly two years”

“Are you happy?”

“I have happy days and sad days”

“Do you ever cry?”

“Like a god damn baby”

“Why?”

“Because love is a kind of self assassination, but I don’t know whose holding the gun”

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2011-03-02T21:42:00.000-06:00

Three AM on a Tuesday morning.

An email from Australia.

A realisation that it’s time for a change.

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2011-02-28T21:11:00.004-06:00

So tonight for the first time in days I open up the Word document that collects all this nothing and all this everything together. And what I write is that for a long time I’ve been afraid. I feel weak and am full of fear. In a steady flow of words I explain that yet again I can feel the depression and loneliness that blurred everything last year, and I’m frightened that these feelings will never go away. I find myself telling someone, anyone, that I don’t want to be offered drugs to fix this again, but I can feel them being pushed onto me. I’m frightened I never pulled my life back together, and I’m frightened I never will. I find myself asking for an answer.

And it's just as I’m about to erase the eight hundred or so words of worry and fragility I find myself responding, offering up a comfort I haven’t felt in a long time. Words I’d want to hear from someone else, words to sooth and cajole me into a temporary calmness.

I fall asleep with only a minor feeling of dread.

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2011-02-20T16:24:00.000-06:00

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2011-02-19T07:32:00.004-06:00

Darkness. Blaring lights on a cold station platform awaiting the 18:25 to anywhere.

Two young lovers kiss goodbye in a glasshouse, sheltered.

Someone says it feels good to be alive.

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2011-02-18T21:31:00.001-06:00

So on Wednesday evening as we’re watching JDMA again I hit pause, freezing Janice mid screech at an impossibly toned model, turn to the boy I’ve not formally introduced you too yet, and say “Do you think I need plastic surgery?”

And I clock the look. Panic, dread and confusion in a simple furrow of his brow. A look that screams “If I say the wrong thing he’ll leave me / hurt me / hack me into little pieces and store me in the freezer / all of the above”.

“Don’t be stupid. You’re gorgeous”

A kiss and a smile.

“You hesitated”

“It was a stupid question”

“Do I need my nose fixing?”

“Do you think you need it fixing?”

“I’m asking you”

“You’re perfect, you don’t need anything fixing”

Another kiss, another smile. Mine.

“I might just keep you around”

Un-pause.

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2011-02-17T19:53:00.001-06:00

And while rain slides unseen down the pane of glass in front of me I leaf through old copies of British GQ. Half glances at the relevant and now irrelevant pieces, eyes fixed on the faux creations of airbrushed masculinity and femininity at their most horrifically beautiful.

Each page hurts a little. Because the short lived almost coma-like period of half liking myself ended before it quite began and I don’t know what to do anymore.

So I pop a Xanax, book a consultation and watch Janice Dickinson’s Modelling Agency reruns until sleep takes me.

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2011-02-15T18:23:00.002-06:00

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2011-02-14T20:09:00.000-06:00

“Happy Valentines Day”

“No”

“No?”

“Just no”

“What’s wrong with Valentines Day? You have a boyfriend!”

“Yeah, so?”

“So!”

“Valentines Day promotes fat”

“Excuse me?”

“Every single today will be lured into a false sense of hope within the confectionary aisle. Combine this with the vast quantities of other food and drink they’ll consume in front of Bridget Jones alone tonight and bam”

“Ah”

“I don’t like fat people”

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2011-02-08T16:50:00.001-06:00

In a crowded bar on a cold January afternoon that could be a Wednesday or a Monday N and I talk life, disappointment and direction. And it’s been awhile because I lost myself somewhere between last year and here, misplacing a lot of phone numbers along the way.

“I haven’t written anything substantial in months. Should I worry?”

“Definitely. I haven’t designed anything in months either”

“Considering you’re a fashion designer and I like to think of writing as my thing we’re pretty shit”

The look. “I’m rather enjoying my days of Jeremy Kyle and waitressing actually”

“Sure. And I’ve this bridge to sell you in Brooklyn”

Another look. “You’ve used that one before. Write some new material”

“You’re a bitch”

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2011-02-05T18:04:00.000-06:00

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2011-01-01T20:02:00.000-06:00

Welcome to year zero.

Fast forward, play.

Happy New Years baby.

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2010-11-20T12:02:00.006-06:00

"And here...is your gift"

"Ooh, what did you get me?"

"Open it"

"That is without doubt the best gift i've ever received"

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2010-11-16T20:45:00.001-06:00

Nine months ago.

Late Evening. A modern apartment.

Oh god let him call now. Please, oh please let him call. I swear blind if you make him telephone me now I’ll never ask anything more. I swear to you I won’t. It’d be such a little, nothing task to you, such a tiny insignificant little motion. But please. Oh god, let him call.

Perhaps if I don’t think about it, if I forget about it entirely the phone will ring. That always happens. Yes. If I distract myself enough. Perhaps if I count to a thousand in twos or something...surely it’ll ring by then. Oh god.Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve....Ring, oh please ring.

The clock isn’t helping much either. I won’t look. Quarter to midnight. No. I won’t look again. He said he’d phone at seven. That’s what he said. “I’ll call you when i’m done, at seven”. I’m sure that’s what he said. We were just saying goodbye as I stepped off the train and there were so many people but I’m sure that’s what he said. Perhaps I should call him. No. Never keep telephoning a man – if I keep doing that he’ll know I’m thinking of him and wanting him, and that makes them loathe you. But it’s been hours – days? No, hours. He couldn’t think I was annoying him. He said so when I called this morning. “Of course not!” he said. And then he didn’t have to say he’d call, he never had to say that to me. I never asked him. Did I? No. I’m sure I didn’t. No, he’d never tell me he’d call and then not bother. Oh god, don’t let him do that.

“I’ll call you when i’m done, at seven” he said. And the train was ever so busy. Damned rush hour. And so loud, but he said it. Oh god, let him call. I have to stop this. This is so stupid. Suppose somebody says to somebody else that they’ll call and then of course something happens and they can’t. Surely that’s not so bad is it? I’m sure right this second it’s happening all over...yes. But oh, I don’t care. Why won’t you ring? Do something. Oh how I loathe you, I ought to smash you to bits. I hate you, I hate you.

No. I absolutely must think of something else. Yes, that’s what i’ll do. Perhaps if I leave the room. Then I can’t look at the clock or that damned phone. I’ll hear it ring, run to it and he’ll be right there on the other line. And I’ll be ever so nice and he’ll apologise for how late he is calling me and it’ll be fine. Calm and sweet. It’s so hard to be these things to someone after you’ve fallen in love with them. And I think he likes me too. Oh he must. He’d never have wanted to see me today if he didn’t. So you see he must. You see god? He must like me so you must, must, must make him call me.

Two, four, six, eight...perhaps he isn’t going to call me. Perhaps he’s coming here to surprise me. Oh but he mustn’t see me like this. If he does he’ll think me possessive. Then I must calm myself. Perhaps he’s on his way right now. Perhaps something has happened to him. Oh no, nothing could ever happen. I won’t imagine anything happening, i won’t. I won’t picture him run over. Lying broken in the road. No, no, no. I couldn’t, I couldn’t. “I’ll call you when i’m done, at seven”. Oh I wish he were dead. That’s foolish, I don’t mean that.

Oh, how ridiculous. Wishing somebody dead because they haven’t called. Oh I’m going mad. Wait. That clock could be wrong, i’ve no idea the time. It could be fast. Perhaps it’s much earlier. Midnight, perhaps it is fast. I’ll call him....yes....I shall....07....no. Oh god, oh god. Why doesn’t he call me? It’d be so easy to call him. Then I’d know. He won’t mind. Sometimes people try to reach you and the telephone doesn’t ring, perhaps I ought to check the line. I’m not just comforting myself god, it happens. Just keep me from the phone, please do that.

I’ll think of something else. Sit here very quietly. Oh if only i could sit still and calm. Perhaps turn on the television. Yes. But all of the television shows are full of people in love, calling each other. Why broadcast that? People never do that. It’s a lie. A complete lie. They never call, never, never, never.

No. I won’t. I’ll leave it switched off. There’s no use getting excitable. Just suppose he were someone I don’t know very well. Suppose he were one of my friends. Then I’d just call right up and say “well what happened to you?”. Casual. Yes, I’ll do that. There’s no reason why I can’t be just because I love him. It’ll be so lovely and casual. But supposing it’s not. Oh god, I take it back, I take it all back don’t let me call him.

So you’re really not going to let him call me? Not even for a moment? I’ve never asked for much. Please, just a minute. Just to hear his voice. Not even right this minute, just soon. Please let it be soon. I’ll count to a thousand in twos slowly while I wait. And if he hasn’t by then I swear I’ll call him. Oh god, let him call before then. Please.

Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen...

“Hello, baby”

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2010-07-27T09:19:00.002-05:00

And in coffee shops and parking lots we're doodling our lives away.

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2010-07-22T09:11:00.000-05:00

In a nondescript café somewhere on the right side of the city we sit analysing the past five months. And as the ice in the tumblers between us melts and the music fades I wonder just where would be best to begin.

So I choose here. Somewhere between the middle and beginning.

“I’m back”

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2010-06-25T07:25:00.001-05:00

She’s laughing her exaggerated laugh. Arms outstretched behind her against the polished black bar she’s propped on, head thrown back.

“You come here often?”

Another laugh. This one’s easily impressed. And all this faux flirting is exhausting so we gesture to the barman, as pretend as we are, million dollar smiles flashing as he hands us something translucent, eying her scantily clad figure. Flashbulbs flare and the music pounds, dozens of neon clad figures writhing aimlessly in this airless black marble and mirrored nightmare.

Cut.

Stop music. Stop lights. Girl on the bar...yeah you...take a walk.

Action.

So I’m alone again, watching her stroll through the crowd with a sexy shimmy as directed while I’m watching him in the corner. And I’m ordering from the fake barman again, taking on a new role as he lines up the shots and pours the whiskey.

“She left you then?”

“C’est la vie”

“Another undrinkable beverage?”

“Make it a double”

We smile at our Oscar worthy pretence and repeat until it’s a wrap.

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2010-06-22T10:01:00.001-05:00

Click.

“Where are you?”

“In the city”

“Specific. You’ve been gone a long time”

“I don’t think I like London much”

“Oh?”

“Too many people”

“Well it is the capital...”

“Too much noise”

“You sound stressed”

“I am”

“What could you have to be stressed about?”

“The planet’s dying, the kids need new shoes and my Prada aftershave is all gone. You know...general messes”

“How will you go on?”

“I dunno kid. But I guess I have to”

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2010-05-21T16:54:00.002-05:00

There’s that drawn out catalytic moment between admission and reaction keeping figures apart in this pristine black granite topped kitchen in the suburbs. And seconds marked by a clock on the wall tick out every despairing moment of confusion, shock, numbness and relief in slow mo.

And they’re sitting eyes fixed on him as he’s looking down at the manicured lawns and immaculate houses beyond while Johnny Bristol’s Hang On In There Baby plays out across the scene from an upstairs window.

Slow down, speed up.

“Gay”

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2010-05-14T13:17:00.002-05:00

At 04:25AM on morning which could be a Tuesday or a Thursday I’m sat alone in the darkness at a dining room table. And in the illumination of a laptop placed in front of me by someone from props at some point before they cut the lights I’m adjusting the bathrobe tightly around me, thinking, waiting.

And the kitchen is spotless, the floors are clean and everything is in perfect order so while I wait for my cue I compile a list of all the things I want, all the things I’ll have, all the things I’ll never have.

That Hollywood smile.

That Saville row suit.

Those Mens Health worthy abs.

That party with all the wrong people in all the right places.

That useless degree.

Those moments of consistent content.

This elated incredible feeling to last forever.

That book deal.

Those millions in that bank account.

Those chiselled good looks.

This person in my life forever.

That perfect photograph.

That high paid job in that competitive industry.

Those kids and the perfect suburban lifestyle.

That ability to make him happy to last forever.

That apartment with the enviable views.

This protective lie to end.

That ability to stay motivated.

Those feelings of worthiness.

Anything.

Everything.....

And it spirals on, materialism, hope and shallowness tainting three plain sheets of A4.

The void of failed productivity widens as I crawl between the sheets.

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2010-05-08T18:02:00.002-05:00

So I’m breathing deep, an icy breeze running through my once coiffed hair, shivering beneath this blazer provided by the wardrobe department, looking down over the rail. And everything surrounding the boat save for the lights burning on the shore is so black and dead and ominous that I’m wondering whether or not anything could possibly survive down there, could ever sustain itself in the limbo between the nothingness of the seabed and the equally dead sky above. But another wave breaks so gently against the hull, the calmness of it all striking me out of my reverie, and I don’t give it another thought.

Inside the music plays, thumping out an indistinct beat, and the drinks flow and they dance and gossip and flirt, prowling from deck to deck failing to suppress the thrill of it all. And a small part of me wants to keep on smiling and work the room just one more time but I’m so tired I can barely see, my body crying.

“Hey”

“Hi”

“You alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“You look fed up”

“Tired”

“Ah. Coming back inside?”

“Yup. Give me a minute”

And if I smoked I’d toss the butt over the rail at that precise moment, watching fixedly while it drops over the side into the darkness, but I don’t, so I smile along the deck and work the room again and again and again until the facade slips.

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2010-05-02T21:11:00.001-05:00

In a small out of the way café on the right side of the city we’re talking and talking in some half attempt to fill each other in on the smallest of details of the time since we saw each other last. And I’m lamenting that I’m sorry I didn’t call and she’s sorry she didn’t text, but our lives have run on opposite lines and we’re blameless, so we agree we’re just terrible people like everyone else and agree to stop apologising.

And What Have I done to Deserve This? by the Pet Shop Boys plays over the scene while a waitress shuffles by and I explain how I’m not alone anymore, draining the dregs of a drink.

“You seem happy...”

“For the first time, I am”

“Well you certainly look it”

“But do I look good?”

She smiles.

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2010-04-24T20:50:00.001-05:00

In this top floor apartment, with views of a river which could be the Seine but probably isn’t because I hear budgeting is tight, I’m lying propped up in a white cotton sheeted bed Googling myself some feelings. And after ‘content’ I’m punching in ‘Happiness’ and scanning the results because for the first time in several hundred days I’m starting to identify with it.

And a familiar figure, (more than an extra, more than a co-star, now top of the billing in this biopic), sighs and writhes gently next to me in an undisturbed sleep. So I smile a self satisfied little smile, because I’m capable of that now, and focus on staring up at an expanse of stars white washed out above my head.

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2010-03-12T11:36:00.002-06:00

And a hundred thousand lights glisten across the sheet of otherwise un-disturbed blackness that forms a river while I’m stood looking out from this top floor apartment in the city. And as I’m standing there watching as a ferry passes by, dividing the never-ending sheet of darkness momentarily, I’m thinking about everything and nothing at all. All about the rapidity of change, about people, the evasiveness of clarity on the simplest of things anymore, about materialistic needs and, without even knowing it, wondering when these two existences so perfectly constructed, executed with such great precision, old existences and new, collided.

And for a long pause the world is alien.

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2010-02-18T07:10:00.002-06:00

Into a Vodka haze. I’m stood scrutinising, sighing heavily into the large mirror mounted on the wall of a dimly lit bathroom, scrubbing my hands in the polished basin. And I’m wondering whether or not I’m supposed to look quite this haggard, my eyes this heavy, once perfectly styled hair jutting at awkward angles on the furthest side of fucked, but I don’t dare ask any questions. It is as it is. So instead I’m stood there adjusting the fit of a black waistcoat somebody handed me earlier and, half nodding to a tall guy with a shaved head in a tee with FUCK spelled incorrectly emblazoned across the front stood there holding open the door for me, I exit into the crowd.

And the beat of the music, some loud indistinct dance tune which could be some remix of Burn it All Down by VHS or Beta, is pulsating in my head as I’m walking past security and up the stairs scanning for the usual faces. Over the sea of heads the girl making the fashion faux pas waves to me, shouting something I never hear, while the guy in the shirt far to similar to my own for my liking looks on blankly. I can't see the others. So I make some indistinct gesture at her towards the bar because my mouth is dry and I’m not quite ready to push my way through the fat and the ugly boys and girls blocking my way.

So while the barman, who looks vaguely familiar, pours out two shots of something blood red I glance back in to the crowd dancing amidst the broken glass under the spotlights as though it’s a really fashionable thing to do and say:

“Doesn’t that girl remind you of a slightly fatter Edita Vilkeviciute?”

“Who?”

Minus one shot.

“The fashion model”

“Who?”

Minus two shots.

“Never mind. You wouldn’t understand. A vodka please.”

---

Later. And the flashbulbs are flaring in all directions because everybody wants a picture to capture the moment or something but we’re too wasted and un-airbrushed too look even semi-beautiful, so we de-tag the minute we see them. So I slug back Vodka after Vodka while a girl I know kisses a guy called _______ who reminds me of Jesus and tell someone how incomprehensible it all is now that Lee McQueen is dead, but it doesn’t quite register.

‘Who’s Lee McQueen?”

“The designer”

“Is he Alexander McQueen’s brother?”

“Shit. I need another drink”

---

Later still.

“You’re a cunt...well you’re not really a cunt..but you’re a cunt, do you know what I mean?”

“Completely”

Dawn.

"Lee. Are you okay?”

No. I don't know who I am, or where I'm going anymore. “I’m fine”

"Lets go home"

We leave as we arrive, alone and only ever vaguely aware of our surrounding.

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2010-02-14T15:21:00.002-06:00

“Do you know what we’re doing?”

“No”

“Shall I tell you?”

“Yes”

“We’re wasting our youth”

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2010-02-10T17:25:00.003-06:00

Midday in some downtown coffee place I’m waiting to establish contact. And from the polished table by the window looking out over the cobbled bustling street I’m casting half glances, looking down at my wrist were there should be a watch but isn’t.

And I’ve alternated between moving the small bottle of pure orange juice, purchased, because I don’t like hot drinks, from the enthusiastic girl behind the counter who could stand to lose a few pounds but who I don’t tell because she seems the crying type, and folding an unused white napkin in to perfect little squares.

“I hear you’re waiting for Mr Right, so while you’re waiting how about a phone call from Mr Right Now?”

“Ahar, Ahar. Comedian. What are you doing?”

“Waiting. Drinking a three quid bottle of orange juice”

“And?”

“And it tastes like shit. I miss you. Where’ve you been all my life?”

“Using terrible chat up lines on me now?”

“Totes baby-cakes”

“Hahahaha”

“Listen sugar I’m bored shitless here. Help me out”

“You only call when you’re bored”

“And?”

“You’re an idiot”

“I know. The shop across the street is vomit-tastic. You’d enjoy it immensely”

“Why?”

“It’s a real sop-fest. I hope you’re going to buy me one of those big red heart balloons on Valentine’s Day”

“Yeah, right. How are you spending the day of luuuuuuuurve?”

“With my head in a sick bucket listening to songs about insignificant things, pitying the world”

“Lovely. I’m going to eat chocolate all day and watch soppy films”

“Ew... The waitress slash coffee server slash dominatrix in here is fat and really happy. It’s like she’s trying to make me feel guilty for being thin and beautiful”

“You’re so up yourself”

“And?”

“And we wouldn’t have you any other way”

“Thought so. I’m running out of money and there are clothes I want to buy. I’ll have to go back on the game”

“You’re such an aspiring gigolo”

“If you’ve got it...Oh...Target sighted”

“What?”

“Gotta go. Ciao doll face”

Click.

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2010-02-06T17:00:00.005-06:00

Three thirty AM on page one thousand four hundred and thirty-six and the guy with the imperfect abdominals in the white Calvin Klein boxers sat in the dark is systematically replaying the same old songs. And it doesn’t escape him that it’d probably be easier to just hit repeat, but that moment of uncertainty in those nanoseconds of silence between the end of the track and the beginning of next is hard to resist.

And when finally I let it play on the opening chords of a song that takes me right back drift over the scene as a car door slams, a dog barks and someone off screen murmurs something but it’s indistinct and I never quite hear it.

And it’s some month in two thousand and six and I’m seventeen and I’m naive and I’m stood in a crowd of people listening to this same old song live. On stage the unnotable artist giving it her all, pre-fame, pre-weight loss, pre hair colour change and pre-sell out is note-perfect, impressing me with ease because seeming impressed by everything was my thing back then. Next to me a girl I’m here with but who I don’t really know very well and who four years later won’t be recast is singing along, half dancing to the beat. So we exchange a smile. And I can’t help but think of how pleased I am with myself right now because I’m still socially awkward, ugly and afraid of people but handling the pressures of being surrounded by so many strangers well.

And we smile again, that stupid barely concealed look of euphoria plastered across our beautifully young faces, as the band kick in to another tune because we’re caught up in it all and there’s nothing else important outside this crowded space or outside this moment in time to consider.

“I LOVE this song!”

“It's amazing”

One minute and fifteen seconds in to the second play of the track I hit pause, right click and hit delete because I still can’t understand or identify with that person anymore. And I'm a hundred thousand times better.

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2010-02-02T03:31:00.001-06:00

And this bleach blonde tramp who happens to be a brunette is chain smoking like the pro she is, blowing smoke rings while I watch the rain pounding the slanted glass roof above our perfectly coiffed hair, everything vaguely translucent, sliding down the surface of things.

“Be my valentine?”

“Oh honey. We haven’t a fucking heart between us”

“I know”

“I’d like to kiss you, but I just washed my hair”

“It’s cool”

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2010-01-31T09:08:00.002-06:00

Early afternoon on some weekend in the twenty first century and outside dark clouds intermingle with the lighter shades of grey drifting across a concrete jungle. And stepping out of the light rain I’m taking my seat on a train going somewhere and nowhere at all because it seems evident that I spend half my life on trains and the other half looking for something resembling a direction.

So while the man across from me nervously and systematically flips his mobile phone open and closed and a young mother smiles down affectionately at the little girl in the red coat, which for a fraction of a second makes me think of Schindler’s List, Mademoiselle K’s Grave fades in to My Mistakes Were Made For You by The Last Shadow Puppets. Every preconceived moment as subtle as an earthquake.

And the woman in the corner of the bank of seats to my right could have been pretty once. High cheekbones, bee-sting pout, soft eyes beneath the hard exterior. Dirty hands gripping a can of lager she’s looking out of the window avoiding eye contact with the shabby man opposite her. And a twinge of something, possibly pity, hits me for a second while I watch her. Wondering if she ever sits there and considers the might haves and what could have been had she not assimilated herself to this way of existing. Did she have a choice?

“You! You get away from me”

A third man is standing there now. Equally as grimy, dead looking eyes, painfully thin, shaking the hand of the shabby looking man sitting there.

“Get him away from me Pete. Get him a-fucking-way”

The shabby looking guy throws her a look.

“Shut up. How’ve you been mate?”

“I mean it Pete. Get him away. If you knew what he’d done”

He’s shrugging. Amidst it all I notice her lack of front teeth.

“She doesn’t know what she’s on about. E’are lad this is me stop. Good seein’ yeah”

We’re slowing now.

“Yeah you fuck off!”

She’s standing now arms outstretched in some attempt to seem threatening.

“I’ll get proof. You fucking bastard!”

The doors close and he’s gone. The young mother, busy pointing out things on the platform outside, turns and looks, the man stops flipping his mobile phone and stares, the music stops. Unsubtle. And between us we think that someone should put her in line, gesture to the little girl in the red coat now staring wide-eyed and tell this woman to curb her swearing, but nobody ever does. We’ve all enough shit going on today the addition of a broken drunk isn’t on the agenda.

“He fuckin’ held me down while my husband fuckin’smacked me. And he knows I know him. I’m not lyin’ to you Pete it was him”

“Alright, calm down”

“He knows what he fuckin' did. He stood there and he fucking laughed. He knows I recognised him, and....”

And I’m raising the volume, pretending like everybody else that we haven’t heard what she said because there’s nothing that can be said or done and we’ve our own existences to take care of . Our own stuff to deal with, our own problems. We're not seeing it, it's not happening. And I don’t know what to think of this woman anymore, so I don’t think anything at all. And nobody speaks or moves until we reach our destination.

Death Cab for Cutie’s Little Bribes plays over the PA system as six lives disappear in to the crowd.

+++

2010-01-27T14:30:00.004-06:00

There’s a terrible moment in the darkness before the screaming begins. That long –drawn- out and high pitched scream of fear or perhaps pain. And I’m running down a darkened corridor, panting wildly, my eyes down not daring to look into the shadows. Blindly reverberating from wall to wall, turning corners, leaving deep red marks on the shabby wallpaper.

And falling in to a dimly lit bathroom, the bare light bulb flickering above the horrible scene, I’m staring at my dumbfounded reflection, wondering who painted these disturbing smudges of red across my face while I’m tearing at the once pristine white shirt I’m wearing now caked with blood, tears coursing down my face. And still sobbing I throw myself in to a shower, eyes tightly shut, leaning forward, bloodied hands pressed against the grimy tiles. Hot red water swirling down the plughole at my feet.

The screaming, though distant now, never goes away.

And clammy hands are reaching for the switch of an all black bedside lamp now knocked over and lying on the floor, streaks of bright light across the hard wood. So I lie there, perfectly still, for what feels like hours because like always the apparent reality of it all is a bit too much to handle. And after awhile (seconds, minutes, hours, days) I reset the fallen lamp back in to position, letting the light flood the familiar room, and count until I’m calm again.

It’s a long time before the light goes out.

+++

2010-01-26T15:00:00.005-06:00

While the sun fades above an almost authentic urban street set the cinematographer brings us effortlessly from an extreme long shot into a close up of me standing there in the deserted street, catching my better side. And as the dusk switches to black the house brightens and once again I find myself rapping on a front door clutching a chilled bottle of white and a card marked ‘N’.

Inside people I know and people I don’t know are milling around familiar looking surroundings. And as N hands me a glass of Champagne I say my first line with the required enthusiasm. Wishing her a Happy Birthday I ad lib something unscripted about getting old and watch her open her gift. And she seems to be pleased which is good because I’ve never been one for occasions involving choosing something for somebody else. So half smiling, merry making face firmly fitted I’m downing the champagne in one go now, setting the crystal flute down on a nearby table, asking something about where all the familiar faces are. But before anyone replies I spy them all there scattered at the other end of the room, talking, laughing, one or two playing computer games on a TV screen across a whitewashed wall.

I take the corner with ease, dodging the oncoming obstacle, overtaking in to third place because it’s a breeze, another player hits out, sending everything they can to slow me down. I’m game, swerving hard a satisfied smirk plays across my face as it misses by miles. Up in to second, final lap. I’m enjoying this, confident, in complete control as I overtake my opponent, he hitting buttons on the control pad furiously (‘Shit’, ‘Aha’) I racing ahead in first. Nothing can possibly go wrong for me now. It’s in the bag. Winner.

And just inches from the finish line comes the collision. Out of nowhere, no time to stop. Barely enough time to utter an exasperated ‘No’.Within seconds the clear first slips to an unsatisfying fifth. So I clench my fists in mock-rage and resolve to not play again because I’m still the same sore loser I was ten years ago.

Game over.

I reach for my glass and wander away.

Later. Eric Prydz’s Call on Me plays out over the scene while someone from the props department refills my glass with a bright orange liquid telling me it’s a cocktail, but I never catch the name. And when the camera starts rolling I murmur to D, who is half cut by now and moments before reminded me that we’ve known each other eighteen years, that for awhile someone had me convinced the lyrics were ‘Come on Me’ which gets a laugh. While the porno aerobics class in the music video playing out on the TV thrust their pelvises I hear S point out how unrealistic it all is but I’m too busy watching to reply.

“You’d be better looking if your hair was a bit shorter”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Not that I’m saying you’re not good looking, you’re very good looking. I think I’d just fancy you more with shorter hair”

“I’ll bear that in mind. Did you just touch my thigh again?”

Three AM. And I’m sat alternating between slurring sentences I’ll never remember attempting to construct and taking shots of Sambucca from the bottle N’s sister is cradling and sips from the two glasses of wine on the table in front me while D sits to my right, quietly observing through half closed eyes nodding gently, and N’s housemate A2, her tongue blue from cake icing, throws disgusted glances at a sleaze who insulted her hours before. And my brain is screaming for it all to stop but everything is on autopilot and it seems to make sense to carry on drinking.

So I reach for another..

The camera coming in close now to an extreme close up..

And another..

Whilst everything fades in to an indistinguishable blur..

And just one more for the road..

“I don’t even like this”

+++

2010-01-21T16:37:00.002-06:00

“You know when you were a kid?”

“Uh-huh”

“Did you ever build a den?”

“A Den? Err. Probably. Why?”

“Nothing really. I was just thinking about how safe it used to feel to hide in my own little den, away from everything, you know? Impenetrable. The world outside it just ...well...ceased to exist, didn’t matter. I haven’t felt that safe in a long time”

“I know”

+++

2010-01-20T14:18:00.000-06:00

I’m opening my eyes and looking up at a familiar expanse of whitewashed ceiling because the sun is streaming through the half closed blinds casting shadows across the twisted black and white sheets, and somewhere in the shadows a phone is ringing. So tentatively, half squinting, I sit up and follow the sound. My eyes aren’t working well enough to see the caller ID.

“What?”

“Well you’re cheery”

“Oh it’s you”

I open the blinds and shield my eyes wishing I hadn’t bothered. The sky outside beyond the slate roofs of the houses across the street, now devoid of the usual cars, is a dull mix of blues and greys.

“Yep. Why do you sound half asleep?”

“Possibly, because I was asleep. What time is it?”

“Just after eleven”

“Shit”

Having propped myself up on the window ledge, bare feet resting against the cold metal of the bed frame, I’m running my fingers through my mess of hair. Behind me on the wet pavement below an old Coco Chanel clone shuffles by led by a Pomeranian.

“Hung over?”

“I wish. No. Insomnias back”

“Poor baby”

“Is there something you actually want? Or are you just calling to piss me off?”

“You’re lovely in the morning”

“You have no idea”

“Guess who broke up”

Go away. Go away. Go away.

“I don’t give a shit. Tell me later”

“No. Shut up and listen”

So I phase out the next sixteen and a half minutes, interjecting an infrequent grunt and noncommittal hmn. Are you still there, baby? Barely. And instead, letting the voice fade away, I scrutinise my surroundings: a vaguely minimalist room done in assorted shades of grey, walls bare save for an oversize black and white cityscape in a black frame and a long rectangular mirror, a glass desk, clear save for the small lamp and a red leather bound book, a pile of chronologically ordered back issues of GQ next to the bed Kate Moss’s face staring up from the latest issue.

And the voice, tinged with annoyance, demands to know if I’m even listening, and I suppose I am to a degree. Half pretending to listen, half scrutinising my reflection in the mirror I’m facing. But it’s all a bit much. A bit too trivial. And I’m finding myself murmuring what sound like the words ‘I can’t hear you’. And suddenly, like that unexpected momentary sensation of a train speeding in to a blackened tunnel comes the click.

The line goes dead.

+++

2010-01-16T15:17:00.007-06:00

In focus: Analysis of a snapshot.

1) I am slumped against the wall of a hallway in a house which is not my own.

2) It is 3am or thereabouts.

3) I am lubricated by six to twelve glasses (bottles) of wine/vodka/petrol and/or bleach.

4) I was not expecting this. Note slightly awkward positioning of mouth.

5) It is black and white. Just how I like it.

6) I had a glass of wine knocked over me sometime before this. These are not my clothes.

7) A hint of stubble. I didn't shave that night.

8) Disheveled mess. (See hair).

9) Hints of blackness around the eyes. I haven't slept since 2006.

10) My skin is twice as clear as usual. (Emphasised: See 5)

11) A snap taken after this includes someone I've known three years licking my face.

12) I rarely let people take a photograph of me from this angle.

13) Eyes of a killer.

Poorexcuseforablogbecausei'veliterallynotimetobreatherightnowsomoreoftheusualshitsoon.

+++

2010-01-15T16:59:00.005-06:00

Scene 98. And I’m sat here casting forlorn glances through the floor to ceiling window of this coffee shop set, watching extras shuffle in and out of shot down the street to nowhere. A light sprinkling of snow sets a cold January scene.And the script I glanced through again a few minutes ago while I sipped some shitty excuse for coffee and Wendy the makeup girl did her thing, dictates that the scene is ‘jovial’ but I don’t feel that’d suit the character and the director agrees so we’re going for ‘morose’.

And my co-star, some up and coming young guy I’ve known and openly detested for more years that I care to give consideration to, is talking loudly on his Blackberry to his agent/mother/pimp/dealer/girlfriend/dentist while some indistinct tune which may or not be Death Cab for Cutie’s Soul Meets Body plays out from somewhere.

A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere.

So I'm tapping out a melody, drifting in and out, waiting for the rat race to begin. The buzz of activity around me and low steady hum of conversation fades. I’m barely conscious when they scream action.

‘Thanks for the other night by the way’

‘No worries.’

I’m sipping something (coffee? hot chocolate? tar?) from a large white mug with the logo of some un-notable coffee chain on the side, looking at him blankly.

‘So’, eyebrows raise, ‘You and Pretty Girl’

‘Yes’

‘Yeah. Well?’

‘Yes, no, maybe so’

‘Coy fucker’

‘I know’

‘Good?’

A well rehearsed laugh. ‘Very good’

‘_____ said you’re a slut’

‘I wish’

‘And what you two did was wrong like’

‘Probably. What do you think? Though...’you’ and ‘think’ don’t really go together’

‘You shit. I think...you’re not the one doing ought wrong I suppose. Aaaaaaaand you’ll never be as good as me’

‘That’s what I’ve always admired about you. You’re completely self- deluded’

'And you?'

A slow self satisfied grin. 'My feet are firmly on the ground, my head lost in the lofty heights'

The last line isn't in the script.

+++

2010-01-11T14:32:00.002-06:00

In the back of a black sedan with the window rolled down I’m breathing the frigid air, a welcomed coolness penetrating my overheated body, while the city lights roll by en route to a nondescript part of town. And the iPod in my right hand plays its way unenthusiastically through Roisin Murphy’s version of Off and On in some bid to liven me up while my right foot taps along to the rhythm and the bottle of red chills my left hand.

And it’s at two minutes eighteen seconds in to the track, just as Roisin is ready to burst back into another chorus, that the tyres crunch on snowed over asphalt, so I push a note in to the hand of the driver I’ve ignored for the past ten minutes whose face I’ll never remember and exit on to the empty street where he leaves me. I’m stood a good ten seconds looking up at the building in front of me which I’ve always admired and try to figure out when it was built because I’m usually good at that sort of thing but it seems to be an eclectic mix of styles so I stop caring and ring the doorbell.

Six knocks, eight pushes of the broken doorbell later I’m feeling more than a little pissed off. Muttering swear words under my icy breath and pacing I try calling anyone I think will be inside. And it’s just as I consider throwing bricks that I notice JJ stood there in the doorway looking at me curiously as though I’ve just fallen out of a tree. So I snarl and make an indistinct noise because I’m too cold to formulate the words ‘where’ ‘were’ ‘you’ and ‘cunt’ right now and move in to the warm hallway.

“Here. Wine. Defrost it”

Three strangers, three familiar faces, a pretty girl and I loiter around a large knocked through lounge / dining room talking about something and nothing at all. And I’m slugging back a glass of something they put in my hand when I stepped through the door pretending to listen to a stranger, whose name escapes me so we’ll call him Neil, who is only half listening too because like me he’s watching pretty girl at the opposite end of the room laughing and thrashing JJ at tennis on the wii set up down there.

It’s later now and I’m alone in a kitchen mixing a bowl of stuffing because I’m still hungry and it’s been handed to me. And suddenly some strange girl with a high pitched overexcited voice is saying “Ee arr, lets have a picture” waving her camera as though we’re friends, clearly not taking note of the lack of acknowledging expression on my face. So I take a sizeable gulp from my glass, emptying most of the remaining crimson liquid, and tell her no, resisting the urge to tell her to fuck off. And she’s asking me why, looking a little puzzled as I drain the dregs.

“Because I’m not here”

I walk away.

Four glasses of some clear tasteless something later I’m looking for pretty girl because my brain is screaming instructions and I’m too mentally tired to disobey it anymore. Back in the hall she’s there smiling at me in that way of hers that would melt my heart if I had one. So we sit down on the stairs and we talk.

‘Who’re the others?’

‘Dunno. I only know ______ cause he was going out with ________’

‘Ah. Is he the stupidly tall giraffe-like one or the one with glasses?’

‘Yeah.The tall boy’

‘Ah’

Pause.

‘So...how’ve you been?’

‘Fucking exhausted’

‘How? You don’t do anything?’

‘I know’

Three AM. Pretty girl and I are stood just outside a back door with some girl I’ve only just recognised because she used to be brunette and I fancied her a bit last year but she’s blonde now and I don’t fancy her at all because she doesn’t suit it. And I’m leaning against the wall looking up at the expanse of endless blackness above our heads, punctuated only by far away flecks of light while the blonde blows smoke rings and pretty girl looks on. We don’t speak, it’s only after the blonde has ventured back inside and we’re alone that I bother to look back down to earth. And right there in this freezing moonless night we share a cigarette while some sick making tune drifts out of the open windows. Except we don’t, and this never happens because neither of us smoke but we would if this was a film.

So instead we just go back into the kitchen and the sight of the empty glasses and dirty dishes from the takeout consumed what feels like days ago now hit whatever trigger resides inside of me into action and my compulsive need to clean strikes. So while I wash dishes we talk and we laugh about stupid little things like my lack of self motivation anymore, her plans to make something of herself, how overly sexy my overwhelming impulse to clean the entire kitchen is.

And we’ve been here before and said we never would be because she has someone and I don’t really want anyone but there’s a good amount of liver poison swashing about inside of us, and she’s doing that enticing lips parted fucking-kiss-me-now thing and I never did have any self control. And I’m not sure when I moved this close, my hands on the worktop, tea towel hanging uselessly from one shoulder, her trapped between my arms, face to face now, it just happened. And it’s stupid and just an un-regrettable unromantic lust and it’s exactly what we want.

A figure in the doorway makes themselves scarce.

+++

2010-01-07T17:05:00.002-06:00

The day begins very much like the day which preceded it. The barely awake figure lying there staring up at the white expanse of ceiling above, still, calm, unthinking, waiting for the right moment to stir. And soon enough, just as it unconsciously expects, deep inside something clicks into place forcing the prone figure in to action: swinging it in to a sitting position, legs stretching, back arching, fingers clench at the whitewash above and relax. And the first dictated order of the day shoots its way through the intercommunication system: Up.

So obediently, still unthinking, the figure winches its half alive half dead existence out of the tangled bed of twisted linen and treads carefully along the carpeted hallway to the bathroom mirror because this is all a matter of well practiced routine. And the face there is always the same unrecognisable expression of quandary. Haggard, pre mask ugliness. Staring blankly, fingers exploring this strange morning visage, full lips part and it starts to breathe.

The system core knows what’s next in this well practiced routine. Shaving, showering and the application of the contents of the many bottles lined in front of the mirror, their labels facing forward for easy selection, which aid the process of humanisation, take almost an hour of precision.

It is barely recognisable anymore. Hidden.

The contents of the wardrobe, its heavy doors thrown open, are immaculately ordered into numerous categories because everything must be just so. Items are selected and considered carefully in the usual minutes of fashionable dilemma encountered daily. Season, weather, mood. There’s never anything to wear.

I emerge a mental vision of perfection.

Back to the room it emerged from I smooth over the unmade bed, corners tucked tightly, and turn to the desk, bare save for a screen and small lamp, taking carefully coordinated items from its desk because they’ll help me survive today. Extracting two used train tickets from the small black leather wallet I place them atop the pile of many others, and slide it into a back pocket.

Downstairs, later, I greet the woman who gave birth to me in a brightly lit kitchen; she greets me warmly, gesturing to the glass of fresh orange juice I already know is there. Two pills numb the pain from an undisclosed injury attained in an undisclosed fashion.

A broken clock on the wall ticks uselessly. The race for survival begins.

+++

2010-01-06T17:29:00.003-06:00

I’m traipsing my way through a blanket of virgin snow, a curious snarl replacing the usual impassiveness. Brogue detailed boots tearing apart the untouched white landscape of this all too realistic set. And I’m mumbling curses under my icy breath because I can’t stand snow(or anything even remotely cold for that matter, ice cream or even ice in my glass annoy me beyond belief). So while they laugh and shout and chuck frozen water at each other because it’s ‘fun’, I grumble and eye them with disgust.

On the almost abandoned platform of a frozen station I dig a phone from the pocket of a dark blue fitted military coat the costume department helped me in to before I shuffled on and send off a few words to someone unscripted: ‘When this turns to ice, I’ll fall; I’ll hit my head and I’ll die won’t I?’

I consider an X, but omit it.

Two minutes and thirty six seconds later, well timed to the clock on the electronic timetable above my head, they buzz back: ‘So dramatic?! U luv snow reli. If u die i get ur stuff yeh?x’

I consider for a minute, eyes rolling in disgust at the appallingly lazy spelling. Strategically placed extras start to loiter about on the platform, reading papers, rubbing their hands together and smoking. I hit back instantly: ‘No. Bury me with everything I own, including my family. The contrast of black and white will be beautiful. You will cry lots and lots’

This time an X, to add warmth.

An overheated train pulls in right on cue.

I’m slouched on an elaborate sofa in a rococo styled coffee shop in the middle of the city, glancing frequently out of the window to my left. Clumps of crumpled white tissue paper fall thick and fast outside. And so I’m sat there with N, S and the second cup of hot chocolate I’ve ever tasted talking about inconsequential important things, shivering. My toes are numb.

The bathroom of the rococo styled coffee shop in the middle of the city is strangely beautiful, a large gilded mirror expanding the width of the room. A speaker above the urinal plays out an upbeat lively tune, I can’t help but laugh.

Hundreds of people, suited and booted as shoppers, shop workers and business men and women loiter about the platforms of an underground station. Shifting about anxiously as the clear voice announced cancelled trains and delays. A ten year old cast as a rail worker parades the length of the platform clutching a megaphone, ordering the new additions escaping the hell outside which is causing this chaos to step back.

Five o’clock rush hour multiplied and at three o’clock. As I position myself standing with the others in the aisle and wait to pull away I murmur a vow to hibernate till summer.

Cut.

+++

2010-01-04T04:10:00.000-06:00

Just out of a dream sequence (lunch with Monroe, Lennon and Giles Coren, we talked money, modelling and played shag, marry or kill. John paid, Marilyn pouted throughout and Giles looked distinctly unimpressed with the chicken.) I’m lying in the dark trying to determine what time it is because the blinds are closed tight and there are no clocks on the walls. It could be midnight or six in the morning. A broken watch confirms it’s four AM so I spend an hour alternating between pacing, arranging and rearranging everything in my desk drawer and leafing through a book on Gender and Crime in Modern Europe to try and knock myself out.

Nothing.

So the music plays, shuffling its way through the four thousand two hundred and eighteen songs I know while I arrange the back issues of GQ (descending order, most recent atop the rest) because I like things just so.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night...

Everything in the room save for my mind is in perfect order.

+++

2010-01-01T17:01:00.017-06:00

It’s the eve of New Years Eve and the fact that the dismal year that this has been is about to end dawns on me and frightens me ever so slightly. So I set the iPod to shuffle (Françoise Hardy sings L’amitié to kick things off, Patrick Park’s Life is a Song fittingly signals an end) and for the briefest of moments ponder making a list of resolutions even though I’ve never made them before. But quickly I realise it’d be pointless as it’d only serve to furnish an incentive to do whatever I resolve not to do twice as much anyway. So instead I consider a reflection list over the past decade but I can’t remember that far back (can’t / don’t want.. it’s all the same) and I narrow it down to one. And I sit, and I type.

One year reflection: A list.

Ability to analyse and understand people increasingly fine tuned.
Thirteen watches broken. Twelve my own, one borrowed.
Too many books bought.
The initial reaction of falling over after half a glass of something alcoholic has diminished significantly.
Monthly wine intake shockingly high.
A continued persistence by people to brand me more intelligent than I actually am.
Lowering in tolerance for coupled friends.
Increased development in talent for playing role of moderately clever (See 6)
Fiction and reality have merged wonderfully.
Zero tears.
56 plays of Brimful of Asha by Cornershop.
Increased use of unnecessary swearing.
Uncountable friends lost, no friends gained.
Lowering of tolerance for people in general.
An inside joke involving lemons.
Twelve issues of GQ.
Back to back viewings of an embarrassing 80s TV show.
One terrible haircut.
A box of lost childhood photographs.
A nervous breakdown.
Clothes, many bought, little worn.
Twenty years of life marked.
One road traffic accident and subsequent death of a family member.
Three split second fears of imminent death.
Increased fine tuning of ability to observe and pass judgement on everything.
Uncountable electronic devices unwittingly exploded.
A nightmare bus ride.
One missing heart.
Several thousand untagged drunken photographs.
Uncountable inebriated text messages, sent and received.
Six broken CDs.
A moment dressed as a zombie in the rain.
Two desk lamps broken.
Numerous 'Do I know you?'s.
One puppy.
Several faux-fun moments.
One failed attempt at playing guitar.
Eight conversations about prostitution.
Nine beds slept in, none my own.
104 plays of Porno Graphique by Mylene Farmer.
Several hundred thousand deleted words.
One list.
Zero broken bones.
A realisation that I loathe people, yet find them dangerously interesting.
Seven thousand regretted Tweets.
One lost shoe.
Zero wake up calls.
Continued narcissism.
Sixty pounds in two pence pieces.
A suggestion of a threesome, a polite decline.
Uncountable train journeys.
Two offers of drugs on the same night, two declines.
A conversation with a Scottish stranger.
A conversation with an Irish stranger.
One bottle of Mint flavoured Baileys, one hour vomiting.
Four imaginary Oscars for best actor.
A laughing fit over a strangers outfit.
Several hundred minutes of wishing I was someone else.
Sleepless nights x23.
Too much effort.
Four dreams involving acrobats drowning politicians.
One rendition of Sex on Fire in a public place.
A fruitless search for a second middle name.
One memory meltdown...

This is two days late. And it doesn't matter and I don't care.

+++

2009-12-30T17:08:00.006-06:00

The man stood with his back to me is still talking at great lengths and I feel sick. So I take a deep breath but it somehow manages to make me feel worse and heightens my need to sit down so I hold my breath instead. And while I’m stood there not breathing the man with his back to me goes on and on saying something to the forlorn looking man at the ticket kiosk, but the odd sensation not dissimilar to being underwater is preventing me from hearing his words. His grey overcoat is just a blur now since my eyes are focusing and un-focusing. And I don’t understand.

The man in the grey overcoat moves away, I step forward, resist the urge to sit down on the floor, place both hands on the ledge of the desk and murmur something indistinct to the haze of colour materialising into the sad figure and fading away in front of me. Miraculously he understands, snatching the note from my clammy hand. I take the thin strips of card marking an undisclosed destination and sit down on a nearby bench. And I still don’t understand.

I’m breathing heavily by now, trying to regain some kind of composure because my brow is sweating and I’ve never felt so out of sorts so suddenly before and it's worrying me slightly. The oddest thing. Minutes pass. Two or ten, I don’t count. Then it’s all over.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead and fix my disheveled state in the poor reflection of the train window. Pretending nothing happened I’m smiling when I meet RG for lunch.

+++

2009-12-26T08:33:00.002-06:00

At whatever hour of darkness this is my only half-awake consideration is the dishevelled reflection in the window. Tall, unshaven, thin in his white cotton tee and loose fitted grey pyjama pants, an impassive expression across his face. I study him for a second, making half-willed gestures to flatten the hair jutting in a peacock fashion at the back of my head while they ooh and they aah passing around presents they'll appreciate and presents they'll feign appreciation of behind me.

I plaster my merry maker face on, but it’s more transparent than usual, smile widely, and for just a little while pretend my enjoyment of Christmas didn’t kill itself ten years ago.

+++

2009-12-23T15:41:00.002-06:00

I’m clutching a bottle of white wine (cheap, closest to hand when I bought it) standing in the middle of a kitchen trying to figure out where the glasses are hiding. And after five full minutes of getting in the way of all the bodies trying to cook in this tiny space I give up and go hunt down our host, a guy I’ve known since the days we used to laugh and ride our shiny new bikes down steep hills back when all that mattered in the world was how well you could do a wheelie and what Pokemon cards you had. And it turns out that there are no wine glasses in this student house so I shake my head in disbelief, pour half the bottle into a sizable tumbler and take a gulp. Sweet, refreshing with a nice kick.

So I stand in the doorway between the living room and kitchen and survey with mild amusement contemplating how, judging on the dishes being prepared, the “Christmas Dinner” part of “Gathering up the old faces for Christmas Dinner and drinks” can be justified. But I give up and just laugh as plates of pizza and nachos are carried through.

“It’s a question of natural birth rights though surely?” someone is saying while I shake the last drops of the bottle in to my glass and turn back to the chicken I’m destroying because I detest pizza, and am wondering how the conversation has steered to surrogacy and abortion.

“You can’t dismiss how a woman feels when she has a baby, it’s a connection” someone else adds.

“What I find amazing is how a woman can go for an abortion without saying anything to the father. But if she wants to keep it and he doesn’t he has no rights whatsoever. It’s half his after all!”

“It’s her body!” shouts N.

“So?It’s half his baby”

“You’re a man you would say that!”

I laugh. “We’re very profound tonight. My wines all gone.”

So I’m sat there nursing the glass, recently refilled by our host with a second bottle, in my hands while Elena Paparizou sings in Greek about fireworks and signals in a clear night sky, completely detached from the conversations buzzing around me.

Πυροτεχνήματα, γράφουν συνθήματα σ’ έναν καθαρό ουρανό.

A voice cuts through my reverie and a girl I’ve never seen before in my life is stood there smiling down at me and politely asking whose iPod is playing this song. So I tell her it’s mine and, half expecting her to demand we turn it over, explain that I was the only bright spark in the room to bring one along. She beams while I look confused at her enthusiasm, since the concept of enjoying music in a foreign language is lost on most people I know, and explains that she’s the host’s housemate and just so happens to be Greek. We talk music for fifteen minutes before she wanders off. We don’t exchange names. I never see her again.

Sat on the coffee table I find myself clutching a small tube of yellow icing half gesturing at someone, who I’m informing I only get drunk quickly like this because I’m so lovely and thin, half decorating a gingerbread man.

The bottles are empty. The gingerbread devoured. Negotiating the frozen streets is a nightmare. Surprisingly I don’t fall once.

+ + +

2009-12-20T12:47:00.007-06:00

M r . M o d e s t y . S t e p s . O u t

The elusive Mr Modesty, whose recent customary disappearance from the internet-sphere evoked [little] a stir, was spied lurking last evening. ‘The callous brute is back,’ shrieked Miss Cetera Etcetera, ‘one lives in hope he’ll succumb to the workload’. Apologetic, with pledges of a swift return to normality, the haggard Mr Modesty remained reluctant to pass comment on his latest vanishing act.

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2009-12-09T16:11:00.006-06:00

I've done this before, I know I have, but lets pretend last time never happened shall we?

I'm distrusting the little device that points out whose stumbled across this babble. So be a dear and in the comments....yep just down there...leave me one to tell me where abouts on the globe you're reading from.

It'll take half a second and if you don't have an account can be done anonymously. So please.

Thanks in advance.

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2009-12-07T15:15:00.003-06:00

Surrounded by familiar and not so familiar faces I’m sat fork in hand stabbing distractedly at some sort of marinated chicken dish, ordered through sheer laziness and reluctance to even bother looking at the rest of the menu, half listening to the ongoing conversation about diets or Koi carp or Madonna or something equally unimportant which I’ll never remember.

And I’ve given up on the idea of actually eating the dish I’ve systematically destroyed in front of me when an unfamiliar face, a boyfriend or something of someone, asks what everyone is actually studying at University, so I murmur ‘History’ and wonder what his name is. I still don’t know. He pauses for a second nodding in an irritating over exaggerated pondering motion, I resist the urge to roll my eyes or stab him with my fork, and he asks what I want to do with my life. I tell him I’m an aspiring male escort slash GoGo dancer.

One reduced fashion journalism spiel later I pause for the inevitable questions as to why I didn’t do a degree in journalism. One reduced I-like-history-and-would-get -bored-and-not-choose-to-do-it-if-I-studied-journalism later he nods, clearly missing the point, but his long deliberating pauses are becoming tedious and I need another glass of wine so I don’t push it any further.

So it’s while I’m looking around for a waiter, all of whom seem to be constantly there when I don’t need anything and hiding when I do, that JJ who is saying something to Mr Deliberator points out that there are a fair few options really with a degree in History. To which I reply that I suppose should some terrible accident destroy my GoGo dancing career and the long line of punters diminish I could teach or something.

JJ: Exactly, got to have a plan B for when you’re riddled with diseases.

Mr Deliberator: Is it a hard subject to study?

Me: Not particularly. The sheer excess of the reading is tough but I enjoy it.

Mr D: But if you’re planning on a career writing why didn’t you do a degree in it?

JJ: Please, don’t get him started.

Me: Because it’d be a complete waste of life. I’m with the idea that you’re a writer or you’re not, I don’t think it can be taught. It shouldn’t be! I’m sorry but it’s absolute bollocks. People should explore their style and ability by reading and experimenting and so on, not being told and led. Do you see what I mean?

JJ (To Mr D): Aaaaanyway...you never said, what are you studying?

Mr D: Err...English with err...Creative Writing.

Everyone laughs. Mr D’s girlfriend shoots me an annoyed look then averts her eyes, clearly stifling a laugh. JJ roars. I extract my foot from my mouth and laugh long and hard for awhile.

He's good enough to take it on the chin.

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2009-12-05T16:20:00.006-06:00

22: 32

Clutching a bottle of Vodka in my left hand I’m glancing not-so-nonchalantly in to a hallway mirror and making a useless attempt at fixing my hair. Unsatisfied I move past the masses of people I don’t know and don’t much want to know who mingle about with drinks in their hand, laughing and swaying to the music blaring from somewhere, sidestep a really ugly and badly dressed couple kissing by the stairs and find the host.

And I don’t really know this guy particularly well aside from that he’s a Londoner and the son of a friend of Muv and Farves. We’ve met a handful of times, he seems to think my name is Liam, but I don’t let that bother me because a fair few people in my family seem to think that too, and we’ve one or two friends in common. So I find him in the kitchen quite clearly half cut, handover my offering and murmur something about a Happy Birthday. He introduces me to an overenthusiastic looking girl (“Thish is Liam mate”) and wanders away.

23 : 16

I’m slugging back my fifth or eighth Vodka in the corner of a kitchen talking to a girl I happen to know because she lives two doors down from me and goes to the same University. The Pigeon Detectives sing This is an Emergency from an iPod somewhere and she’s looking at me shaking her head asking somewhat disgusted how can I stomach straight vodka, I have no answer and merely shrug.

Her boyfriend turns up with a can of beer in one hand and a glass of red in the other as she’s putting her number in my phone. He looks at me briefly as though he’d like to put my head through the window until she explains who I am. He shakes my hand; we talk about the pointlessness of University and the subject of journalism for ten minutes while she stands looks vacant.

00:44

My brain tells me it’s time to text people, so I do. Including:

‘Pisedfed u fity xxx’

‘______ yoourt A CUNNNNNNNNNNNNNT”

‘THISD IS SPOARTA!!!!!’

I still don’t know why.

01 : 02

Some dismal noise with very few lyrics and a consistent beat is thudding and I’m vaguely aware that I’m dancing to it. Over the heads of the people dancing through the open door I see the unconscious birthday boy being carried upstairs.

01 : 46

The boyfriend of the sister of the guy whose party it is attempts conversation but I can’t understand a word he says in his thick Cockney accent. Nodding and shouting yes at intervals gets me through.

02: 16

A man I recognise as a friend of Farves puts a bottle of whiskey in my hand and orders that I’m not allowed to go home until I’ve emptied the bottle, no excuses.

I tell him I don’t like Whiskey and reach for a glass.

02 : 45

The Whiskey Nazi asks three times why I’ve not finished the bottle yet. I hide the half full bottle behind a plant and stand half listening while he tells me how proud Muv and Farve are of me.

03 : 13

I utter to a strange girl I happen to be dancing with that I’m ‘fucked’, before I lose any last glimmerings of self-control and the world fades.

11 : 00

A pair of grey skinnies, the knees stained, lie tossed on the hard wood floor, a fitted black polo tee stinking of booze and smoke haphazardly thrown onto the desk, a shoe rests uselessly on the windowsill next to half a bottle of wine.

An eye opens. My body regains its feeling. The screaming begins.

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2009-12-03T16:42:00.004-06:00

The message I open on the cold and miserable late afternoon contains an invitation to respond with how I am and the following picture:

So I sit and I laugh, because the idea of my face on the cover of a magazine is quite funny when you consider it, and hit back a reply thanking the sender, telling them I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown and asking what possessed them to waste valuable seconds making it.

And three and a half minutes later they reply to tell me that they saw it and, having paused for the briefest of moments, thought only of me who'd actually appreciate it. So I sit and I stare at the picture for a good five minutes, analysing, ripping myself apart a little, as I frequently do when presented with a photo of myself i've never seen before, and fail to conclude why i'd never deluded myself by making something like it myself.

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2009-12-01T16:57:00.003-06:00

I’m sat staring at myself with a disguised look of confusion beneath the impassiveness because the me I am staring at is not me at all.

The alter-Lee is standing there, just a few feet away, looking directly ahead over the dark skyline and scattering of lights in the distance beyond the platform. The same dark skinny jeans, bottoms tucked in the same brogue detail military boots, that same faded blue and white checked shirt collar peeks tellingly from beneath the same fitted bomber jacket. The same black leather bag is dropped at his feet.

And all reasoning, logic and concept of probability escape me while I watch this clone tapping his booted foot along to the music still looking out in to the dark. So very similar, yet dissimilar. To cling to my sense of uniqueness I list our differences. His height stands out as an obvious starting point. Even with the distinct heel I doubt he is the six foot one (or perhaps two, everyone keeps saying taller lately) that I am. His face, though with elements of my own, is fuller. His jaw less defined, lips less prominent, his nose more enviably straight than my own, he is slighter, shoulders less broad.

So I wish desperately that someone else could be here with me to confirm that I’m not mad and ponder why interesting things only ever seem to occur when I’m alone. So I take out my phone and while I punch out a text he answers his similar model in grey in a voice higher and entirely different to my own.

Text: Me – Her

There’s a guy stood at St dressed and looks like me. Scarily similar.

Text Her – Me

That’ll be your reflection love. Another you? Scary. I won’t sleep tonight. x

And a train going to another part of town pulls out of the darkness and in to the station. And swinging his bag over his shoulder the alter-Lee steps into the overcrowded carriage, settling himself near the doors. My brown eyes meet his same green eyes, he half smirks as the train pulls away.

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2009-11-30T17:27:00.005-06:00

La roue tourne, tôt ou tard