I'll remember in a minute...

This is more like it. An adventure in Tooting Bec. Only I couldn’t really find one tonight. And I wanted one. So I hung around and dawdled for a bit.

It was raining. I like the rain. Rain is really designed for people like me and people happy for me to go on about it. These are the people who are prepared to try and understand. I’ve always loved rain. First it was to suit my standard issue teenaged misery. But now it’s a comfort thing with the opposite effect. Perfect for adventures.

Still nothing though. I hung around outside Tooting Bec’s best non-corner corner shop. I knew I needed something. Perhaps the adventure was in there? I just couldn’t think how. And besides, people were starting to stare at me. At least one guy, who walked past. He was shaking his head from side to side and talking to himself, a man in a business suit and overcoat, walking down the street shaking his head, disagreeing with he voices inside.

So I moved away before anyone else got suspicious. Perhaps the adventure lay elsewhere? Passed the Rastafarian guy who was wearing perfume, or very brave aftershave. It was here somewhere. Hmm. ‘Nevermind’, I thought. ‘Time to catch the bus’.

There are only a few buses out working at midnight, mixed in with the off duty ones. You can tell the difference quite easily. The off duty buses have no lights on. It’s as if they needed no driver either, happy to be off route, free to go whichever direction they want. They go quicker, break later and ignore people at bus stops with their arms out. The things are filled with fun.

I passed another shop before the bus stop and went in anyway. Perhaps this would remind me what I needed in the first place. No, nothing. I bought bread in a paper bag, missed one bus and waited for the next. Not long, and whilst people huddled under the shelter, I put away the half knackered girl-colour- umbrella I knicked from my girlfriend’s house and let myself get rained on. I’ll wait for an adventure another night. And I’ll take a notebook to write it down, rather than scribbling all this on a crusty bread roll.

But it’s nice to get home feeling chipper, and covered in rain, and slightly damp, and with nice thoughts in my head. Muffin, dammit, I meant to buy a muffin.

The Move East

Bugger it. The smoking has to end. I was leaning so far out the window tonight, arms extended to the breeze, that I cut off the blood to my hands. It’s a miracle I can type. And all for another cigarette. Those little bastards make people do terrible things. Like hang half suspended from a first floor window. There are only two options. Pack them in, or move to a smoking house.

So moving it is. A bigger place. I’m kidding about the smoking of course. That stops anyway. The moving doesn’t though. I’m sick of Streatham. Small supermarkets, no tube. So I’m heading east. That’s the plan. East by about a mile and a half. Balham. ‘Bal Ham’ as Peter Sellers called it. Where pretentious café’s are in abundance and Tooting Bec is only a short 1am walk away.

This is still only a plan of course. The technical side of things, like finding somewhere and actually paying for it could be months away. But the thought is good. Enough to reassure me that window dangling is only a short term measure and that things will improve on the home front. And that new adventures will start that don’t depend on night buses.

White Pants Today

The first glimpse of just over two consecutive days off are coming into view. Grab hold. Don’t let go. For this I need to keep working. Do this week’s work then get a good chunk of next week’s in the bag. Two full days and nights of care free living with no laptop and a bill for accommodation, food, cleaning - things I wouldn’t want to have to sort myself.

This will all be with my girlfriend Jo. I hardly mention my girlfriend here, even after over six months together. I’m a private guy. I don’t talk about stuff. Perhaps I should. Unless I’m asked of course, then the floodgates open. I’ll talk about her for hours.

Maybe I should say something here. I know my world revolves around her and nothing else matters when she’s there. This is about as sentimental as I get I’m afraid. The rest I keep for myself. Wish I could say more. She puts up with my rubbish, and I put up with hers. Only her rubbish isn’t rubbish at all. It’s the stuff that makes it worth hanging around for. The bits that no one else knows about - just special to me. She doesn’t realise this perhaps, but I’m still here. That’s the long term plan.

So yes, two days away. Then to work again. Austria. Never been. Anyway, I’m not thinking about that tonight. I’ll blog about ready meals and living in a mess some other time.

I like Bloo

Well yes, I’m 30 now. 30 and a day. That makes me “Thirty-something”. It doesn’t feel much different, but it never does. And getting through the weekend was the bigger deal this last week. Four days of strain at the EPT, which turned out to be more bearable than the first thought.

I have a bad record with birthdays. Something tends to go wrong, either with me or other people playing a direct part. So I try not to put any significance into them. Get through it - an ordinary day. And if I can divert attention away from me then so much the better.

I do this last thing a lot. I don’t like attention. Perhaps I do things to get attention, but then I step aside rather than watch directly. Like turning up as a ghost at your own funeral. I don’t want to be around but it’s hard to say ‘piss off’ to curiosity. Instead I wait for it to turn up and then tell it to bugger off. It’s not an attractive quality and it leads to under-valuing yourself. But if it’s your nature then there’s not much you can do.

So yes, my birthday. This one went well. Cards, presents, things to do, with the person I wanted it to be with. Football, curry, home. In between were those special gifts that feel a bit more than just that. Special things. The ones that remind you that your brain is only tricking you into thinking you’re an island and that you should keep your distance to protect home shores. But it turns out open borders are much better.

Anyway, not much of a post but a birthday one nonetheless, and with underlying chipperness. They’ll be more adventures in Tooting Bec to come. I hope they’re still adventures now I’m a little older.

Last two minutes of my twenties!

Here's goes.

There are soft drinks... so it could be worse.

The EPT London starts today. Another four long days of poker. This one of course has an extra twist in that my girlfriend Jo is also blogging. We'll be working in the same room for the first time. It's her first EPT so she's terrified. It's my 7th EPT and i'm still terrified. I think it will be fine.

As usual with these events long hard days mean long hard nights for my lungs. Intensive smoking, coupled with fizzy drinks and a few dreams short of a full night's sleep. They make for weariness in the eyes and a slow death march for the mind. The smoking has escalated a little and my diet has switched to a more fluid base. I'm 30 next week. At what stage do you need to pay attention to these things?

But anyway. Stay focused. Concentrate. Hide in the press room.

Test Day

Blood first, then a series of small stickered circles carefully attached to my chest. Then ripped off less carefully. There's only one person in the world I'm comfortable taking my shirt off for, and it's not a Tooting General Hospital staffer with a waiting list to get through. Bedside manner has been dropped from medical degrees in order to shave a year off the training.

Nonetheless early indications say I'm fine. Although aren't they supposed to say that? It's fair to say that frightening the life out of someone with a heart complaint risks making the situation worse. It probably opens up prosecution channels too. She was lying to me!

No, wait. I think I'm alright. The wobbly line on the heart monitor seemed normal to someone of my 'Cubs first aid badge' experience. And there are more tests in a month to look forward to which should rule out imminent death at least.

Probably heart burn...

I’ve broken the last taboo of living in the house I’m in. It’s happened before in previous flats. Now it’s happened here. I’m leaning out of the window to smoke. Should my flat mates find out I could be put through one of those righteous talks about letting people down. Really, I just feel like a cigarette and it’s too dark and scary to go downstairs.

I do need to quit. Crap, have I said that before? I do. I mean it. For various reasons, a couple of which are really important. Second on the list is ‘health’. Kurt Vonnegut says he wants to sue the tobacco firms for lying on the packets and not killing him. He’s in his 80s and feels let down. I know what he means. But I’m quite happy being alive right now, so health has become a viable prompt to give up this terrible habit.

I also have chest trouble, no doubt brought on by the nicotine and the caffeined lifestyle I lead. A battery of tests will be run tomorrow on blood and beats. I’m not worried about a catastrophic collapse, just a warning that the fags are speeding up this whole death thing.

But as usual for now it’s falling out the window that poses the biggest threat. And also the question of whether I should smoke before the test later to calm down?

Looking poor, feeling fine

Tonight a young guy asked me for money. The normal place, outside Tooting Bec’s premier corner shop, a place where no matter the hour the staff are friendly and the Milky-ways are only 18p. Specifically he wanted 80p. First a light. “You look like the kind of guy who could help. I’m really hungry; I just need 80p to get some food.” I’m not sure he intended the semi-colon.

He didn’t look poor. But I knew I had 80p and was enjoying a fine mood and that feeling of whatever is around the corner really doesn’t matter right now. I decided it was his. If only I felt this good at Christmas. Only I couldn’t find it. Then I noticed his left hand clutching a handful of coins. I was being ripped off. For 80p. Jesus. An 80p I couldn’t find in the first place. Was that all I was worth? He’d obviously seen my shoes and determined that this wasn’t the schmuck to push his luck on. I said sorry and moved on. Poor-looking, and short 80p.

But enough of that. There are nights where nothing can harm a general sense of well-being, and I’ve had a lot of those recently. Being back from Barcelona helps. But sometimes I like writing about impending doom just so I can use swear words. Harmless. And it’s so fucking hard to use swear words when you feel good.

Where was I? Yes. The bus. Bus home. Rare. And another night of playing the same tune in on my Ipod; another I found by accident and can’t get enough of. And no nutters on the streets of Streatham tonight. Something is obviously going my way. They’re bound to catch up with me sooner or later, I know that. I suspect by the end of the week. Sunday latest.

News from the front

One more day of wretched poker players. Final table day in Barcelona. It’s about time this bastard tournament was wrapped up so we can all get out of this place.

I woke up with a sore throat and aches today. The sore throat probably comes from intensive smoking over the last few days. Each morning I wake up thinking I have to quit only to find the only way of making it through the day is to smoke like a trooper.

The aches no doubt came from the 75 minute walk from the casino back to the hotel at 5 o’clock this morning. It wasn’t my idea. And the first 15 minutes still held the adventure element to it. But from then on the bags got heavy and the maps came out.

I do try to get a drink at the bar when the ‘must relax’ reflex needs ironing, but all that means is ten minutes waiting at a bar before giving up on being served. Not a crowded bar, one with a couple of people waiting. I did this twice yesterday, once with a new blogger friend who had more staying power than me as I got back to work after ten fruitless minutes. So yes, it turns out I’m invisible in Barcelona.

No time for a walk to find decent coffee today, just the powerful sludge on offer at the café around the corner, sitting next to the house drunk and getting change for yet more cigarettes.

So, one more day. One more day of trying to remember to eat, drink and sit down from time to time. Then I can come home. Not exactly thrilled by the idea of today. But there are just as many people to piss me off here as there are back in London. I should be used to this by now.

Here we go again

I’m in Barcelona. I nearly didn’t make it. I pushed my luck a little too far this morning by trying to get two bags through the hand luggage x-ray machine. I tried to look innocent but the highly skilled bag pusher was having none of it. So, I marched back to the start again feeling like I’d hit a snake and was sent back to square one.

Then, when I got back in line, I realised I had just 15 minutes to find the plane. In a good, solid, and probably healthy non-British way I pushed in at the front, with my shoes in my hand ‘pilgrim’ like. Then I legged it to gate 14, dropping and kicking my mobile phone ahead of me and picking it up in a single-motion scoop as I negotiated a turn. Impressive for a man, and a smoker nonetheless, of my age.

But I’m here anyway. No idea where ‘here’ is although I had someone put a cross on my city map for me, but for taxi’s I hand over the hotel business card and hope for the best.

Can’t say I’ve seen much of Barcelona. Just a big road and the casino. The first looks dangerous, the second looks like any other casino. Bright in parts, dark in other, miserable through and through. Or is that just me?

But anyway, due to an administrative oversight on the part of the organisers, and the casino too, play doesn’t start until 5pm tomorrow. This means a 6am finish before we do it all again for three more days.

But enough of that. At least it leaves some time to look around. And walking out of the casino tonight in the wrong direction I hit a beach. That must be good. But either way right now I just want to get it over with. My head hurts. My chest hurts and I can’t work out how to close the automatic window blinds. I need food, drink, rest and only then might this ordeal seem manageable. Until then we’ll see how it goes.

Control Freakery

Outside Tooting Bec’s best non-corner corner-shop last night at 1am. I think the guy said ‘Do you want any ganja bro?’ Yeah, that was it. ‘No thanks mate’ I said. He gave me a friendly eyebrow raise to be sure. I waved him off and went in to buy water.

It was a friendly exchange considering. I have a cowardly policy when it comes to drugs of any kind. I’m a control freak, I think, something that only occurred to me as I wandered off to find a taxi. I don’t like drugs at all. And being a control freak means an insular world. Probably due to bad experiences and bad memories. Ironic really. Hunter Thompson was a hero of mine and he used to start the day with a bowl of cocaine and two quarts of Chives Regal. At a distance this is fine, or was fine. But too close to home and I freak out.

Not having had a drink in over six years, and not touching what Paul McCartney once described as the ‘Herbal Jazz Cigarettes’ for about the same time, meant my escapade in Las Vegas had doom written all over it.

Coming off a 14 hour shift, a short day, the plan was to ‘relax’ and then head out for dinner. Part of the relaxing involved four short drags on a cigarette that seemed to do little for me at the time. So, I handed it back, happy that I’d made an effort to shut my friend up who had effectively become the pusher. It seemed the only way to move the night forward. This, in hindsight, was a mistake.

In the lift from the 14th floor to the lobby I noticed that things seemed quieter in my head and a permanent smile had formed on my face. I also noticed my friend Ed looking at me and laughing back, like he’d told me a funny story and thought I was laughing at it.

That was the last of any sense of well-being. On the casino floor of the Rio there’s a show every hour or so. Dancers, clowns, singing, that sort of thing. I missed the dancers but a clown got in my face and stayed there waving his arms. A few more steps and I realised my head and chest were moving forward quicker than my legs. I stopped to let them catch up but this had the effect of encouraging the blood in my limbs pick up speed, making a whirring sound in my head.

“Ed, I have to go back to the room.”

After his laughter died and he realised I wasn’t joking he snapped into serious friend mode and we headed back to the lift, him leading the way, me picking up my feet a little higher than was really necessary to take a step.

Back in the room I managed to lean my head against the window. By now the only thing I could grasp was that this had been a terrible idea. Then I decided sitting down would be better. Laying down I meant. So I got into the corner of the couch and tried not to move.

Moving did all sorts of weird things. First of all my body went fizzy. Wiggling my toes sent strange waves to the top of my head and back again. My eyes wouldn’t keep still. I wanted to throw up.

Things were getting worse by the second. ‘Best crawl to the toilet and throw up now’ I thought ‘there’s no telling how little I’ll be able to move ten minutes from now’. I made it. But we’d been heading out to dinner because we hadn’t eaten. So I couldn’t throw anything up, except a little more dignity. And the wall paper was a confusing pattern which screwed with my head just a little more.

Back on the sofa. Ed put on the TV as a means to getting me to quiet the fuck down. He didn’t use these words, but my constant asking for reassurance had by now gotten to him. I felt like I was dying. I could feel the lining of my brain getting hot. My heart was beating twice as fast as normal. I got scared. ‘I’m going to die in Vegas’ I thought. This seemed sad. Then… ‘I’m going to die in Vegas’ I thought. This didn’t seem so bad after all.

I took to focusing on one minute at a time. My original room mate came and went, ignoring cries for help, and got on with his night, barking an order for Ed to stay with me as he headed towards a party I would never know and didn’t want to hear about later.

I got into a steady rhythm of watching the news. The funny thing was that even the breaking news seemed to be something I’d already seen. Déjà vu for a solid hour and a half.

Half an hour later things seemed to have returned to some sense of normal. I was hungry. This, it turns out, is what mini-bars are for. Then I got into bed, found a position that didn’t make things worse, and left Ed to go out for food and home.

It took me another day to get it out of my system. And I hated myself for it. I freaked. And I knew other people would freak too. And I hate the whole culture around whatever chemical of substance people use to block out stuff. Because as a control freak that’s what it looks like. Altering your sense of reality. Then, anything can happen - regardless. That frightens me. There’s cowardice in my genes that I’ll have to get used to for the rest of my life.

How to freak yourself out and get through Sunday

Did I mention the sheer hell of Sunday? I think I did. Sundays are still a vivid journey to the edge of some dark places inside my head, before my imagination is hauled back on bungee cord for milky ways and tea. I really do hate Sundays.

One thing occurred to me. I could solve this terrible limbo by going out. A change of scenery might do something. But when your brain is working on an escape from bad thoughts it has little time to plan a day out in London. I could have gone anywhere. Museums, shops, parks. Last week I went to the Imperial War museum. The type of place a boy in a man’s body can spend a week. Not today.

Then there are things I could buy to make life a little easier. Like food for instance, or new clothes. Not today either. It seriously is an all-hands effort to get through the hours of about 1pm to 6pm. We’ve only just made it. Rescued. If I’d been picked up at sea they’d be offering me brandy and a blanket about now.

I wrote a post for my parallel blog, also known as the ‘drafts file’. And that’s where it will stay. I tried to describe this terrible mess in my head. Instead it read like an apology. I don’t feel like that. I’m quite chipper considering. It’s a careful chipper though. Like a surf-lover paddling out to ride a wave he knows is far too big and dangerous.

Besides. It’s too easy to blog about nothing. But when everything feels like a threat, and your head feels 12 years old, this is one way of staying focused in a single direction. Turning to look around runs the risk of being scared by even more windmills.

Anyway. 6.25pm. Fine now.

Hobbies and perfectionism problems

I had a plan this year to try and carve some kind of hobby for myself. The plan was to follow several European football teams that I had some faint form of allegiance to. Then, keep track in a diary or something, just to record that the world was actually taking place around me. It felt like a great idea in the summer. Then, like so many of my other ideas, it fell away. I think I suffer from a strain of perfectionism. If I can’t do it really well, I won’t do it at all. My standards are high, and sometimes the enjoyment is in the idea rather than carrying it out. It’s a shame.

The teams were from across Europe. First were the easy ones. Tranmere Rovers and West Ham United. My team and my girlfriend’s team. Then, from France, Paris Saint-Germain and Sannois-SG. I like Paris, and the latter is a local team from a small town I used to pass through.

Then there’s Italy, with Hellas Verona and Napoli the picks from there. Verona because of Tim Parks’ book ‘A Season with Verona’ and Napoli because I like the city – a filthy, cramped, Vespa place that I once visited.

I couldn’t think of anymore. And frankly the ones I did choose were dicey at best. The English teams are easy to follow but with the exception of PSG the others played in second divisions or worse. I speak no Italian, so reading the Italian press was out, and UK papers only cover the bigger teams. That left results from the internet the only alternative and that seemed a bit lame.

The French teams are a little easier as I can manage some French, but whilst I know the teams their players are anonymous. How could I tell it was a good game or if someone had had played well? See, the plan had its drawbacks.

But I liked the idea. And it popped up again as I started watching Italian football on the telly this afternoon. Loads has been written about how significant football matches can be, and how great the experience is of watching a game. For me it was the hour before kick off and the feeling afterwards of seeing things that other people will have to watch highlighted on TV. I miss that a bit. Or do I miss a ticket, programme and a cup of tea for £5?

I could still press on with the plan. I could catch up. I like useless information kept in notebooks. But there is the second problem. The notebook would have to be worthy of such as task – expensive, leather bound, perhaps even pretentious. There are all sorts of these problems on the horizon, and it could be Christmas before I have the proper equipment in place. Maybe an even better plan would be more appropriate for the 2006/07 season?

Barcelona

I have to go to Barcelona. Tuesday. I’m looking for a quick five days. Get there. Work. Get back. It’s a simple plan, but one that got me through Las Vegas relatively unscathed.

I only hear great things about Barcelona, which in a way makes things worse. I’m not sure I want to enjoy it. I like my job, or at least what I do, but being away from home is annoying these days. I’m feeling responsible for the first time in my life. And going away seems unnatural.

So I arrive Tuesday afternoon, head over to PokerStars base camp to interview a German player I have no interest in and then a popular Spanish player who I’m told doesn’t speak much English. ‘Fuck it’, I said, ‘we’ll give it a go’.

It could be a good tournament. The EPT normally is, and PokerStars know what they’re doing now, dammit. I’ll try and see Barcelona. Like Paris, they start late in the day, leaving time for other stuff, which I’ll try to fill up to avoid it seeming slow. Counter that with 4am finishes and things should speed up again.

But this isn’t a rant about work. I can’t complain too much. If I was suddenly plunged into office hours I’d probably freak out. Just that trips away always coincide with wanting to stay home. It’s difficult to get used to.

Coffee and a heart complaint

It can’t be good for me, but six cups of coffee before noon, and a bottle of caffiened pop after noon makes for a standard day for me. Add to that anywhere from five to twenty-five cigarettes, depending on the level of pissed-off-ness, and you have my staple diet. I’m 30 soon. Health is beginning to be a more serious consideration. And I have to stop this pain in my chest.

Panic struck recently when my coffee maker was deemed beyond repair. Leaving old coffee inside whilst I went to Las Vegas for three weeks didn’t help. When I got back there was a kind of green new world forming inside. It had to go.

I tried stealing my housemate’s coffee maker. This worked until a veiled reluctance to let me carry on began to emerge from behind his fake smile. This plan had to go too. Then my girlfriend came up with a good plan. Buy another! Excellent. And she did.

But where was I? Yes. I still have to cut back. Strange things are happening in my chest which isn’t helped by cigarettes. I need to see a doctor.

This is never easy, particularly after you’ve moved. When I first got to London I had to be forced onto one surgery which claimed to have no room left for more sick people. They took me eventually but I could see in their faces each time I went that the mere site of me disgusted them. I was like the adopted son they’d grown to hate.

So, I returned fire. Probably not a good idea but it was the same thing every time. So I made it a point to arrive each time like I’d been called in to handle an emergency; barking orders and looking serious. Didn’t work though.

So yes. I need to get a Streatham doctor. He’ll tell me to cut back on caffeine and quit smoking. I don’t really need him to tell me this. I have better people to do that for.

Londoners

Three Asian guys approached me as I walked up Upper Tooting Road tonight. They were in the late stages of an earlier period of extreme drunkenness, but they were happy. Melancholic too perhaps, walking the easy to recognise ‘zigzag pattern’ along the pavement.

It was late. Three guys in this formation can often mean trouble. But not tonight. These guys wanted to chat. I was feeling chipper too. The chatty one stopped me. He wanted to ask something.

I can’t remember the exact words, and after a few drinks I don’t think he could either. But it was something along the lines of 'why do English people see Asian men and think they’re suicide bombers?' He wasn’t a suicide bomber, he said. I believed him.

“Suicide bombers don’t have jobs. They think things are miserable and want to try things out ‘upstairs’”. He pointed at the sky. Fair enough. He was laughing. His friend interrupted…

“He makes too much money here to be a suicide bomber!”

He went on a bit more, saying how fed up he was about feeling like this and about maybe going back ‘home’. “I want to look like you!”

The prognosis in the heart of a man can get no worse than when he admits to the desire to be pale and ginger haired. Now I knew he was serious. I told him that not everyone thinks like that and he should stick around. In many ways he looked more British than me. He was young, slightly pissed, dressed in fashionable clothes and had just got off the tube. He was a Londoner. You don’t get much more British than that.

We left it with a handshake. His two friends, who’d been keeping a lower but giggling profile, really just wanting to keep moving, waved goodnight. They walked on, back to working out where they lived. I went back to Streatham to try and forget where I still did.

The Food Crisis

Food is a bit of a problem right now. Lack of it mainly, combined with a strong urge to stay away from Streatham supermarkets. They're miserable places, not helped by the fact that it's a Sainsbury's local and they only sell ready meals, sweets and booze. I don't like the first, should cut back on the second and gave up the third six years ago. At this rate though I'll be back on all three sooner than I think.

I'm pretty sure it's because my fondness for Streatham is fading. I liked it at first. I felt I was at one with the people. Then disaster struck. I realised I've never been one of the people and when I am the people don't like me and it's best to keep clear.

But today I cooked 'proper' food. Proper being 'warm food' rather than a bowl of Bran Flakes. At this stage cooking is too much like ready steady cook. Five items are found in the cupboard, totally inappropriate for any kind of team work. But each item is thrown in the pan regardless resulting in a kind of tuna-basil-old ham-yoghurt hot pot. Few can stomach it.

So I'm putting the option of moving back on the table. Somewhere with shops and that's a walk rather than a nightbus away from Tooting. I can't afford it of course. The table neither. So technically the idea is on the floor. But it's still there to be stepped over everyday, and that's a start.

Night Bus Weirdos

It's not much of a consolation for having to leave in the first place, but the bus home from Tooting Bec has now taken on a 'second highlight of the day' role.

Stood hanging on whichever way I could, whilst the driver - the same lunatic from the other night equipped with a bobble hat and a sense of adventure - drove at paranoia speed down Tooting Bec Road, I thought this one would pass without anything to report. I only notice the people that are either happy or sad at around midnight on the bus. A couple were hanging onto the rail, kissing. Another couple were not.

A cropped lady in hoop earrings and with a tattoo on her arm was growling at a man sat playing with his mobile phone. She looked drunk and unhappy. He looked like he didn’t care. It’s sad. Some men just don’t know when to say sorry regardless and be grateful for what they have.

The driver liked to accelerate early and brake late. It’s why I sat down after nearly falling over as we moved at speed around and between parked cars. Sitting down was a mistake though.

A guy with a can of Carlsberg stood up to get off. He was pissed and trying to manoeuvre a can of lager and his bag towards the door. As the bus braked he was too caught up in the spirit of booze to realise his heightened sense of wellbeing was no match for a sudden stop. At first he grabbed, then he lunged, and then fell arse first along he gangway. His lunge was partly successful, taking my glasses with him as he went aft.

He apologised and made it to the door whilst I went looking for glasses. I expected a tangled mess, but I spent money on these, and the debt Gods were feeling merciful tonight. No two-year battle in the small claims court to replace a pair of broken specs for me.

But I still like these adventures. If I have to make the trip then it may as well have some kind of story to it. I walked in the middle of the street at the other end, the last leg to my house. A stumpy man was walking slowly along Pinfold Road trying to open car doors. Then he stopped and sat down on a garden wall. A town can have too many weirdo’s. You just can’t avoid them all.

Monday Eve

It’s dark. That much is good. As for the rest of this Sunday it goes down as another dull one. What kind of a person does it make me if I can’t have a day off without worrying about it? What have I become?

But it's Monday tomorrow. I have an interview to write. I should have done it today, and made it easier for myself tomorrow, but I figured 'day off - I should take that advice'. So, I did nothing, ate badly and watched the clock. I also played a play money tournament on PokerStars. Play money. Real money seems bad somehow. Four hours I played. Cripes. Where the hell is monday?

The Poles are back out next door, talking into the night. No monsters on their side of the fence.
And no fear about Sunday. What's the secret?

Sundays

Dammit. I hate Sundays. I should have gone out. Further than the garden. Rapid indecision followed total failure to be bothered. Crap. And now the only thing on the horizon is a trip to the off-license for cigarettes and pretend beer.

Not complaining though. Well, not anymore. Sundays have always been like this. Since I can remember. Miserable. Like being on hold. There's a formula though. When it gets dark things tend to get better. Like a rescue ship on the horizon. So that will come soon. It takes its time though.

Yeah, I hate Sundays...

Feeling Lucky

Something went thud in the garden tonight. Fair enough, it was 3am and the mind can play tricks on you during hours like that. But it did. And I was looking the other way when it happened, which is worse. Yeah I know there aren't monsters in the backgarden, but something fucking moved. And it was just me and a lit cigarette between it and the booze in the kitchen. At that time I wasn't sure if I was ready for that kind of responsibility.

What was I doing out there in the first place? Well, I was digging up keys. I'd forgotten mine, and thanks to a well prepared housemate who thinks of these things, there was a spare set burried in the back garden. I found them, and smoked a fag in salute of this piece of good luck. The invisible fuck-off huge monster was just keeping my mind on the job.

So yes, home safe. Screw the nightbus, it was taxi all the way tonight. It's the worst part of the day, leaving Tooting. Really, if you have to leave your girlfriend in the middle of the night it should be aboard a horse or something - something with a bit of class to it. Or a tank! Long story, but a tank would work. Instead, Abba cars and a driver asking how my saturday night was whilst I was busy counting the change in my pocket to make sure I had enough to keep him talking all the way home. Lucky again.

I'm very lucky these days. So was the snail in the garden tonight who narrowly missed having a cigarette put out on his back. We're both lucky then. It's a nice feeling. It makes you feel you could get through anything. Even monsters in the back garden.

The Tooting-Streatham Line

I’m not exactly sure why there is always the need to make an adventure out of the trip home to Streatham from Tooting, but there always seem to be. Maybe it’s because my idea of an adventure is set to a lower standard than most people. And I like to think there’s some kind of magic, or excitement in as much as I can.

So yes, that’ll do me. A nice boring adventure. And tonight was nothing more than a man giving that bloke-ish ‘half smile nod’ of recognition – one sober man to another waiting for a bus amongst a crowd of kebab eating revellers. The other night it was giving a cigarette to a lad which seemed to make a night bus appear. That’s all it takes though. The bus driver drove like a lunatic. Comforting that some things remain the same…

This is good for me, because today I had a weird day. Basically I was being an arse. I took it out on myself. Then I took it out on Ace-Ten in a £20 freezeout this afternoon. My poker trouble always involves an Ace, and another card ten or lower. Must stop that. It happens from time to time. The imagination gets unleashed and the world goes weird. But I got hold of it again. I had the best help too. And finished it off with rice pudding.

So I’ll stick to the overblown adventures, which is really nothing more than paying attention to the world. And standing at a bus stop in Tooting is a far better adventure than anything with deserts, Nazis, missing gold and gunfights.

No ending again. I’m putting the brakes on now.

Early Starts

I like getting up early. Odd really, as I do it so rarely. But today is one of those exceptional days where a 6.40am start doesn’t quite seem the disaster scenario it normally would be, and the only truly difficult moment in your morning is the choc-chip or blueberry decision when it comes to a muffin.

There’s a lot I could do today. Despite looking out the window first thing and seeing grey misery, I want to get started at it; get hold of a potentially miserable day and whack the fucker with a nine-iron. Show it that despite the slow march of work, there could still be moments of happy trotting.

So I’m up early. I suppose I should really have a go at the ‘quit smoking’ thing too, seeing as though I’m feeling chipper. But it never seems to work. My original plan was to find a calm period, stress free, and quit then. But the seasoned smoker can always find something to be stressed about, so why wait?

But enough of hullabaloo. Good work yesterday means easier work today. Barcelona is sorted. Press credentials happily agreed. I’m a ‘blogger’ apparently. Not sure how I feel about that? Perhaps I’m being snobbish? Just that ‘Blogger’ has a happy, cheery connotation. And that’s normally the last thing I feel in these places.