Race to the Finish

November 29th. I have 34 hours to write 6,500 words to have the 50,000 needed to claim I've written a book in a month. It's a bad book, no mistake about that, but it must be done. So a wild cavalier ride for the next day and a half is plan plan. Yes, that plan has flaws too but hell, the only way is forward. Allez Tonto!

Yeah, those flaws. Work is one, and Toddy is an all-nighter to do coverage of an event at Gutshot. So that's tonight out. Then there's an ordinary work day tomorrow, leaving several careful hours in between to write like a fucker and get the job done. It will be close.

But, as instructed, there could be champagne at the end. Time to focus. Be professional. Or at least act it.

Night Shift Magic

The walk home. No wait, I mean the taxi home. As I turned onto Tooting Bec Road I figured walking would be the only option at 2am. No buses, that much was certain, and taxis are few. But a man was standing outside the taxi office and as he turned to look at me he waved. I looked behind me, no point waving if there was someone behind me, but there was no one. I waved back.

The last taxi driver in Tooting was on his way home. "I saw you coming and know you're a regular. I thought you might need a taxi." He needed no directions, just the five minute drive and a four minute chat about the weather. I tipped big. I got home, and he set off to his.

Come in Control

Three days in Tooting Bec, now back here. With the crickets.

A long day. So, a taxi home. It's Sunday after all and no one in the transport department is going to waste their budget on 1am buses when half of the town has spent the day praying for their sins, and the other half committing the sins the other half were praying for.

So to the taxi office. Some nights go better than others. Tonight not so good. The 'Controller' was in his booth watching TV. He saw me, and went back to the screen behind him. I tapped my feet, coughed politely, then not so politely, rang the bell and knocked on his window. Aha, that got him. So it was he who put up the advert 'Controller wanted - No experience necessary.'

I'd never seen tonight's driver before, and I never want to see his like again. He was big. He had a hat on, and his car was five minutes walk away. In the car things were no better. He sat low and the rear view mirror was angled to give no rear view. What's more he wore a cap on the side of his head with the peak blocking all views left. It was an odd look, like he'd been slapped around the back of the head by a parent and was too defiant to adjust the fit. He also fell asleep at the lights.

But nevermind. I'm 40,000 words in to a 50,000 word novel. This week will be busy, with an article needed for Tuesday as well that I might have to sell to my editor. Not to mention normal work. We're into Monday. Hold on.

Busload of Nutters

Scarier than a bus full of nutters. How these people find me on the bus home I'm not sure. Perhaps it's me? Perhaps I see more of the nutter in people than others do? Perhaps I, and I alone, am the real nutter?

Enough of that. Head down on Upper Tooting Road, as a fuck face ape in a tracksuit began yelling. Something like 'Fat fucking cunt!' at a girl who was somewhere, although on the street I saw just me and a few people taking advantage of Cottage Chicken not knowing when to quit.

But yes, head down. Keep walking. Don't say anything. Or, take out your sword, challenge the fucker and finish him with a swift chop to the shoulder blade. That's how Hemingway would have done it. No, Hemingway would have shot him, posed for photos and had the head prepared for mounting. Then home for drinks.

But not me, at least not yet. I kept walking. I'd decided on a taxi. £7 well spent I thought. But a ten minute wait persuaded me that the good old bus was still an option. It arrived unpromted. Rejoice.

Only it seemed full of nutters. Did I mention that? One man towards the back, opposite me, decided to spend two stops laughing to himself. Only another guy with grey hair and a pale blue shirt took exception to this and thought the laughing was aimed at him. Hell, I thought he was laughing at me. Imagine my relief. "No, no" he said.

Then, a girl who had got on at my stop, couldn't find her ticket, even after half the route to Streatham. So, the bus driver kicked her off. I think she said 'I love you' as she got off, still looking for that ticket.

But back to Streatham. Passed the empty mainroad with sparkling snowflake christmas lights. Passed the the house, lights still on, with a mock tudor interior. Another night. The magic of Tooting doesn't reach this far. So I pretend.

Normal Service

It's been a week. What have I been doing with my time? Well, this damn novel takes up a lot of it, all to be done by midnight on the 30th. There have been trips back from Tooting Bec to report on of course, but nothing more than the spotting of new Christmas lights on Streatham High Street, and the Diwali lights switched off on Upper Tooting Road. But I'm working on that.

The novel rests uneasily on 33,600 words, about 3,000 words behind schedule. At least it was yesterday. Add today's quota and I'm 4,600 words behind. The goal is always running away.. . looking over its shoulder at you and laughing. Trying to keep up is hard, and if I do catch up I'll just want to bludgeon the fucker. So the blog has become a casualty.

Don't Mess with Superstition

I didn’t blog a few nights ago when normally I would. This triggered a right hook of bad luck. But I have now learnt my lesson. So this blog resumes as previous. I’m locked in for the duration.

I made it home Monday night and set down to finish off some work for 10am the next morning. Only my laptop wouldn’t switch on. Some sort of power failure. First overboard to make weight was the blog post. Second over the side was bashing out some more words on my ‘novel-in-a-month’. Lastly, and perhaps at that point of the week most importantly, was the interview I needed to finish in the next eight hours.

So I spent four hours pressing ‘on’ to no avail. At 4am I decided to risk three hours of sleep, before planning to wake at 8am for a mercy mission to a nearby repair shop. At 8.10am low and behold I discovered that my right knee is in fact magic. A kick to the I.T. balls and power was restored. Either my knee is magic or my laptop is fucked. I think it’s probably both.

Still, as long as I don’t switch this thing off everything is fine. And tonight it was back to normal. The journey from Tooting Bec. Wednesday, the midway point of a week’s worth of adventures in the magical kingdom. I was taking my time, feeling a chipperness re-flowing to my veins and experiencing the first pangs of nerves at the prospect of meeting ‘in-laws’ this weekend. A man passed me, bracing his face to the wind, his eyes fighting the effects of a night of passionless beer. He paid no attention to me.

Then to the bus stop, where a strong crowd was waiting. Maybe once the day of the week determined what breed of person would be waiting for a bus at 11.30pm. But London by-passes this distinction, favouring instead a homogeneousness to its night crawlers. No discrimination here. All of us are equally weird.

Back to the Garrett. Two days to go before York. It’s night time though. That old friend. No time to think about that, especially when there are 25,000 words done and another 25,000 to go before December. Time to write drivel without fear of reprisal.

Dearth in the Afternoon

Hideous Sundays. They're better than normal at the moment but I still struggle through the daylight hours of Sunday afternoon. Difficult to stay cheery. Too easy to think miserable thoughts.

But anyway, it's okay. It was soon dark, and that cloak can be a friend to the Sunday melancholic. Plus, there was Quorn lump and stuffing for tea to help ease ourselves into Monday. This guarantees sure-fire success.

The walk home was inevitable after dawdling with goodbyes until after 1am. I like dawdling. Along Upper Tooting Road where no one was about, a Kebab Shop man was staring out of the window, looking for signs of anyone, at 1am on Monday morning, looking for a kebab. God, that man looked like he wanted to sell kebabs. But he’d found no one. I waved and carried on.

I’m getting used to the walk again. Walking has never been too much of a big deal to me. As a kid my parents never owned a car, so we walked. Then, when started to go out with friends I would use potential taxi money for more beer. I’d walk the five miles home instead, slightly drunk, zigzagging along unlit streets to the middle of nowhere.

So now I don’t think of a 30 minute walk home. There were the usual goblins on the dirt path home, but I can handle them now. The Ipod battery ran out too, despite my vocal encouragement. But I could handle that too. The man stopping his car for a piss was more surprised to see me than I was of him. The walk home at night is my country.

And you can handle a lot when you decide not to worry about it. But I forgot to buy milk. What am I going to do for milk in the morning?

Unplugged

13 minutes. Still I shouldn't complain. At least there was a bus to wait for. Tooting Bec was quiet tonight. Maybe Thursday is the quiet night after all, and not the pre-friday test run I thought it was. Or, maybe I was out too early to catch the test-clubbers. It was midnight. A good rehearsal won't finish till one.

13 minutes is the absolute cut-off time for the late night 'bus-it/walk-it' question. 13 minutes. Another seven for the bus journey itself, then five more for the walk home at the other end. 25 minutes? I can walk it in 26. 'Bugger it', I thought. 'I'll wait'.

Besides, I was feeling less cavalier than earlier. I think this is a good thing. It stops me from singing out loud as I walk. But previous heroics had been cancelled out tonight by a one inch mouse. I caught one yesterday and released into the Tooting wild, ending the screams the women and children. But tonight the little bastard was back. It escaped, and made me look bad. I'm going to have to wrestle and capture a tiger now to make up for it. I could have done with the heart monitors still attached for that one.

Magazines Need More Dogs and Balls

Home in Streatham. With the crickets.

I walked home from Tooting Bec tonight, purely for medical reasons. A few weeks ago I had an ECG test run to pick out what's making my heart protest at pivotal moments in the day. Today was 'Holter Tape' Day, a small box thing with three cables running from it which are each attached to strategic points of my chest to track my heart beat for 24 hours. After nine hours the box, about the size of a mobile phone, is still in my pocket. There's a problem.

So far my heart has behaved impeccably. I'm now worried I'm wasting NHS money with no sign of previous problems likely to show up before tomorrow afternoon. Hence, the walk home, full pace, and smoking the last of my cigarettes along the way. I walked the darker route too, just to boost anxiety. Nothing.

Technically, this is good. But I need to prove a point to the woman who shaved a crop circle out of my chest hair to stick the thing on. Plus, I was kind of hoping it wasn't the six espressos I tend to drink each morning - enough caffeine to bring back the dead. It can't be that. What possible harm could the good people at Sagafredo want to do to me?

So I walked home with my heavy bag. The fact I had to go home at all should have kicked off the stress motors. But dammit, I picked now to feel healthy. I have some explaining to do when I have the thing removed tomorrow.

Tuesday Night

Blogging on a Tuesday night. Days like these and I’m glad when it’s dark. It’s like cover. Less exposure to the world. Hide inside.

I only realised yesterday that today was voting day in America. I realised shortly after that that I don’t really care. Terrible. I used to follow this stuff closely, but now, having allowed cynicism to grasp me in its iron claw, I realise that the best man or woman can never win, because they don’t ever stand in the first place. And in America the best lawyers win.

But enough of that. I have to fill the hours somehow and election news might just do the trick. Besides, I’ve written an article today to be published somewhere over in the States. The least I can do is see what kind of moron will be elected to ban it from ever reaching print.

But first it has to pass the eager eye of my editor. Only then will it be emailed to some muppet with bad grammar to cut it in half and paste it onto page 19. I love being a hack.

And what is it I’m avoiding now? My Nanowrimo novel thing. 50,000 words. I’m not even keen to say how far I am along. Basically it’s a chance to let my imagination run around for a while, before I reign it in and tell it to stop wasting time and write about some Norwegian bloke who plays poker online. But whilst it can run free that’s good.

Where was I? Yes. I can’t remember. Avoiding stuff. Enough of that. When there's no bus to get at 1 o'clock in the morning I'm not sure what to do with myself.

Big Elephants Can't Always Understand Small Elephants

Bus stops come in two forms at 1am on a school night. One form has a digital sign telling you when the next bus is due. Often there are people there. The other form has 'Countdown' on the screen. It means a long wait.

No one about on Upper Tooting Road tonight. Good for them. It was freezing. I'd left late, and made my girlfriend sit through a little too much Serge Gainsbourg. She battled well. But it was bus or walk. No taxi tonight. Must show discipline. So out into the night with my gold ears. Face painting earlier with no veto. So I spent an hour as a red faced goblin, with gold ears. Apparently that's rare.

But it was okay. I'd come prepared, with my expensive scarf and a hoodie. It works well in the cold; you look 16 but at the same time makes it clear that as you no longer care about your public appearance you will happily look stupid flailing your arms and legs at any potential attacker.

So here it was. Bus or walk? It was a risky time to expect a bus, but I could see the glow of the digital screen as I got closer to the shelter. Naturally, as I was on my own I was talking out loud. 'Is there a bus, is there a bus?' I saw a man in the distance, crossing over from the bus stop to the taxi office opposite. This is a tell tale sign of bad news. 'There must be a bus. There's a bus, no it's countdown, no it's a bus, shit no it's countdown.'

Countdown it was. But nevermind. Hoodie hood up - clothing given to me by my younger brother a few years ago, effectively a 'hand me up'. Ipod in. Tooting Bec Road.

In hindsight I should have just walked backwards. I'm not good with the dark. The fear that someone might be sneaking up on me as I walk, hoodie or not, is too great to leave alone. So, each five yards is punctuated by a rapid swing to look behind me. There's never anyone there. There was a mist on Tooting Common, the type of mist zombies appear from. But no zombies either. Just me and my shadow, scaring the fuck out of me as I swung back around.

I've walked with the same fear before, no doubt I'll do it again.

I made it back regardless, waling along the middle of the road for the final 200 yards. Back to the house and the usual welcome; a high pitch mid-west sound of crickets. I'd like to say there's no reason why we should have a cricket sound in the house at night. But my housemate decided some time ago that lizards would make a good pet. They do. But their dinner makes a hell of a noise all night. Crickets. Poor bastards must know they're doomed.

But the rest of us are fine, more than we know. For tomorrow is Tuesday! What harm could possibly come from that?

Blue Lights and Gold Sparkly Things

The trip home cost a little more than expected tonight. 50p left on my Oyster Card. Not good. At least not for a bus fare. 50p in my pocket. Also not good. And no way to combine the two to make the full 'welcome aboard' pound. No problem, I'll get change. Only there's nowhere open at half past midnight on a Monday. At least not somewhere I could get to and back in the six minutes I had until the bus arrived. Fuck it. A taxi.

So, a swipe of the travel card turned into an £8 hop across the Wandsworth border. Nevermind. Tooting was quiet. A blue light was on in the hairdressers. There was also a blue light on the bottom of the bus time table. This is to allow you to see bus times in the dark. Not sure what the hairdresser wants you to see.

The taxi people know me now. 'Did you have a nice night?' Yes thanks. 'Working?' No, girlfriend. 'Ahh yes, it's Sunday.' They still charge me full fare though. But you get to chat about the weather. I wanted to chat about Halloween and fireworks parties, but the relationship between driver and fare is a rigid one. Stories of how you managed not to blow up yourself, your girlfriend, her daughter and nearly a dozen neighbourhood kids, don't seem relevant.

But I didn't blow us up. The 'Disposition Reorganiser' or whatever the long explosive thing made in China was, didn't turn against us. I still have my eyebrows. And the kids didn't blind each other with the sparklers. Another good day. Who cares about an Oyster Card?

Ice Cold in tooting

How did it get so fucking freezing? That's it. The scarf is coming out. Well, it wasn't that bad. But two jumpers underneath my summer coat make me look bulky. At least no one will mess with me as I wait 11 minutes again for a bus.

There was I thinking there was nothing much to report until I passed the now vacant Curry Express, where a girl was leaning up against some shutters asleep. I've never seen that before. Someone leaning against a wall sleeping. At 1am. I don't think you'd see that anywhere else. Maybe her face had frozen to the metal. I can't be sure.

But yes. Home with the window closed. It makes a leaning cigarette a tougher decision than normal. But what the hell. I'll freeze. And it's a big day tomorrow. I may be painted several colours and blow my eyebrows off with some fireworks. Can't wait.

Bed Head and a Mission for Veg

A daylight adventure from Tooting Bec, north, across the undrawn border that crosses into Balham. Today, a late Halloween mission for supplies. And fireworks. That was the easy bit. First pumpkin, green jelly, face paint and any common food stuffs that could pass, at least through the eyes of a terrified six year old, as witch poo, rats eyeballs, goat brain or whatever.

I walked. First along Upper Tooting Road where it turns out Curry Express is not applying for a licence. At first I thought maybe a drinks licence or um, an ice cream license. But no. They're closing. The 'All you can eat' offer saw them literally eaten out of house and home. The license is for a new place. Always strange when one curry house shuts down only to be replaced by another. "I know those guys failed, but we're different dammit! We'll have 'Eat all you buy!' Yes, that will be our slogan! Next!"

Ten minutes walk. It was at this stage that I noticed my bed head. Not in my reflection as such, but the triangle shaped shadow my head was making in front of me. Pointy at the top. Two bits sticking out on each side. People treat you differently when you look like this. You either get sympathy (this poor guy can't even comb his hair). Or people don't trust you. Like you're too busy sniffing glue to brush. Either way you're going to cause trouble. People want you out of the shop as soon as possible.

This happened when I tried to buy cigarettes. I asked for ten, he went through what was on offer. Camel, Elephant, Rabbit. I think that's how it went. Aware of my status with the hair situation I read him for being, well, a wanker. I paused a second and said 'oh I get it'. Then paid for ten. Then I asked if I could swap them and pay for twenty. Nope. This would involve a trip to customer services, forms to fill in, applications, paperwork and an administrator working weekend overtime. "I'll do it!"

No, I didn't. They were inches away from security. I was inches away from losing it with a part-ripe pumpkin. Instead I bought chocolate money, Angel Delight and then made my way back to the safety of Tooting lines. And a shower. Only go out again clean.

Are those thermal pants?

It’s cold out now. 12.30am and anyone will feel the cold. But there’s much to report from Upper Tooting Road. For a start Curry Express is applying for some kind of license. Terrific. What license? I’m not sure. Who cares? Good luck to them.

Like I said it’s cold. Girls are first to go for hats and scarves. Wrapped warm after a night out. Men on the other hand play the waiting game. It’s a battle of endurance for us before we capitulate to this open sign of feeling the chill, that other men will surely see. Not for me I should add. I’m going for hat and scarf immediately. No stinging fingers for me. Gloves too. Must find them.

The doors of the shops are closed now, rather than left open to entice the late night and normally drunk clientele of London’s night time world. All except the fast food outlets, which try against all odds to expel the stench of cooked meat from the premises in exchange for cold and having to wear your coat to work.

The same Toyota taxi did the same five point U-turn unnecessarily by the bus stop. I walked passed the secret Tooting house to the bus stop on Tooting Bec Road. 11 minutes for a bus. A stop for iced tea from the shop opposite. This is one of my favourite roads and the faces are friendly. The same people waiting for a bus, the same things going on depending on the time. Like people coming out of the tube or zigzagging their way home with a bag of chips.

I first came to this road on a wild diversion in a taxi one night back in March. I didn’t know then that I’d get this familiar with it. But on that night it was £30 extra quid well spent.

9 minutes. A cigarette, the happy kind, with the Ipod blasting Joni Mitchell and a team of fellow passengers waiting against the cold, watching their breath as we each admitted that mild daylight was no match for night time that’s fucking freezing. The bus came. Before you know it Tooting has turned to Streatham. A quick, cold, but chipper reminder that it’s time to get out.

Making it up

No trip back from Tooting Bec tonight. But I wish there was. So I’m making one up.

It was one of those nights not spent with my girlfriend, which means I miss her. That terrible feeling of being way from something that feels like home. Days are separated into those spent with her and those not. I know which ones I prefer.

So it’s 1am now. That would be about an hour after we would say something like ‘I suppose I’d better go’. Then an hour would pass of ignoring the time. We’d fall asleep watching rubbish on telly, because we can’t ever find anything to watch.

So I’d leave the house. This is the worst bit. And then the walk to the bus stop. Five minutes, passed the best Tooting Bec Non-Corner Corner Shop. Passed the 90 year old lady. Passed the Cottage Chicken outlet and half a dozen curry houses. Passed any night time harmless lunatic on their own adventure. Then the bus, or a taxi, or on those other days a half an hour walk across Tooting Common where not even dark hiding places for the nutters puts me off. So yes. I like these adventures.

And this month is Nanorimo. National Novel Writing Month. I’ve written close to 600 words so I’m rewarding myself with a break. Leaning out of the window to smoke. The cost is that the garret is fucking freezing. Feels good. Everyone should feel like this.