Saturday, 26 September 2009

The sunlight glaring from the table is piercing. The September air still warm, although constantly changing. I am dining alfresco in a central Bristol bistro. Adjacent two girls play ping-pong, whilst a stilted lady wanders through the floor mounted fountains. Waiters continually check if "the food is to standard" and tiring of such interruptions it is decided that no service shall be paid.

Mid course, I find I am staring, perhaps too hard, at the woman opposite. White dress shirt, tucked into black 501 jeans. Large sunglasses, with large hooped earrings, silver. Toking her fourth cigarette. Someone at our table says something I don't hear,whilst another speaks a soft reply. And I'm thinking. About the time of year. Not listening. The turn of the trees. The September sunlight. Where the summer went. A short stay at my parents. Last night. My bank account, it's lack of funds. The house I rented near London. The tree lined streets that followed the roads. My bike. A Golf, British racing green. Three large leather sofas. Where the summer went. Pinto wine. The mold on the shower walls. Where robins go in cold springs. The west end. The broken washer/dryer. How warm the wine is. That semester, that five thou invoice. 2007.
That house. That September air. The rain. Where the summer went.

And I am pulled back to our table by the conversation on the other side of the courtyard. Where someone is asking a french guest, patronisingly, 'Did you buy anything...did you'. And I wave the busboy away, and throw my Visa onto the table.

Sunday, 20 September 2009

My pockets are empty. I am being searched, whilst giving an in depth commentary on my possessions. One RC Leather, Black pin stripe wallet containing, amongst other things, three credit cards, one debit, and three forms of identification. Set of house keys for a prestigious Bristol townhouse. One E71 communication device, black, titanium, perhaps not as good as the blackberry, but certainly better looking. Small piece of paper, possibly a bus ticket, detailing exchanges of £1.67. And this could go on for a while, but I am patted down and ushered into the club. The music is disgusting and the people more so, and whilst not much occurs in the course of the night, I do fall in love with a Russian.

And the days that occur previous are somewhat similar to one another. Consisting largely of letting my returning presence be known. On Monday, I have coffee, which I do not pay for, and check some designs, which I do not care of. And shall be happy when the brand which I have now recreated, fails.

On Tuesday I have coffee which I do not pay for and begin intensive social networking. Until I eventually exhaust my contacts, and leave. However it must be said, some handy housewifery tips were traded.

On Wednesday I have coffee which is later followed by two pints of cider, three gin and tonics, nightclub entry, and a taxi home, all of which I do not pay for. I also attend a private function, to which I am not invited. Entertaining myself by playing off attendees against one another.

By Thursday coffee is substituted with coke. And the details of Friday, so mundane, that they have slipped my mind completely.

And if this is an inclination as to how this sabbatical year shall progress, so be it. But lets hope for more Russian encounters.

Saturday, 12 September 2009

I am staring at the four boxes and one suitcase, that over the last two years, have become my life. Sipping an excellently blended quadruple gin and tonic. My third of the evening. And thinking, perhaps I could just change my degree to housewifery. Because right now the last thing I want to do is start actually doing things with my life.

Today I make one last drive on the coastal roads around my parents home. Ripping up the farm land as Don Henley's Boys Of Summer play out from the stereo. And it's the first time I realise what Don is trying to say in this song. But it's not the first time I realise that there was never truly anyone here. No body on the roads, no body on the beach. And at first, this thought upset me. But now I welcome the solitude.

And a little voice inside my head says don't look back, you can never look back. So I don't. And I carry on drinking gin, and thinking, and drinking. Until my phone rings, and then I go to a bar. To say goodbye the only way a twenty something year old should. In the arms of friends.

Tuesday, 8 September 2009

A collection of days, that some call a week, come and go. And it is difficult to establish what exactly these days comprised of.

On Thursday I am told of the new Verso that my friend intends to purchase, and although a Toyota, I am somewhat envious. As my small 1.2, British racing green, lump of plastic really could do with a new engine, body, and a good crushing.

Come Friday, to pass the emptiness of working (for the good of others) I decide to attempt Sudoko. Fail and instead arrange two lunch dates for the weekend. Using the office phone to do so. To prepare for the said luncheons, I go to the gym. Where I spend a fair portion of my time comparing myself to others. After thirty minutes, I decide that I no longer need to attend, and freeze my membership, vowing to renew as soon as people no longer want to sleep with me.

The luncheons, much like the antecedent week, come and go. And whilst seated, discussing mainly the mundane realities of life, the gentleman on the opposite table, and exciting discoveries of new ways to pastime, it occurs to me that this will be the last meal I will attend with all parties present. Possibly until next summer. And as we arrange a date for next week, I am certain that I will not be in attendance. My plan, to slip away unnoticed, so not to bludgeon the memory of such events (and to create a mysterious ploy to lure drama, and more lunch dates into my agenda).

On Sunday, I lay my eyes on the Vanquish S. Which is parked in my bay, at a friends residence, next to an R8. And its confirmed, I really do need a new car. Although 'super cars' are perhaps slightly out of budget whilst one is a student.