A Bristol Novella

Several weeks come and go, much like the pattern of storms that have plague these streets. And nothing of real significance occurs. The highlight of many a week perhaps, drowning in expensive vodkas, soaked moccasins and much needed sleep.

And it is not until Monday, when I meet with several Chancellors, that I realise I have fallen from my social throne. A fall I should have perhaps anticipated when my driver failed to return call. And so I walk. And in a fit of rage I stop mid street, and push down the hood of my cashmere pullover and unbutton my coat so I can breathe, and stare into the sky. And rain cuts into my eyes, and down the back of my shirt, and rolls off of my neck and fingertips. And several minutes pass and a car flashes its lights, and behind a horn. And I am brought back from the cold, and button my coat, pick up my holdall and carry on, as if nothing has happened.

And come Tuesday I feel strangely different. And find myself at a Calendar launch. And then in a club. But I have to pay entry, and suddenly the Stoli doesn't taste so sweet.

And on Thursday I find myself blankly staring at a stage from a VIP Arena. Which upon studying looks more and more like a sound control booth. And on the stage children sing Christmas carols, and a radio disk jockey's voice drowns monotonously. And I'm trying to feel festive, but the Luksusowa is making me nauseous, and the mulled wine that I am cradling is causing my hands to uncontrollably shake. And I want to vomit. But I don't. And instead in visit the circle of shops pinned into this performance area. And immediately want to vomit again. And I leave. Apparently missing an 'A-list' celebrity.

And I vow never to leave it this long again before touching base, with anyone, or anything for that matter. And on the train I push my headphones into my ears and An Angel Falls plays. And a light rain begins to stain the carriage windows. And shortly after, a storm.