A Bristol Novella

2012-02-08T22:51:00.003Z

Do you remember when we drove along Kingsway A259, and we listened to Casey's Song, and the windows where covered in condensation, and the sat nav spoke French. And how we sat in your car for an hour or so, reading and rereading contracts. And the traffic lights on the highstreet by the furniture store, and something with the name Sun?

2011-12-09T20:45:00.005Z

I have often felt the need to write without the guise of a character, as myself. A young man in his twenties, with two degrees (pending). Perhaps one of the reasons that I have not done this is that so much of myself goes into ABristolNovella anyway, the two are the same - or were.

However I'm starting to feel we are drifting apart, and as my time in Bristol draws to an end, and I begin to slowly withdraw from my Bristolian life, there are so many things I want to document, which I feel like I can no longer do whilst I'm (pretending to be) a preppy stuck up twat. So many things that I want to record, for myself, and what has happened in the four years since I moved here.

And this is something that might not take off, maybe just writing this is enough for me to tell you, I'm not a total dick head.

2011-11-21T22:51:00.002Z

You're standing over the hob when I walk in. And I put my arms around your waist and pull you into me, your neck against my lips and kiss you

2011-11-01T09:41:00.002Z

At 1923 I'm dropped at a service station somewhere between junction 27 and junction 17 of the M5.

Who still reads this?

2011-11-01T09:39:00.002Z

So I haven't been around for ages, but that's what I do. I drop in and out of peoples lives, and as far as I'm concerned that's what everyone does, I'm just more open about it. Except it usually only works if you have a few stable permanents - I no longer have this.

2011-09-14T14:18:00.002+01:00

I spend most of Sunday, Monday and Tuesday training. And for those of you who don't know what I mean. Yes, I do have a job, despite pretending that I don't. I work four hours a week as a Cocktail Master. And basically this training involves a government crash course in brainwashing employees. By Tuesday I have consumed about 56 Units of Alcohol and Brainwashed twenty one members of staff into thinking that Vodka is actually water.

On Wednesday I hear on the grape vine that 'the Hub' has been hacked into. And so to arouse/dissipate any suspicion I zero fill my laptop. On which I find a copy of ABristolNovella and several Unpublished books.

I haven't eaten for four days. And on Wednesday £1600 is transferred into one of my live accounts to cover some costs, or something.

2011-08-26T12:26:00.003+01:00

It’s about 1155 when I wake up; throw some sweat pants, which used to be Jack Wills, on. The brand has washed off. Catch a glimpse of my abs in the mirror, still there, just. Check my voice mail, nothing, check my other voice mail, nothing. Watch some day time tv with the sound on, watch some day time tv with the sound off. Have a cigarette on the balcony in the drizzle.

At 1505 I decide now would probably be a good time to start the day. Take a wander to a homewear store, look for new champagne flutes, since I lost all mine to washing up. Nothing. Contemplate a drink, pretend I no longer drink, walk to the water front, and sit staring at the people, at the river, the ant that is crawling across the yellow, piss stained pavement. End up in a cocktail bar, Vodka Colins, Stoli is the weapon on choice today.

End up in the mall. Just stare walking, that kind of walk you do when there is nothing else to do, but you are looking for something to do. From the third floor I imagine someone pushing me over the edge of the railing. My legs turn weak. Look for my friends’ books in the book store, nothing. Contemplate buying Breakfast At Tiffany’s. Decide a female protagonist doesn’t take my fancy, wonder what people might say. Look at books I read as a child. Walk past a shitty tattoo parlor where an acquaintance of mine gets inked. I’ve always thought they were shit. Stare at my reflection.Stubble face, gum in mouth, rounded detail of my hair. Stone Chinos, Grey winter T-shirt, Grey unbranded hooded sweat, brown leather belt with the numbers 1967 which I’ve try to scratch off. End up in the toilets, contemplate jacking off just for the fun of it. Piss. Leave.

Walk past a underwear shop in the old arcade. I've been offered free stuff there. Probably because the owner fancies me. He isn't in, which is probably for the best, I've given up on my CK 365s .Run up a sixty pound tab in a cocktail bar; tell the waitress every single function of every single button on her till. Smoke a cigarette as the sky starts to turn, night and rain falling. Don’t pay the tab.

Meet a friend, in a lounge bar by the water front, candles on the table, cask ales. No Vodka, No drink. Someone’s birthday. A live band starts to set up. Call you in the morning, hit the land line. No one uses iPhones anymore. Stare at the sign on the back of the toilet door "And they lived...happily ever after" contemplate jerking off.

2011-08-23T23:55:00.001+01:00

Required: Louis Vuitton Agenda 2011/12

Offered: Following Photograph

2011-07-19T23:19:00.002+01:00

I awake with a sharp intake of breath. 1204:11. Its not until 1204:48 that I inhale again. Panic attack. Realisation of mortality.

There are two of us, sitting in Southgate, an espresso, a tea, talk of travels, of life. Of living in a new apartment... post graduation, of fitness and health, palladian architecture, rents, landlords, contracts, life, social scenes, contacts we've made, could make, break.

He's sleeping with Prince Valium tonight.

I can't breathe. Unbutton my shirt. Three down. If this were a date I'd probably try and nail you, you know this. We jest about it often. The way good friends can. I can filter, and count on one hand the acquaintances from friends. You're always on that hand.

1123. Three minutes to make the station. London? Perhaps. Call me sometime, you owe me lunch.

2011-02-17T08:55:00.000Z

I have these dreams, as the plane takes off, it crashes. These happen every couple of days or so, and although I have no idea what they mean, or why they occur, they are the closest thing to routine I have.

I'm sick of winter, and long to spend my life in LA. I've made travel arrangement with several friends, but I have unfinished business here so I keep missing flights. I've no life plans, no direction, and certainly no intention of spending my life in a 9-5.

2011-01-26T00:06:00.000Z

I'm sitting on the steps at the waterfront and staring at the numbers in the jacket of this book, 42, 46, 50. And the first few pages described the life of a character very much like mine, and when I mention in passing..."Sometimes I feel like Esther Greenwood" at a meeting, that happens later in the afternoon, I'm greeted with an alarmed response.

From the steps I'm staring down the new cut, towards the gallery, at the harbour size, sparse, cold. Condensation rising from fumes in the water, backs of AC units. 47. And in the next few pages, start to sound familiar. Shared character traits. The love of vodka, the need for water, the feeling that life is passing me by, the blandness of life . And I should probably be writing a thesis, but right now, I couldn't even find the words to fill the back of a cigarette packet. And all I can think about is leaving this city, how grotesque my personality is, the view from Colston Tower.

I imagine drowning in the harbour. The water at my neck, my lips, my lungs. Flooding. Watching my silhouette from the bow of Under The Stars. Struggling. I've poisoned this city.

2011-01-23T11:44:00.000Z

2011-01-11T21:37:00.000Z

I'm standing at the bus stop, staring at the red LED arrivals, and in the glass, my relefction. And I can see above me, the poster under which I am standing reads 'I can make you happy', and I wish, for a moment, that it were true.

2010-12-28T13:33:00.001Z

It's Friday and we're in a bar and its pretty crowded but we manage to grab a table, order a few drinks. A few familiar faces come and go, and mostly this bar is filled with people who I probably went to school with, but probably don't know.

And I lean in, and over the music tell Jessica that I'm gonna leave, go some place else. And she smiles, and we make our way though the crowd and out onto the beach. And the weather is wicked, minus twelve, and the pavement snow covered.

As we talk she tells me that this guy, Tim, who we went to school with, who she goes to university with, about how he has been sectioned. Insane. And I look at her and say,
"Well babe, some people don't loose it their entire life, and it must be terrible" and I smile as I'm saying this, and she just looks at me, takes my arm and says

"Well we're not exactly normal now are we"

And I'm trying to think of all the people I knew that used to live around here, and I cant. I can't picture them with out thinking of our High school photographs. Everyone still sixteen, seventeen.

The ones they thought would make it, burnt out in lifeless office jobs, the ones we knew wouldn't, with child in lifeless council flats. Others trying to stay sane, trying to escape. Get out of here.

And I'm watching the spit of the sea crash on the pebble, and the florecences and the street lights, and just staring into the night.

2010-12-28T13:33:00.000Z

It's Friday and we're in a bar and its pretty crowded but we manage to grab a table, order a few drinks. A few familiar faces come and go, and mostly this bar is filled with people who I probably went to school with, but probably don't know.

"Well we're not exactly normal now are we"

And I'm trying to think of all the people I knew that used to live around here, and I cant. I can't picture them with out thinking of our High school photographs. Everyone still sixteen, seventeen.

The ones they thought would make it, burnt out in lifeless office jobs, the ones we knew wouldn't, with child in lifeless council flats. Others trying to stay sane, trying to escape. Get out of here.

And I'm watching the spit of the sea crash on the pebble, and the florescences, the street lights, a trawler in the bay, and I'm just staring into the night, into the future.

2010-12-18T22:24:00.000Z

I'm waiting outside the station, standing next to my luggage, red Ralph Lauren weekend bag and a 1967 Wooden Champagne create, sealed. And snow starts drifting in, caught in the fur on my ski jacket. Jacques pulls up in his silver A3 and we hug hello, and exchanged the kind of pleasantries that old friends do and load my luggage into his car, and he looks at the create as if to suggest its unessential and I laugh.

'You and I know you can't get the good stuff out here' the rough wood catching the orange street light. The moon reflecting in the centre mirror.And it's crisp outside, minus 6, and Jacques looks up and smiles and drops the boot shut.

And we get in the car, and don't say anything until we get to where we're going, just stare at the familiar streets, note the small changes, new hotels, bars, old haunts. And we pull up outside the library and make out way to a wine bar, Gandy Street, and slide into a table.

'So do you think you'll survive, it's not the bright lights here baby?' Jacques
'Sure, why not?'
'It's been months'

I finger the menu. Shiraz or Merlot? 'Three, and I'm pretty sure I'll be fine. I'll just have to cut out going to nice restaurants' Shiraz. 'Super premiums' Berry Estates. 'cigarettes, you know, all the good things that you cant find out in the sticks.'

silent laugh 'I'm sure mummies little prince won't go without'.

And several bottles later we split, and end up cruising the streets that we walked at college, reminiscing, and the CD clicks repeat and we make our way home.

And it feels weird, being driven on these roads, lanes, no driving. Being here. Knowing I'm home. Almost like I've been missed out. Jacques's wheels spin on ice at the bottom of the drive. And I get out, tell him I'll see him tomorrow, turn, and look up into the stars, the light catching the cottage above, and smile as I make my way towards the house.

2010-12-09T21:32:00.000Z

Yes?

2010-12-06T20:55:00.000Z

A comment on a video I am watching reads...

"The whole point is that elitist people are missing out on real life. Let them have their luxury, they're wasting their lives!"

And this comment has two thumbs up. And I'm thinking about the dinner, a sixtieth wedding celebration, that I went to on Friday, or Saturday. How happy the hosts were, are. And I'm wondering if I'm wasting my life, if I should be married, settled, in love? And I'm wondering if I care.

And then I turn on DMAX and watch two episodes of LA Ink, which, for the record is so much better than Miami Ink.

2010-12-03T11:41:00.000Z

The TV's on mute. And the presenters are faking smiles, and probably talking about snow, and Christmas. And I'm just watching them, lip reading.

And Don Henley, Boys of Summer, is playing out over the sound system. And

2010-12-01T23:19:00.000Z

There was a heatwave that summer. My brother and I spent most days at the beach, with my mother. The heat so intense that that tar buckled, expansion gaps failing. The terrace, with its concrete tile so hot it scorched feet, skin.

Come late September the heat was forgotten, and almost every day were overcast. But still Grandpa would take us to the beach. From the deck we'd watch the surf. Whilst Grandma would cook inside. It often rained,momentarily, and you could taste the salt drifting on the wind. Grandpa would still swim, forced by the current, disappear under the surface and reappear hundreds of feet away, how the pebble would cut shins. And the smell of gas from the stove.

Several small boats were recovered from the mouth of the river that year, and I remember thinking why didn't their owners tie them up? The beach was broken, and by October only one flight of steps gave access to the lower level, the rest they said had be found washed up across the channel. Just like the shingle had been washed over the sea walls. Across the streets.

We never had holidays like that after that year.

2010-11-25T23:06:00.000Z

I'm staring in the mirror, mounted on white tile. Just staring at myself, naked. The stubble on my face. And I should shave. And I'm thinking of things I need to buy, accessories for my dinner jacket. A tie pin, a new pocket square, a real bow tie.

I'm staring mainly at the location of my next tattoo, lower left peck. But it seems like such an effort to book an appointment. And I don't want to talk to anyone I don't know. Not right now. That's my thing this month. Reservation. Brogues.

And I've thought it for a while now, the comparability of myself and Clay,Hayden. And my mother calls, asking what I want for Christmas, and I tell her nothing.

'Nothing' I say
'Vouchers? Clothes? '
' I don't really want anything...someone to pay of my credit card? Nothing really.'

My spirit animal is Wolf. I remember a painting my mother commissioned of her spirit guide. She used to say we looked a like. But I don't think I could even guide myself. What is the snow fall like in Alaska? I want life, real life, outside of institution. And a wage. I want to be a capitalist, not a survivor nor parasite. Leather gloves. New outer coat.

2010-11-11T13:11:00.000Z

When I leave on the Sunday the canopies of are still red, orange, intact. Come Friday the only remnantce of this is scatted across the drive, the road, the windshield of a Black VW Polo.

And I'm told that I look more European than before, and I feel pale. And I contemplate a spray tan, the sun bed, but decide otherwise. And I'm looking for a new three piece and the wind is slamming rain against the sash windows, and I'm thinking about summer. The Minack theatre, the north surf. Christmas. And I want to go home. Sell up. Leave this apartment. Live again, free from restrains. And I intend too.

2010-10-17T13:11:00.000+01:00

2010-09-03T12:24:00.000+01:00

It's the twelfth of August, or maybe it's the thirteenth, and I wake up in Balham, Greater London. And I'm staring at the joint where the wall reaches the ceiling, just staring.

And my phone rings, and it's been ringing continuously since seven am. And eventually I give in,get out of bed, walk over to it. It's a number I don't recognised. And a conversation I don't recognise entails. A solicitor.

I'm wearing a Royal Blue JW Polo, 2008, with cream shorts which have blue pin stripe detail and Camel moccasins, which are actually slippers, but who's to know. And I'm this road in Balham, in the suburbs of London, somewhere near a polish church and I'm not really sure where I'm going. I just kind of walk into the morning light. The air, cool yet close and somewhat Autumnal for this time of year. Balham to Warren.

And at the bank I catch my reflection in the ATM whilst I'm entering my pin, or trying to, and I look...fresh...if you discount the shadow under my eyes, the redness of the right, and uneven tone of my rosed skin. Fresh enough for three hours sleep.

Six, four, four, zero. Declined.

And I've done this twice, so I try another ATM, and eventually it gives in and lets me use it. And I withdraw two hundred pounds. And then I use the ATM next to the one that gives in, and withdraw another two hundred. And then I'm approached by what I can only assume is a Maitre'd of the bank? And I tell him, 'I need more'. And pretty soon my Tote is full of twenty pound notes counted and held by red sleeves. And they cant take this.

And as I emerge from Bond Street my phone rings, and I answer it not really listening. And I head to Ralph Lauren, but only make it as far as Hanover Square before it starts to rain. And I tell the person on the other end, mother? That they cant take all they want from her, but they'll never take it from me, and that it's in a tote bag, underneath the bench on which I'm sitting. And droplets stain patches of the maroon fabric deep red as they fall from the canopy. And a man lifts weights in the open air, and a taxi drives past an old couple from the East End, and I feel free.

2010-08-23T21:24:00.000+01:00

I'm thinking about writing, about the words on the page, black ink on off white. 80gsm, maybe more. Running the bath. Sitting on the edge, just starting at the white tiled walls. Tempted by the water around my toes. The cool ceramic. And the phone rings, and I'm listening to the ring, just listening. Ring.

Staring now at a the condensation on the mirror. The buds of the Peace Lilly. And something like twenty minutes pass and I'm just sitting in silence in front of a bath of water. Just sitting. Staring.

2010-08-13T21:44:00.000+01:00

I'm sitting, kind of, staring at a blank screen. And I can't put in to word what I want to say. And the only thing resonating in my head are the six words I said perhaps three or for times today.

'It's good to see you again'

And really it was. But I wish, in a way, that I didn't see you at all, because now I want to see you all the time. Tomorrow, Sunday, next week.

It's weird to think of all shit that's happened in the two, three years since we were last together. And it surreal to think of who you're with now. And I can't really explain it.

And maybe I'm just over analysing.

2010-08-04T23:09:00.000+01:00

I'm staring at the line up of pills that I've been prescribed, listening to clock ticking in the hallway, the washing machine in the utility, the traffic on the Triangle.

Right now I'm thinking about cancelling it all. My current contracts, future contracts, my apartment tenancy, flights to Berlin, various social networking websites, this website, licences, utility bills, enrolments, memberships, flights to London, Brisbane, Paris.

And in my head this summer played out completely differently to what it has. A minute hand ticks over to three pm, a cathedral bell chimes somewhere in the city and the bright sun is tinted by Wayfarers. A girl is drinking Cider from a bottle, whilst the guys throw a Rugby Ball around the green. A train is pulling into Lime Street Station. People are letting, subletting houses, rooms, weekends in various cities over the country. A young girl skips past. Birds fly in the flared sky. The waves crash on a familiar beach. A Car is stuck between the dunes of another. The familiar smell of country side, of trees, the common.

And yet none of this has happened. Nothing.

2010-07-22T10:53:00.000+01:00

It's three am, maybe four. And I don't really know where I am. Somewhere between Bristol and London, somewhere off of the M4. Somewhere with bitter coffee. And Styrofoam cups, and this truly is a shit blend.

And through my headphone Bon Iver, The Wolves (Act I and II) is playing. And I'm thinking about the line 'In the morning I'll call you' and I'm thinking, who would I call if I were alone. And I can't think. My eyes are dry and gritty and have been since surgery. And the polished glass of the for-court doesn't help. And my car; Electric blue, hard top, charcoal interior, discreet, but light and powerful enough to push 140 on the empty motorways, sits empty, alone, under the unnaturally bright lights. And I'm thinking we're all alone.

And on the passenger seat, in the glove box, scattered around the foot well, extracted pages of Exit Through the Wound. And it's a story with which I am familiar. A story which I have read, six, seven, eight times now. And there's something soothing about driving at speed and reading from a page, something, uncontrollably relaxing. And I can only remember the first line, the first three words, the lights on my dash. The night.

2010-07-08T16:13:00.000+01:00

There's a sign in the record shop, that's pillbox read, like my jeans, and reads 'Keep calm and carry on' and I'm looking at it, and thinking 'If only you knew'.

And I'm not really looking for anything really, just filling time before heading back to the office, and I'm certainly not looking for any CD's or DVD's because I don't own a single CD or DVD and don't wish to. And I'm wearing jeans because I can. And they are red, because I want people to think I'm a little bit different but I'm actually very 'middle of the road'.

I'm dialling a number, actually dialling from memory, on my phone, and it rings and no one answers, because no one picks up because my phone cuts the call after the second ring. But I keep the hand set next to my ear and walk towards the cashier, and I'm just thinking about how undesirable she looks, and how undesirable most of Bristol looks. And I'm just staring, trying to remove the awkwardness I've created by faking a phone call.

And now I'm in a book shop. One of the only ones left in town. I'm picking up Imperial Bedrooms and I'm flicking through the pages, and trying to find the mention of London Preppy, but can't. And I'd buy it, if it weren't hardback and larger than the other books I own. And the yellow dust jacket makes me feel sick. In the self-help section my phone receives several text messages all at once.

'I'll call you when I'm at Hong Ku Lou, Lunch? I'm in a client meeting until 1245 x'

'I'm outside, where are you? x'

'______, call HR when you get this.'

'I've been here twenty minutes now, I guess you're not coming.'

2010-07-06T10:25:00.000+01:00

2010-07-01T12:36:00.000+01:00

I'm walking through Victoria Square, and sipping at a milkshake from some Coffee Shop. It's warm in this neighbourhood, but not humid, unlike the centre. And the trees offer some shelter from the sun, and the streets create light breeze. And I'm staring at my reflection in a laminated sign that reads 'Dog walkers...my name is Archie'. And then Im staring at my reflection of my reflection in my Prada Sport Sunglasses. And I guess this is how people fill their days when they've nothing pressing.

Judging by the light its four of five,long shadows in open grass, and a group of maybe six or seven school children run around the undergrowth. 'Pretend you're having a baby' she says. And this sentence resonates in my otherwise empty mind, and I wonder if I'll ever conceive. I can smell the earth, and I'm watching the social interactions, and it feels like I'm looking at something that I'm finally a part of. And this is slowly happening all over the city, the street view between Colston Tower and Colston Hall. Maple green leaf juxtaposed against the old brick. The sense of space created by the gates of Bristol Magistrates Court. And I'm designing these feelings in my head, exploring relations between man and environment. And this is something I've been trained to do, and I can't see it ending.

And the sun is warming my back, arm, shake, and the milk is starting to split. And my phone clicks active, and I stare at the screen, and it seems like ages since I last took a breath.And I don't know the number and neither do I want to. And all manner of sounds propagate my silence, traffic, screaming, barking, a violent wind that rocks the trees. And I realise, this moment of calm, I've just created, this moment was in my head.

2010-06-19T15:16:00.000+01:00

A Bluebottle is ricochetting between the panes in the window, seduced by escape. And the evening sun is hung by dust as it breaks through the slats. And the courtyard is a merge of suits.

This must be the four hundredth time I've walked this building, and as I'm carrying a fluted tray, working the crowd, Cassis is spilt onto my otherwise pristine shirt. And apologies follow as a rolled up fifty is pushed into my free hand.

And it's three a.m when I return, and the streets are still empty. And I'm pushing a key into a lock. And in the bath/dressing room I change into a clean shirt, Grey Stripped, unbranded, and take off my Chinos. And pretend the shirts yours. And on the Robi coffee table, piles of pressed clothing, accessories and an empty Cafetiere. And I'm caught somewhere between day and night, morning light breaking the street light polluted cloud.

And in a travel bag I throw a few items, a laptop, a phone, Hugo Boss dress shirts, polos, the swim shorts from my race sponsor, two 75cl bottles of Goose. Tonight I'm leaving on a train. Heading, South. Walking through the kitchen I cogitate the idea that we co-inhabit and you've waited for me to return, and it's nights like these that you'd say don't go but you'd be happy that I'm happy. And I'd tell you I'd be back soon, and you'd smile and press my lips with yours.

2010-06-14T22:51:00.000+01:00

I'm watching muted re-runs of a British chat shows on DAVE or More4 or some channel like that. The images the only light cast over the room, the smell of summer rain lifting from the pavements outside. The breeze, blown through the sash window, damp.

And from the Bose dock on the sideboard CocoRosie's Lemonade is playing, and it's by far the best track on the otherwise disappointing album. And I'm trying to pin point just exactly what it is that people find so amazing about it, and all I hear is a cheap Bjork imitation. Saved only by saxophone, and a slightly twenty's tinge.

And I'm thinking about all the things that I haven't achieved today, and how empty my apartment looks, half furnished, and the orange balloon adrift in the silent three am street, silent except for the shards of piano from my window. And the apartment I used to stay at with the lads, and the people we used to see, and the places we used to go, and the clubs we'd frequent, and the crazy things we do. And how we'd probably be sitting in a beer garden right now, drinking, laughing, and how I'd probably say something like 'I'm going to make a call' and we'd all know that I'd really be going to vomit somewhere. Or how we'd probably be drinking Snake Bite, and talking about better music than CocoRosie, planning a evening drive, and how nothing would matter except the night ahead, and who'd pull more girls, or who'd get more numbers, and the promise of muscle guys and podium dancers, and nothing would matter except now. And how we could be sitting in a beer garden right now, if I weren't sitting here. And I guess I'll see you on Friday old friend.

2010-06-07T14:46:00.000+01:00

Coffee the usual morning beverage, often fails to take the edge of the monotony of daily life. Addiction to any substance, however, seems to blur the edges and is highly recommended. Addiction to alcohol is by far the most favourable. With several advantages over other addictions. Notably it's easy concealment. Is that Vodka O2 or Perrier in that bottle? This insures day drinking can take place at the office, in the board room, in the design studio, in the car, at a party or public event and even whilst making idle small talk with colleagues.

Whilst alcoholism may make it slightly harder for those holding down a 9 to 5 you should remind yourself that it is a good thing, its the only constant in your otherwise passing life. And let it be known that those of us with meaningless design/part time jobs salute you.

It's fairly well known that my personal collections and tastes, are vast and varied. House pours are usually take the shape of lower qualities,why spoil yourself? Everyone knows that Elite Premium in your display case looks better than it tastes. Never open it.

Most days I stick to a regimented Alcohol routine as part/entirety of a healthy balanced/unbalanced, liquid diet and well, here's how I do it.

0800am - Breakfast:

Beverage: Bailey's Irish Cream (Liqueur). Goes excellently with Coco-pops. Don't measure it, who even does that? Go all European and pour until the cereal floats.

Recommended for sipping at: The breakfast table.

1100am - Elevenis

Beverage: Absolut Ruby Red (Flavoured Vodka). Smells like Grapefruit. Taste like Grapefruit. This one counts towards your five-a-day. Like the Titanic tastes great on the rocks, or mixed with cranberry and passion fruit juice.

Recommended for sipping at: Desk/Office kitchenette

1400am - Late lunch

You'll probably be too full to eat at this point, but in case you aren't I'd go for something that will keep you alive until your next hit.

Beverage: Guinness (Ale). Practically a meal in a glass. You might want to throw it up, or only have a half, so not to get to fat, after all it is a ale. Ale = Added Fat

1600 - Afternoon snack

Usually a hand full of nuts, seeds etc, will be enough to keep you going until after a grooling office shift. And for this reason I choose...

Beverage: Frangelico (Hazel Nut Liqueur). You'll need about ten 25ml shots to make up one of your recommended portion size.

Recommended for sipping at: Sly at the desk, or in the toilets, you can't have more than one break a day!

2000 (Although can start as soon as work finishes) - Dinner

You've had a hard day, drink what you want.

Beverage: Anything as long as you mix Beers Spirits and Wines. Don't forget, you've eaten a lot to day and need to puke it up so not to store it as fat.

1200 - Night Cap/Night catalyst

Going out? Staying in? It's all the same these days. Get completely sloshed.

Beverage: Balkan (Neutral Vodka). The perfect equivalent to Rohypnol. If you're shaving an early one, wash your Benzodiazepines down with this. If you're going out, well you wont need/want to remember what happens anyway.

Recommended for sipping at: The medicine cabinet/the kitchen floor.

2010-05-31T10:27:00.000+01:00

I've been thinking recently, if you class recently as the last three years, that I'm just not that popular any more. Or maybe I am, its quite subjective.

When I was younger, two or maybe three (judging by photographs) I was quite popular. But then, we were part of a baby boom. Every birthday my mother would bake a cake usually with a cartoon character on it or it would be the shape of a football, or other very manly straight thing. And people, some fat, some still in nappies, some people who I didn't even like, would come around and wish us happy birthday.And eat my cake and make a big deal out of me.

And during the summers, kids could come and play in our garden. Or my brother and I would go to the orchard, there were always people we knew there. We'd spend hours running across farmlands, shooting, fishing, playing cricket. As time went on, I can't say things changed much, nothing really does where my family are from. We discovered other towns and other people, but still remained popular. Perhaps because of our family status? After all we were in fathers jurisdiction.

At highschool there was a slump, perhaps for a year or two, but I was also tagged as the nice boy, the popular, yet not cocky boy. Which often resulted in my having the 'new kids' attached to me. Popular and successful, I guess is a win win situation. I remember my first fight, and how I sort out my brother, and how he turned around and told me to deal with it. Whilst I stood there, helpless, bleeding.

By the time I reached college, my brother and I has grown apart. He studied away from home and I did not. And for some reason, I remember filtering my way through the people at highschool stripping away all the fake things you're conditioned to do. Like stay in contact, pretend to care when someone has a child, meet people. Instead I kept a few close friends. There was one, Ethan. He got heavily involved in drugs, but I'd follow him to the ends of the earth. And I suppose at the time, he was a crush. And he'd tell me the horrible things people do for drugs, and the things he'd seen, and I'd give him money, and food, and we'd spend days trying to bring his work up to standard, or chatting about stuff that didn't matter. Eventually we grew apart. Our entire group did. We all went separate ways. I to Brighton, others to Bournemouth and Bristol. And we lost touch.

And when I moved here, in my mind I drew a picture. Friends coming and going, people always visiting, no need to create new relationships. And real life never turns out like that. And there must be about two of us left now. And even fewer who are in regular contact. And no one calls any more. Sometimes we look at each others facebook. It's all very distant.

2010-05-27T11:14:00.000+01:00

By the way, I'm looking for one of these:

Pictured: Mini Chaise Lounge Telephone Chair

I now live alone and need furniture and dare I say it, this would look darling under my bookcase. Find me one in a close geographical location to Bristol, and for a prince no more that £50, and you'll win a signed...technical drawing or something equally as shit.

...although rumour has it someone has just bought me one.

2010-05-25T09:50:00.000+01:00

I've realised I don't really know you at all. And I don't really know anyone at all. Seven years ago, everyone knew everyone, and social circles demanded popularity, and prestige, but now that doesn't exist, and doesn't matter. But at least I knew people then. Now I'm distant with most, and those that I am not, I'm not sure I truly know.

And this year I'm not taking a summer vaccination at my parents, and I wonder if this is an excuse to drift away from those that are left. And I don't want it to be, but it might be. And there are friends, I've known for years, that I speak to perhaps, once a year, and it not because we've drifted apart, it's because we're living separate lives, in separate cities. And there are friends I've never met, that I feel closer too than anyone else, and that just ridiculous.

But you, I'm never really sure I knew you to begin with, and I'm defiantly sure I don't know, and don't care to know you now.

2010-05-23T14:20:00.000+01:00

I'm drinking some disgusting cocktail that they make in the slums of Rio. Whilst watching over weight, rouged, topless Bristolians as they watch their children playing in fountains at Millennium Square. And I'm thinking of the oxidisation of the bearings in the wheels of a small boys scooter, and I feel sick. And someone talks to me in Spanish, and I don't really understand, and my phone rings. And after I click off I recall the conversation in my head, and decide that an VIP invitation to a gig, even if it will be shit, must be accepted.

And several Bloody Mary's later, I'm at the gig, and as I thought, it's shit.

And to avoid problems like this, and because I'm feeling a little melancholy and angry at myself, because I can only sleep between the hours of 2am and 5am, I have decided that, despite the sun, today I am staying inside. Pale and English a classic combination.

So I'm watching re-runs of Grand Designs on More4, only I'm not, and calculating how many days I have left in this fucking city, and its only 547.5. And that number makes me quite happy, and I wonder what I'll be doing on that half of a day.

Five hundred and fourth seven point five.

2010-05-12T22:06:00.000+01:00

I'm standing in a basement vault. A sound system hung by tension wires from the exposed brickwork. Red. Staring at a television monitor which is playing some music channel, possibly VIVA, slurping at a Wyborowa Blue Redbull through a straw. And I'm dragged by the arm, through a passage away from a bouncer, and pressed against the wall by her hips.

Leaning, long hair brushing my cheek, soft in my ear
'You're other half is waiting for you' and as I forge a reply, a pill is pushed between my lips and pressed with a kiss.

And we're running down the street, jackets flaying, half chased. Through parkland, and on to a boat. The hull surging, the internal sea of the dance floor. Bodies grinding like gulls in the wake. A waitress, guided by my hand, opens a bottle of Zybrowka as I hand her my a copy of my fathers Visa. And before I realise I've taken the card I'm topside. A lipstick stained cigarette shared between our aching jaws. Eye liner, smeared on my white polo, dirt on my Fred Perry canvas tennis shoes.

And under a heat lamp a blazered figure. Royal blue, white flashing. Grey chinos, possibly jeans, black tie. A conversation, fragmented, and as dignified as my state...

“I’m fine.”
..You ... "look" fine
“Tired”
join me “...inside?

"Give me a minute"

And as I look up from the cherry of the cigarrette, my phone dead, the rain rolling from an umbrella across my left temple. I realise I'm stood amongst strangers, the sillohette of a girl, company, walking to shore, and I'm really just another face in the crowd.

2010-05-05T22:53:00.000+01:00

So it's Wednesday. And I'm thinking about London, and what might have happened if I hadn't have left. And I feel like I'm over this city. There's nothing here that really interest me any more, not the blossoming streets, the cider boats, the vodka bars, the neighbourhoods. Nothing. And I'm quite honestly stuck in a fucking rut.

And after I've eaten three frankfurters from a jar, that I've no idea how reached my kitchen, the intercom buzzes, and I watch my reflection in the glossy paint of the door as I pull it open, and then I catch my eye in the window of the buildings opposite, and I'm handed a T-shirt. And this is the first time I notice that its dusk, and the orange glow of the street lamps fuse the air with a hum. And the shirt reads DC 10 and has a picture of a tree, and I take it, and god I wish tomorrow would be over. And I start making plans for two years time, and I'm listening to Dizzy by Jimmy Eat World, and that's when I realise what is missing.You. You're not here. At least, not in this city.

2010-05-04T16:16:00.000+01:00

And it's Friday of last week, and I'm listening to The Smiths and staring at myself in wall length mirrors whilst I'm having a shower. And my apartment intercom buzzes. And I'm getting out of the shower to have a look who's there, and I can't really see anyone, so I just press the door release and get on with my life.

And I'm drinking a cider, cos that's what people in Bristol do, and someone actually knocks on my door. And eventually after I've finished pouring I answer it. And some guy hands me a clip board and asks for my signature and I don't really understand what's happening so I just sign, and he hands me a box, possibly a new pair of custom designed shoes? And pretty soon I'm having dinner in Browns, and it used to be quite the place, but has since gone down hill. The house pour is Smirnoff, and the house gin is Gordon's. And the Kir Royale that I'm necking tastes like it's made with Chateaux Chaumet, and the fishcakes I find myself eating are pretty...average, and the Maitre d' can't even tell me what fish it is. And a chavy group of balding men are disregarding the establishment with which I hold an account. And I ask to move tables, and I'm shot a terrible look. And money really does talk. And long story short, it's a shit dinner. And so we skip desert and head to a Goldbrick House.

And, let me just say, it defiantly isn't made with gold bricks, it's actually pretty average, and the Mijoto's are disgusting, made with Gomme, pre-prepped juice and clapped mint (?). After an argument with the Waiter,who has one tooth missing and terrible hair, which I win, we head to the 'sun terrace'. Where it looks as if someone has dumped an Argos gazebo, and it's all pretty scummy, so I accidental knock my overly iced, glass of shit onto the street below, and watch as it smashes into a thou' tiny pieces narrowly missing a woman. And I'm pretty bored, so I leave and 'forget' to pay my tab. And I'm thinking Hey baby, this is real life.

2010-04-29T17:11:00.000+01:00

A clock is ticking in the hallway outside. Sunlight is thrown into the room through the bay window, absorbed by the Indian Ivy walls, the linen Roman blind, reflected off of the white satin wood, the mantle, the skirting, the frames. Shadows created by warm air filter across the varnished oak floor by the bay, guilded frames glint with refractions from traffic.

Drawing board on knee, cartridge paper scarred with lines. Drawn, erased, drawn over. The dark walls casting shadow on to the plain on which I draw, onto the chaise lounge. And I take the Voss from the coffee table, and wash the dryness from my mouth, and rest my temple against the wall. Cool. Sill. And a restless child cries from upstairs.

2010-04-26T23:03:00.000+01:00

So, erm just like wondering, does anyone wanna get married? All I'm looking for is a nice town house in Nottinghill, were we can raise the kids, I can stay at home whilst you work, do a bit of colouring in, you know, all that shit. Interested, I've got a pretty big dowry?

2010-04-19T10:51:00.000+01:00

And so after some in depth emails to the CEO's of Double Cross, an invitation to Bratislava, and some serious consideration, I still can't source and Double Cross in the Uk.

Double Cross Vodka(750ml): Available online(USA ONLY) / New York / Slovakia.

Whoever should place three bottles (and/or a case) of this on my desk by the end of the week, shall win my heart, and bank account. That is all.

2010-04-10T14:49:00.000+01:00

And there's a mint leaf stuck in the straw of the mojito that I'm sucking, which I made myself, and majorly over-poured (a first) with vodka and extra rum, and I'm pretty fucked. And its 1449. And I'm waiting for the washing machine to stop spinning so I can put another load on, but its been stuck on 00:09 minutes for what seems two hours. And I stumble across a bottle of Jager in the cutlery draw. And my suitcase isn't even packed, and I've work in, oh I don't know, perhaps five hours and I'm pretty fucked and its only gonna get worse, and I'm loving it. And did I mention I cleaned the oven, and still havent eaten? Make it a sweet goodbye. Roll on the hills and beaches.

And here's a picture of me in a wetsuit. Make me wet. Oh wait, that's a bush, sometime in mid 2007. You've got me popping champagne I'm at it again.

2010-04-08T14:33:00.000+01:00

Somersault is playing from the kitchen and I'm drinking black coffee, a Cath Kidson mug. And I'm wondering will anyone notice when the cherry trees no longer blossom? The fungi on the trunk the only sign of subtle decade. Or when the tarmac will buckle under heat, or if anyone will care for a water ban.

And a girl is riding a bike in circles in the car park, whilst her farther watches on. And I'm just waiting for the summer. The beaches, the slow days, leafy parks around the city. The cider, the sun burn, cold showers. Road trips. Sea salt, BBQ's, beach fires. Laying in vegetable gardens, earthy smells, Perrier, shadow cast across faces, evening sun , harvest. Dirt roads, dusty sports cars. The 96' defender, chaise lounges. The smell of sun lotion. Cursing under oak leaf canopies. Hot sand. The sheltering cliffs.

2010-04-06T21:54:00.000+01:00

A laptop no longer in use. A playlist no longer played. A CD I wonder if you still own. Filled with songs I know longer know, but once did, and at the time I guess I felt the same about myself. And a message is sent with out reply.

And come Saturday I'm standing at Victoria, at London Bridge, at Bank, and I can't stand here without thinking of you, in fact I can't be in this city without thinking about you. And if it not for those four weeks, three years before, I'd probably never have come here, the streets and the buildings. Mansion House, and the hours we spent outside St Paul's and the questions I'd ask that you were able to answer so freely.

That morning. How we lay, entangled. And how the November chill rouged your cheeks. The streets close, and warmed by open doors, busy with people. Drinking coffee. The new library. And we were much alike then, and now so far apart I'm unsure. But if one could wait. Two years. Or perhaps we need not, if you'd ask me now, I'd take the 318 mile drive. And in the summer, we could frequent the cottage, a beach I'd pine for you to see. A sea view to lose you. And we'd waste dusk by the waterfront, through reeds of the estuary.

Bring me home.

2010-03-21T15:41:00.000Z

And it’s 1706 greenwich mean time. And I’m lying on a bed whilst sunlight floods through the louvers of the windows, inviting glare as it does so. Wishing the Finlandia and Pom in hand, was a Polish Bullet. Feist playing somewhere in the background, the open-season chords broken by the ring of the telephone on the bedside cabinet. And as I turn to answer it I realise I’m late. And I really can’t be bothered.

I take a Perrier (can) from the mini bar and make my way to Diagonal, where I use a T10 and get the L3 to Catalyna, where I stop at the market. Which is closed. And eventually the metro carriage pulls into Espanya. And by the time I reach Montjuic I can’t actually be bothered, and so I swap the meeting at Arte De Cataluná for the sweet English tea at the Fundació Joan Miró, which of course is worth the extra fifteen minute walk. And it’s the first time in three days that I have a pot, and I’m stealing it into the gallery, where I’m pretending I’m interested in the art, and some woman has used her vagina to recreate a famous painting, and the Mercury fountain, which has been here for what seems years is still pissing its silver liquid into the skyline. And a host spits a string of complex Catalan at me and I have no idea what she is staying.

And it’s around 1930 (gmt), and I’m walking back via Mirador del Palau Nacional, and the cityscape; a jewel in the evening sun, stops me. And I just sit on the steps and think, and stare, and jot some sketches. And I’m taking the slow way over to Van Der Rohe’s, late for a meeting with the CEO of some agency at BCN Montjuic, and my phone rings and I click on loudspeaker, as I pull the Dior sun glasses from my face, and drop them into a Vuitton Utah Leather messenger.

2010-02-28T21:22:00.000Z

I'm staring at a blank screen, and the images that are running in my head, are reluctant to construct into coherent prose. And I guess this is writers block. And the cursor is still flashing, beckoning for movement, for characters to be produced.

And I find myself in the back of a new silver Fiesta, and the lights in front are glaring in the evening hue. The Hendrick's I've consumed causing a momentary loss of focus. And it reminds me of that night it felt like the south of France. The car pulling up curbside, unloading luggage, whilst the unusually thick, unusually warm May air hugged our bodies.

Only, the driver is smoking a Mayfair Smooth and the car moves freely though the empty Sunday streets. Cruising to a couple of apartments. Where some people enter and others exit the vehicle. And the smooth, freeness of the drive reminds me of similar journeys, comforting and grounding. And for the first time in several months, I feel at ease. At home.

And as the evening fades to night, and the Fiesta's red lights merge into the grain of the city, I'm dropped at the Church cornering my apartment. I have an inclination to go inside. But don't. And instead walk to my front door. Inside my shirt is pressed and folded, and tomorrows outfit, for a Stoli laced dinner has been composed, and is waiting in my dressing room.

2010-02-24T21:34:00.000Z

The rain, so light and warm, yet heavy enough to push creators into sand, before burning away. The walk through the dunes, through campus. Dark cloud replaced with patches of long evening sun, hidden by falling dusk. The surrounding woods. Music from across the courtyard. Music from the room which we shared, Feist. The light in the kitchen, unshaded, attracting insects, bringing the smell of cut grass on their wings. A poster on the Jade wall. The click of a kettle rising to boil. A taxi ride. A cool night-wind channelled by the linear street. A hospital. The spring rain. Fresh, clean.

Days filled with coffee and magazines, cocktails and shopping. A suitcase filled with designer clothes. High-street,low-end boutiques. A cashmere jumper. Mcdonalds. Foam gathering in the fountain. The old city, the castle. Two litre, cinema Cola. A shop which sold steroids out back. Vitamin supplements, three days grace from the gym. Abandoned warehouses. Steel works looming across the bay. An apple striped shirt. Sand on our feet, your back. The view of home across out stretched sea. Long nights. Your taste, your touch. A photograph, memories. The night fires. Grey Goose. A train journey. The riverside. A hospital.

2010-02-12T22:13:00.000Z

So I wake up after a string of nightmares, mostly about drowning. And a wave of apathy washes over me.

Outside it's mild, and dark. I'm wearing slippers, and a hat. A hat which I last wore in 2005. And I'm walking and its 2103. And as I'm walking I'm listening to Sometimes by City and Colour, and I haven't listened to this album since last summer. During that week where we drank gin and swam in the pool, and lay on the concrete floor in the sun, tanning. And the mildness reminds me of those late September nights and I'm thinking of the summer to come.

And a rented house in London. And for a week, or maybe more, depending on how long I can last we'll watch Secret Diary of A Call Girl. As the open windows channel the evening breeze past the morning papers on the table and into the room, carrying the smell of melting tarmac. And by night we'll stay out drinking in bars, and coffee shops, or walking the streets until dusk or maybe even eight or nine in the morning, and then we'll collapse and sleep all day. And eventually MTV will win us over.

And by the time this scene has played out I'm sitting on the door step, smoking a cigarette. And I can't inhale, so I stub it out. And go back inside, and close my eyes, and as I walk up the stairs I wonder what it would be like to be blind. And I lay down.

2010-02-07T20:29:00.000Z

And the chill makes it around two degrees, and the lack of sleep makes every step an effort. An attendant peals back the cage, and white-light from under the street level floods through the stairwell. And by the ticket machine I glance in to an office, but your not there. And I'm on the complete opposite side of the city. Victoria, South-bound, is dead, and delayed by two minutes. And eventually one station becomes another, and then nothing more than a vast flood lit hall. The steps on which we first met, empty, and the windows behind, towering shadows. And platform seventeen, and that moment three years ago, seem so distant that they become almost irrelevant. But because of this I'm reminded of you. And I'm no longer sure what exactly it is I'm reminded of.

2010-02-06T12:24:00.000Z

From the bed that I'm lying on the ceiling wont stop spinning, and is no longer white. And in the en suit a five hundred pound ice sculpture, that reads "21 Prince ___" is slowly melting. And a phone, on loud speaker, projects screaming from a club, and I just can't party like I used to. And in the taxi, the driver wont allow the sculpture in the boot, and a police officer turns a blind eye as it's rammed into the back seats. And someone is cutting powder with a Nectar card, on a drawing desk in a bedroom, and passing around a twenty. And from the en suit someone shout laughs 'This is dedication'. And a bouncer thumbs a tag that is pinned on my chest that has an address written on it, and the words 'Return to' written above the address. And someone is taking photos, and flashes are blinding.

2010-01-28T16:40:00.000Z

I've spent the last week in a Garden city on the South-coast. Wearing the same outfit. Red skinny jeans, a limited edition white print t-shirt accessorised
with black three d wayfarers and a vodka stained light charcoal hood, which I occasionally swap for a plumb cardigan. And today I'm wearing the plumb cardigan. And as I'm sitting in the winter sun, smoking a cigarette that someone placed in my pocket, and drinking a black coffee I catch my reflection in window. And my eyes are thick and black and my hair, styled, but messed up, my lips split dry. And my headphones lead the eye to my waist, which is looking lean and prefect. And the soundtrack to this coffee is by Simon and Garfunkel. And this truly is the best of times, and although my head feels like shit, I'm actually looking fucking amazing, perhaps even better than my reflection tells.

And luckily someone is around to take photographs, and if I were to show you a photograph that would sum up the trip it would be this:

And because life can't be all rosy and sweet, my return has shown that my days are mundane and numb. And if it weren't for the three week old Evian water that I found yesterday morning, in my bedside cabinet, I'd probably be dead. Or on a massive come down. And right about now both of these options seem enticing.

2010-01-20T23:15:00.000Z

Tuesday at the clinic, I receive a repeat. And I notice four people I actually know, and awkward is a word that couldn't even begin to describe. And after dispense I walk to Starbucks, where I sit at a table. And the coffee which I get for free was never warm. And has spilled from the cup onto a napkin. Staining the white sheet brown. And I think about my teeth, and stare at their reflection in my communication device, whilst Latitude tells me that all contacts have left the city. And I contemplate driving down to the coast for a couple of days.

And those couple of days come and pass, and with the absence of company, I simply stay behind glass for the duration. And eventually when I feel the need to go outside, it's not all that great. And in a photo I find, a boy wearing a Black t-shirt with an MTV logo on it, and in the background is an Oman beach, and it reminds me to book so some sort of flight. And I add a comment which reads 'Where is this must have from?' And it's been four days and still no reply.

And in a twist of events which probably involve boredom, small orange tablets, and gin, I'm watching Five-hundred Days of Summer. And basically what the production team have done is taken a rough outline of my life and watered it down into five hundred, less dramatic days, and the likeness is uncanny. And really there is not much more to say other than, watch it or something.

2010-01-12T21:42:00.000Z

I'm talking to a friend on Tuesday, in a Starbucks somewhere near a station. And he is telling me about the time he listened to Radiohead for about eight months of his life, including most of a spring, summer and autumn. And I'm thinking it's pretty cool, and that I want to achieve something this cool. And so far I've listened to the song Nude 42 times, and have 6 hours 9 minutes and 44 secounds of songs to go, not including the Greatest Hits.

And to allow Radiohead to take over my life I'm playing songs from Ok Computer whilst I'm standing in the shower, and the water is spitting above, and I notice the tiles are no longer white and I go to touch them, and I'm standing there leaning against the wall, just standing, doing nothing. And it's pretty good. And I can feel the blood in my veins. And on the other side of the wall length window snow endlessly falls, lifted on the wind, silent and fine like rain. And somewhere in the background No Surprises plays, and I want to go outside, like this, and stand under the street lamp, and feel the snow sting my chest, arms, shoulders.

2010-01-11T13:23:00.000Z

The night just wont end. And it might be the gin I've been drinking or it might just be that it's extremely difficult to sleep in these conditions. But either way, the shivering wont stop and my mind is racing. Filling with images from years ago, and some not so long ago, and thoughts of stupid events, and money, and the trust fund that's run dry, and trust, and exams and travelling and all manner of things.

And basically I've been popping Doxilamine Succinate like there's no tomorrow, and hell, I've even tried snorting it. And what's left of the powder, dashed across my desk, keys, credit card, egg shell blue. And Radiohead rhythmically floats from my flat pannel low watt crappy speakers, and fills the room. And a fan heater sends convection towards the ceilings. And I use the hair-dryer to warm the bed. And the snow from Siberia never comes. And eventually I start to lose focus, and sink. And at 0401 a car alarm wakes me, and radiohead at still playing, and I crave Ribena, and at 0847 my house mate returns, and at 0903 leaves again.

And I eventually force myself to wake up at 1028. And make a coffee for breakfast, and eat the foam for desert, topped with chocolate. And when it comes to reading some official documents, my head starts to race again, and I watch as the cars outside, a BMW 3 Series, and a Citron of some sort, struggle up the street, and I start to think about snow, and how it's formed and suddenly it's 1239 and these documents ain't gonna read themselves. So I head to Starbucks.

2010-01-07T20:29:00.000Z

And in the song Walls by up and...erm gone band, All Time Low; Who have recently received a lot of airtime. The opening verse goes a bit like this, at some point: "Take off your shirt, your shoes, those skinny jeans I bought for you."

And I'm thinking if:
a) I had them on in the first place
b) Someone asked me too.
then I would happily do as the man says. 'Cos I'm not one to rock the boat.

So in a moment of quarter life crisis/self-reflection I decide to buy some shirts some shoes and some skinny jeans...for myself. And so I log onto a UK (Nondescript) store, punch in my credit card details and add a few items to my basket. And after about forty minutes and three hundred pounds I've finally reached the checkout.

And if this where a real store, right now I'd be asking to have these items gift wrapped. But its not, so I don't. And instead as a little treat I opt for 'Next day delivery(Order Before 1400)' and it's actually 2034, and whilst I wait for about three days for these items to arrive I am simply going to pretend that time only exist for people who worry about it, and they usually don't have much left.

2010-01-04T21:57:00.000Z

And there is no sea air to keep the cold a length. And like my lips the pavements are cracked with ice, and the weather, more like Prague than Bristol. And I pull furniture away from radiators, and plug in extra heaters, but with no avail.

And in the place I shelter the cold dampened sheets remind me of that winter. The storm. How we stayed in bed for hours. And how you wore T-shirts of a particular brand to impress me. And the skill it took to sleep two to a single. And how my house mates thought we so alike. And how you called me little one. And even though by beaches, the South winds brought only cold, no golf stream. And how we cruised the parade, the satellite navigation, which spoke only French. And the windows, to which our breath clung. And a terminated contract. And how we parted in London Victoria. And those three students on the train, drinking wine, talking profanities. The lanes. And the way I brushed your forearm on the tube. And how simple things were, and how complicated I made them. And Bat For Lashes vibrating above our room. And City and Colour at the station terminal. Screens or orange digits. And the night the police called. And the last of the September nights that we spent in the marina. And your smile. And our now infrequent conversation.

2010-01-02T13:12:00.000Z

The roads are iced, empty, and the journey probably not manageable, but for old times sake I take it one more time. And on that drive, the song Bring Me Your Love, City And Colour, frequents my head, and in a turn of events, which involve some illegal driving plays out of the system.

And I drive through the flood defence of the sea wall, and down onto the pebbled beach. And as my wheels choke on the stone, I knock the gears out. And I just sit there. And I pull a blanket over my legs, and turn the heat up, and just watch as the waves crash down. And my gaze is broken when a flash of hunter lamps cross my dash, and on the concrete ramp above a 96' Defender waits. And the blinding light fades out, and from the defender, two figures approach, and climb into back seats. And we watch as the waves crash down, surrounded by each other, and ice cracks as someone pours a drink, and smile crack as conversation flows and We Are Kings plays out, slightly drowned by the heaving vents.

And the sky is clear and once again afloat with stars. And as I pull into the drive, the south westerly winds rock the bare trees, and no Rooks fly, and no dogs bark. And it's all pretty barren. And in the tub we've been discussing life for the best of three hours, and its hard to see across the valley tonight, on account of the 104water which is creating more steam than imaginable, and actually it's hard enough even seeing across the water. And we talk of new years, and new year 2011, and eventually 0103 rolls round, and we decide we should make a run for inside. But a light snowfall transforms the run into a reluctantly brisk jog, and inside the fire roars, as feet tingle, and a kettle boils.

2009-12-28T11:31:00.000Z

It's 0137 or maybe it's later. And from the hot tub it feels like a summer night, but in reality it's winter. And the sky is clear, and open, broken only by the stressed, tangled branches of deciduous trees. And it's star lit, and we watch as occasional planes flash red and white like commits above. And we're talking about all those crazy parties we used to have, and all the girls we've slept with, and not about the boys we've slept with. And BM sings the tired tiger song, and somewhere from the wood on which the hot tub fringes an owl cries, and the undergrowth bussles, and our voices are carried by the cool night wind, and rising steam.

And a few hours pass, and the drinks run dry, and the lights across the valley fade, we make a run inside. And it's not late enough to sleep, and in a moment of London Preppyness we watch Miami Ink on DMAX. Which we've been pre-recording for a number of weeks now. And after the fifth episode finishes I notice a bottle of crème de cassis, and immeditatly crave a Kir Royale. And spend the next fifteen minutes hunting for a bottle of Moet et Chandon, and eventually give up and go back to Miami Ink. And as the sun comes up, and the hills unroll it's so unlike winter and so much like a summer gathering, that we're disorientated. And we all vow to come home, only for the company in those prime beach months.

2009-12-26T10:22:00.000Z

It's no secret that two of my favourite things to do are 1) Demand to be woken with only the finest English teas and 2) read text messages from people I like. And honestly there probably should be some mention of vodka in there too. And whilst I'm doing these activities this morning I am interrupted by my brother, who is shouting about something insignificant, which just makes him seem more hopeless than he already is, and makes me look more perfect than I already am.

And some how I end up looking through the photographs on my mobile gallery, and here is a description of what they are composed of, and you may or may not ever see these, depending on my level of boredom when I eventually find my bluetooth device:

18/05/2009 (Photograph 20)
A mirror photograph taken in the changing room of a department store. The focus, a man, wearing rolled up white chinos with a brown vintage leather belt, and a lime and fuchsia (detail) Slim fit Ralph Lauren polo.

03/07/2009 (Photograph 40)
A photograph of a piece of graphic art, which on inspection is an invite to the Hampton Court Palace flower show. The typography is presented in such a way that it takes the form of a root vegetable. It should be noted, that typographical art is this years must do.

05/07/2009 (Photograph 42)
A shot of Gilchrist & Soames (London) Sea Kelp shampoo that the chambermaid has placed where Gilchist & Soames soap should be. The shot is taken in a London hotel, which shall remain nameless. A simple reminder to actually purchase soap.

18/07/2009 (Photograph 45)
A piece of graphic art displaying an advert for 'Handmade glass gifts' in a gallery, Bath. The piece makes use of typography as apposed to other graphic elements.

20/07/2009 (Photograph 50)
A man cradling a box of Perfekt muesli in Waitrose. The use of type is quite appealing.

27/07/2009 (Photograph 54)
'A Good pinch of oregano'. A photograph of a male hand holding a own-brand box of Waitrose Oregano, of attractive colour and layout.

28/10/2009 (Photograph 95)
An white envelope, in which one thousand and two hundred and fifty five pounds sits, counted and banded, in twenty and fifty pound notes. The inside of the envelope is blue splatter design and encompasses a blue logo.

03/11/2009 (Photograph 99)
The walls are clad with an Ash Grey tile. Approximately 250 by 100, with white grout. A treated pine door, with chrome fittings inhabits the right hand of the screen. Whilst on the left, light is reflected off of a small silver hand dryer, and small 'Half' sink, with chrome fittings. Location, Liverpool.

11/11/2009 (Photograph 101)
A small ginger/black/white Guinea pig sits behind a cage. A remember that today is September the 11th.

25/11/2009 (Photograph 104)
A 'man' wearing a red lumberjack shirt, with long sweaty hair, is french kissing an attractive blond girl in a night club, Bristol, whilst lights flash in the background. This photograph is later printed and pinned to a studio, for all to see.

27/11/2009 (Photograph 106)
An illustration of a ethnic stick man, holding and pouring a vile of acid over his head, with the letters T and N floating above.

01/12/2009 (Photograph 107)
Platform. C Words. Carbon, Climate, Capital, Culture. A sign from a small art gallery, Bristol. Underneath the title a blurb describes how the artist, an African woman, is sick of western Capitalists. Lets see how well her less economically developed country survives without capitalist intervention.

01/12/2009 (Photograph 108/109/110/111/112)
Various graphic art from the said gallery.

14/12/2009 (Photograph 115)
A sign that reads Dylexia Action. Outside a Dyslexia Action clinic.

17/12/2009 (Photograph 122)
Dylan poses in a High Visibility jacket, sporting a pink glove and scarf combo. Whilst cleaning the windscreen of a pastel blue 1.2 Clio.

18/12/2009 (Photograph 123)
A lady, wearing a purple White Stuff cardigan, ices a wonky Christmas tree cookie, in what appears to be a small kitchen. The icing is lime green in colour.

18/12/2009 (Photograph 125)
A man is listening to 'A Tiny Christmas > Driving Home For Christmas: Chris Rae' whilst decorating a wonky Christmas tree cookie with stars and silver pearls. He is wearing a red, nondescript checked shirt, over a white Henley. Both with tentatively rolled up selves.

18/12/2009 (Photograph 128)
The photograph depicts a display of alcoholic beverages, above an Geogian mantel piece. Two 35ml bottles of Chamboard liquor, two 750ml Luksusowa, one 250ml bottle of Jacob Creek Shiraz.

24/12/2009 (Photograph 130)
A front page headline reads 'CAT ALMOST DIES AFTER EATING CHRISTMAS TREE'.

And the photographs that are missing, quite possibly, never existed.

2009-12-24T11:18:00.000Z

In The Water I Am Beautiful plays as I dive into the pool and by length 21 mother is already baking in the kitchen, and by length sixty four the playlist has skipped to '101 Slightly Enjoyable Christmas Songs', which I guess is fairly fitting, but somewhat irriatting. And I pull myself out, and lounge on poolside watching as steam rises from the warm water, and condenses onto glass.

And from the kitchen the usual christmas songs play from Radio Four, and I remember that this year, thirteen stores haven't gift wrapped my gifts. And so I have decided that if the stores can't be bothred, then neither can I. And leave the pile of unwrapped presents somewhere for someone else to deal with, and usually this tactic works quite well. And by far, the best christmas song to date, has to be Wham, Last Christmas, which has been covered numerious times by bands such as Jimmy Eat World, and so on and so forth. And really, it's more that just a christmas song, but I digress.

At 1132 I am 'escorted' on the way to retrieve some items from a friend. And much of the morning is spent being followed by this silver saloon. And honestly I'm not entirely sure who organised this escort and for what reason. Perhaps icy roads? And I feel like I'm practically under house-arrest. But eventually in the afternoon negoiate freedom, and so take the oppertunity to cruise the rest of my coast line, and much like the pervious days, it is barren, the spray of the ocean giving the shore a faux snow like covering.

And later I remember that I have stored two 'Display' cases of Grey Goose in the loft, and so attempt to find them, and when I eventually do, the bottles are dusty and heat has distorted one of the geese and the liquid inside looks even more undrinkable than it already is. But who am I to let it waste, and so place the bottles in the cellar amongst cases of Perrier table water, a gift for whomever is lucky enough to be seated with it.

2009-12-22T22:21:00.000Z

Few things have changed since Autumn, albeit the weather. And the trees. Which instead of being a mellow orange, are now whipped bear by the winter. And a blue sports car now takes the place of mine. And in a sudden moment of realisation it occurs to me that I was bought up in the equivalent of a beach house. Pinned geographically by seven or so beaches. Kept warm, even now, by the golf stream. Warm enough not to be snow covered, yet cold enough to turn the earth to granite.

And on the wall of the bedroom in which I stay, Churchill. Who stares through a pain of glass, blankly at the imperial desk. Eyes animated by reflections that rise and fall accross his face. And the hardwood floor, cold, and smooth. The walls, ebony, matt, absorbing northern light. Which falls, cut by venetian blinds, from thirteen degrees in the sky.

On the horizon clouds roll through woodland. Forming low laying mist. And it is to this that I drive. Where I change for a '96 Defender, Blue. Gateback. And in the frost we cruise the coast, deserted, and lifeless. Until we retire. The snug, oak panelled, lined with photographs. Last Summer, New Year, Graduation. An Alpaca rug. An open fire. Freshly cut wood.

And I realise this beach house, is more than a home.

2009-12-18T18:41:00.000Z

And as I carefully fold the remaining wearable RL items, and place them in my auburn Antler, UK case (the Vuitton is for Europe) I suddenly realise I've forgotten the Luksusowa. And reconsider my life.

Oh, hello Christmas my old friend.

2009-12-11T09:16:00.000Z

From the terrace of the old Library someone calls my name. And I don't notice. And instead turn away, as the rain falls endlessly onto the pavement. And countless cars race past causing the water to surge at my feet. And the rain running down my cheek is sticky,sweet, and smells of product. And somewhere, possibly inside my head, the Eurythmics, Here Comes The Rain Again is playing.

Skipping the queue at the rank someone who I've never seen in my life, jabs me on the shoulder, and I close the carriage door. And they bang on the window, and their mouth is moving but I only hear the rain falling on the roof. And the door locks, and a small amber light flicks on behind me. And the words which fall from my mouth are entangled with condensation and bar names, and eventually the driver understands what I am saying and the car jerks into the a motionless line of traffic.

And in the forty five minutes that I sit in the back of the cab, the fog lifts, but the rain carrys on, and I'm thinking, is it raining with you?

2009-12-09T16:09:00.000Z

So I've spent most of the day feeling sick. So I stop drawing the threads on the screws of this technical drawing, and spend a few minutes laying on the floor. Whilst Paula Cole tells me how he make her feel like a sticky pistol. And I stare into my mirror and mime a few of the words and then decide it's probably best to go and buy some cake.

And so I decide to walk to Starbucks, and as I'm walking it's really cold, and I pull the hood of my royal, blue summer, Ralph jersey up. And I'm thinking, this hood is pretty cool, I mean, it's pretty big and that's pretty cool. And then at the counter I order a latte, even though the coffee isn't that great, and I tell the woman to get me some cake, and she does. And then I walk home.

And on the walk home I'm thinking...mainly about feeling sick, and it's pretty shit, and then I start to think about my health and then I remember I haven't actually been to the gym in like, I don't know, six months? And its ok really cos I can't afford a four hundred and fifty pound membership, but then I cant really afford a six pounds coffee with a piece of cake. And I cant really afford to do anything much.

And then I get home, the handyman opens the door and I just stare at him. And when I eventually get to my apartment, I realise my coffee is cold, so I find a place for the cup on my mantel, with the piles of books. And then I lay on the floor and I just can't bring myself to finish drawing the threads on the screews of this office block...and so now I'm thinking, if I don't draw them, they wont get made, and if they don't get made then they wont be put in the building, and really, without these screws lots of people could die. And it's all a bit to much to think about, especially at four in the afternoon. So I have a nap.

2009-12-02T10:59:00.000Z

When I wake I find myself entangled in my Nimbus designed bed clothes. And my luxury king is cold and empty, much like my apartment. And my head is congested and gripping,and I'm pretty sure that its not self inflicted. And my eyes are more tired now than when I retired, and I pull the vanity mirror off of the bedside table and admire the structure of the face staring back. And one must say, he is rather attractive.

In the dinning room the air is chilling, crisp and a window is thrown open, despite the weather outside. And my bare chest is constricted by the wind, which is lifting a fragrance from a decanter and throwing it around the room. And I notice the door ajar, a indication of life whilst I slept. And realise, it's been two days, fourteen hours and fifty seven minutes since I last saw my house mate. But who needs house mates when you have...jesus? Finding the coffee on the sideboard I begin making a pot for two, realise that I am alone, and in a disheartened mockery of John Humphrys I exclaim "I've Started so I'll finish."

And whilst checking my email, and then facebook, and watching people outside. It becomes apparent that my day will become one of cleaning, and drawing, and cleaning. And the book that I am semi reading, whilst taking a phone call, is telling me of the techs that I must draw today, and honestly, I'm not the slightest interested. But one must press on. Drawing is a career. And after saying goodbye to the caller I don't hang up, and instead listen to the beginning of their new conversation with whomever accompanies them. And I wish for someone to accompany me. But then remember I've got Jesus. So it's ok.

2009-12-01T23:00:00.000Z

So I get up, and don't talk to anyone. For perhaps an hour or so and in a coffee shop I pretend to be mute. To avoid awkward conversation. And I find this all rather entertaining.

And it's not until I reach the meeting point, an art gallery; at which I arrive early and stand around for about twenty minutes.

That I first talk. And the first words I speak are a lie. And they are 'My driver dropped me off'. And I'm not really bothered, because I'm still finding this entire game highly entertaining, and I don't, and never will, know these people. So that's ok.

And on the walk to the second gallery, I just stop in the middle of the pavement, wait for thirty seconds and slip into a shop. And then I go home, and its all very funny, to me at least. And when I arrive home I've successfully filled enough time in the day to:
a) feel guilty about wasting time
b) receive a parcel

2009-11-29T11:06:00.000Z

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.

2009-11-13T18:41:00.000Z

I am woken by a ringing telephone, and at the end is my mother. Who tells me to stay away from trees, and something about a weather warning closing bridges on the South coast. And as I try to listen, I find what looks like the remains of a leaf under my pillow, and partly in my hair, and dryly swallow.

The wind is tormenting the sash windows, racking them in their rotting wooden frames. And as I stare across the blackened room, what used to be a palace is nothing more than a collection of material objects. Most of which I can no longer find a use for.

And in my mouth, the taste of nothingness. And the light on a small digital watch flicks on, and several minutes pass before the LCD scrolls around to 1851 and the Compact Disc alarm starts, and Remembering Sunday Plays from the speakers. And I think there really are very few trees here.

And from the window, in the kitchen, the Christmas lights in the street warp with the rain. Like dying candles. And I think of home, and Christmas. And although it's never an eventful time, I am looking forward to it, more now, than I ever have before. And the coast, and mould wine, and candle light dinners, and beaches on new years, and old friends, and college, and Berry Estates.

2009-11-02T11:06:00.000Z

And at 0501 an alarm wakes me. My Antler case still empty. Clothes thrown into a somewhat unorganised pile. Clearing my vision and embracing the cold oak floor I make my way to the bathroom. Throwing a selection of Ralph Lauren garments into the pile as I do so.

And as the coach rushes towards Birmingham, and the driver announces security detail, plan stops and information on using the on board facilities, I'm hungrily shoving Nestle Skittles into my mouth. Flipping through a restaurant guide desperately searching for somewhere to dine.And I'm doing this whilst my ipod plays songs from Chase this Light, which seem to endlessly merge into one another. Tiring of the guide I choose at random a med restaurant, Ego. Call ahead. Make reservations. Throw the guide at the seat opposite.

And I'm left thinking, on this trip why exactly are we traveling via Birmingham. And why Liverpool of all cities? And feeling the anger and inconvenience that this week has caused rise I attempt to loose myself the only way I know how. In the life of someone else. Although quickly images of Paris bleed into my imagination, and the conversation I am no longer keeping, filters into deminuendo, as I push my headphones back into my ears, and stare blankly back

2009-10-28T13:48:00.000Z

The tea in the cup, is scalding, and of English origin. Black. Sans lait. And as the days minutes are recalled, I realise nothing of true significance has happened. And that's the way most good days are constructed. Liberated from routine. Most of the day filled with chores, the kind that were used to pass the summer time.

And the brown liquid is slightly spicy, sweet, dry. And in the wardrobe a collection of shirts that have not been worn for a period of time, hang, as if new; and some indeed are still attached to labels. In the back pocket of a folded pair of jeans, A Moveable Feast. The pages of which I flick through. Until four hour fall way, and retirement is imminent.

And on a hard drive I find the following image, from last September:

2009-10-25T09:08:00.000Z

Tonight, two of the three courses take over an hour to reach our table. Despite a mere fourteen full tables in this thirty six tabled restaurant. And after drinking half of the bottles on the white list, it's decided, as usual that gratitude charge is defiantly null and void. And the conversation is a slur of regurgitated wine talk, largely based on bottle blurbs. As everyone is too far gone to actually think, let alone taste for them selves.

Wednesday, I am spotted having breakfast in another expensive establishment. Rather rudely I am approached, and spoken at for an awkward thirty seconds, until it's obvious that the conversation is dead. Shortly after the American waitress brings the bill. Closing my eyes, I pick a card at random and drop it into her basket.

And the rest of the week is unfortunately a blur of drawing, coffee, drawing, and expensive lunches alone. Coupled with perhaps the odd urge to make more excursions to the continent.

Tonight, having underpaid the bill, and cut the restaurant, the walk home is as equally as disappointing. The wind grazes at my face, and the spatter of the rain dampens my brown, moccasins, and the light at the crossing roses my face, and headlights race in the sky, and the dormant Christmas decorations hang, apathetically, across the street, and a man talks German into a mobile phone, and the Vodka makes my head spin, and the coffee makes me shake. And I'm left thinking. In the story of my life, on what page do I receive terrible service in a restaurant, get chatted up by a waiter in a Vodka bar, and still walk home alone? Because I really wish the editor had torn it out.

2009-10-18T11:46:00.000+01:00

And this club I have not paid entry for. Much like the club before, and the bar before that. And whilst being solicited by a girl, sporting only a Naval captains cap, I receive a phone call. Push my way through the crowed, stained club. Reach the antechamber. Notice the carpet is the same of many chain clubs. And consider whether this is a sister establishment. Sip a complimentary drink, courtesy of my charm. And move, group in tow, to the second private floor.

Convinced that my social life may not be entirely dead, I wonder whether it perhaps should be. Many of the clientele middle age, balding office jockeys. Flustered. On this level I am propositioned by five girls. Consecutively. Dubbed Abercrombie & Fitch boy. Presented to a blonde, semi attractive girl, who in profile is hideous. Laugh as someone asks of her aspirations in life. Asked what aspirations mean, entertained. Introduce a friend. And slip away.

2009-10-17T14:48:00.000+01:00

At 1339 I wake up, surprised I'm not dead, and more tired than I went to sleep. And I'm thinking that today I am supposed to be in London, but I'm not. And this is really quite saddening. At 0507, previously, a red fox stares through me in the street outside my apartment. Frozen with fear. And I think to myself, I've never seen so many. And as I walk past a white BMW 3 series, it disappears. And I think why here? Why not there? And somewhere between 2043 and 0331 I spend my night on the wrong side of a cocktail bar, not because I need to work, but because I want too. But really, it's pretty shit.

On Wednesday I am sick four times, and apparently the mystic that shrouds my character is dismantled by drunken conversation. Which I cannot recall. Nor piece together via text message, as none are sent or received. Leaving the bar to momentarily vomit, and then return to drink my way through.

And at 1502 I receive a phone call, regarding a voice mail I never received, and I am left wondering where my life has gone. Where my alfresco luncheons have gone. Why my social life peaked at sixteen. And I'm pretty burnt out.

2009-10-03T10:41:00.000+01:00

On Saturday I wake from three days grace, with a possible case of Swines. Wander into the kitchen, take three brightly coloured tablets from a mother of pearl pill box that I find in my apartment, scrape and consume some burn cheese from the sandwich toaster, and slowly carry on with life.

During the week I am subjected to a tour of Bristol's gay 'Village', by a team of 'scene famous' butch lesbians. Where I choose a stance, near the bar, that suggests I am an unreasonable force, and ignore at those who I have deemed socially unacceptable. Read, everyone. I refuse to purchase a single drink. Yet, due to my boyish good looks, and out of reach attitude, end up consuming the following :

Two double Gin and Tonics, three singles.
Six red, cherry shots
One Mexican beer
Two pints of cider (mine-swept from the bar)
and two double vodkas with soda.

I also receive free entry to two clubs, a VIP access coupon with a balding man's telephone number, a wink from a bearded transvestite, and a scalding hangover.

2009-09-26T18:08:00.000+01:00

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 purchase...pr-che-se'. And I wave the busboy away, and throw my Visa onto the table.

2009-09-20T11:11:00.000+01:00

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.

2009-09-12T18:42:00.000+01:00

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.

2009-09-08T09:49:00.000+01:00

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.

2009-08-29T10:43:00.000+01:00

The Sunday road home from the beach is one that I have only navigated. Never driven, as I do not own a coupe. However I now find myself driving here, although alone; My partner driving the continent, whilst I relive cruises that we have taken. The stereo is playing music that, whilst in my collection, I have never listened too. And I'm enjoying the summer evening, ripping through high granite rock laden road, and winding, dusky, coastal lanes.

Come Monday, the road I find myself driving is the one I have driven many a time. 79.56 miles. Leaning to that place that people go to do that activity one assumes is called work, the same activity I do, merely to fill time. The same happens on Tuesday. And sadly on both days, nothing of true significance happens.

On Wednesday, I have guests. For whom I conjure Tomato Terrine, and summer leaf salad whilst we recline in the vegetable garden, under the heavy branches of the apple trees, drinking Pinot Grigio. Conversing of the summers events, or lack there of, and where the four months have gone. By Thursday the conversation has turned to love, and the scene is now a coastal walk. One I have taken many times, and find quite a bore; But what kind of host would have guest from the city and not boast the fragile, red cliff, coastline.

Late Friday evening, it is brought to my attention that I have no offering, gift or otherwise for the event that I am to attend the following eve. And subsequently spend much of the night thinking. It's hard to by for a twenty one year old millionaire who has everything. Eventually under the strain of the week, and my two extremely taxing days of hard graft, I arrange a lunch date for Saturday, retire, and decide Laurent Pierre will have to suffice.

2009-08-21T20:33:00.000+01:00

And it's really quite a tragic revelation. And perhaps I cannot continue. And perhaps now I'll end up typing to myself. Again.

My one and only loyal reader no longer exists...or so I'm told. Although this may very well be a hyperbolic fabrication, conjured by yours truly. Even still, this event has saddened me.

Or something.

I've still got the other four followers...right?

2009-08-16T16:13:00.000+01:00

And so actually having a job, or a reason to get up in the morning, other than housework, is actually pretty shit. This week I have started work in an operating theatre, and long story short, it's not half as exciting as it sounds.

My new daily routine is something like this:

0525 am : Wake up
0527 am : After a two minute lay in, walk to the kitchen
0527 - 0532 am : Eat breakfast - Usually carb orientated to ensure that I do not die at the wheel of my car, although this is probably better than actually pretending that you have to work for a living.
0532 - 0541 am : Shower, wash, brush teeth.

Somewhere between 0541 and 0601 am I manage to loose twenty minutes doing mindless things, occasionally exciting myself by doing a few chores. Such as emptying the dishwasher, cleaning the soap dish. Whatever.

Then I drive for an hour to the private hospital, in which I work. Where, signing in at exactly 0700 am, in the little red book, every morning. And changing into scrubs. I then sit down for the best part of two hours. (You'd think being paid to sit down was an all right way to make money. Well it isn't. I'd rather not make any at all, and lets face it, I don't need it.)

From 0900 am and for the rest of the day I usually entertain myself with the small talk of the various nurses, anesthetists and surgeons I work with. Typical questions asked include 'What do you do in the real world?' (you mean to say this isn't a real job?) and 'Are you working full time?'. To which usual the reply is Nothing of interest/Stay at home dad/International sock model/something vaguely entertaining and borderline true and 'No'. Which usually kills conversation, until around 1832 pm when I sign out, and skip off home.

2009-08-09T13:06:00.000+01:00

I'm sitting in the sun, wearing Christian Dior sunglasses and working on my non-existent Caucasian tan. Reading, thinking of a story I can conjure for you people; my four followers. When an apple falls from the tree. And three wasps angrily disperse from the windfall. Two stopping to engage in some kind of mating ritual, or wage war with one another. I can' tell. I watch for a moment, as they break, and then refocus my concentration. Causing a smile, to the simple pleasures in life, to leak from my lips. Then I bring a tan leather moccasin down on top of them. Silencing the commotion.

The story I think of, I don't really like to tell. Although I often amuse myself by telling twisted variations of it to strangers. It is from a time way before any inclination to live in Bristol ever existed, and way before I understood true happiness. It's a story that, I shall tell in due course.

I am interrupted from my book.Thoughts. Again. By my mother. Who offers a tumbler, and a bottle of Perrier, on ice, along with freshly baked pastries, and red summer berries. And I continue to read into chapter twenty seven, whilst life continues around me.

2009-08-03T10:26:00.000+01:00

On Friday, I wake up about quarter to ten. Have breakfast, a couple of pieces of toast, have a cup of Miles blend tea, and open the post. I send three letters, and return four request forms. I use my typewriter to reply, and hope that the person opening the letters gets as excited as I, when I see that English typewriter font.

I clean the house, well the kitchen at least, and by clean I mean, wipe a few things with a cloth. I load the dishwasher. Take a drive to the store, and hand deliver a letter.

On Saturday I crash my car. Or rather someone crashes into me.

Naturally I seek the best medical advise and after being given the all clear, drown my sorrows with a bottle of Absolute. Which I find stops my lower jaw, and chin area, spasming almost completely.

I spend the best part of Sunday being sick (Which I've heard is great for the abs). I don't go to the gym, and I don't get out of bed. At three fifty one pm, once I am convinced that I am able to hold down food stuffs. And my lips have stopped burning, and the feeling has come back, and my face has stopped spasming and my neck feels...ok. I consume : Two packets of crisps, two bottles of Coke, Two tubes of gelatin sweets and a Marz Bar.

Then I go back to bed.

Sick count 7.5 (the last retch was half hearted).

2009-07-31T22:42:00.000+01:00

And it's probably only fair I tell you this, and it is probably quite a difficult thing to hear. But I have surrendered life as we know it, to concentrate on my housewifery skills.

On Wednesday I visit my new apartment. I drink Earl Grey and lavish Gin cocktails. I consume two lunches with two different people. I wear a hat. I drink mediocre coffees, at three different establishments. I urinate in a shop doorway. I use contacts to gain VIP. I dine with an old friend. Sell my Apple Macintosh. I re-arrange furniture. I drive 87.2 miles.

On Thursday I lunch with a friend. I drink more coffee. I compose some designs. I say the words 'Looking millionaire'. I enjoy the English summer rain. I wear orange underwear. I eat multipule cream teas. I get caught speeding. I buy a sandwich for £4.56. I sleep in silk sheets. Stop mid-sentence. I drive 80.5 miles.

I intend to return to Bristol, to live the life of a graduate of Finishing school. And I intend to do this well.

2009-07-27T11:54:00.000+01:00

On Sunday morning. Late afternoon. I notice a small bruise and several scratch marks under my left pectoral. And inside my head thousands of tiny people are poking pointy sticky into my brain, and it seriously fucking hurts. After several hours of internet, three Spainsh pain killers and four bottles of Perrier, I am able to establish a few events from the previous night.

Apparently, we've been to a local night club. Situated in the midst of a wide network of fishing villages, and so naturally is themed as a pirate ship.

At about half one, whilst supporting myself against the tongue and grove paneled walls of the cramped bathroom, my head clears for a few seconds and I have a sudden realisation of just where I am.

Nothing particularly happens during the night. Although I am told by a over excitable bouncer to "Die outside" whilst sitting at a table. To which I reply, as I recall, "I'm not dying, well maybe perhaps inside".

Under a tiller I have a passing conversation with someone,which is initiated as they exclaim that wearing ___________ is a crime. To which I agree. Defending my choice, by detailing that the shirt is in fact vintage, that this is a small fishing village and I don't own a fishing vessel, and not wanting to stand out opted for, what the locals consider couture.

I leave, perhaps about two thirty, walking the road, which I earlier drove, home.

Sick count: 0 (Although wish it were around 4)

2009-07-25T14:33:00.000+01:00

Seated by the lounge window, staring into the mild, late afternoon sun, a view flooding over the fields of maze and wheat. I place a china cup into a china saucer and onto the coffee table, next to the reminisce of two scones which I have just consumed; eaten with half fat creme.

Upon doing so I think of the road that I drove to purchase these items from the store. The road that I have walked many times, on various nights, in various states of mind, the road that I no longer walk, and instead drive.

The green where I used to play, lined with houses, the insides of which were familiar, but are no longer, and the green a safari for another to explore.

The house with the intercom we use to abuse, which now hangs off of the wall. And the house next to it, it's once formal gardens, photographed for magazines, now overgrown, swallowed by disinterest.

And then I pick up another scone, and bring it to my lips. And then I forget the road that I drove to purchase these items. Like many others have.

2009-07-17T12:24:00.000+01:00

I awake this morning to find myself alone. A normal occurrence in this residence, especially since my father is extremely footloose due to his retirement. However I am sure that it wont be long before he returns, a week perhaps, at most.

On Wednesday, after running three miles at the gym, I visit three supermarkets in order to purchase Perrier. Two of these establishments only sell San Pellegrino. Which appears to be the favoured carbonated water around here. And the third is sold out. Who would have thought that it was so hard to find?

These disappointments are all that have occurred this week. That and an undisclosed difficult decision of Thursday, which has called for numerous telephone calls, altered many a plan, and still remains unresolved.

According to the elaborate penmanship (of possibly my mother?) in my agenda, I am set to attend a graduation ceremony, commencing at...some unreasonable time tomorrow. Where no doubt, more disappointments will follow.

(Also, hello anonymous commenter. Your comment, as witty and as thought out as it is, has touched me in a way incomparable to any other, a way in which Tim could only wish to).

2009-07-13T11:37:00.000+01:00

On Sunday, I am given five pounds by my mother. As I "never ask for anything" although she is quick to inform me that it was supposed to be ten pounds, but my father had spent it. I also find two pounds in an old pair of Levi 501's, and win a further pound on a National lottery, Number 5, scratch card.

In between the, what seems like, endless rain showers, I find myself taking a Sunday drive, to our local store. Where I use the said money to purchase Nestle chocolate, a six pack of Coke and some Roast Beef flavored corn crisps; of an unheard of brand. I am served by Sue, Operator Number 0003, at precisely 15:18:41. A good forty one minutes and fifty nine seconds before the panic shoppers arrive, before the store close at 16:00. Sue implores that I "Enjoy" my afternoon and I drive home.

2009-07-12T15:35:00.000+01:00

Several long, drawn out, days reluctantly merge into one another. And although most of the days are empty, filled with only the details of being alive, eating, washing, sleeping. A few minor events unfold amongst them. An interview in an operating theatre, a cruise along the coast line, a film in the picture house, lunch with an old friend.

The relentless fracas of warm rain hitting the slate outside, reminds me of last spring. Many afternoons spent sitting at my faux classical, faux yew desk, aimlessly. And many mornings spent sitting on pool side, watching the flat water ripple, distort, and buckle as swimmers entered.

2009-07-06T10:45:00.000+01:00

And its the first time since September that I've felt like this. The wooden floor. The echo of sirens in the streets. Voices inside. A wall of books. A sixty something inch television. Red wine. Stacks of post boxes. Security guards. Window boxes. The alcove in the bathroom where a single candle sits.

From the decked floor of the balcony of this Islington flat I am listening to an argument. Half listening, half staring at the render on the underside of the upper balcony. Irritated by its uneven appearance. And its not the first time since September that I have missed him. And I know this. I also know that I will leave the city, despite this, without seeing him. It has been two years.

A text message. A sip of wine. The man carrying two dinning room chairs. Two forty something year old women. The table in the hallway. A Schindler's lift.

2009-06-26T16:41:00.000+01:00

Whilst driving today I past three accidents. And thought how annoying it is that these three people, have fucked up not only mine, but a hell of a lot of other motorists day.

I past each one slowly, mainly because I had too, but also partly because, lets face it, everyone loves a good car crash. Despite about two hundred units from the emergency services, there was no blood, or guts, which is a bit of a shame, and quite a waste of tax payers money. Needless to say, these anti-climatic mishaps only actually added about fifteen minutes to my journey.

Whilst in the Bristol, apart from getting stressed, panicked and swallowed by urban etiquette, or lack thereof, I visited a very pricey but amazing gym, and had a meeting with some people from the Royal Institute of British _________,Which was...erm, not really worth going to.

Tonight however, I am going to a wine bar opening night...sadly I am driving, and probably nothing will happen, but who knows.

2009-06-23T17:31:00.000+01:00

In the afternoon sun, in the chaise lounge, reading; wearing only a pair of sweat pants and some Dior sunglasses, I am interrupted by my farther. Who has brought me a coffee, despite a tray of drinks laying in front of me.

I tell him, half interested, half still reading, that I have applied for two jobs today. He congratulates me, and suggests that perhaps I should look for work in the local bars. I brush off this suggestion, simply saying "not an option" and continue from where I left off, even though I have just read the same paragraph three times over.

2009-06-21T21:25:00.000+01:00

At dusk this evening, flailed over a chaise lounge, I ponder the possibility of the matter in my cranium melting and trickling, in a cocktail of bodily fluids, onto the yellow concrete patio slabs below.

Within the next few days, I may find out if this is actually possible, unless something more entertaining arises.

Today I also contemplated reality, but tiring of this, downloaded some computer games. In one I created characteratures of my friends, because we all know that pretending to socialise with your friends, its much better than actually socialising with your friends.

2009-06-19T17:56:00.000+01:00

Of course after writing this, I then realised that I had actually filled out a job application, climbed up on the roof, and prank called a lot of people via VoIP, but really, that is as good as my day has been.

2009-06-18T11:21:00.000+01:00

Usually its around now that all the days start to blur together in an alcohol educed, summer haze. But they haven't. Pretty soon I may die if I don't find away to fill my otherwise pointless existence.

This is the fifth day of our summer vacation, and although I thought I'd never say it, it's pretty shit.

(Note that it isn't actually the fifth day, as three days were spent in Oxford but I am discounting those)

Since the beginning of this low, I have at least achieved the follow:

- Consuming 4 cream teas in 5 days. For those that aren't familiar with cream teas they consist of : Scones, Jam and Clotted Cream with a pot of tea, and obviously are about 1034% fat.

- Knocked the front bumper off my car.

- Knocked the back bumper off my car.

- Spent four hundred pounds in Ralph Lauren. Even after flirting heavily with my personal shopper, which included making him check the size of an shirt on the mannequin, taking him shopping in the kids section, and the girls section, and making him carry my stuff (that is what flirting is right?) I still couldn't bring the price down. So unless I take these items back, or start taking them off to make money, I'm in debt.

But in other news. I was in attendance at the gym last night. Which was...interesting. And I may just have to start going again to get myself out of bed. When I arrived, with PJ, Sweaty C was working out. I informed him that 'The king had returned' and he filled me in on all the local gossip, therefore not much working out was actually achieved.

2009-06-08T19:11:00.000+01:00

Saturday night, like many Saturdays, was fairly uneventful. Apparently Bristol has a gay pride week ending or starting this weekend. (I cannot say for sure if it was defiantly ending, or starting for that matter, as it was pretty dire either way)

Naturally this event wasn't in my diary, which of course I am very upset about; because if I had known then perhaps I would have made an effort to look remotely homosexual. Instead I opted for a very nice Ralph Lauren outfit.

The night consisted of, well not a lot really. But perhaps the following should be noted:

- I was not nearly drunk enough, and wasn't sick, what is the world coming too?

- A fight broke out, and I'm pretty sure it was entirely my fault. But what can I say, don't put your sweaty little hands on me thank you very much.

- I was asked about my store card in paralanguage that suggested it was some form of insult or in someway snide to ask. How this pleb knew that I held the highest store card at this store, I will never know. But I'm pretty sure that asking :

"Hows your new ____ __ _____ credit card?"

Is asking for a witty comment about your poor credit, particularly when it's a store card.

- Many other minor non descript events occurred

But overall, definitely not a night to write home about (but perhaps someone else would like to on my behalf? I really don't mind.) and to be honest, paying fifteen pounds to get in this club, and then not even seeing a single transvestite was quite disappointing.

Sunday was pretty much spent moping, and feeling guilty that I perhaps ruined some little gay boys life, by getting them banned from a gay club for some while. However BR and I did go to the gym, even if it was just to fill a little time; It's extremely nice to have a life that doesn't revolve around the design studios at the moment.

But unfortunately it is now time to pack my belongings, before a quick shopping trip to Oxford, and then leave the city for a summer full of probably nothing. But more on that another day.

2009-06-06T12:14:00.000+01:00

Oh, and there's this. I found this little clipette, I think it sums me up quite well:

"Do you find yourself irritated when someone keeps you from doing what you want?
Do you feel that you are somehow special, and the rules don't apply to you?
Your emotional style could be Entitlement.

People with this emotional style feel that rules don't apply to them. They may have been spoiled as a child, or the love they received was based on a certain quality — looks, academics, athletic skills. These people often exaggerate their prowess, usually to hide a feeling of inadequacy, or feel they are entitled to more than their fair share of compensation. They also display a lack of self-discipline, and the inability to delay gratification.
If your emotional style is entitlement, try to be aware of the negative impact your actions have on the people around you. Mindfulness can help you learn to catch yourself before you overstep appropriate limits, and connect with your deeper feelings so you can deal with them directly."

Thanks Oprah, or whoever.

Oh, and someone put salt in my kettle.